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CHAPTER II. THE DAUGHTER OF A CHIEF

In spite of Andy Green's plea for delay until they knew what Luck meant to do, Applehead went on with his energetic preparations for a spring roundup of his own. Some perverse spirit seemed to possess him and drive him out of his easy-going shiftlessness. He offered to hire the Happy Family by the day, since none of them would promise any permanent service until they heard from Luck. He put them to work gathering up the saddle-horses that had been turned loose when Luck's picture was finished, and repairing harness and attending to the numberless details of reorganizing a ranch long left to slipshod make-shifts.

The boys of the Flying U argued while they worked, but in spite of themselves the lure of the mesa quickened their movements. They were supposed to wait for Luck before they did anything; an they all knew that. But, on the other hand, Luck was supposed to keep them informed as to his movements; which he had not done. They did not voice one single doubt of Lucks loyalty to them, but human nature is more prone to suspicion than to faith, as every one knows. And Luck had the power and the incentive to "double-cross" them if he was the kind to do such a thing. He was manager for their little free-lance picture company which did not even have a name to call itself by. They had produced one big feature film, and it was supposed to be a cooperative affair from start to finish. If Luck failed to make good, they would all be broke together. If Luck cleared up the few thousands that had been their hope, why—they would all profit by the success, if Luck—

I maintain that they showed themselves of pretty good metal, in that not even Happy Tack, confirmed pessimist that he was, ever put the least suspicion of Luck's honesty into words. They were not the kind to decry a comrade when his back was turned. And they had worked with Luck Lindsay and had worked for him. They had slept under the same roof with him, had shared his worries, his hopes, and his fears. They did not believe that Luck had appropriated the proceeds of The Phantom Herd and had deliberately left them there to cool their heels and feel the emptiness of their pockets in New Mexico, while he disported himself in Los Angeles; they did—not believe that—they would have resented the implication that they harbored any doubt of him. But for all that, as the days passed and he neither came nor sent them any word, they yielded more and more to the determination of Applehead to start out upon his own business, and they said less and less about Luck's probable plans for the future.

And then, just when they were making ready for an early start the next morning; just when Applehead had the corral full of horses and his chuckwagon of grub; just when the Happy Family had packed their war-bags with absolute necessities and were justifying themselves in final arguments with Andy Green, who refused point-blank to leave the; ranch—then, at the time a dramatist would have chosen for his entrance for an effective "curtain," here came Luck, smiling and driving a huge seven-passenger machine crowded to the last folding seat and with the chauffeur riding on the running board where Luck had calmly banished him when he skidded on a sharp turn and came near upsetting them.

Applehead, stowing a coil of new rope in the chuck-wagon, took off his hat and rubbed his shiny, pink pate in dismay. He was, for the moment, a culprit caught in the act of committing a grave misdemeanor if not an actual felony. He dropped the rope and went forward with dragging feet—ashamed, for the first time in his life, to face a friend.

Luck gave the wheel a twist, cut a fine curve around the windmill and stopped before the house with as near a flourish as a seven-passenger automobile loaded from tail-lamp to windshield can possibly approach.

"There. That's the way I've been used to seeing cars behave," Luck observed pointedly to the deposed chauffeur as he slammed the door open and climbed out. "You don't have to act like you're a catepillar on a rail fence, to play safe. I believe in keeping all four wheels on the ground—but I like to see 'em turn once in awhile. You get me?" He peeled a five-dollar banknote off a roll the size of his wrist, handed it to the impressed chauffeur and dismissed the transaction with a wave of his gloved hand. "You're all right, brother," he tempered his criticism, "but I'm some nervous about automobiles."

"I noticed that myself," drawled a soft, humorous voice from the rear. "This is the nearest I ever came to traveling by telegraph."

Luck grinned, waved his hand in friendly greeting to the Happy Family who were taking long steps up from the corral, and turned his attention to the unloading of the machine. "Howdy, folks!—guess yuh thought I'd plumb lost the trail back," he called to them over his shoulder while he dove after suitcases, packages of various sizes and shapes, a box or two which the Happy Family recognized as containing "raw stock," and a camera tripod that looked perfectly new.

From the congested tonneau a tall, slim young woman managed to descend without stepping on anything that could not bear being stepped upon. She gave her skirts a little shake, pushed back a flying strand of hair and turned her back to the machine that she might the better inspect her immediate surroundings.

Old Dave Wiswell, the dried little man who never had much to say, peered at her sharply, hesitated and then came forward with his bony hand outstretched and trembling with eagerness. "Why, my gorry! If it ain't Jean Douglas, my eyes are lyin' to me," he cried.

"It isn't Jean Douglas—but don't blame your eyes for that," said the girl, taking his hand and shaking it frankly. "Jean Douglas Avery, thanks to the law that makes a girl trade her name for a husband. You know Lite, of course—dad, too."

"Well, well—my gorry I I should say I do! Howdy, Aleck?" He shook the hand of the old man Jean called dad, and his lips trembled uncertainly, seeking speech that would not hurt a very, very sore spot in the heart of big Aleck Douglas. "I'm shore glad to meet yuh again," he stuttered finally, and let it go at that "And how are yuh, Lite? Just as long and lanky as ever—marriage shore ain't fattened you up none. My gorry! I shore never expected to see you folks away down here!"

"Thought you heard me say when I left that the Great Western had offered to get me Jean Douglas for leading lady," Luck put in, looking around distractedly for a place to deposit his armload of packages. "That's one thing that kept me—waiting for her to show up. Of course a man naturally expects a woman to take her own time about starting—"

"I like that!" Jean drawled. "We broke up housekeeping and wound up a ranch and traveled a couple of thousand miles in just a week's time. We—we ALMOST hit the same gait you did from town out here today!"

Rosemary Green came out then, and Luck turned to greet her and to present Jean to her, and was pleased when he saw from their eyes that they liked each other at first sight. He introduced the Happy Family and Applehead to her and to her husband, Lite Avery, and her father. He pulled a skinny individual forward and announced that this was Pete Lowry, one of the Great Western's crack cameramen; and another chubby, smooth-cheeked young man he presented as Tommy Johnson, scenic artist and stage carpenter. And he added with a smile for the whole bunch, "We're going to produce some real stuff from now on believe me, folks!"

In the confusion and the mild clamor of the absence-bridging questions and hasty answers, two persons had no part. Old Applehead, hard-ridden by the uneasy consciousness of his treason to Luck, leaned against a porch post and sucked hard at the stem of an empty pipe. And just beyond the corner out of sight but well within hearing, Annie-Many-Ponies stood flattened against the wall and listened with fast-beating pulse for the sound of her name, spoken in the loved voice of Wagalexa Conka. She, the daughter of a chief and Luck's sister by tribal adoption—would he not miss her: from among those others who welcomed him? Would he not presently ask: "Where is Annie-Many-Ponies?" She knew just how he would turn and search for her with his eyes.

She knew just how his voice would sound when he asked for her. Then, after a minute—when he had missed her and had asked for her—she would come and stand before him. And he would take her hand and say to that white woman; "This is my Indian sister, Annie-Many-Ponies, who played the part of the beautiful Indian girl who died so grandly in The Phantom Herd. This is the girl who plays my character leads." Then the white girl, who was to be his leading woman, would not feel that she was the only woman in the company who could do good work for Luck.

Annie-Many-Ponies had worked in pictures since she was fifteen and did only "atmosphere stuff" in the Indian camps of Luck's arranging. She was wise in the ways of picture jealousies. Already she was jealous of this slim woman with the dark hair and eyes and the slow smile that always caught one's attention and held it. She waited. She wanted Wagalexa Conka to call her in that kindly, imperious voice of his—the voice of the master. This leading woman would see, then, that here was a girl more beautiful for whom Luck Lindsay felt the affection of family ties.

She waited, flattened against the wall, listening to every word that was spoken in that buzzing group. She saw the last bundle taken from the machine, and she saw Luck's head and shoulders disappear within the tonneau, making sure that it was the last bundle and that nothing had been overlooked. She saw the driver climb in, slam the fore-door shut after him and bend above the starter. She saw the machine slide out of the group and away in a wide circle to regain the trail. She saw the group break and start off in various directions as duty or a passing interest led. But Wagalexa Conka never once seemed to remember that she was not there. Never once did he speak her name.

Instead, just as Rosemary was leading the way into the house, this slim young woman they called Jean glanced around inquiringly. "I thought you had a squaw working for you," she said in that soft, humorous voice of hers. "The one who did the Indian girl in The Phantom Herd. Isn't she here any more?"

"Oh, yes!" Luck stopped with one foot on the porch. "Sure! Where is Annie? Anybody know?"

"She was around here just before you came," said Rosemary carelessly. "I don't know where she went."

"Hid out, I reckon," Luck commented. "Injuns are heap shy of meeting strangers. She'll show up after a little."

Annie-Many-Ponies stooped and slid safely past the window that might betray her, and then slipped away behind the house. She waited, and she listened; for though the adobe walls were thick, there were open windows and her hearing was keen. Within was animated babel and much laughter. But not once again did Annie-Many-Ponies hear her name spoken. Not once again did Wagalexa Conka remember her. Save when she, that slim woman who bad come to play his leads, asked to see her, she had been wholly forgotten. Even then she had been named a squaw. It was as though they had been speaking of a horse. They did not count her worthy of a place in their company, they did not miss her voice and her smile.

"Hid out," Wagalexa Conka had said. Well, she would hide out, then—she, the daughter of a chief of the Sioux; she, whom Wagalexa Conka had been glad to have in his picture when he was poor and had no money to pay white leading women. But now he had much money; now he could come in a big automobile, with a slim, white leading woman and a camera man and scenic artist and much money in his pocket; and she—she was just a squaw who had hid out, and who would show up after a while and be grateful if he took her by the hand and said, "How!"

With so many persons moving eagerly here and there, none but an Indian could have slipped away from that house and from the ranch without being seen. But though the place was bald and open to the four winds save for a few detached outbuildings, Annie-Many-Ponies went away upon the mesa and no one saw her go.

She did not dare go to the corral for her horse. The corral was in plain sight of the house, and the eyes of Wagalexa Conka were keen as the eye of the Sioux, his foster brothers. He would see her there. He would call: "Annie, come here!" and she would go, and would stand submissive before him, and would be glad that he noticed her; for she was born of the tribe where women obey their masters, and the heritage of centuries may not be lightly lain aside like an outgrown garment. She felt that this was so; that although her heart might burn with resentment because he had forgotten and must be reminded by a strange white woman that the "squaw" was not present, still, if he called her she must go, because Wagalexa Conka was master there and the master must be obeyed.

Down the dry wash where Applehead had hunted for baling wire she went swiftly, with the straight-backed, free stride of the plainswoman who knows not the muscle-bondage of boned girdle. In moccasins she walked; for a certain pride of race, a certain sense of the picture-value of beaded buckskin and bright cloth, held her fast to the gala dress of her people, modified and touched here and there with the gay ornaments of civilization. So much had her work in the silent drama taught her. Bareheaded, her hair in two glossy braids each tied with a big red bow, she strode on and on in the clear sunlight of spring.

Not until she was more than two miles from the ranch did she show herself upon one of the numberless small ridges which, blended together in the distance, give that deceptive look of flatness to the mesa. Even two miles away, in that clear air that dwarfs distance so amazingly, Wagalexa Conka might recognize her if he looked at her with sufficient attention. But Wagalexa Conka, she told herself with a flash of her black eyes, would not look. Wagalexa Conka was too busy looking at that slim woman he had brought with him.

That ridge she crossed, and two others. On the last one she stopped and stood, straight and still, and stared away towards the mountains, shading her eyes with one spread palm. On a distant slope a small herd of cattle fed, scattered and at peace. Nearer, a great hawk circled slowly on widespread wings, his neck craned downward as if he were watching his own shadow move ghostlike over the grass. Annie-Many-Ponies, turning her eyes disappointedly from the empty mesa, envied the hawk his swift-winged freedom.

When she looked again toward the far slopes next the mountains, a black speck rolled into view, the nucleus of a little dust cloud. Her face brightened a little; she turned abruptly and sought easy footing down that ridge, and climbed hurriedly the longer rise beyond. Once or twice, when she was on high ground, she glanced behind her uneasily, as does one whose mind holds a certain consciousness of wrongdoing. She did not pause, even then, but hurried on toward the dust cloud.

On the rim of a shallow, saucer-like basin that lay cunningly concealed until one stood upon the very edge of it, Annie-Many-Ponies stopped again and stood looking out from under her spread palm. Presently the dust cloud moved over the crest of a ridge, and now that it was so much closer she saw clearly the horseman loping abreast of the dust. Annie-Many-Ponies stood for another moment watching, with that inscrutable half smile on her lips. She untied the cerise silk kerchief which she wore knotted loosely around her slim neck, waited until the horseman showed plainly in the distance and then, raising her right hand high above her head, waved the scarf three times in slow, sweeping half circles from right to left. She waited, her eyes fixed expectantly upon the horseman. Like a startled rabbit he darted to the left, pulled in his horse, turned and rode for three or four jumps sharply to the right; stopped short for ten seconds and then came straight on, spurring his horse to a swifter pace.

Annie-Many-Ponies smiled and went down into the shallow basin and seated herself upon the wide, adobe curbing of an old well that marked, with the nearby ruins of an adobe house, the site, of an old habitation of tragic history. She waited with the absolute patience of her race for the horseman had yet a good two miles to cover. While she waited she smiled dreamily to herself and with dainty little pats and pulls she widened the flaring red bows on her hair and retied the cerise scarf in its picturesque, loose knot about her throat. As a final tribute to that feminine instinct which knows no race she drew from some cunningly devised hiding place a small, cheap "vanity box," and proceeded very gravely to powder her nose.

CHAPTER III. TO THE VICTORS THE SPOILS

"Hey, boys!" Luck Lindsay shouted to Applehead and one or two of the Happy Family who were down at the chuck—wagon engaged in uneasy discussion as to what Luck would say when he found out about their intention to leave. "Come on up here—this is going to be a wiping out of old scores and I want to get it over with!"

"Well, now, I calc'late the fur's about to fly," Applehead made dismal prophecy, as they started to obey the summons. "All 't su'prises me is 't he's held off this long. Two hours is a dang long time fer Luck to git in action, now I'm tellin' yuh!" He took off his hat and polished his shiny pate, as was his habit when perturbed. "I'm shore glad we had t' wait and set them wagon-tires," he added. "We'd bin started this mornin' only fer that."

"Aw, we ain't done nothing," Happy Jack protested in premature self defense. "We ain't left the ranch yet. I guess a feller's got a right to THINK!"

"He has, if he's got anything to do it with," Pink could not forbear to remark pointedly.

"Well, if a feller didn't have, he'd have a fat chance borrying from YOU," Happy Jack retorted.

"Well, by cripes, I ain't perpared to bet very high that there's a teacupful uh brains in this hull outfit," Big Medicine asserted. "We might a knowed Luck'd come back loaded fer bear; we WOULD a knowed it if we had any brains in our heads. I'm plumb sore at myself. By cripes, I need kickin'!"

"You'll get it, chances are," Pink assured him grimly.

Luck was in the living room, sitting at a table on which were scattered many papers Scribbled with figures. He had a cigarette in his lips, his hat on the back of his head and a twinkle in his eyes. He looked up and grinned as they came reluctantly into the room.

"Time's money from now on, so this is going to be cut short as possible," he began with his usual dynamic energy showing in his tone and in the movements of his hands as he gathered up the papers and evened their edges on the table top. "You fellows know how much you put into the game when we started out to come here and produce The Phantom Herd, don't you? If you don't, I've got the figures here. I guess the returns are all in on that picture—and so far She's brought us twenty-three thousand and four hundred dollars. She went big, believe me! I sold thirty states. Well, cost of production is-what we put in the pool, plus the cost of making the prints I got in Los. We pull out the profits according to what we put in—sabe? I guess that suits everybody, doesn't it?"

"Sure," one astonished voice gulped faintly. The others were dumb.

"Well, I've figured it out that way—and to make sure I had it right I got Billy Wilders, a pal of mine that works in a bank there, to figure it himself and check up after me. We all put in our services—one man's work against every other man's work, mine same as any of you. Bill Holmes, here, didn't have any money up, and he was an apprentice—but I'm giving him twenty a week besides his board. That suit you, Bill?"

"I guess it's all right," Bill answered in his colorless tone.

Luck, being extremely sensitive to tones, cocked an eye up at Bill before he deliberately peeled, from the roll he drew from his pocket, enough twenty dollar notes to equal the number of weeks Bill had worked for him. "And that's paying you darned good money for apprentice work," he informed him drily, a little hurt by Bill's lack of appreciation. For when you take a man from the streets because he is broke and hungry and homeless, and feed him and give him work and clothes and three meals a day and a warm bed to sleep in, if you are a normal human being you are going to expect a little gratitude from that man; Luck had a flash of disappointment when he saw how indifferently Bill Holmes took those twenties and counted them before shoving them into his pocket. His own voice was more crisply businesslike when he spoke again.

"Annie-Many-Ponies back yet? She's not in on the split either. I'm paying her ten a week besides her board. That's good money for a squaw." He counted out the amount in ten dollar bills and snapped a rubber band around them.

"Now here is the profit, boys, on your winter's work. Applehead comes in with the use of his ranch and stock and wagons and so on. Here, pard—how does this look to you?" His own pleasure in what he was doing warmed from Luck's voice all the chill that Bill Holmes had sent into it. He smiled his contagious smile and peeled off fifty dollar banknotes until Applehead's eyes popped.

"Oh, don't give me so dang much!" he gulped nervously when Luck had counted out for him the amount he had jotted down opposite his name. "That there's moren the hul dang ranch is worth if I was t' deed it over to yuh, Luck! I ain't goin' to take—"

"You shut up," Luck commanded him affectionately. "That's yours—now, close your face and let me get this thing wound up. Now—WILL you quit your arguing, or shall I throw you out the window?"

"Well, now, I calc'late you'd have a right busy time throwin' ME out the window," Applehead boasted, and backed into a corner to digest this astonishing turn of events.

One by one, as their names stood upon his list, Luck called the boys forward and with exaggerated deliberation peeled off fifty-dollar notes and one-hundred-dollar notes to take their breath and speech from them.

With Billy Wilders, his friend in the bank, to help him, he had boyishly built that roll for just this heart-warming little ceremony. He might have written checks to square the account of each, but he wanted to make their eyes stand out, just as he was doing. He had looked forward to this half hour more eagerly than any of them guessed; he had, with his eyes closed, visualized this scene over more than one cigarette, his memory picturing vividly another scene wherein these same young men had cheerfully emptied their pockets and planned many small personal sacrifices that he, Luck Lindsay, might have money enough to come here to New Mexico and make his one Big Picture. Luck felt that nothing less than a display of the profits in real money could ever quite balance that other scene when all the Happy Family had in the world went in the pot and they mourned because it was so little.

"Aw, I betche Luck robbed a bank er something!" Happy Jack stuttered with an awkward attempt to conceal his delight when his name was called, his investment was read and the little sheaf of currency that represented his profit was laid in his outstretched palm.

"It's me for the movies if this is the way they pan out," Weary declared gleefully. "Mamma! I didn't know there was so much money in the world!"

"I'll bet he milked Los Angeles dry of paper money," Andy Green asserted facetiously, thumbing his small fortune gloatingly. "Holding out anything for yourself, Luck? We don't want to be hogs."

"I'm taking care of my interests—don't you worry about that a minute," Luck stated complacently. "I held mine out first. That wipes the slate—and cleans up the bank-roll. I maintain The Phantom Herd was so-o-ome picture, boys. They'll be getting it here in 'Querque soon—we'll all go in and see it."

"Now we're all set for a fresh start. And while you're all here I'll just put you up to date on what kind of a deal I made with Dewitt. We come in under the wing of Excelsior, and our brand name will be Flying U Feature Film—how does that hit you? You boys are all on a straight board-and-salary basis—thirty dollars a week, and it's up to me to make you earn it!" He grinned and beckoned to Jean Douglas Avery and her companions in the next room.

"Mrs. Avery, here, is our leading woman—keeping the name of Jean Douglas, since she made it valuable in that Lazy A serial she did a year or so ago. Lite is on the same footing as the rest of you boys. Her father will be my assistant in choosing locations and so on. Tommy Johnson, as I said, is another assistant in another capacity, that of scenic artist and stage carpenter. Pete Lowry, here, is camera man and Bill Holmes will be his assistant. The rest of you work wherever I need you—a good deal the way we did last winter. Annie-Many-Ponies stays with us as character lead and is in general stock. Rosemary—" he stopped and smiled at her understandingly—"Rosemary draws fifteen a week—oh, don't get scared! I won't give you any foreground stuff! just atmosphere when I need it, and general comforter and mascot of the company!"

Luck may have stretched a point there, but if he did it was merely a technical one. Rosemary Green was hopelessly camera-shy, but he could use her in background atmosphere, and when it came to looking after the physical and mental welfare of the bunch she was worth her weight in any precious metal you may choose to name.

"You better put me down as camp cook and dishwasher, Luck Lindsay," Rosemary protested, blushing.

"No—thank the Lord you won't have to cook for this hungry bunch any longer. I've got a Mexican hired and headed this way. There'll be no more of that kind of thing for you, lady—not while you're with us.

"Now, boys, let's get organized for action. Weather's perfect—Lowry's been raving over the light, all the way out from town. I've got a range picture all blocked out—did it while I was waiting in Los for Jean to show up. Done anything about roundup yet, Applehead?"—

Poor old Applehead, with his guilty conscience and his soft-hearted affection for Luck so deeply stirred by the money laid in his big-knuckled hand, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat and did not get one intelligible word past his dry tongue.

"If you haven't," Luck hurried on, spurred by his inpatient energy, "I want to organize and get out right away with a regular roundup outfitchuck-wagon, remuda and all—see what I mean I While I'm getting the picture of the stuff I want, we can gather and brand your calves. That way, all my range scenes will be of the real thing. I may want to throw the Chavez outfit in with ours, too, so as to get bigger stuff. I'll try and locate Ramon Chavez and see what I can do. But anyway, I want the roundup outfit ready to start just as soon as possible—tomorrow, if we could get it together in time. How about that cracked tongue on the chuck-wagon? Anybody fixed that?"

"We-ell, I wired it up so'st it's as solid as the rest uh the runnin' gear," Applehead confessed shamefacedly, rolling his eyes apprehensively at the flushed faces of his fellow traitors.

"Yuh did? Good! Tires need setting, if I recollect—"

"Er—I had the boys set the tires, 'n'—"

"Fine! I might have known you fellows would put things in shape while I was gone! How about the horses? I thought I saw a bunch in the big corral—"

"I rustled enough saddle horses to give us all two apiece," Applehead admitted, perspiring coldly. "'Tain't much of a string, but—"

"You did? Sounds like you've been reading my mind, Applehead. Now we'll grubstake the outfit—"

"Er—well, I took the chuck-wagon in yest'day and loaded 'er up with grub fer two weeks," blurted Applehead heroically. "I was figurin'—"

"Good! Couldn't ask better. Applehead, you sure are there when it comes to backing a man's play. If I haven't said much about how I stand toward you fellows it isn't because I don't appreciate every durned one of you."

The Happy Family squirmed guiltily and made way for Applehead, who was sidling toward the open door, his face showing alarming symptoms of apoplexy. Their confusion Luck set down to a becoming modesty. He went on planning and perfecting details. Standing as he did on the threshold of a career to which his one big success had opened the door, he was wholly absorbed in making good.

There was nothing now to balk his progress, he told himself. He had his company, he had the location for his big range stuff, he had all the financial backing any reasonable man could want. He had a salary that in itself gauged the prestige he had gained among producers, and as an added incentive to do the biggest work of his life he had a contract giving him a royalty on all prints of his pictures in excess of a fixed number. Better than all this, he had big ideals and an enthusiasm for the work that knew no limitations.

Perhaps he was inclined to dream too big; per-haps he assumed too great an enthusiasm on the part of those who worked with him—I don't know just where he did place the boundary line. I do know that he never once suspected the Happy Family of any meditated truancy from the ranch and his parting instructions to "sit tight." I also know that the Happy Family was not at all likely to volunteer information of their lapse. And as for Applehead, the money burned his soul deep with remorse; so deep that he went around with an abject eagerness to serve Luck that touched that young man as a rare example of a bone-deep loyalty that knows no deceit. Which proves once more how fortunate it is that we cannot always see too deeply into the thoughts and motives of our friends.