Cowboy For Hire by Alice Duncan

female who smoked was heading straight to
hell.
    In other words, she disagreed with her
minister. Oh, dear. That meant, she supposed, that either she
herself was headed straight to hell, or the minister was too harsh
in his judgments. She decided not to worry about this particular
conundrum at the moment because she had plenty of other things to
worry about. She concentrated on them, and on trying not to appear
too awfully foolish in front of Miss Crenshaw.
    * * *
    “Damn, blast, and hell.” Huxtable had escaped
again.
    So Martin swore out loud—something he seldom
did—when he peeked into Horace Huxtable’s tent, expected to find
the actor nursing a sore jaw. Instead, he didn’t find the actor at
all.
    Immediately Martin set out to find him. On
the way, he met Charlie ambling along, and he perked up. Charlie
was a good egg, even if he did seem to possess a violent streak and
variable grammatical leanings. Martin was sure he’d help in this
instance.
    “Charlie!” he called.
    Charlie, a slow-moving cowpoke from head to
toe, Martin noticed with an internal chuckle, stopped moseying and
turned. When he spotted Martin, he smiled and gave a small
salute.
    “I’m glad I saw you.” Martin hurried up to
him and held out his hand. He noticed that Charlie gazed at his
hand for a moment before taking and shaking it. Must be unused to
such a civilized custom as shaking hands, Martin presumed.
    “Listen, Charlie, I just dropped Miss Wilkes
off at the costume tent and went to see how Huxtable’s getting
on.”
    Charlie’s expression clouded. “I know I
probably shouldn’t’ve plugged him, Martin, but he made me mad. No
man should talk to a woman the way he talked to Miss Wilkes.”
    “I know, I know. Horace makes everyone mad.
But, listen, Charlie. He wasn’t in his tent when I looked. I’m
afraid he’s gotten loose and is looking for booze. Will you help me
find him?”
    With narrowing eyes, Charlie muttered, “That
guy’s got a real problem with the booze, doesn’t he?”
    “I’m afraid he does.”
    “You might want to see about usin’ other
folks in future pictures, Martin. Once folks get to drinking all
the time, there’s no doing anything with them. But I’ll be glad to
help you look for him.”
    “Thanks a lot, Charlie. You’re a trump. And
I’m sure you’re right about using other people in future films. But
it’s an awful shame. Huxtable is a wonderful actor, and he has a
great presence on the screen.”
    His companion regarded Martin as if he didn’t
have a clue to what he was talking about. Which he probably
didn’t.
    Martin continued, “We’d better check in at
the chow tent. Chances are, if he went looking for alcohol, he’d
look there first.”
    “Doesn’t he have any of his own? He got a
snootful last night somehow or other.”
    Martin shook his head. “I made him give it
all to me, and then I searched his tent on my own. Didn’t want any
more of these things to happen.” He snorted. “For all the good it
did.”
    “A man can only do what he can do,” Charlie
said philosophically. “It isn’t your fault the man’s a pain in the
ass and a drunk.”
    “I suppose not.” It would be his problem if
his star got plastered and delayed the shooting of the picture,
though. And it would be his problem if Huxtable harassed Amy Wilkes
so much she quit, too. IT would also be his problem if he insulted
someone who took exception to one of his diatribes and beat him up
and broke his arm or neck or something, as well.
    Every now and again, he wished Peerless had
enough money to hire a few more people. Phineas Lovejoy, the owner
of the studio and Martin’s best friend from childhood, was a whiz
at finding money and backers for his pictures. Unfortunately,
finding money and backers took a lot of time. And that left all the
legwork and most of the other work to Martin.
    As if he’d read Martin’s mind, Charlie said,
“You sure have a lot to do with this picture-making