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MERTON OF THE MOVIES
By Harry Leon Wilson
To George Ade
CONTENTS
I. DIRTY WORK AT THE BORDER
II. THAT NIGHT--THE APARTMENTS OF CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE
III. WESTERN STUFF
IV. THE WATCHER AT THE GATE
V. A BREACH IN THE CITY WALLS
VI. UNDER THE GLASS TOPS
VII. “NOTHING TO-DAY, DEAR!”
VIII. CLIFFORD ARMYTAGE, THE OUTLAW
IX. MORE WAYS THAN ONE
X. OF SHATTERED ILLUSIONS
XI. THE MONTAGUE GIRL INTERVENES
XII. ALIAS HAROLD PARMALEE
XIII. GENIUS COMES INTO ITS OWN
XIV. OUT THERE WHERE MEN ARE MEN
XV. A NEW TRAIL
XVI. OF SARAH NEVADA MONTAGUE
XVII. MISS MONTAGUE USES HER OWN FACE
XVIII. “FIVE REELS--500 LAUGHS”
XIX. THE TRAGIC COMEDIAN
XX. ONWARD AND UPWARD
CHAPTER I. DIRTY WORK AT THE BORDER
At the very beginning of the tale there comes a moment of puzzled
hesitation. One way of approach is set beside another for choice, and
a third contrived for better choice. Still the puzzle persists, all
because the one precisely right way might seem--shall we say intense,
high keyed, clamorous? Yet if one way is the only right way, why pause?
Courage! Slightly dazed, though certain, let us be on, into the shrill
thick of it. So, then--
Out there in the great open spaces where men are men, a clash of
primitive hearts and the coming of young love into its own! Well had
it been for Estelle St. Clair if she had not wandered from the Fordyce
ranch. A moment’s delay in the arrival of Buck Benson, a second of fear
in that brave heart, and hers would have been a fate worse than death.
Had she not been warned of Snake le Vasquez, the outlaw--his base threat
to win her by fair means or foul? Had not Buck Benson himself, that
strong, silent man of the open, begged her to beware of the half-breed?
Perhaps she had resented the hint of mastery in Benson’s cool, quiet
tones as he said, “Miss St. Clair, ma’am, I beg you not to endanger your
welfare by permitting the advances of this viper. He bodes no good to
such as you.”
Perhaps--who knows?--Estelle St. Clair had even thought to trifle with
the feelings of Snake le Vasquez, then to scorn him for his presumption.
Although the beautiful New York society girl had remained unsullied in
the midst of a city’s profligacy, she still liked “to play with fire,”
as she laughingly said, and at the quiet words of Benson--Two-Gun Benson
his comrades of the border called him--she had drawn herself to her full
height, facing him in all her blond young beauty, and pouted adorably as
she replied, “Thank you! But I can look out for myself.”
Yet she had wandered on her pony farther than she meant to, and was
not without trepidation at the sudden appearance of the picturesque
halfbreed, his teeth flashing in an evil smile as he swept off his broad
sombrero to her. Above her suddenly beating heart she sought to chat
gayly, while the quick eyes of the outlaw took in the details of the
smart riding costume that revealed every line of her lithe young figure.
But suddenly she chilled under his hot glance that now spoke all too
plainly.
“I must return to my friends,” she faltered. “They will be anxious.”
But the fellow laughed with a sinister leer. “No--ah, no, the lovely
senorita will come with me,” he replied; but there was the temper of
steel in his words. For Snake le Vasquez, on the border, where human
life was lightly held, was known as the Slimy Viper. Of all the evil
men in that inferno, Snake was the foulest. Steeped in vice, he feared
neither God nor man, and respected no woman. And now, Estelle St. Clair,
drawing-room pet, pampered darling of New York society, which she ruled
with an iron hand from her father’s Fifth Avenue mansion, regretted
bitterly that she had not given heed to honest Buck Benson. Her prayers,
threats, entreaties, were in vain. Despite her struggles, the blows her
small fists rained upon the scoundrel’s taunting face, she was borne
across the border, on over the mesa, toward the lair of the outlaw.
“Have you no mercy?” she cried again and again. “Can you not see that I
loathe and despise you, foul fiend that you are? Ah. God in heaven, is
there no help at hand?” The outlaw remained deaf to these words that
should have melted a heart of stone. At last over the burning plain
was seen the ruined hovel to which the scoundrel was dragging his
fair burden. It was but the work of a moment to dismount and bear her
half-fainting form within the den. There he faced her, repellent with
evil intentions.
“Ha, senorita, you are a beautiful wildcat, yes? But Snake le Vasquez
will tame you! Ha, ha!” laughed he carelessly.
With a swift movement the beautiful girl sought to withdraw the small
silver-mounted revolver without which she never left the ranch. But
Snake le Vasquez, with a muttered oath, was too quick for her. He seized
the toy and contemptuously hurled it across his vile den.
“Have a care, my proud beauty!” he snarled, and the next moment she was
writhing in his grasp.
Little availed her puny strength. Helpless as an infant was the fair New
York society girl as Snake le Vasquez, foulest of the viper breed, began
to force his attention upon her. The creature’s hot kisses seared her
defenseless cheek. “Listen!” he hissed. “You are mine, mine at last.
Here you shall remain a prisoner until you have consented to be my
wife.” All seemed, indeed, lost.
“Am I too late, Miss St. Clair?”
Snake le Vasquez started at the quiet, grim voice.
“Sapristi!” he snarled. “You!”
“Me!” replied Buck Benson, for it was, indeed, no other.
“Thank God, at last!” murmured Estelle St. Clair, freeing herself from
the foul arms that had enfolded her slim young beauty and staggering
back from him who would so basely have forced her into a distasteful
marriage. In an instant she had recovered the St. Clair poise, had
become every inch the New York society leader, as she replied, “Not too
late, Mr. Benson! Just in time, rather. Ha, ha! This--this gentleman has
become annoying. You are just in time to mete out the punishment he so
justly deserves, for which I shall pray that heaven reward you.”
She pointed an accusing finger at the craven wretch who had shrunk from
her and now cowered at the far side of the wretched den. At that moment
she was strangely thrilled. What was his power, this strong, silent man
of the open with his deep reverence for pure American womanhood? True,
her culture demanded a gentleman, but her heart demanded a man. Her eyes
softened and fell before his cool, keen gaze, and a blush mantled her
fair cheek. Could he but have known it, she stood then in meek surrender
before this soft-voiced master. A tremor swept the honest rugged face of
Buck Benson as heart thus called to heart. But his keen eyes flitted to
Snake le Vasquez.
“Now, curse you, viper that you are, you shall fight me, by heaven! in
American fashion, man to man, for, foul though you be, I hesitate to put
a bullet through your craven heart.”
The beautiful girl shivered with new apprehension, the eyes of Snake le
Vasquez glittered with new hope. He faced his steely eyed opponent for
an instant only, then with a snarl like that of an angry beast sprang
upon him. Benson met the cowardly attack with the flash of a powerful
fist, and the outlaw fell to the floor with a hoarse cry of rage and
pain. But he was quickly upon his feet again, muttering curses, and
again he attacked his grim-faced antagonist. Quick blows rained upon his
defenseless face, for the strong, silent man was now fairly aroused. He
fought like a demon, perhaps divining that here strong men battled for
a good woman’s love. The outlaw was proving to be no match for his
opponent. Arising from the ground where a mighty blow had sent him, he
made a lightning-like effort to recover the knife which Benson had taken
from him.
“Have a care!” cried the girl in quick alarm. “That fiend in human form
would murder you!”
But Buck Benson’s cool eye had seen the treachery in ample time. With
a muttered “Curse you, fiend that you are!” he seized the form of the
outlaw in a powerful grasp, raised him high aloft as if he had been but
a child, and was about to dash him to the ground when a new voice
from the doorway froze him to immobility. Statute-like he stood there,
holding aloft the now still form of Snake le Vasquez.
The voice from the doorway betrayed deep amazement and the profoundest
irritation:
“Merton Gill, what in the sacred name of Time are you meanin’ to do
with that dummy? For the good land’s sake! Have you gone plumb crazy, or
what? Put that thing down!”
The newcomer was a portly man of middle age dressed in ill-fitting
black. His gray hair grew low upon his brow and he wore a parted beard.
The conqueror of Snake le Vasquez was still frozen, though he had
instantly ceased to be Buck Benson, the strong, silent, two-gun man of
the open spaces. The irritated voice came again:
“Put that dummy down, you idiot! What you think you’re doin’, anyway?
And say, what you got that other one in here for, when it ought to be
out front of the store showin’ that new line of gingham house frocks?
Put that down and handle it careful! Mebbe you think I got them things
down from Chicago just for you to play horse with. Not so! Not so at
all! They’re to help show off goods, and that’s what I want ‘em doin’
right now. And for Time’s sake, what’s that revolver lyin’ on the floor
for? Is it loaded? Say, are you really out of your senses, or ain’t you?
What’s got into you lately? Will you tell me that? Skyhootin’ around
in here, leavin’ the front of the store unpertected for an hour or two,
like your time was your own. And don’t tell me you only been foolin’ in
here for three minutes, either, because when I come back from lunch just
now there was Mis’ Leffingwell up at the notions counter wanting some
hooks and eyes, and she tells me she’s waited there a good thutty
minutes if she’s waited one. Nice goin’s on, I must say, for a boy
drawin’ down the money you be! Now you git busy! Take that one with the
gingham frock out and stand her in front where she belongs, and then put
one them new raincoats on the other and stand him out where he belongs,
and then look after a few customers. I declare, sometimes I git clean
out of patience with you! Now, for gosh’s sake, stir your stumps!”
“Oh, all right--yes, sir,” replied Merton Gill, though but half
respectfully. The “Oh, all right” had been tainted with a trace of
sullenness. He was tired of this continual nagging and fussing over
small matters; some day he would tell the old grouch so.
And now, gone the vivid tale of the great out-of-doors, the wide plains
of the West, the clash of primitive-hearted men for a good woman’s love.
Gone, perhaps, the greatest heart picture of a generation, the picture
at which you laugh with a lump in your throat and smile with a tear in
your eye, the story of plausible punches, a big, vital theme masterfully
handled--thrills, action, beauty, excitement--carried to a sensational
finish by the genius of that sterling star of the shadowed world,
Clifford Armytage--once known as Merton Gill in the little hamlet of
Simsbury, Illinois, where for a time, ere yet he was called to screen
triumphs, he served as a humble clerk in the so-called emporium of Amos
G. Gashwiler--Everything For The Home. Our Prices Always Right.
Merton Gill--so for a little time he must still be known--moodily seized
the late Estelle St. Clair under his arm and withdrew from the dingy
back storeroom. Down between the counters of the emporium he went with
his fair burden and left her outside its portals, staring from her very
definitely lashed eyes across the slumbering street at the Simsbury post
office. She was tastefully arrayed in one of those new checked gingham
house frocks so heatedly mentioned a moment since by her lawful owner,
and across her chest Merton Gill now imposed, with no tenderness of
manner, the appealing legend, “Our Latest for Milady; only $6.98.”
He returned for Snake le Vasquez. That outlaw’s face, even out of the
picture, was evil. He had been picked for the part because of this
face--plump, pinkly tinted cheeks, lustrous, curling hair of some
repellent composition, eyes with a hard glitter, each lash distinct in
blue-black lines, and a small, tip-curled black mustache that lent the
whole an offensive smirk. Garbed now in a raincoat, he, too, was posed
before the emporium front, labelled “Rainproof or You Get Back Your
Money.” So frankly evil was his mien that Merton Gill, pausing to regard
him, suffered a brief relapse into artistry.
“You fiend!” he muttered, and contemptuously smote the cynical face with
an open hand.
Snake le Vasquez remained indifferent to the affront, smirking
insufferably across the slumbering street at the wooden Indian
proffering cigars before the establishment of Selby Brothers,
Confectionery and Tobaccos.
Within the emporium the proprietor now purveyed hooks and eyes to an
impatient Mrs. Leffingwell. Merton Gill, behind the opposite counter,
waited upon a little girl sent for two and a quarter yards of stuff to
match the sample crumpled in her damp hand. Over the suave amenities of
this merchandising Amos Gashwiler glared suspiciously across the store
at his employee. Their relations were still strained. Merton also glared
at Amos, but discreetly, at moments when the other’s back was turned or
when he was blandly wishing to know of Mrs. Leffingwell if there would
be something else to-day. Other customers entered. Trade was on.
Both Merton and Amos wore airs of cheerful briskness that deceived the
public. No one could have thought that Amos was fearing his undoubtedly
crazed clerk might become uncontrollable at any moment, or that the
clerk was mentally parting from Amos forever in a scene of tense
dramatic value in which his few dignified but scathing words would burn
themselves unforgettably into the old man’s brain. Merton, to himself,
had often told Amos these things. Some day he’d say them right out,
leaving his victim not only in the utmost confusion but in black despair
of ever finding another clerk one half as efficient as Merton Gill.
The afternoon wore to closing time in a flurry of trade, during which,
as Merton continued to behave sanely, the apprehension of his employer
in a measure subsided. The last customer had departed from the emporium.
The dummies were brought inside. The dust curtains were hung along
the shelves of dry goods. There remained for Merton only the task of
delivering a few groceries. He gathered these and took them out to the
wagon in front. Then he changed from his store coat to his street coat
and donned a rakish plush hat.
Amos was also changing from his store coat to his street coat and
donning his frayed straw hat.
“See if you can’t keep from actin’ crazy while you make them
deliveries,” said Amos, not uncordially, as he lighted a choice cigar
from the box which he kept hidden under a counter.
Merton wished to reply: “See here, Mr. Gashwiler, I’ve stood this abuse
long enough! The time has come to say a few words to you--” But aloud he
merely responded, “Yes, sir!”
The circumstance that he also had a cigar from the same box, hidden not
so well as Amos thought, may have subdued his resentment. He would light
the cigar after the first turn in the road had carried him beyond the
eagle eye of its owner.
The delivery wagon outside was drawn by an elderly horse devoid of
ambition or ideals. His head was sunk in dejection. He was gray at the
temples, and slouched in the shafts in a loafing attitude, one
forefoot negligently crossed in front of the other. He aroused himself
reluctantly and with apparent difficulty when Merton Gill seized the
reins and called in commanding tones, “Get on there, you old skate!” The
equipage moved off under the gaze of Amos, who was locking the doors of
his establishment.
Turning the first corner into a dusty side street, Merton dropped the
reins and lighted the filched cigar. Other Gashwiler property was sacred
to him. From all the emporium’s choice stock he would have abstracted
not so much as a pin; but the Gashwiler cigars, said to be “The World’s
Best 10c Smoke,” with the picture of a dissipated clubman in evening
dress on the box cover, were different, in that they were pointedly
hidden from Merton. He cared little for cigars, but this was a
challenge; the old boy couldn’t get away with anything like that. If
he didn’t want his cigars touched let him leave the box out in the open
like a man. Merton drew upon the lighted trophy, moistened and pasted
back the wrapper that had broken when the end was bitten off, and took
from the bottom of the delivery wagon the remains of a buggy whip that
had been worn to half its length. With this he now tickled the bony
ridges of the horse. Blows meant nothing to Dexter, but he could still
be tickled into brief spurts of activity. He trotted with swaying
head, sending up an effective dust screen between the wagon and a still
possibly observing Gashwiler.
His deliveries made, Merton again tickled the horse to a frantic
pace which continued until they neared the alley on which fronted the
Gashwiler barn; there the speed was moderated to a mild amble, for
Gashwiler believed his horse should be driven with tenderness, and his
equally watchful wife believed it would run away if given the chance.
Merton drove into the barnyard, unhitched the horse, watered it at the
half of a barrel before the iron pump, and led it into the barn, where
he removed the harness. The old horse sighed noisily and shook himself
with relief as the bridle was removed and a halter slipped over his
venerable brow.
Ascertaining that the barnyard was vacant, Merton immediately became
attentive to his charge. Throughout the late drive his attitude had been
one of mild but contemptuous abuse. More than once he had uttered the
words “old skate” in tones of earnest conviction, and with the worn end
of the whip he had cruelly tickled the still absurdly sensitive sides.
Had beating availed he would with no compunction have beaten the
drooping wreck. But now, all at once, he was curiously tender. He patted
the shoulder softly, put both arms around the bony neck, and pressed his
face against the face of Dexter. A moment he stood thus, then spoke in a
tear-choked voice:
“Good-by, old pal--the best, the truest pal a man ever had. You and me
has seen some tough times, old pard; but you’ve allus brought me through
without a scratch; allus brought me through.” There was a sob in the
speaker’s voice, but he manfully recovered a clear tone of pathos. “And
now, old pal, they’re a-takin’ ye from me--yes, we got to part, you an’
me. I’m never goin’ to set eyes on ye agin. But we got to be brave, old
pal; we got to keep a stiff upper lip--no cryin’ now; no bustin’ down.”
The speaker unclasped his arms and stood with head bowed, his face
working curiously, striving to hold back the sobs.
For Merton Gill was once more Clifford Armytage, popular idol of the
screen, in his great role of Buck Benson bidding the accustomed farewell
to his four-footed pal that had brought him safely through countless
dangers. How are we to know that in another couple of hundred feet of
the reel Buck will escape the officers of the law who have him for that
hold-up of the Wallahoola stage--of which he was innocent--leap from
a second-story window of the sheriff’s office onto the back of his old
pal, and be carried safely over the border where the hellhounds can’t
touch him until his innocence is proved by Estelle St. Clair, the New
York society girl, whose culture demanded a gentleman but whose heart
demanded a man. How are we to know this? We only know that Buck Benson
always has to kiss his horse good-by at this spot in the drama.
Merton Gill is impressively Buck Benson. His sobs are choking him. And
though Gashwiler’s delivery horse is not a pinto, and could hardly get
over the border ahead of a sheriff’s posse, the scene is affecting.
“Good-by, again, old pal, and God bless ye!” sobs Merton.