Kitabı oku: «Janet Hardy in Radio City», sayfa 4
Chapter Ten
A WELCOME RESCUE
Janet couldn’t even guess how many minutes they rested on the stream bed with the water washing away the aches in their weary bodies. As usual, Curt took the initiative when he had regained a portion of the abundant vitality that flowed through his veins.
The cowboy sat up and surveyed the scene. A dozen fires were still burning in the valley and the horizon ahead of them, tinged in crimson, marked the passing of the fire demon.
Billy Fenstow, digging sand out of his ears and sputtering heartily, was the first to speak.
“Curt, how in thunder are we ever going to get out of here?”
The cowboy shook his head.
“Walk,” he moaned, looking down at the once fancy boots which had never been intended for the heavy work in which they had been used that night.
Billy Fenstow groaned in anguish.
“Then I guess I’ll just settle down and wait for a flood to come along and wash me down the valley or until I come to some culvert where I’ll stick.”
The cameraman who had ground away steadily through the thick of the raging flames crept over to his machine. It had been subject to terrific heat and there was only a small chance that the negative had come through without serious damage.
“How many feet did you shoot?” asked the director.
The photographer squinted at the footage indicator on the camera, but there was not enough light to note the figures.
“If the film isn’t ruined they’ll be the best scenes of a blaze like this that have ever been filmed,” he predicted.
Janet struggled into a sitting position and looked around. Her eyes sought the bus, with only faint hopes that the vehicle had come through unscathed. If it had, it would offer their one hope of escape for she felt that repairs might be made to the tires and if not, maybe they could limp along.
But her hopes were doomed to disappointment. The bus was a glowing mass of steel. Fire had swept over it, igniting the upholstery and burning out the entire interior of the bus. It was a hollow shell with gaping windows.
Curt Newsom stood up.
“There’s no use sitting around here wondering what we’ll do,” he said. “If a couple of the boys will come along, I’ll start back to the trail and we’ll keep going until we find someone or can reach a telephone.”
Two other cowboys joined Curt.
“The rest of you might follow us and get back as far as the ranch. Maybe there’ll be a little drinking water left in that well,” advised Curt as he started up the trail, hobbling painfully on his twisted boots.
Helen looked at her oxfords. They were in even worse shape than Curt’s boots.
“I guess I’ll have to stay here,” she said, half to herself and half to Janet. “I’d never make it back to the ranch.”
Janet picked up the water soaked piece of cloth she had used as a mask to shield her face.
“Wrap this around one foot and use your piece for your other foot. Then slip your oxford on loosely. That ought to ease the pain.”
Helen looked grateful and tried the suggestion at once. She wrapped the damp cloth around as tightly as possible and then pulled on her shoes. It was a snug fit, but there was a soft cushion for her bruised feet to rest upon. She stood up and tried walking.
“That’s much better. Thanks a lot, Janet.”
Billy Fenstow took charge then.
“We’ll start for the ranch and go as far as we can,” he decided. “There may be some shelter there and we’re in no condition to stay out any longer than necessary.”
With the director in the van, the singed and tired band started back for the ranch. After a short distance they struck the trail. It was faint, but they managed to follow it without too much difficulty.
Hot blasts of air seemed to sweep down from all sides and breathing became a painful exercise again. Janet wished that she might have just one cool, sweet breath of air – just one.
Helen stumbled and Janet reached out and caught her companion before she fell.
“All right?” asked Janet anxiously, for Helen was not of as sturdy stock as she.
“I’ll make it,” replied Helen, the words coming from tight-set lips.
But Janet was not so sure that Helen could do it. They fell further and further behind the others, but at last they topped the final ridge and looked down in the valley where the ranch had been, where they had filmed so many scenes of “Water Hole,” the new picture.
It was too dark to see the outlines of the ranchhouse but Janet could discern several large, glowing piles of embers and she knew that even the buildings at the ranch had been destroyed by the fire. Perhaps the well was still filled with pure sweet water. Her throat seemed drier at the thought and she turned her full attention to Helen, who needed a supporting arm for the final, down hill lap of their journey.
The cowboys were the first to reach the ranchyard and Janet could hear them ripping the cover off the well. There was a shout ahead of them.
“The water’s okay. Hurry up!” It was one of the cowboys, and the news gave them the courage to quicken their lagging steps.
Billy Fenstow handed Janet a blackened dipper, but she insisted that Helen take the first drink. There was plenty of water and they all drank their fill while Billy Fenstow scrambled around the timbers above the well hunting for the wires which had been fastened to the film containers they had lowered into the well. He found them at last, but decided they were safer in the water than any place else.
“What about going on?” asked one of the cowboys.
“No use in that. Someone had used the dipper before we got here, so that means Curt is up ahead of us and he’s traveling much faster than we could. We’ll do better to wait right here where they’ll find us. Try and make yourselves comfortable.”
But the director’s last words were of little help. The air was still dry and searing and there was no shelter anywhere. Fires still glowed all over the valley and little clouds of smoke swept around them.
Janet and Helen walked over to the ranchhouse, but the embers were glowing so brightly that it was impossible to get very close.
“I ache all over,” confessed Helen. “When I finally get into bed I’m going to sleep the clock around.”
“Count me in on that program,” nodded Janet. “Well, we might as well sit down and keep as comfortable as possible.”
But they went back to the well for another drink before trying to relax on the ground.
The men were gathered a short distance away, talking in low voices about their harrowing escape. They conversed in monotones that soon lulled the girls’ tired minds and before she knew it Janet found herself dozing. They were fitful little naps, broken with sudden thoughts of the fire. Then she would snap to complete wakefulness, only to have her fatigue overcome her again. She had dozed perhaps half a dozen times when the increasing chill of the air awakened her.
Helen, curled up on the ground, was breathing steadily and deeply and had not noticed the change in the atmosphere.
Janet scanned the horizon. There was no scarlet in the northwest now – only a dense blackness that seemed to be growing thicker. The southeastern sky was still vividly flame seared.
The men had ceased their talking, but an occasional glow of a cigarette marked the dark huddle where they had gathered. A slight snore could be heard and Janet attributed it to their tubby little director. A flash of lightning illumined the mounting clouds and Janet shivered at the thought of a storm sweeping down on them after the fire.
Helen must have felt the shiver run through Janet’s body for she stirred sleepily.
“I’ll sleep another hour,” she mumbled, and Janet knew her companion thought they were back home. There was no need to awaken Helen now. She might just as well get as much relaxation as possible.
Helen slipped back into a deep sleep and Janet kept a lone vigil. The clouds swept higher and a distant rumble of thunder came down from the hills.
The men were moving restlessly now and Janet could hear Billy Fenstow berating the weather. But there was nothing they could do about it except complain a little and then hope that someone would reach them before the coming storm broke.
Janet wondered how far Curt and the two cowboys who had gone with him had been able to travel. Perhaps their aching feet had forced them to stop. But, knowing Curt, she had a feeling that he would get through and bring help to them as soon as possible.
Helen sat up, rubbing her blood-shot eyes.
“More fire?” she asked as the rumble of the thunder smote her ears.
“Well, not quite that bad. Just a thunderstorm.”
Helen shivered. “We’ll catch our death of cold,” she groaned, and Janet had to admit that Helen’s fears were not unwarranted. After the heat of the fire and the fatigue, they would be excellent candidates for severe colds or anything else that happened along.
Several of the men who had been hunting around the ranchyard returned to the well.
“Can’t even find half a board,” one of them reported. “The fire swept everything clean.”
Billy Fenstow turned to Janet and explained.
“I had a couple of the boys out looking for some boards or anything we could use to build a shelter for you girls.”
“That was thoughtful,” replied Janet, “but we’ll get along all right.”
Billy grumbled to himself. He wasn’t so sure. The girls had stood a lot already and there was a limit to their endurance.
A patter of rain struck them, the drops sizzling as they came down on the remains of the ranchhouse.
Janet’s spirits dropped and for the first time in weeks she felt like having a good, old-fashioned crying spell, but there wasn’t any pillow where she could bury her head and she didn’t want to cry in front of the men in the company.
The valley was hushed for a moment. Even the thunder was silent in the breathless pause that often comes just before a mid-summer storm vents its fury.
It was during this pause that Helen, watching the hills below the storm clouds, caught a flash of light. It was too low for lightning and she gripped Janet’s right arm.
“There’s a car coming!” she cried.
Janet turned hopefully and looked in the direction Helen pointed, but there was no sign of light and she heard an involuntary sob escape from Helen.
Then it came again, two twin beams of light cutting around a hill. Helen was right! A car was coming and Janet, unashamed, felt the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.
Billy Fenstow was talking to himself.
“I knew that lanky cowboy would do it,” he said, repeating it over and over as though he were a human talking machine, stuck on a single note.
A horn sounded a warning note as the oncoming vehicle swung into the ranchyard just as the sky opened and the first sweep of rain struck the valley. Forgetting all else, they ran toward the machine, which proved to be a hulking truck, with a covered top.
Janet and Helen reached the rear. Someone reached down and pulled them under the shelter of the top. A flashlight blazed into their faces and a strong arm encircled Janet’s shoulder. It was Helen’s father and they knew that their worries for that eventful night were over.
Chapter Eleven
NEW PLANS
The sky seemed to open wide and a great torrent of rain descended on the heat-ridden earth, but Janet and Helen, in the shelter of the truck, were safe.
“All right, honey?” demanded Helen’s father, and, assured that his daughter was no more than bruised and weary, he turned to Janet.
“How about you, Janet?” he asked.
“Tired and dirty – that’s all,” she managed to smile.
“Here’s blankets,” he said, picking two off a pile on the floor of the truck. “Throw these around your shoulders.”
The air was chill now and the girls obeyed without hesitation for their own clothes were in a bad state of disrepair.
“How did you find us?” asked Helen when they were seated on the floor of the truck, and bouncing along toward the main highway which would take them back to Hollywood.
“Curt Newsom got through. We were frantic after the line went dead when you were talking to us from the ranchhouse. We were coming in the truck and met Curt and the other two cowboys along the trail. From what they told us we knew that none of you could stand it to be out in the storm and we made all possible speed.”
“How’s mother?” asked Helen.
“Terribly worried.” He turned toward Janet. “We’ll phone your folks as soon as we get home. The fact that a film company was caught in the center of the fire was broadcast over a national chain and I’m afraid they may be gravely alarmed.”
“I’ll call them at once,” agreed Janet.
They talked at length of their experiences and at last Helen’s father turned to Fenstow.
“Lose all of your last-day takes?” he asked.
“Don’t believe we lost a one,” replied the other director. “We put the film cans in the well. One of my boys shot some swell scenes of the fire if the camera didn’t get too hot and ruin the negative.”
“Then I suppose you’ll use a fire in your next western?” chuckled Henry Thorne.
“Can’t say,” replied Billy Fenstow. “That will be up to Janet.”
“Why Janet?”
“She’s going to do my next scenario.”
“You’re not joking?”
“Of course not. I’ve gone kind of stale and I thought she could inject some fresh material. At least she’s going to get a fair chance to see just what kind of a film story she can turn out.”
“Then I’m predicting that she’ll do a good job if it’s anything like the caliber of her usual work,” replied Helen’s father.
“Don’t count on me too much,” cautioned Janet. “This is a new field and I may get in so deep I’ll never get anything creditable.”
The truck swung around a sharp curve. Ahead of them was a blaze of light from the headlights of a score of cars which were parked along the paved road. Raucous squawks of horns greeted the approaching truck.
It was still raining hard, but a trim figure, clad in a raincoat, detached itself from a group in front of one of the cars and hurried toward the truck.
“Hello mother. Here I am,” called Helen. “Both of us are all right.”
She jumped from the truck and into her mother’s arms. After a brief embrace, her mother spoke quickly.
“We mustn’t stand here. You’ll catch cold. Here, get under my coat and we’ll hurry to the car. Janet, you stay in the truck until we can pull along here.”
Henry Thorne looked down at Janet.
“Pretty tired?”
“Just about all in,” she confessed and she found it hard to muster a smile.
“Had enough of Hollywood?” he asked quietly.
Janet looked up quickly.
“I don’t know, honestly I don’t. The way I feel right now all I want is sleep and lots of it.”
He nodded understandingly and just then the car drove up beside the truck and they jumped down and entered it.
Henry Thorne took the wheel while his wife and the girls made themselves comfortable in the back seat. Mrs Thorne very wisely made no effort to ask them about the events of the night, but tucked them in with blankets and before the car had gone half a mile both girls were sound asleep.
The next thing Janet knew someone was shaking her shoulder. It was Mrs. Thorne.
“We’re home and you can be in bed in five minutes,” she said. Janet rubbed a little of the sleep from her tired eyes – just enough so she could see to get into the house.
Helen, walking ahead of her, moaned now at every step, for her feet had been badly bruised by the stones.
Mrs. Thorne hurried ahead to run a tub of hot water while her husband drove the car around to the garage. With Mrs. Thorne helping them, the girls were soon in fresh pajamas.
Janet decided on a warm shower and Helen followed her under the spray. Then Mrs. Thorne treated the bruises on Helen’s feet and both girls piled into bed.
“Sleep as long as you want to,” she said as she snapped off the light.
Janet didn’t even hear the click of the switch. She dropped into a deep slumber, one so heavy that there were no dreams of fires and storms.
When she finally awoke it was broad daylight. Fresh, sweet air filled their room. There was no smell of smoke, no threat of storm, and she wondered, for a moment, if she could have been dreaming about the night before. It was just possible that it had been a nightmare. Then she stretched and the aching muscles of her legs told her that indeed it had not been a nightmare.
Janet looked over to Helen’s bed. Her friend was still sleeping heavily so Janet slipped out of bed quietly, donned her dressing gown, and went down to the bathroom.
Mrs. Thorne heard her moving about and looked in for a minute.
“We telephoned your folks last night,” she said. “They’d heard the radio broadcast and were greatly relieved when we told them both of you were safe.”
“Oh, thanks so much. I was so sleepy I forgot all about it,” confessed Janet.
“Helen getting up?” asked Mrs. Thorne.
“No, she’s sleeping soundly.”
“Then come in to lunch without going back to dress,” said Helen’s mother.
“You mean breakfast?” asked Janet.
Mrs. Thorne smiled. “No, I mean lunch, and a very late lunch at that. It’s well after two o’clock now.”
Janet, finishing her shower, rubbed her body briskly with a heavy towel, and slipped the dressing gown on over her pajamas. Then she joined Mrs. Thorne in the dining room.
“The morning papers made quite a story of it,” said Mrs. Thorne, handing Janet a copy.
A bold headline was blazoned across the entire top of the front page:
“MOVIE COMPANY ESCAPES FIRE!”
Then, in terse, action sentences, the story told of the narrow escape of Billy Fenstow’s western unit. Janet found Helen’s name and her own mentioned. She was glad that the story gave Curt Newsom full credit for the cool-headed work which had saved their lives. Curt deserved every word of it.
Helen joined them a few minutes later, limping a little for her feet were still aching from the bruises.
The girls passed the remainder of the afternoon resting and at dinner that night became involved in a serious discussion with Helen’s father and mother.
After the dessert, Henry Thorne pushed back his chair and looked at them quizzically.
“Summer’s about over,” was his opening remark and Janet knew that he had something on his mind. She had a hunch that she could guess what the trend of the conversation was to be.
“You girls made up your minds what you want to do?”
He seemed to have his eyes fixed on Janet, as though looking to her for the decision which would guide Helen.
“First of all I want to try to do the story Billy Fenstow asked me to do,” retorted Janet. “After that I think I’ll have had enough of Hollywood.”
“Getting tired of being an actress?”
“Not at all, I’m just realizing my limitations and after all, I do want more education – the type of broadening education that I can get in a university.”
Henry Thorne swung toward his own daughter.
“What do you think, Helen?”
“Why, I haven’t made up my mind yet, Dad. I like Hollywood, I’ve been having a grand time, but I guess I’ve never really thought of staying on here definitely. It was understood from the first that this was just a glorious vacation and that when summer ended Mother and I would go back to Clarion and I’d go to college.”
“I expect that’s right,” nodded her father. “It did start out to be just a vacation proposition and you girls can make it that if you want, but I’ve a new plan that may appeal to you. How would you like to go to Radio City in New York for several weeks?”
Chapter Twelve
THE PREVIEW
The girls stared hard at Henry Thorne. It was so like him to toss off an important statement in an off-hand manner that it left them almost gasping for breath.
“Why, Dad, what do you mean?” demanded Helen.
“Just what I said,” smiled her father. “How would you and Janet like to go to Radio City for several weeks?”
“I’d like it fine,” put in Janet quickly and Helen chorused her own agreement.
“Now tell us what it’s all about,” insisted Helen.
“I’m a little vague on it myself,” admitted her father, “except that the studio is planning an extensive promotion stunt to boost my last picture, ‘Kings of the Air,’ and the general manager, Mr. Rexler, is going to send a part of the cast to New York City where they’ll put on a radio drama based on the action in the new picture. The whole idea is to whet the appetites of the film fans by giving them just enough of the story over the air to make them rush to the nearest theater and see the actual picture.”
“But where do we come in?” asked Janet. “We were only very minor members of the cast.”
“True enough, but some of the principals are now working on other pictures and it would be impractical to release them and send them east for a promotional stunt so some of the lesser members of the company will make the trip.”
“Maybe we’re lucky to be lesser members,” smiled Helen. “When do we start?”
“I don’t know exactly. The release date for ‘Kings’ is next month, so I expect you’ll leave here in a few weeks.”
“That will give me just time enough to try the scenario for Billy Fenstow,” said Janet. “Maybe I’d better start work on it tonight.”
“You look pretty tired. Better wait until morning when you’ll be thoroughly rested,” advised Helen’s father.
They adjourned to the living room where they gathered around a large table and discussed possible story plots that Janet could use. She made several notes and then, with Helen, retired early.
A second night of sleep found the girls feeling greatly refreshed. Henry Thorne loaned Janet his own portable typewriter and she set it on a low table beside the swimming pool, found some yellow copy paper in the house, rolled a fresh sheet into the typewriter, and sat down waiting for an idea to pop into her head.
“Hello, author!” said someone from behind her and she swung about to face Curt Newsom, who had walked up unheralded.
“Hello, Curt. Sit down. My, but I’m glad to see you. Are you all right after the fire?”
The cowboy smiled. “As right as I’ll ever be. I was scared half to death that night. Say, I saw Billy Fenstow this morning. The picture’s all together now and they’re going to screen it at the Bijou down the street after the regular feature. Better be there tonight.”
“I’ll be there in fear and trembling,” smiled Janet.
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel that way about it. I think you did a lot better than most of the girls I’ve had in the company.”
“Thanks, Curt. That was nice of you to say that, but I realize I have very definite limitations as an actress.”
“Well, I’m not so hot as an actor,” he admitted. “About all I have to do is stick on a horse and shoot a gun loaded with blank cartridges.”
“That isn’t all and you know it,” reproved Janet.
Curt looked at the typewriter and the blank sheet of paper.
“I’m keeping you from your work. I only dropped in to tell you about the preview tonight. I’ve got to get along.”
“I’m supposed to be generating ideas for Mr. Fenstow’s next script,” confessed Janet, “but the mental generator seems to have gone on a strike.”
“What’s the story going to be about?”
“You guess,” smiled Janet.
“Well, why don’t you have a young heiress, pretty much spoiled, who owns a ranch. She’s never seen it so she goes west for a trip and while there learns that most of her fortune has been wiped out through the declining value of securities and by embezzlement of some of her trustees. About all she has left is the ranch and a brother who is pretty much worthless.”
“It’s a grand idea,” exulted Janet. “Then of course we could have a cattle war, some rustling, maybe a vein of gold found on the ranch, and plenty of action.”
“You’re supposed to write the story,” chided Curt. “Well, I must get along.”
“Thanks for the help. I’ll make you coauthor,” called Janet as Curt strode toward the street.
Curt’s suggestion gave her the nucleus of her story. It would be a little different treatment of the western theme. Janet started working, her fingers flowing rhythmically over the keys. She wrote simply. All that was required of her was a good, comprehensive outline of the story. The studio writers would put in the dialogue.
But Janet’s interest grew as the story progressed and she found herself putting in conversation and bits of description of the characters. She was so absorbed that Helen came and stood beside her for several minutes before she was aware of her presence.
“Going strong?” she asked.
Janet, barely interrupting the smooth flow of her story, nodded.
“Preview’s tonight at the Bijou after the regular feature. Curt Newsom stopped to tell us.”
“Then you’d better stop writing now. You’ve been at it steadily for more than hour. You want to feel peppy tonight when we go to see the preview.”
Janet finished the paragraph and pulled the sheet of copy from the machine. She had written eight pages and the top and bottom margins were narrow. She wanted to keep on writing, but knew that Helen’s advice was sound. She wanted to be rested enough to enjoy “Water Hole,” to see herself, for probably the only time in her life, as the leading lady of a motion picture.
They met Billy Fenstow at the box office and he handed them tickets for a few seats which had been reserved for his friends.
“Nervous?” he asked Janet.
“A little. How is it?”
“Wait and see. Here comes Mr. Rexler.”
The girls turned in time to see the taciturn general manager of the Ace studio stride into the lobby. Close behind him was Helen’s father. Janet felt her heart sink. Here was the chief of the studio on hand to pronounce final judgment on the picture. But Bill Fenstow seemed unperturbed and she forced herself to be calm.
They all went in together. The feature was a south sea love drama produced by a rival studio and it was typical program picture with nothing to make it outstanding in interest.
Then the picture they had been waiting for flashed on the screen. “‘Water Hole,’ directed by Billy Fenstow, starring Curt Newsom and produced by the Ace Motion Picture Corp.” Then came the credits for the story, photography, etc., and finally the cast of characters with Curt’s name at the top. Janet felt her heart stop for one breathless moment, Her name —Janet Hardy– was the second in the cast and directly under that was Helen’s.
Then the picture zoomed away to a fast start with the action that always characterized a Billy Fenstow production. Janet tried to be critical, but she couldn’t help enjoying the picture and her voice didn’t sound so terribly bad as it came out of the loudspeakers.
The picture ended all too suddenly. The house lights came up and Janet found herself staring at the others, waiting for their verdict.
Rexler was the first to speak. He leaned over and tapped Billy Fenstow on the shoulder.
“Nice show, Billy. Got the girl signed up?”
Billy turned to Janet.
“How about it; want to sign a contract to stay with my unit?”
Suddenly Janet knew that she didn’t. It had been a wonderful summer, climaxed in the picture she had just seen with herself as leading lady, but now she was just a little homesick. Then, too, there was the trip to Radio City.
“Not right now,” she told the director. “Later, perhaps, but not now.”
The general manager looked at her strangely.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it is the smartest thing you could do. If you change your mind, let me know.”
He stood up and stalked down the aisle, but Janet knew now that she would never change her mind.
