One thing which a motion-picture actor may not do and retain the
tolerance of any one who knows him is to stop work in the middle of
a picture. If there is an unforgivable sin in the movie world, that
is it. Nevertheless, even sins called unforgivable may be condoned
in certain circumstances; even the most stringent rules may be
broken now and then, or bent to meet an individual need.
Gary spent a sleepless night wondering how he might with impunity
commit the unforgivable sin. In spite of his anger at Patricia and
his sense of her injustice, certain words of hers rankled in a way
that would have pleased Patricia immensely, had she known it.
He rode out to the studio one car earlier than usual, and went
straight to the little cubbyhole of a dressing room to put on his
make-up as Chief Eagle Eye. Such was the force of Patricia’s speech
that Gary swore vaguely, at nothing in particular, while he painted
his eyebrows, lashes and lips, and streaked the vermilion war paint
down his cheeks. He scrubbed the copper-colored powder into the
grease paint on his arms and chest, still swearing softly and
steadily in a monotonous undertone that sounded, ten feet away, like
a monk mumbling over his beads.
With the help of a fellow actor he became a noble red man from the
scalp lock to his waist, got into fringed buckskin leggings,
lavishly feathered war bonnet, some imitation elk-tooth necklaces
and beaded moccasins. Then, with his quiver full of arrows (poisoned
in the sub-titles) slung over his painted shoulders, and the mighty
bow of Chief Eagle Eye in his hand, Gary stalked out into the lot in
search of the director, Mills.
When one knows his director personally as a friend, one may, if he
is a coming young star and not too insufferably aware of his
starlike qualities, accomplish much in the way of emergency
revisions of story and stringent rules.
Wherefore, to the future amazement of the author, Chief Eagle Eye
that day died three different deaths, close up in front of two
grinding cameras; though Chief Eagle Eye had not been expected to
die at all in the picture. The director stood just behind the
camera, his megaphone under his arm, his hands on his hips, his hat
on the back of his head and a grin on his perspiring face.
“Thattaboy, Gary! Just sag at the knees and go down slowly, as you
try to draw the bow. That’s it--try to get up--well, that’s good
business, trying to shoot from the ground! Now try to heave yourself
up again--just lift your body, like your legs is paralyzed--shot in
the back, maybe. All right--that’s great stuff. Now rouse yourself
with one last effort--lift your head and chant the death song! Gulp,
man!
“Run in there, Bill--you’re horrified. Try to lift him up and drag
him back out of danger. Say! Wince, man, like you’re shot through
the lungs--no, _I meant Gary_!--well, damn it, let it go--but
how-the-hell-do-you-expect-to-drag-a-man-off-when-you’ve-got-a-slug-in-your-_lungs_?
You acted like some one had stuck you with a pin! Git outa the
scene--Gary’s doing the dying, you ain’t!---- _Cut_--we’ll have to do
that over. A kid four years old would never stand for that damfool
play.
“Now, Gary, try that again. Keep that business with the bow. And try
and get that same vindictive look--you know, with your lips drawn
back while you’re trying to bend the bow and let fly one last arrow.
This time you die alone. Can’t have a death scene like that gummed
up by a boob like Bill lopin’ in and actin’ like he’d sat on a
bee--all right--come in--_camera_----
“That’s fine--now take your time, take your time--now, as the bow
sags--you’re growing weaker--rouse yourself and chant your death song!
That’s the stuff! Lift your head--turn it so your profile shows”
(Gary swore without moving his lips “--hold that, while you raise
your hand palm out--peace greeting to your ancestors you see in the
clouds! _Great!_ H-o-o-l-d
it--one--two--three--now-go-slack-all-at-once----_Cut!_”
Gary picked himself up, took off his war bonnet and laid it on a
rock, reached into his wampum belt and produced a sack of Bull
Durham and a book of papers. The director came over and sat down
beside him, accepting the cigarette Gary had just rolled.
“Great scene, Gary. By gosh, that ought to get over big. When you
get back, call me up right away, will you? I ought to know something
definite next week, at the latest. Try and be here when Cohen gets
here; I want you to meet him. By gosh, it’s a crime not to give you
a feature company. Well, have Mack drive you back in my car. You
haven’t any too much time.”
That’s what it means to have the director for your friend. He can
draw out your scenes and keep you working many an extra week if you
are hard up, or he can kill you off on short notice and let you go,
if you happen to have urgent business elsewhere; and must travel
from Toponga Cañon to the studio, take off your make-up--an ungodly,
messy make-up in this case--pack a suit case, buy a ticket and catch
the eight o’clock train that evening.
Gary, having died with much dignity and a magnificent profile in
full view of future weeping audiences, was free from further
responsibility toward the company and could go where he did not
please. Which, of course, was Tonopah.
He was just boyish enough in his anger, hurt enough in his man’s
pride, to go without another word to Patricia. Flabby-souled, hunh?
Painted eyebrows, painted lashes, painted lips--golly grandma! Pat
surely could take the hide off a man, and smile while she did it!
He meant to take that Power of Attorney she had so naïvely placed in
his hands, and work it for all there was in it. He meant to sell
that gold brick of a “stock ranch” Waddell had worked off on her,
and lick Waddell and the two men who had signed affidavits for him.
He meant to go back, then, and give Pat her money, and tell her for
the Lord’s sake to have a little sense, and put her five thousand
dollars in a trust fund, where she couldn’t get hold of it for the
first faker that came along and held out his hand. After that--Gary
was not sure what he would do. He was still very angry with
Patricia; but after he had asserted his masculine authority and
proved to her that the female of our species is less intelligent
than the male, it is barely possible that he might forgive the girl.