Black Stallion's Shadow (7 page)

Alec wasn't so sure he wanted to go along with these guys at all, especially after some of the things he'd just seen and heard. Then again, the Black loved rough, open country. Maybe a little exploring would do them both some good. “Think I'll ride out.”

“Fine.” Wes called to a broad-chested young cowboy standing by the tack shed. “Mike! Come here a second.”

The cowboy strode up the porch steps toward them. He was about Alec's age but almost a foot taller. His arms and legs were long and muscular looking. Blond hair stuck out like straw from under a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that hid most of his face. A three-day beard shaded his chin, and a toothpick stuck out from the corner of his mouth.

“Take Alec here over to the little Air Stream out back and show him where to stow his gear, will you?”

Mike and Alec shook hands. After they collected Alec's bags from the horse van, the young cowboy led the way to a small silver trailer. So this was the Air Stream. It was just right for one person, even roomy enough for two if they didn't try to move around at the same time. Alec left his bag inside the door.

“How did you come to work for Wes?” Alec asked.

“I like working with horses.”

“Not easy finding a job where you can do that anymore.”

“Particularly if you want to eat regular.”

Alec laughed. “I hear you.”

“Most folks these days, you say mustang and they think you're talking about a convertible.”

The blond cowboy told Alec that he'd grown up on a cattle ranch near Ojai, California. Ever since he was a kid he'd had a way with horses. A few years ago, after his father sold the ranch, Mike left home to follow the rodeo circuit. He picked up a job as a wrangler on a low-budget Western and met Wes. They kept in touch, and when Wes needed some extra help, he called Mike. Before long Mike started bunking at Taylor Ranch as well as working there.

“How about the other wranglers? Any of them live here?”

“Just me and Jim. Jim's lived with Wes for years.”

“He's a cook?”

“More of a caretaker. He looks after the place when Wes has to go on the road. Lately he's been getting acting work. He played the part of a baseball manager in a beer commercial last week.”

“You ever done any acting?” Alec asked. Mike was good-looking in a rugged, rebel sort of way.

Mike shook his head. “Nah. Acting's not for me. Stunts, that's what I like. But the Stuntman's Union is a tough one to break into.” His eyes narrowed with determination. “My turn'll come.”

The sound of neighing and whinnying came from the pasture. “The boys are saddling up,” said Mike. “We'd better get going.” They set off to collect their horses for the ride up into the canyon.

When Alec brought the Black in from his corral, he found Mike talking to two men in denim and cowboy hats. The taller one, with hair nearly as red as Alec's, crouched down to tighten the girth strap on his horse's saddle. The other, a short, dark-eyed Latino, gave Alec a slight nod.

Alec stuck out his hand. “Hi. I'm Alec Ramsay.”

The Latino shook hands and flashed a toothy smile. “I'm Julio Garcia. Mike was just telling us about you.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That's Patrick Rabain.”

The big redhead stood up and pumped Alec's hand. “A real pleasure,” he said with a smile. Alec smiled back.

Mike swung up into his saddle. “Okay, you guys. Let's get rolling.”

Mike and the other wranglers escorted a dozen or so horses along the driveway: big Appaloosas, Standardbreds and Morgans. The wranglers themselves rode sturdy Quarter Horses colored chestnut, bay and roan. The Quarter Horses were built for speed and staying power, with broad, heavy hindquarters full all the way down to the hocks.

Turning left, Alec and the Black joined the wranglers as they set off for the
Drover Days
location site in the upper reaches of Lingo Canyon. The wranglers yipped and whistled, whooping it up as they rode herd on the unbridled horses. Their nimble Quarter Horses kept order easily.

The trail wound higher and higher, passing sloping granite walls and dusty boulders. Alec relaxed, letting his
legs hang loose out of the stirrups. Riding with the wranglers, he felt like he could be living a scene right out of an old cowboy movie. He wondered what it would have been like to be a cowboy meandering along the dusty trail in the days of the old West. His gaze lingered on the dramatic-looking palisades, boulders and wind-twisted trees around them. No wonder this area attracted filmmakers.

The trail began to level off. Rounding a bend, it emptied into a box canyon hidden among the towering cliffs. The canyon floor spread into a wide plateau about a mile square. The crew had driven ahead of the herd in their Jeeps and four-wheel-drive trucks. They were already setting up at the location site, a small area lit by racks of powerful lights. A truck carrying a portable power generator parked a short distance away. Black cables snaked across the ground between the humming generator and the lighting, sound and video equipment.

Unlike the leisurely trail ride, the atmosphere around the location site felt charged with energy. The crew didn't walk; they ran. Men and women on ladders called back and forth as they adjusted camera tripods and stands of lights. With all the shouting and the noise of equipment being moved, the place sounded like a construction site.

Frank Meyer, the director, called out orders to the crew. Alec asked Mike what was on the agenda. “Two scenes,” said Mike. “The first one should be simple—just some dialogue between two actors on horseback. The other scene is the problem.”

Alec remembered that Wes had said something about a water-hole scene. He looked around but didn't see any
water. Mike nodded to where Frank and Wes were marking a spot in the dirt. Four production assistants quickly began to dig a wide trench. A truck carrying tanks of water parked close by. As no water hole existed here, Mike explained, the art department was making one.

Mike popped a toothpick into his mouth. “The trick'll be getting the horses to run to the water.”

“How is Wes going to do it?”

Mike shrugged. “Good question. There's no telling what'll happen if we just turn them loose up here. They might just lie down and take a nap. You can bet Wes has something up his sleeve, though.”

“Mike!” Wes cried. “Stop jabbering and get your butt over here.”

Mike hustled over to where Wes stood with the director. Alec felt a little embarrassed about getting Mike yelled at by his boss. He jumped down from his saddle and silently pledged to stay out of the way.

Wes, Mike and Frank huddled together for a moment. Then Mike and another wrangler mounted up and began moving the herd away from the location site to the far end of the box canyon. A white pickup truck followed; the words
LOS ANGELES HUMANE COUNCIL
were painted on its door.

The Black seemed to sense the excitement in the air and perked up his ears. Alec looked for a place to stand that would be out of the way but where he could still see the action. He found a spot behind and to one side of the camera. Alec turned around to see if they were in anyone's way. No one said anything to him.

Frank crouched down and peered through a camera lens. Wearing a long-billed cap with flaps covering the back of his neck and ears, he looked like an actor from an old movie about the French Foreign Legion. Now he backed up and moved from side to side, checking every possible camera angle.

“Places, everyone,” he called, ordering the actors onto the set. One of the wranglers brought over a pair of Quarter Horses. The actors swung themselves into the saddles and took up their positions.

“Okay, you guys,” Frank called to the actors. “I'll run down the situation again in case you've forgotten. The colt you're trying to break just threw Lefty here and ran off. Got it?”

“Sure, Frank. We're all set.”

“Good.” He nodded to the sound man, who flipped a switch on his console.

The assistant director spoke into a bullhorn. “Quiet on the set. We're rolling.”

A production assistant stepped in front of the video camera holding a black slate clapboard. He read out the words on the slate for the benefit of the soundtrack. “
Drover Days
, episode 17, scene 7, take 1.”

A puff of dust blew by and the Black snorted to clear his nostrils—disturbing the quiet. Alec clamped his hand across the stallion's nose.

“Action!” called the director. The actors twisted their faces into sneers.

“What's the matter, Lefty? Are you losing your touch?” taunted Jed.

“Let's see you try him on for size,” Lefty replied.

Jed's horse shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The cameraman murmured something to the director. “Cut. Cut. Cut!” the director yelled. “Back it up, boys. Horse moved.”

The action stopped and Wes stepped in to reposition the horse. After a moment the director called out, “Okay, let's take it from the top. Places, everyone. Roll tape.”

The assistant with the slate stepped in again and read, “
Drover Days
, episode 17, scene 7, take 2.”

“Action!” bellowed the director. The actors delivered their lines and the scene was completed successfully. But the director didn't want to take any chances. He reshot it three more times.

Alec yawned. He'd read about the tedious, time-consuming nature of film work. Now he believed it. Watching this scene being shot was like watching grass grow. He hoped the others would be a bit more exciting.

“What makes you choose one horse over another for a scene like this?” Alec asked Wes between takes.

“For dialogue? Sore legs.”

“How's that?”

“A horse with sore legs will stand nice and still. All it takes to spoil a closeup is for a horse to shift his weight a little, like you just saw. A movement of half an inch can throw an actor's face into sidelight and ruin the shot.” Wes turned his head and spat tobacco juice. “A horse that'll stay put for dialogue is a very valuable horse. And a horse with sore legs will stay put.”

The dialogue scene took longer than Frank had
expected. Alec overheard the cameraman tell Frank that they were starting to lose daylight. Frank asked Wes when the herd would be ready for the next shot. Wes said he'd drive out to see for himself. Alec mounted the Black to ride after him.

A cloud of brown dust swirled over a small gully at the far end of the box canyon. As Alec came closer, he saw the wranglers running the herd in a dried streambed at the gully bottom. The effort spent jogging through the deep sand bore heavily on the horses. They were slathered with sweat and steaming from the heat of their own bodies. Their breath came hard and fast. Even the wranglers' saddle horses patrolling next to them looked worn out.

Wes was leaning against the hood of his Jeep, parked beside the gully. Next to him stood a man with a long hound-dog face. He wore a short-sleeve shirt and a necktie. The man didn't look very happy. He kept pointing at the horses and then to his watch.

As Alec dismounted, the man walked down into the gully. Wes motioned for Alec to come closer. “Frank wants the herd to run to water. I'll have 'em so thirsty they'll be able to smell a bucketful a mile away.”

“I guess that's one way to do it,” Alec admitted. Wes must have heard the concern in Alec's voice.

“Listen, son, with six weeks' advance notice, maybe I could have done things differently. But I didn't learn about this shot until yesterday morning. We're just lucky the wind is in the right direction to carry the scent.”

Down in the gully, the herd labored clumsily through the sand. The man in the necktie stood watching them, a
look of harsh disapproval stamped on his long face.

“Who's that guy?” asked Alec.

“Marty Fisher. He's a watchdog for the Humane Council. His job is to make sure the horses aren't mistreated. Some of their rules are a lot of nonsense. If a trainer knows what he's doing, like me, he won't have any trouble with them. But there's a lot of pressure to do things fast in this business. Truth is, every now and then a trainer will try to cut corners. One bum like that can give the whole profession a bad name.”

The minutes passed slowly. Mike and the other two wranglers refused to let the herd slacken its pace. It made Alec uncomfortable just to watch them. Marty checked the time again and turned to face Wes. The look in the humane man's eyes said he would tolerate no more.

“Okay, Mike,” Wes called out. “I think we're ready.” Mike radioed the message to Frank on his walkie-talkie. “And tell him he better make it good,” Wes added. “We're not going to get another shot at this today.”

Frank radioed Wes that they needed five more minutes to get everything set up. In the meantime, Alec rode back to the location site. He wanted to see what the scene looked like from the camera's point of view. Finally Frank gave the okay and shouted, “Roll tape!”

On Wes's signal the wranglers started to chase the horses out of the gully and toward the water hole. They ran along with the herd for fifty yards or so. When the wranglers judged the scent had been caught, they veered off to the side. Their job was done.

The herd streaked across the sun-baked ground, zeroing
in on the teasing scent of water. Sleek muscles swelled to push the pack faster and faster. No boot heels dug into their ribs. No bits pressed between their teeth. The unbridled horses were on their own.

Careening between rocks and cactus, the herd scrambled into camera range. The water hole waited for them, inviting and wet. The horses charged straight ahead. Two and three at a time, they plunged into the muddy pool. Some even lay down and rolled in it. Sheets of spray flew through the air as they shook the water from their coats. Alec could almost feel their relief. By the time it was all over, he wouldn't have minded jumping in there with them.