Cowboy For Hire (15 page)

“Oh, I get it!”
he cried, enlightenment having stricken him hard.

“Good,” said
Martin with a smile.

“
God,”
muttered Huxtable. Charlie decided to pretend Horace had left out
the second
o
by accident.
Life was less troublesome that way.

Amy hissed,
“Honestly!” from the wings.

He’d definitely
have to talk with her at lunchtime. The way Charlie had it figured,
the more people reacted to Huxtable, the worse he got. What with
bodyguards standing around everywhere, Charlie imagined Horace
would not be able to get himself off alone and get drunk. Besides,
he’d drunk all the vanilla extract in the kitchen quarters
yesterday.

If, in addition
to the bodyguards, folks stopped reacting to his offensive asides
and smirking looks, maybe he’d get tired of being such a hound dog.
Charlie tossed Amy a smile, hoping it conveyed at least part of his
message. Since she was at present glaring at Horace Huxtable, the
smile went for naught. Charlie sighed and resumed his pose.

“
I
imagine I’m supposed to ask if you’ve seen Miss Priscilla—Miss
Wilkes to you, if your brain hasn’t figured out her name’s supposed
to be Priscilla in this picture,” Huxtable said as he approached
Charlie.

Charlie peered
at him and was astounded to see that his facial expression was
perfect for a boss merely asking a subordinate a civil question.
This acting stuff was weird. Trying to play his part, he said, “I
reckon you are, Mr. Huxtable.”

“
No, no,
no!” Huxtable stopped walking and looked aggrieved. He even put his
fists on his hips. “For the love of Christ, man, don’t say my name.
If the audience has never seen a motion picture before, they’ve at
least seen people say my name. The slowest person in the world will
be able to lip-read that much.”

The conceited
bastard. Charlie heard Amy growl, “Vanity. All is vanity in that
man,” and he decided that for today at least, it would be best for
him not to react to Huxtable’s provocations, no matter how severe.
“Reckon you’re right, Mr. H.” He even managed a fairly good
imitation of a smile.

“Mr. H. Is just
as bad,” Huxtable snarled.

“
That so?
I wonder. After all, a H could stand for horse’s ass just as easily
as Huxtable.” Charlie’s smile didn’t waver, but he did mentally
kick himself in the butt. Poor Martin would never get this picture
made if the cast took to feuding. As it was, Huxtable’s jaw was a
livid yellow-green and still swollen. Charlie felt kind of guilty
about that—but not very.

Through
gritted teeth, Huxtable muttered, “Just say the name as it’s
supposed to be in the script if you can’t think of anything else to
say, you unmitigated oaf.”

Fortunately,
Charlie wasn’t sure what unmitigated meant, so he managed to shrug
off the oaf part without much trouble.

“You’d better
just call him McAllister,” Martin suggested from his director’s
chair. He smiled sympathetically, so Charlie decided to do it that
way. As much fun as it might be to provoke Huxtable, he didn’t want
to make Martin’s life any rougher than it already was. Or delay
shooting, which Huxtable was doing quite nicely all by himself.

Charlie gave
Martin a salute. “Will do.”

“All right,
let’s start again.” Martin’s relief was visible.

Huxtable
stalked off the set, looking pained. Charlie didn’t perceive any
reason for Horace to be peeved, as he must know that Charlie and
Amy both were new at this moviemaking business. Nevertheless,
Charlie assumed his former insouciant pose and gazed off into the
distance—which was at present full of tents and people and didn’t
look at all ranchlike.

With a smile
that seemed absolutely genuine, Huxtable again walked onto the set.
“I see you’re gazing at the tents. Planning a nap, are we?”

Charlie turned
and plastered an almost-genuine smile on his own face. “No, sir,
Mr. McAllister. Just wondering how much it’s costing to make this
picture.”

“More money
than you’ll ever see, no doubt.”

Since it was
meant as a low blow, Charlie countered with a fake. “you’re
probably right, Mr. McAllister. Some of us work hard for not much
pay, unlike you picture folks.”

“Unlike those
of us with talent in our bones, you mean?”

“If you take
that to mean acting talent and experience, I reckon you’re
right.”

“It takes
little skill to user one’s muscles.” Huxtable brushed a dot of dust
from his shoulder.

“Oh, this is
ridiculous!” Amy cried. “Can’t you make him stop taunting the other
actors, Mr. Tafft? He’s being hateful!”

Charlie
heard Martin’s enormous sigh from where he stood. He turned and
shook his head at Amy, but she wasn’t looking at him. She looked
charmingly indignant, actually, and all of that precious female
indignation was being expended on his account. Charlie thought that
was sweet. He also wished she’d keep her rosy lips shut.

“It’s all
right, Martin,” he said pleasantly. “I’m used to it. Poor Mr.
Huxtable here hasn’t got any manners, and I reckon the whole crew
knows it by this time.”

“You’re very
understanding, Charlie,” Martin told him. He turned to Huxtable.
“Horace, can’t you please forget your difference and follow the
script? You’re making this very difficult for all of us.”

Huxtable drew
himself up tall. He was still five or so inches shorter than
Charlie, which gave Charlie a deplorable sense of pride, but at
present Huxtable was looking as vain as the very devil. Charlie
thought the comparison as apt as any he could come up with if he’d
thought about it for a week.

“
I,
” Huxtable
intoned in his best stage actor’s voice, “am the star of this
motion picture. Without
me
, the
thing will be a total flop.”

“That’s
nonsense and you know it,” Martin said, finally losing his temper.
“Folks will flock to see anything nowadays. I have a good mind to
throw you out on your ear and let Charlie take the hero’s role.
He’d look a darned sight better in the role than you do.”

Aw, horse
turds. Charlie wished Martin hadn’t said that. It was difficult
enough dealing with Huxtable without the man getting jealous, too.
“He don’t mean that, Mr. H.,” Charlie said gently. “Everybody knows
you’re the star of this thing.”

Huxtable
had started to nod regally when Amy’s voice sang out from the
sidelines. “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Tafft! Wouldn’t that be
grand? No more ruined tents. No more delays and so forth. Why, I
think it’s a
splendid
notion!”

Crap. Charlie
turned and gave Amy a very small frown. Not that he didn’t
appreciate her sentiments on the issue; he simply wanted to get
this picture finished some day in this century. She caught his
glance this time, and blinked at him as if she couldn’t understand
his attitude. He’d be happy to explain it over lunch. Right now he
wanted her to shut up.

Turning back to
Huxtable, he said, “She don’t mean it either, Mr. H. They’re both a
little put off by your shenanigans, is all. Miss Wilkes doesn’t
understand that there’s more to this acting business than standing
around and looking silly in front of a camera. I’m sure she’d see
the difference if I was to take over your role.” He choked out a
fairly successful laugh of self-deprecation. “Why, can you feature
it?”

Huxtable eyed
him from Stetson to boots. “No,” he said haughtily. “I cannot.”

“Well, then,”
Charlie said, giving Huxtable a sizable pat on his shoulder. “There
we go.”

Staggering slightly, Huxtable glared at him. “Keep your
dirty hands to yourself,
if
you
please.”

“
Yes,
sir.” Because his anger had begun to rise and he feared he’d pop
the star again if he didn’t watch himself, Charlie smiled
innocently and turned away. Because he didn’t trust himself within
slugging range of Huxtable, he moseyed over to where Amy
stood.

Her pretty
eyebrows were lowered, and she looked as if she were mad at him
now. With an internal sigh, Charlie decided he just couldn’t win
this game.

“I don’t know
why you’re trying to be so nice to that big bully!”

“Well, ma’am,”
Charlie said reasonably. “I sure don’t like him.”

“I should say
not!”

“
But
I
do
want to get home one of these
days.”

She glanced
sharply at him, her frown in place. “What do you mean?”

“I think we
ought to try to ignore him. He’s only saying these things to get a
rise out of us, and that only delays the process of making this
picture. Poor Mr. Tafft would probably appreciate it if we’d just
get on with business.”

Her lips
pressed together and she appeared unconvinced. “Well, I don’t
see
him
trying to
cooperate with Mr. Tafft.” She jerked her head in the direction of
Huxtable.

Charlie sighed.
“No, ma’am. He seems to be doing everything he can to make
everybody miserable.” Sudden insight made him add, “I sure don’t
want to be anything like him, though, so I believe I’ll just go
along with Mr. Tafft’s instructions and try to ignore Huxtable’s
meanness.”

“
Oh.”
Amy’s frown eased some. “I see what you mean. No, one doesn’t want
to be anything at all like
him
,
does one?”

“No, ma’am. One
sure doesn’t.” Charlie wasn’t accustomed to speaking of himself in
the third person, but he acknowledged himself to be innocent of
city manners.

Amy huffed,
which lifted her bosom deliciously under her frothy white blouse.
Charlie, remembering the pressure of that delightful bosom against
his chest, tried not to stare. “you’re right, of course. I
understand. It’s galling, though.”

“It sure
is.”

“Places!”
Martin called.

With a smile
for Amy, Charlie strolled back onto the set. They managed to get
through the morning without too many more delays. By the time the
luncheon gong sounded, Karen Crenshaw had arrived at the set,
looking as if she’d spent a trying and tiring morning. Charlie saw
her conferring with Martin, who seemed happy with whatever news
she’d brought him. He supposed the sewing machine had survived
yesterday’s crash.

As soon as he
heard the bell, Charlie hurried over to Amy. She’d accredited
herself admirably during the morning’s rehearsal, refusing to give
in to her impulse to react to Huxtable or to scold him. Charlie
knew, because her face so vividly expressed her emotions, that it
had been a struggle for her to maintain her composure. He wanted to
express his appreciation.

“Can I walk you
to lunch, Miss Wilkes?” he asked politely.

She smiled at
him. “Thank you, Mr. Fox. That would be nice. I think I’d better
visit my tent first, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at
all.”

It was hot as a
firecracker today and there was no shade under which he could wait
for Amy, but he waited patiently anyway, mopping his brow with his
big red bandanna every three seconds or so. She didn’t take long,
thank God.

When she exited
her tent, she was folding a paper and replacing it into an
envelope. Charlie knew that the mail pouch was generally delivered
from El Monte around lunchtime, and he imagined Amy had received a
letter. He didn’t like the frown on her face, or the way her brow
was wrinkled. In fact, she looked kind of distressed, and he
experienced a mad urge to slay whoever it was whose letter had
distressed her.

“Everything all
right, ma’am?” he asked solicitously.

Her head lifted
quickly, and she seemed to make an effort to smile. “Oh, yes. Thank
you.” She waved the envelope. “I just received a letter from
Pasadena.”

From Pasadena.
Not from home? “Who’s it from?” He wondered if it was impolite to
ask.

“My fiancé, Mr.
Vernon Catesby. He’s a banker in Pasadena,” Amy said
distractedly.

Her
fiancé. Shoot. “I—er—didn’t know you had a fiancé,” he mumbled,
feeling a sickish sensation spread in his middle.

“Well,” she
equivocated, “we’re not formally engaged, but we’ve had an
understanding for some time now.”

Whatever that
meant. Charlie allowed himself to wonder if Amy’s beau had written
something disagreeable. He felt a fierce compulsion to beat Mr.
Vernon, the banker, Catesby about the head and shoulders. “I hope
the letter contained good news,” he ventured, knowing already that
his hope was for naught.

He noticed that
her lips grimed up for a second before she said, “Yes. Fine. Thank
you.”

As much
as he’d have liked to pump her for information, Charlie knew it
wasn’t his place to do so. If, however, he ever learned that Mr.
Catesby had written anything unkind to Amy, Charlie’d do something
about it. He didn’t know what, but he knew he’d have to do
something
.

“Ready for the
chow tent?”

“All ready,”
she said brightly. Charlie saw that she’d brushed her hair and
washed her face. He wished he’d thought to do that. He felt kind of
grubby.

They sat
with Martin and Karen at lunch. Charlie noticed that Amy was doing
better with the luncheon sandwiches provided for the cast and crew
of the picture. She no longer hesitated to open the sandwich up and
pick out its contents. Her pretty little mouth was too delicate to
bite into such a gigantic sandwich whole. With a sigh, he thought
he’d like to investigate her mouth for himself. He knew, although
he didn’t know how he knew, that Mr. Catesby would never appreciate
it properly.