Chapter XVII. Fame but Feeds the Feud

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      Over by the chutes the Luis Mendoza company—or that part of it which was on location at the Chicago rodeo—was waiting while director and camera man conferred together concerning the side lines they should use for some "full shots" they meant to take. A nice question of authenticity was at stake. They must give their leading man plenty of scope for the bronk riding he was to do this morning, and yet they must preserve the illusion of a crowded stadium; simple enough, if only they could be sure that the bronk would be amenable to direction and would do his bucking within the side lines.

      Andy Green, a director's megaphone in his hand and his soft hat pulled over his eyes, squinted and studied and decided that it would be cheaper to hire more extras and string them along the fence beside the chutes than it would be to risk having to remake the bucking scenes and endanger the star's neck further. The Native Son was one leading man who refused to do his stunt stuff by proxy. The color, the crowds, what in picture parlance is called "atmosphere," would of course be taken during the regular programs, but it was obvious that the actual sequences of the story could not be injected into the contest. These had to be made during the forenoons when the arena was empty and the movie company could have free run of the place. Andy Green and his aids and actors had sat through the afternoon performance that they might grow familiar with the routine and get the feel of the rodeo. Now they were ready for business; or as nearly so as any motion-picture company ever is when the camera is not actually clicking its record of a scene.

      "I want to pick up Luis just as the gate opens and he leaves the chute," Andy explained carefully to Gray, the camera man who always shot the full action of a scene while his two assistants worked at different angles. "Carl up there can follow him, no matter what direction he takes, but I want you to get this full shot as he comes out toward us. The boys tell me this bronk is a sure-fire bucker—a regular walking-beamer; oughta be a dandy on the screen. What I want to know is, how far will I have to spread the extras to hide that aching void around the arena?"

      "As far as the horse bucks, if you want me to get all of it," said Gray. "Once he's out and the action starts, there's no telling what angle he'll take, is there? The fence might be in the picture and it might not. I'd use all the men available, Andy. If you want it to match up with yesterday, for instance—"

      Andy nodded and walked hurriedly toward a big man who was just entering the arena through the main gate.

      "Morning, Tex! Say, where's all those gaudy riders that's been prognosticating around the place?" he wanted to know. "I need some background over there. Luis is going to make his ride—you'd think they'd all be out to see the show," he said plaintively. "A Western star riding a bronk—"

      "Quite a few of 'em saw stars riding bronks yesterday," Tex drawled, his eyes atwinkle. "Them that didn't is liable to this afternoon—we've picked a bunch of bronks that's bound to weed out the would-bes. But I reckon I can maybe haze out a few. A lot of the boys are up town. Some went up last night, and they're mostly bedded down in the hay, tryin' to sleep it off. There's a few wranglers around, though. How many you want?"

      "All you can haze out here. I just want 'em to drape themselves along the fence while Luis does a little riding and bulldogging and maybe rides a steer and ropes a calf or two. The light's good this morning and I want to get a lot of good contest action. Then this afternoon I'd like to shoot some good contest stuff, if you don't mind." He cast a critical glance up at the sun, as a gentle hint perhaps to Tex that sunlight was a precious thing to a movie director and not to be wasted. Andy Green made a good director.

      So Tex went down through the stables and routed out all the fellows he could find there, and in the course of his search he came across the Kid sitting on a hay bale, scowling at a morning paper which he held spread out before his wrathful countenance. Hats pushed back so the wide brims could not block the view, his team stood closely grouped around him and gazed at the bold black headline spread across the front page of the morning paper:

      RODEO ROBBED! COWBOY

       CATCHES BANDIT!

       MONTANA KID, COWBOY,

       HERO OF DARING HOLDUP

       AT STADIUM LAST NIGHT.

      $30,000 Stolen

       When Lone Bandit Binds

       Office Force During Show.

      Handsome Young Broncho Buster

       Loses His Shirt, Which Bandit Stole

       For Disguise. Seeing His Shirt on

       Bandit, He Leaps Into Speeding Cab

       and Subdues One of Chicago's Most

       Notorious Crooks, Recovering Shirt

       and Stolen Cash.

      The article itself flowed amusingly along from scene to scene, humorously stressing the distress (since alliteration was made a part of the comedy) of Montana Kid when he missed his blue satin shirt. His grief was vividly painted, also his life-and-death determination to find his shirt or perish in the attempt. The robbery was described briefly and accurately enough for newspaper purposes, also the Kid's pursuit of the bandit, though this was exaggerated. Chicago must have been highly entertained by the alleged antics of a young, simple-souled—simple-minded as well—gawky young savage from the West; a young David of the great open spaces boldly attacking a Goliath of crime. Even the Kid's remarks to the police and the desk sergeant were repeated in garbled form and the conventional dialect of fiction cowboys. It was all very funny, no doubt, and the writer had managed to make the Kid seem engagingly unsophisticated and picturesque and brave. He was also the best rider, the trickiest trick roper, the fanciest fancy rider, the fleetest relay rider of the entire ensemble of champions. He was chain lightning with a rope; he was the fightingest broncho fighter the city could ever hope to see—and personally he was of godlike beauty and as shy as the justly famed violet. Indeed, the violet was mentioned—along with other things.

      "Montana Kid neither smokes, drinks nor shoots craps," the writer declared. "He is anxious to win the championship and the more than generous purses, so that his little brothers and sisters may enjoy the benefits of the education he has been denied. He is dreaming of the happy day when he can give his aged mother a vacation from the ranch and take her to see the sights of the nearest city. His idea of luxury is to occupy loge seats in a movie house where they play a band—a real band—and not to care a darn what it costs. His mother—"

      "Why, the dirty bum!" The Kid, goaded past the endurance point of reading further, crushed the paper viciously in his hands.

      "Wait a minute! Listen to this, Kid: 'Over his simple repast of toast and tea last night Montana Kid blushed to the brim of his six-gallon hat and denied—'"

      "Ah, shut up!" The Kid glared furiously at Walt. "One yip out of you fellows about this zippety-zip blinkety-blank thing and I'll lay yuh cold! For two cents I'd quit the ding-dang rodeo and the—" He choked off further anathemas which were scorching his tongue and stood up, breathing hard through nostrils that quivered like a frightened thoroughbred. The rodeo manager stood regarding him quizzically, his lips caressing an unlighted cigar.

      "Fame's a tricky animal, hard to snare," Tex observed obliquely. "You never know your luck, but I'd take all that comes if I was in your place, Kid. Better get out there in the arena, all you boys. They want you in the picture—"

      The very word picture was like a dart in the flank of a fighting bull. The Kid's face showed a line of dead white around his mouth.

      "You tell them to go straight to hell," he said, with a quiet vehemence which could not