THE HOME OF TOM MIX AND TONY 4 page

Max rolled another cigarette and lit it. He watched his friend silently. Mike coughed. "You was born thirty years too late for this business. They ain't no mo' room in this worl' for a gun fighter. We come in at the tail end with nothin' but the leavin's."

Max still sat silently, his eyes on Mike's face. "I'm still not goin'."

Mike looked up at him. "Don' make me feel like I picked the wrong one back there in that prison," he said. "Not now when I’m a dyin' man."

Max's face broke into a sudden smile. "You're full of shit, Mike."

Mike grinned up at him. "I kin hold the posse off all day. By then, you'll be so far no'th, they'll never catch up to you." He started to laugh and suddenly stopped as he began to cough blood. He reached up a hand to Max. "He'p me to my feet, boy."

Max reached out and pulled Mike up. The big man leaned against him as they moved toward the mouth of the cave. They came out into the night and there was a small breeze just picking up at the edge of the cliffs.

For a moment they stood there, savoring the physical closeness of each other, the small things of love that men can share, then slowly Max lowered his friend to the ground.

Mike looked down the ridge. "I can hol' them here forever," he said. "Now, 'member what I said, boy. Go straight. No more thievin'. No more gun fightin'. I got you' word, boy?"

"You got my word, Mike."

"If you breaks it, I sure's hell'll come back an' haunt you!" the big man said. He turned his head away and looked down the ridge. "Now git, boy," he said huskily. "Dawn is breakin'." He reached for the rifle at his side.

Max turned and walked over to his horse. He mounted and sat there for a moment, looking back at Mike. The big colored man never turned to look back. Max dug his spurs into his horse and it leaped away.

It wasn't until an hour later, when the sun was bright and Max was on the next ridge, that he began to wonder about the quiet. By this time, there should have been the sound of gunfire behind him.

He never knew that Mike had died the moment he was out of sight.

He felt naked at first without his beard. Rubbing his fingers over his cleanly shaven face, he walked into the kitchen.

Charlie looked up from the kitchen table. "My God," he exclaimed. "I never would've known you!"

Martha, his wife, turned from the stove. She smiled suddenly. "You're much younger than I thought. And handsomer, too."

Max felt a flush of color run up into his cheeks. Awkwardly he sat down. "I figgered it's time for me to be movin' on."

Charlie and his wife exchanged quick looks.

"Why?" Charlie asked. "You own half this spread. You just can't go off an' leave it."

Max studied him. He rolled a cigarette and lit it. "We been here three months now. Let's stop kiddin' ourselves. This place can't carry the both of us."

They were silent. Max was right. Even though he had advanced the money to buy the ranch, there wasn't enough in it yet for all of them.

"What if somebody recognizes you?" Martha asked. "Your poster's in every sheriff's office in the southwest."

Max smiled and rubbed his chin again. "They won't recognize me. Not without the beard."

"You better think up a new name for yourself," Charlie said.

Max blew out a cloud of smoke. "Yeah. I reckon so. It's time. Everything's gotta change."

But the name hadn't come to him until the day he stood in the hot Nevada sun looking up at old man Cord and young Jonas. Then it came easy. As if it had been his own all his life.

Smith. Nevada Smith.

It was a good name. It told nothing about him.

He looked down at the little boy staring up at him with frightened eyes, then at the cold black gun in his other hand. He saw the child follow his eyes. He dropped the gun back into his holster. He smiled slowly.

"Well, Junior," he said. "You heard your pappy."

He turned to his horse and led it around to the bunkhouse, the boy trotting obediently behind him. The bunkhouse was empty. The boy's voice piped up behind him. "Are you going to live here with Wong Toy?"

He smiled again. "I reckon so."

He picked out one of the bunks and spread his bedroll on it. Quickly he put his things away. When he turned around, the boy was still watching him with wide eyes.

"You're really goin' to stay?" the child asked.

"Uh-huh."

"Really?" the boy insisted. "Forever?" His voice caught slightly. "You're not goin' to go away like the others? Like Mommy did?"

Something in the child's eyes caught inside him. He knelt beside the boy. "I’ll stay jest as long as you want me to."

Suddenly, the boy flung his arms around Nevada's neck and pressed his cheek close to his face. His breath was soft and warm. "I’m glad," he said. "Now you can learn me to ride."

Nevada straightened up, the boy still clinging to his legs. He walked outside and put the boy up on the saddle of his horse. He started to climb up behind him when suddenly the gun was heavy against his thigh.

"I’ll be back in a minute," he said, and went back into the bunkhouse. Quickly he pulled the tie strings and unbuckled the gun belt. He hung it on a nail over his bunk and went out again into the white sunlight.

And he never strapped the gun on again.

RINA STEPPED DOWN FROM THE TRAIN INTO the bright, flashing shadows of afternoon sun lacing the platform. A tall uniformed chauffeur stepped forward and touched his hand to his cap. "Miss Marlowe?"

Rina nodded.

"Mr. Smith sends his apologies for not being able to meet you, ma'am. He's tied up at meetings at the studio. He says he'll see you for cocktails."

"Thank you," Rina said. She turned her face away for a moment to hide her disappointment. Three years was a long time.

The chauffeur picked up her valises. "If you’ll follow me to the car, ma'am?"

Rina nodded again. She followed the tall uniform through the station to a shining black Pierce-Arrow limousine. Quickly the chauffeur stowed the bags up front and opened the door for her. The tiny gold insignia emblazoned over the handle shone up at her.

N

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S

She settled back and reached for a cigarette. The chauffeur's voice through the speaker startled her. "You'll find them in the container near your right hand, ma'am."

She caught a glimpse of the man's quick smile in the rear-view mirror as he started the big motor. She lit a cigarette and studied the interior of the car. The gold insignia was everywhere, even woven into the upholstery.

She leaned her head back. She didn't know why she should be surprised. She had read enough in the newspapers about him. The forty-acre ranch, and the thirty-room mansion he had built right in the middle of Beverly Hills. But reading about it never made it seem real. She closed her eyes so she could remember how it had become a reality for her.

It had been about five months after she'd come back East. She'd gone down to New York for a week of shopping and a banker friend of her father's had asked her to attend the premiere of a motion picture produced by a company in which he had a substantial interest.

"What's it called?" she had asked.

"The Sheriff of Peaceful Village," the banker had answered. "It's a Norman picture. Bernie Norman says it's the greatest Western ever made."

"Westerns bore me," she'd answered. "I had enough of that when I was out there myself."

"Norman says he has a new star in the man that's playing the lead. Nevada Smith. He says he'll be the biggest— "

"What was that name?" she interrupted. She couldn't have heard right.

"Nevada Smith," the banker repeated. "An odd name but these movie actors always have fancy names."

"I’ll go," she had said quickly.

She remembered walking into the theater — the crowds, the bright lights outside, the well-groomed men and bejeweled women. And then that world seemed to vanish with the magic of the image on the screen.

It was near the end of the picture now and alone in a dreary room, the sheriff of Peaceful Village was putting on his gun, the gun he had sworn never to touch again.

The camera moved in close to his face, so close that she could almost see the tiny pores in his skin, feel his warm breath. He raised the gun and looked at it.

She could feel the weariness in him, see the torture of decision tighten his lips, set his square jaw, flatten the high, Indian-like cheekbones into the thin lines that etched their way into his cheeks. But his eyes were what held her.

They were the eyes of a man who had known death. Not once but many times. The eyes of a man who understood its futility, who felt its pain and sorrow.

Slowly the sheriff walked to the door and stepped outside. The bright sunlight came down and hit his face. He pulled his dark hat down over his eyes to shield them from the glare and began to walk down the lonely street. Faces of the townspeople peeked out at him from behind shutters and windows and curtains. He didn't return their glances, just walked forward stolidly, his faded shirt beginning to show the sweat pouring from him in the heat, his patched jeans looking threadbare against his lean, slightly bowed legs. The bright metal of his badge shone on his breast.

Death wore soft, expensive clothing. No dust marred the shine of his boots, the gleaming ivory handle of his gun. There was hatred in his face, the pleasurable lust to kill in his eyes, and his hand hovered like a rattlesnake above his holster.

They looked deep into each other's eyes for a moment. Death's eyes glittered with the joy of combat. The sheriff's were weary with sadness.

Death moved first, his hand speeding to his gun, but with a speed almost too quick for the eye to follow, the sheriff's gun seemed to leap into his hand. Death was flung violently backward to the ground, his gun falling from his hand, his eyes already glazing. His body twitched as two more bullets tore in him, and then he lay still.

The sheriff stood there for a moment, then slowly put his gun back into the holster. He turned his back on the dead man and began to walk down the street.

People began to flock out of the buildings. They watched the sheriff, their faces bright with battle lust. He did not return their glances.

The girl came out onto a porch. The sheriff stopped in front of her.

The girl's eyes were dim with tears.

The sheriff's were wide and unblinking. An expression of contempt suddenly came into his face. Disgust with her demand for blood, disgust for a town full of people who wanted nothing but their own form of sacrifice.

His hand moved up to his shirt and tore off the badge. He flung it into the dirt at her feet and turned away.

The girl looked down at the badge in shock, then up at the sheriff's retreating back. She started to move after him, then stopped.

Far down the street, the sheriff was mounting his horse. He turned it toward the hills. His shoulders slumping and head bowed, wearily he moved out of their lives and into the bright, glaring sunlight, as the screen began to fade.

There was silence as the lights came up in the theater. Rina turned to the banker, who smiled embarrassedly at her and cleared his throat. "That's the first time a movie ever did this to me."

Oddly enough, she felt a lump in her own throat. "Me, too," she said huskily.

He took her arm. "There's Bernie Norman over there. I want to go over and congratulate him."

They pushed their way through a crowd of enthusiastic well-wishers. Norman was a heavy-set man with dark jowls; his eyes were bright and elated. "How about that guy, Nevada Smith?" he asked. "Did you ever see anything like it? Still want me to get Tom Mix for a picture?"

The banker laughed and Rina looked up at him. He didn't laugh very often. "Tom Mix?" He chortled. "Who's he?"

Norman hit the banker on the back. "This picture will net two million," he said happily. "And I got Nevada Smith starting another picture right away!"

The limousine turned into a driveway at the foot of the hill. It passed under an iron gateway over which the now familiar insignia was emblazoned and began to wind its way up the narrow roadway to the top of the hill. Rina looked out the window and saw the huge house, its white roof turning blood orange in the falling sun.

She began to feel strange. What was she doing here? This wasn't the Nevada she knew. Suddenly, frantically, she opened her purse and began to search through it for Nevada's cablegram. Then it was in her hand and she felt calmer as she read it.

She remembered sending him a wire from Switzerland last month. It had been three years since she had heard from him. Three years in which she had kept on running. The first six months she spent in Boston, then boredom set in. New York was next, then London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Constantinople, Berlin. There were the parties, the hungers, the fierce affairs, the passionate men, the voracious women. And the more she ran, the more frightened and alone she became.

And then came the morning in Zurich when she awoke with the sun shining in her eyes. She lay naked in bed, a white sheet thrown over her. Her mouth was dry and parched; she felt as if she hadn't had a drink of water in months. She reached for the carafe on the night table and when it wasn't there, she first realized she wasn't in her own room.

She sat up in a room that was furnished in expensive European fashion but wasn't familiar at all. She looked around for her robe but there wasn't a single item of her clothing anywhere. Vaguely she wondered where she was. There were cigarettes and matches on the night table and she lit one. The acrid smoke bit into her lungs as the door opened.

An attractive dark-haired woman came into the room. She paused when she saw Rina sitting up in bed. A smile came to her lips. She came over to the bed. "Ah, you are awake, ma chérie," she said softly, bending and kissing Rina on the mouth.

Rina stared up at her, her eyes wide. "Who are you?"

"Ah, my love, you do not remember me?"

Rina shook her head.

"Maybe this will refresh your memory, my darling," the woman said, dropping her gown and pressing Rina's head to her naked full bosom. "There now, do you remember how much we loved each other?" Her hand caressed Rina's face. Angrily Rina pushed it away.

The door opened again and a man came in. He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and was completely nude. He smiled at them. "Ah," he said. "We are all awake once again. The party was getting dull."

He crossed the room and held the champagne bottle out to Rina. "Have some wine, darling," he said. "The trouble is — one wakes up with such a terrible thirst, no?"

Rina held her hands to her temples. She felt the throbbing pulse beneath her fingers. It was a nightmare. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

The man stroked her head solicitously. "A headache, no? I will bring some aspirin."

He turned and left the room. Terrified, Rina looked up at the woman. "Please," she begged. "I think I'm going out of my mind. Where are we?"

"In Zurich, of course, at Philippe's place."

"In Zurich?" Rina questioned. "Philippe?" She looked up at the woman. "Was that Philippe?"

"Mais non, of course not. That was Karl, my husband. Don't you remember?"

Rina shook her head. "I don't remember anything."

"We met at the races three weeks ago in Paris," the woman said. "You were alone in the box next to Philippe's. Your friend could not come, remember?"

Rina closed her eyes. She was beginning to remember. She had placed a bet on the beautiful red roan and the man in the adjoining box had leaned over. "A very wise choice," he had said. "That is my horse. I am Le Comte de Chaen."

"The count in the next box!" Rina exclaimed.

The woman nodded. She smiled again. "You remember," she said in a pleased voice. "The party began in Paris but it was too warm there, so we drove here to Philippe's chalet. That was almost two weeks ago."

"Two weeks?"

The woman nodded. "It has been a wonderful party," she said. She sat down on the bed next to Rina. "You're a very beautiful girl."

Rina stared at her, speechless. The door opened again and Karl came in, a bottle of aspirin in one hand, the champagne in the other. A tall blond man wearing a dressing robe followed him. He threw some photographs down on the bed. "How do you like them, Rina?"

She stared down at the pictures. A sick feeling began to come up into her throat. This could not be her. Not like this. Nude. With that woman and those men. She looked up at them helplessly.

The count was smiling. "I should have done better," he said apologetically. "But I think there was something the matter with the timer."

The woman picked them up. "I think you did well enough, Philippe." She laughed. "It was so funny. Making love with that little bulb in your hand so you could take the picture."

Rina was still silent.

Karl bent over her. "Our little Américaine is still sick," he said gently. He held out two aspirins to her. "Here, take these. You will feel better."

Rina stared up at the three of them. "I’d like to get dressed, please," she said in a weak voice.

The woman nodded. "But of course," she said. "Your clothes are in the closet." They turned and left the room.

Rina got out of bed and washed her face quickly. She debated over taking a bath but decided against it. She was in too much of a hurry to leave. She dressed and walked out into the other room.

The woman was still in her peignoir, but the men had changed to soft shirts and white flannels. She started to walk out without looking at them. The man named Karl called, "Mrs. Cord, you forgot your purse."

Silently she turned to take it from him, her eyes avoiding his face.

"I put in a set of the photographs as a memento of our party."

She opened the bag. The pictures stared obscenely up at her. "I don't want them," she said, holding them out.

He waved them aside. "Keep them. We can always make more copies from the negatives."

Slowly she lifted her eyes to his face. He was smiling. "Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee while we talk business?" he asked politely.

The negatives cost her ten thousand dollars and she burned them in an ash tray before she left the room. She sent the cable to Nevada from the hotel, as soon as she had checked in.

I’M LONELY AND MORE FRIGHTENED THAN I EVER WAS BEFORE. ARE YOU STILL MY FRIEND?

His reply reached her the next day, with a credit for five thousand dollars and confirmed reservations from Zurich through to California.

She crinkled the cablegram in her fingers as she read it once more while the limousine climbed to the top of the hill. The cable was typical of the Nevada she remembered. But it didn't seem at all like the Nevada she was coming to see.

I AM STILL YOUR FRIEND.

It was signed "Nevada."

NEVADA LEANED BACK IN HIS CHAIR AND LOOKED around the large office. An aura of tension had crept into the room. Dan Pierce's face was bland and smiling. "It isn't the money this time, Bernie," he said. "It's just that we feel the time is right. Let's do a picture about the West as it really was and skip the hokum that we've been turning out for years."

Norman looked down at his desk for a moment, his hand toying with the blue-covered script. He assumed an earnest expression. "It isn't the script, believe me, Dan," he said, turning to Von Elster for assurance. "We think it's great, don't we?"

The lanky, bald director nodded. "It's one of the greatest I ever read."

"Then why the balk?" the agent asked.

Norman shook his head. "The time isn't right. The industry is too upset. Warner's has a talking picture coming out soon. The Lights of New York. Some people think that when it comes out, silent movies will be finished."

Dan Pierce laughed. "Malarkey! Movies are movies. If you want to hear actors talk, go to the theater, that's where talk belongs."

Norman turned to Nevada, his voice taking on a fatherly tone. "Look, Nevada, have we ever steered you wrong? From the day you first came here, we've treated you right. If it's a question of money, that's no problem. Just name the figure."

Nevada smiled at him. "It isn't the money, Bernie. You know that. Ten thousand a week is enough for any man, even if income taxes have gone up to seven per cent. It's this script. It's the first real story I've ever read out here."

Norman reached for a cigar. Nevada leaned back in his chair. He remembered when he had first heard of the script. It was last year, when he was making Gunfire at Sundown.

One of the writers, a young man with glasses and a very pale skin, had come over to him. "Mr. Smith," he asked diffidently. "Can I trouble you for a minute?"

Nevada turned from the make-up man. "Why, sure— " He hesitated.

"Mark Weiss," the writer said quickly.

Nevada smiled. "Sure, Mark, what can I do for you?"

"I’ve got a script I'd like you to read," Weiss said quickly. "I spent two years researching it. It's about one of the last gun fighters in the Southwest. I think it's different from anything that's ever been made."

"I'd be glad to read it." That was one of the hazards of being a star. Everyone had a script they wanted you to read and each was the greatest ever written. "What's it called?"

"The Renegade." He held out a blue-covered script.

The script felt heavy in his hand. He opened it to the last page and looked at the writer doubtfully. The script was three times standard length. "Pretty long, isn't it?"

Weiss nodded. "It is long but there was no way I could see to cut it. Everything in there is true. I spent the last two years checking old newspaper files through the entire Southwest."

Nevada turned back to the make-up man, the script still in his hand. "What happened to him?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nobody seems to know. One day he just disappeared and nothing was ever heard about him again. There was a posse after him, and they think he died there in the mountains."

"A new story's always good," Nevada said. "People are getting tired of the same old heroes. What do you call this guy?"

The writer's voice seemed to hang in the air. "Sand," he said. "Max Sand."

The script slipped from Nevada's fingers. He felt the blood rush from his face. "What did you say?" he asked hollowly.

Weiss stared at him. "Max Sand. We can change it but that was his real name."

Nevada shook his head and looked down at the script. It lay there in the dust. Weiss knelt swiftly and picked it up. "Are you all right, Mr. Smith?" he asked in a concerned voice.

Nevada took a deep breath. He felt his self-control returning. He took the script from the outstretched hand and forced a smile.

A look of relief came into Weiss's face. "Thanks, Mr. Smith," he said gratefully. "I really appreciate this. Thanks very much."

For a week, Nevada couldn't bring himself to read it. In some strange way, he felt that if he did, he'd be exposing himself. Then one evening, he came into the library after dinner, where Von Elster was waiting, and found him deeply engrossed in this script.

"How long have you been sitting on this?" the director asked.

Nevada shrugged. "About a week. You know how it is. These writers are always coming up with scripts. Is it any good?"

Von Elster put it down slowly. "It's more than good. It's great. I want to be the director if you do it."

Late that night, the lamp still burning near his bed, Nevada realized what the director meant. Weiss had given depth and purpose to his portrait of a man who lived alone and developed a philosophy born of pain and sadness. There was no glamour in his crimes, only the desperate struggle for survival.

Nevada knew as he read it that the picture would be made. The script was too good to be passed up. For his own self-protection, he had to make the picture. If it escaped into someone else's hands, there was no telling how much further they'd delve into the life of Max Sand.

He bought the script from Weiss the next morning for one thousand dollars.

Nevada returned to the present suddenly. "Let's hold it for a year," Bernie Norman was saying. "By then, we'll know which way to jump."

Dan Pierce looked across at him. Nevada knew the look. It meant that Pierce felt he'd gone as far as he could.

"Chaplin and Pickford had the right idea in forming United Artists," Nevada said. "I guess that's the only way a star can be sure of making the pictures he wants."

Norman's eyes changed subtly. "They haven't had a good year since," he said. "They've dropped a bundle."

"Mebbe," Nevada said. "Only time will tell. It's still a new company."

Norman looked at Pierce for a moment, then back to Nevada. "O.K.," he said. "I’ll make a deal with you. We’ll put up a half million toward the picture, you guarantee all the negative cost over that."

"That's a million and a half more!" Pierce answered. "Where's Nevada going to get that kind of money?"

Norman smiled. "The same place we do. At the bank. He won't have any trouble. I'll arrange it. You'll own the picture one hundred per cent. All we'll get is distribution fees and our money back. That's a better deal than United Artists can give. That shows you how much we want to go along with you, Nevada. Fair enough?"

Nevada had no illusions. If the picture didn't make it, his name would be on the notes at the bank, not Norman's. He'd lose everything he had and more. He looked down at the blue-covered script. A resolution began to harden inside him.

Jonas' father had said to him once that it wasn't any satisfaction to win or lose if it wasn't your own money, and you'd never make it big playing for table stakes. This picture just couldn't miss. He knew it. He could feel it inside him.

He looked up at Norman again. "O.K., Bernie," he said. "It’s a deal."

When they came out into the fading sunlight in front of Norman's bungalow office, Nevada looked at the agent. Pierce's face was glum. "Maybe you better come down to my office," he muttered. "We got a lot of talking to do."

"It can keep till tomorrow," Nevada said. "I got company from the East waitin’ for me at home."

"You just bit off a big nut," the agent said.

They started toward their cars. "I reckon it's about time," Nevada said confidently. "The only way to make real money is to gamble big money."

"You can also lose big that way," Pierce said dourly.

Nevada paused beside his white Stutz Bearcat. He put his hand affectionately on the door, much in the same manner he did with his horses. "We won't lose."

The agent squinted at him. "I hope you know what you're doing. I just don't like it when Norman comes in so fast and promises us all the profits. There's a monkey somewhere."

Nevada smiled. "The trouble with you, Dan, is you're an agent. All agents are suspicious. Bernie came in because he had to. He didn't want to take any chances on losin' me." He opened the door and got into the car. "I’ll be down at your office at ten tomorrow morning."

"O.K.," the agent said. He started toward his own car, then stopped and came back. "This talking-picture business bothers me. A couple of other companies have announced they're going to make talkies."

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 570