Merton of the Movies. Harry Leon Wilson

The effect was quite all he had hoped. He lowered the front of the broad-brimmed hat the least bit, tightened his belt another notch and moved the holster to a better line. He looked again. From feet to head he was perfect.

      Then, slightly crouching, he drew his revolver from the holster and held it forward from the hip, wrist and forearm rigidly straight.

      “Throw up your hands!”

      He uttered the grim words in a low tone, but one facing him would not have been deceived by low tones. Steely-eyed, grim of face, relentless in all his bearing, the most desperate adversary would have quailed. Probably even Gashwiler himself would have quailed. When Buck Benson looked and spoke thus he meant it.

      He held it a long, breathless moment before relaxing. Then he tiptoed softly from the hallowed confines of a good woman’s boudoir and clattered down the back stairs to the kitchen. He was thinking: “I certainly got to get me another gun if I’m ever going to do Two-Gun Benson parts, and I got to get the draw down better. I ain’t quick enough yet.”

      “Well, did you like your rig?” inquired Metta genially.

      “Oh, it’ll do for the stills we’re shooting today,” replied the actor. “Of course I ought to have a rattlesnake-skin band on my hat, and the things look too new yet. And say, Metta, where’s the clothesline? I want to practice roping a little before my camera man gets here.”

      “My stars! You’re certainly goin’ to be a real one, ain’t you?”

      She brought him the clothesline, in use only on Mondays. He re-coiled it carefully and made a running noose in one end.

      At two Lowell Hardy found his subject casting the rope at an inattentive Dexter. The old horse stood in the yard, head down, one foot crossed nonchalantly before the other. A slight tremor, a nervous flickering of his skin, was all that ensued when the rope grazed him. When it merely fell in his general neighborhood, as it oftener did, Dexter did not even glance up.

      “Good stuff!” applauded the artist. “Now just stand that way, holding the noose out. I want to make a study of that.”

      He rapidly mounted his camera on a tripod and put in a plate. The study was made. Followed several studies of the fighting face of Two-Gun Benson, grim and rigid, about to shoot from the hip. But these were minor bits. More important would be Buck Benson and his old pal, Pinto. From the barn Merton dragged the saddle, blanket, and bridle he had borrowed from the Giddings House livery stable. He had never saddled a horse before, but he had not studied in vain. He seized Dexter by a wisp of his surviving mane and simultaneously planted a hearty kick in the beast’s side, with a command, “Get around there, you old skate!” Dexter sighed miserably and got around as ordered. He was both pained and astonished. He knew that this was Sunday. Never had he been forced to work on this day. But he meekly suffered the protrusion of a bit between his yellow teeth, and shuddered but slightly when a blanket and then a heavy saddle were flung across his back. True, he looked up in some dismay when the girth was tightened. Not once in all his years had he been saddled. He was used to having things loose around his waist.

      The girth went still tighter. Dexter glanced about with genuine concern. Someone was intending to harm him. He curved his swanlike neck and snapped savagely at the shoulder of his aggressor, who kicked him again in the side and yelled, “Whoa, there, dang you!”

      Dexter subsided. He saw it was no use. Whatever queer thing they meant to do to him would be done despite all his resistance. Still his alarm had caused him to hold up his head now. He was looking much more like a horse.

      “There!” said Merton Gill, and as a finishing touch he lashed the coiled clothesline to the front of the saddle. “Now, here! Get me this way. This is one of the best things I do — that is, so far.” Fondly he twined his arms about the long, thin neck of Dexter, who tossed his head and knocked off the cowboy hat. “Never mind that — it’s out,” said Merton. “Can’t use it in this scene.” He laid his cheek to the cheek of his pet. “Well, old pal, they’re takin’ yuh from me, but we got to keep a stiff upper lip. You an’ me has been through some purty lively times together, but we got to face the music at last — there, Lowell, did you get that?”

      The artist had made his study. He made three others of the same affecting scene at different angles. Dexter was overwhelmed with endearments. Doubtless he was puzzled — to be kicked in the ribs at one moment, the next to be fondled. But Lowell Hardy was enthusiastic. He said he would have some corking studies. He made another of Buck Benson preparing to mount good old Pinto; though, as a matter of fact, Buck, it appeared, was not even half prepared to mount.

      “Go on, jump on him now,” suggested the artist. “I’ll get a few more that way.”

      “Well, I don’t know,” Merton hesitated. He was 22 years old, and he had never yet been aboard a horse. Perhaps he shouldn’t try to go too far in one lesson. “You see, the old boy’s pretty tired from his week’s work. Maybe I better not mount him. Say, I’ll tell you, take me rolling a cigarette, just standing by him. I darned near forgot the cigarettes.”

      From the barn he brought a sack of tobacco and some brown papers. He had no intention of smoking, but this kind of cigarette was too completely identified with Buck Benson to be left out. Lolling against the side of Dexter, he poured tobacco from the sack into one of the papers. “Get me this way,” he directed, “just pouring it out.”

      He had not yet learned to roll a cigarette, but Gus Giddings, the Simsbury outlaw, had promised to teach him. Anyway, it was enough now to be looking keenly out from under his hat while he poured tobacco into the creased paper against the background of good old Pinto. An art study of this pose was completed. But Lowell Hardy craved more action, more variety.

      “Go on. Get up on him,” he urged. “I want to make a study of that.”

      “Well” — again Merton faltered — “the old skate’s tired out from a hard week, and I’m not feeling any too lively myself.”

      “Shucks! It won’t kill him if you get on his back for a minute, will it? And you’ll want one on him to show, won’t you? Hurry up, while the light’s right.”

      Yes, he would need a mounted study to show. Many times he had enacted a scene in which a director had looked over the art studies of Clifford Armytage and handed them back with the remark, “But you seem to play only society parts, Mr. Armytage. All very interesting, and I’ve no doubt we can place you very soon; but just at present we’re needing a lead for a Western, a man who can look the part and ride.”

      Thereupon he handed these Buck Benson stills to the man, whose face would instantly relax into an expression of pleased surprise.

      “The very thing,” he would say. And among those stills, certainly, should be one of Clifford Armytage actually on the back of his horse. He’d chance it.

      “All right; just a minute.”

      He clutched the bridle reins of Dexter under his drooping chin, and overcoming a feeble resistance dragged him alongside the watering trough. Dexter at first thought he was wished to drink, but a kick took that nonsense out of him. With extreme care Merton stood upon the edge of the trough and thrust a leg blindly over the saddle. With some determined clambering he was at last seated. His feet were in the stirrups. There was a strange light in his eyes. There was a strange light in Dexter’s eyes. To each of them the experience was not only without precedent but rather unpleasant.

      “Ride him out in the middle here, away from that well,” directed the camera man.

      “You — you better lead him out,” suggested the rider. “I can feel him tremble already. He — he might break down under me.”

      Metta Judson, from the back porch, here came into the piece with lines that the author had assuredly not written for her.

      “Giddap, there, you Dexter Gashwiler,” called Metta loudly and with the best intentions.

      “You keep still,” commanded the rider severely, not turning his head. What a long way it seemed to the ground!