CHAPTER XVII
RUTH DECIDES
As for Ruth, her head was whirling about in a fashion extremely unsettling to one of her usual composure and steady common sense.
She, act! A leading part! Such a notion had never entered her mind until Mr. Hammond abruptly put it there. It was flattering, this proposal of his, but the thing was utterly impossible.
She was saved the necessity of an immediate response by the arrival of Helen and Tom. The former was all exclamations and sympathy and flung herself upon Ruth at once with a flood of questions.
“That terrible Viola!” she cried, with a ferocious scowl. “You were right enough in suspecting her, Ruth. I only wish I had her here for a few minutes! And now what will you do for a leading woman?” and she regarded Ruth’s flushed face with commiserating eyes.
“I’ve already suggested a remedy to Miss Ruth,” said Mr. Hammond, trying to appear casual. “But, somehow or other, she doesn’t appear to think much of it.”
“A remedy?” repeated Tom, puzzled. “What possible remedy can there be? Unless,” turning jocularly to Mr. Hammond, “you have brought an actress with you in your pocket.”
“Perhaps I have merely found one up here,” returned the older man, evidently enjoying the mystification of the two young people.
Ruth roused herself. Her face felt feverish and her hands were as cold as ice.
“Mr. Hammond suggests,” she said, in a small voice, “that I play the lead myself. Oh, Tom, I don’t know! What do you think?” and she fixed her gaze on the young man’s face.
There was a moment of startled silence. It was Helen who broke into loud exclamations of approval.
“What a wonderful idea! Why, of course, you were just made to act, Ruth! I’ve watched you myself sometimes with that very thought in my mind. What an excellently simple solution!”
Ruth shook her head dubiously.
“I wish I thought so,” she said. “But I’ve never seriously thought of acting. I’ve never wanted to, in fact. At least, not after the thrill of my part in ‘The Heart of a Schoolgirl’ passed,” and the girl smiled slightly. “I’ve been too happy constructing vehicles for others and directing——”
“That’s just it,” Mr. Hammond broke in. “Any one who can direct others in as masterly a style as you can, Miss Ruth, ought certainly to be able to direct herself.”
Ruth shook her head, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“I’m not a bit sure. I haven’t much faith in my acting ability. Besides, we can’t even tell whether or not I’ll film well.”
“That can soon be settled,” said Mr. Hammond, waiving the objection aside. “Any one with your straight, regular features is almost bound to film well. And you’ve got the eyes—no doubt of that.”
Ruth fell silent, thinking over Mr. Hammond’s proposal, turning it over, looking at it from every angle. He had had a great deal of experience in the pictures, much more than she. He had picked a number of the present-day stars. Why was it not possible that his judgment was good in her case?
Helen chatted on excitedly over the prospect, occasionally exchanging views with Mr. Hammond. But Tom, despite Ruth’s appeal to him, was silent, almost morose, and after a time Ruth noticed this silence.
She looked up at him, studying his thoughtful face for a moment. Then she touched his arm.
“You aren’t crazy over the idea, are you, Tom?” she asked, her voice a bit wistful.
Tom looked startled. It was as though she had discovered some secret thought that he was trying to hide.
“I haven’t had time to think of it yet,” he answered evasively; but after a moment he turned to her on impulse: “Will you take a walk with me, Ruth? I’d like to talk to you.”
Ruth turned to Mr. Hammond and Helen.
“Will you excuse us?” she said.
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Hammond.
Helen, however, looked a little vexed.
“Now, Ruth Fielding, don’t go off and let Tom Cameron persuade you not to do it!” she exclaimed. “I’m crazy to see you as a screen star!”
“A flickering little star, I’m afraid,” responded Ruth dully, as she and Tom left the porch and turned toward Golden Pass.
They walked for some distance in silence, Tom morose, hands thrust deep in his pockets, Ruth busy with her own thoughts and willing that he should take the lead in the conversation.
Finally the young fellow kicked viciously at a stone in his path and vigorously voiced his protest.
“I don’t know that I like this new wrinkle at all, Ruth!” he burst out.
“What new wrinkle?” queried Ruth, frowning.
“You know very well what I’m talking about. This suggestion of Mr. Hammond’s that you take up acting.”
Ruth was silent for a moment. Tom’s tone hurt her. Perhaps he was as doubtful as she of her ability to act!
“I think myself that it’s rather absurd,” she said at last.
Tom stole a look at her face, then reached out suddenly and captured one of the brown hands that hung at her side.
“Oh, hang it all, Ruth, you know I don’t mean that you can’t act! I know you can—as I know you can do anything else that you want to, you wonderful girl!”
Ruth was sincerely puzzled, groping in the dark.
“Then, if it isn’t that, what is it?” she demanded. “Why don’t you want me to try this thing?” she persisted when he remained silent. “I’m desperate, Tom, as indeed you should be too. It seems to me we ought to welcome any chance that would help us to tide over this trouble. If by any chance we find that Mr. Hammond is right and that I can act acceptably, why shouldn’t I? We’ll save the salary of a leading woman, as well as this heart-breaking delay.”
She looked so lovely to him in her earnestness that Tom’s heart melted within him. He looked at her pleadingly.
“Can’t you see what I mean—and make allowances for my feeling? If you take the feminine lead in your own picture you will have to play opposite Layton Boardman.”
Of course she would have to play opposite Layton Boardman. But, for that matter, a great many well-known actresses would have been glad of the privilege.
“What earthly difference will it make?” she asked.
Tom groaned.
“No difference to you, I suppose,” he said, thrusting his hands savagely into his pockets. “But maybe you think I am going to enjoy seeing that chap hold you in his arms as he has to do in the last scene?”
Ruth was given the vision to see how hard this would be for Tom, even though she could not sympathize with his jealousy.
“I’m sorry, Tom, but I can’t see any other way out. After all, the whole thing is artificial, you know, just play-acting—Layton’s lovemaking along with the rest. It’s simply in the pictures.”
It was lucky for both Ruth and Tom that the former did not understand nor ask him to repeat the sentence he muttered under his breath. “If I could be sure it was all just play acting!” was what he said, and there was no mistaking the doubt in his voice.
But Ruth did not hear. She was already busy with her plans.
“Anyway,” she said, as they turned to retrace their steps to the house. “I haven’t decided to do it yet, you know.”
If Ruth had consulted her own feelings she would have taken several days to think over Mr. Hammond’s suggestion. As it was, she felt that every day was precious, not only because of the salaries and other expenses piling up but because she feared the effect delay might have on the morale of her company. She had trained them and urged them to the “acting pitch” and she wanted to take full advantage of their enthusiasm.
Also, she knew Mr. Hammond could not stay at Golden Pass an unlimited amount of time and there was the fear at the back of her mind that, Mr. Hammond gone, she would never have the courage to follow his suggestion.
So it happened that on the second evening after his remarkable proposal a rather timid and embarrassed and altogether unusual Ruth approached Mr. Hammond as he stood in laughing conversation with Tom on the porch of the ranch house.
Both turned and saw at once the excitement that made Ruth’s eyes dark and her cheeks unusually pink. Mr. Hammond put out a kindly hand to her.
“Going to do it?” he challenged.
“Yes!” whispered Ruth, and on the word that committed her something wonderful and breathtaking surged up within her, making her strong, confident and glad.
CHAPTER XVIII
A NEW ROLE
Ruth Fielding scarcely slept at all that night. Her thoughts went whirling round and round in an endless circle. She was not the least tired, only restless and eager.
On the morrow she was to face the camera in an all-important part—she, who had directed so many others just how to do it! They were to be test films only, to determine whether or not she would film well, whether or not her particular type of good looks would show well on the screen.
Ruth had studied her face long and attentively the evening before, studied it at every possible angle, impersonally, critically, as though it had been a perfectly strange face to her. As a matter of fact, it might almost have been a stranger’s face from the number of surprising things Ruth found out about it. She had been too engrossed all through the years in her play and work to think much of her looks one way or another. Last night she had found out that Ruth Fielding’s face was something more than a good practical face. It was, she had to admit it, even though she blushed in the dark over her lack of modesty, an unusually attractive and pleasing face. Some, she thought, still impersonally, might call it handsome.
It was a surprising, but extremely satisfying, discovery.
Having finished with her face, Ruth’s thoughts veered to Tom and Helen and the different manner in which the two had accepted her decision the night before.
Helen had been delighted, enthusiastic, but, Ruth could not help feeling, a wee bit envious. For where is the girl, even one engaged and in love, who does not in her heart cherish an ambition to be a movie star? But on the whole Helen had been very satisfactory, had kissed her chum and hugged her and predicted great things for her future.
Tom had been different. This time he had not even attempted to hide his disapproval, his wretched jealousy, she thought resentfully. Had Mr. Hammond understood the reason for Tom’s detached, glum mood? She wondered, and finally decided that he could not very well have helped doing so.
Well, defiantly, she would have to learn to go ahead and do as she thought best whether Tom approved or not. Why should she care, anyway?
But even at the moment she knew that she cared very, very much indeed what Tom thought.
“If he would only be sensible! If he would only behave himself!” she whispered to herself.
At this period Ruth fell asleep and awoke a scant two hours later to find the sun shining in the window.
Even then she did not feel tired. Her chief worry was lest she had overslept. She got up, looked at her wrist watch, and reached for her clothes all in the same instant.
A chuckle from the bed made her turn toward it. Helen was awake, regarding her with lazy, laughing eyes.
“Good morning, Star,” said the young lady, adding whimsically: “How does it feel?”
Ruth went over and sat down on the side of the bed, putting a cold hand over Helen’s warm one.
“I—I’m just scared to death!” she confessed.
“Looking as you do this morning,” returned Helen, looking her chum over impartially and critically, “you have no earthly right to be scared of anything.”
Ruth laughed and again reached for her clothes.
“You’re a darling, Helen. But see that you stand by me to-day. I sort of feel I’ll need all the backing I can get!”
But there were so many things for Ruth to decide, so many plans to make, that she forgot all about being selfconscious or frightened.
The tests were taken right after breakfast and it seemed as if everybody on the ranch turned out to see them. Even the cowboys were interested, sensing the dramatic possibilities of the event.
There was not one of them who did not like and admire Ruth personally and there were several who cherished even warmer emotions in regard to the charming author-director. That these emotions did not reach the stage of audible expression was due entirely to Ruth’s manner. Pleasant, friendly, she always was, but beyond that she would not go—and no one else dared go.
Ruth went through the various tests with a skill and ease that amazed herself. She had not realized before how much she had learned of the difficult art of acting in her capacity as scenario writer and director. But what her modesty failed to point out to her was that she was a born actress as well. Before she had been posing five minutes every one on the lot but Ruth could see that.
Layton Boardman was there, watching Ruth with a queer expression in his narrowed eyes. No one could tell whether he was criticizing or admiring.
But when, the tests over, Ruth made her way through a throng of onlookers, Layton Boardman stepped over to her and held out his hand.
“My congratulations,” he said in a low tone, his gray eyes holding hers. “But—I am congratulating myself even more!”
For a moment Ruth could not draw her eyes from Boardman’s. There was something heady, intoxicating in the actor’s spontaneous praise. Then she realized that he was still holding her hand and drew it quickly away.
“You said that very nicely,” she said lightly, to cover her confusion, and moved on.
Tom had not missed the little interchange. He was in a savage mood as he turned away from the ranch house and started toward the hills.
What was the use of adding his congratulations to the chorus of Ruth’s admirers? he asked himself. She would miss neither him nor his praise. He thought of Boardman and clenched his hands. Time enough to get even with the fellow!
Meanwhile, Ruth was glad enough to escape to the comparative privacy of the ranch house. She had never felt so appallingly conspicuous in her life and, not being used to it, the experience rather staggered her.
Nevertheless she was excited, exalted, in a mood for almost anything to happen.
In the living room Helen flung her arms about her chum and kissed her.
“Ruthie, you were marvelous! Just think of all the time you have been wasting your talents!”
Ruth shook her head and pushed Helen gently from her.
“You are all combining to spoil me,” she said. “What I need now is a clear head, if I ever had one in my life.”
“I’ll wager there’s nothing the matter with your head, Miss Ruth,” said Mr. Hammond, smiling genially down upon her. “I’ve never yet found anything wrong with it.”
“There has to be a beginning to everything,” Ruth reminded him gravely, and then they all laughed together, like excited and gleeful children. Though under Ruth’s laughter was a little ache as she wondered where Tom was.
“But seriously,” said Ruth, when their laughter had subsided, “I feel the need of good and well-seasoned advice—I feel it badly. What I want to know,” she turned to Mr. Hammond, “is whether you know of any one I could get for a moderate salary to come down here and give me the points on acting my inexperience so badly needs. I know it is asking a good deal,” she added anxiously, “but I do feel that I must have the advantage of some one else’s experience.”
“That was the very thing I intended to discuss with you,” said Mr. Hammond. He drew up a chair close to the couch on which the two girls were sitting and fixed Ruth with an earnest eye. “I know the very woman for your purpose,” he announced.
Ruth leaned forward, her eyes shining.
“I believe you must have Aladdin’s lamp with you, Mr. Hammond,” she said whimsically. “Every time you rub it a wish comes true.”
“I wish that were always so,” he responded, smiling. “But if I can make any wishes of yours come true, I’m very happy.”
“About this woman you speak of,” Ruth prompted eagerly. “Do I know her?”
“You undoubtedly have heard of her,” Mr. Hammond responded. “Every one in the picture world has. She served during the World War with the Red Cross and was twice decorated for bravery——”
“Oh, I know,” Ruth interrupted breathlessly. “You are speaking of Edith Lang, aren’t you? And she was wounded in the leg while ministering to wounded soldiers behind the lines, wasn’t she?”
Mr. Hammond nodded gravely.
“And you may recollect that later blood poisoning set in and she had to lose her leg.”
Helen uttered an exclamation of pity.
“How terrible—and for an actress, too! What does she do now?”
“What she can,” the man responded. “She can play a character part now and then—helpless invalids mostly where no action is required of her.”
“Not very inspiring,” said Ruth soberly.
“Exactly. And not very well paid either. But, for all that, Edith Lang is an excellent actress. Knows all the tricks of the trade and has a splendid thinking apparatus, as well.”
“Do you suppose she would be willing to come out here to coach me in the tricks of the trade, as you say?” Ruth queried breathlessly.
“I happen to know,” returned the other with decision, “that Edith Lang would be willing to do almost anything just now for the sake of steady occupation. She’d jump at the chance.”
Ruth regarded her kind friend eagerly.
“Mr. Hammond, you are wonderful,” she said. “You make me ashamed of my own stupidity. I will send for Edith Lang at once!”
CHAPTER XIX
A NEW FRIEND
Ruth carried out her determination to send for Edith Lang, the crippled actress, immediately. She knew the reputation the screen star had enjoyed before her accident, and she felt, with Mr. Hammond, that Miss Lang was the very one to give her those points on acting which she felt were so necessary.
It was only a day or two after that that Ruth received an answering telegram in which Edith Lang announced that she was “on the way.”
This welcome news, coupled with the information that the camera tests of herself had been a great success and that she filmed unusually well, served to encourage Ruth immensely. Had Tom only been more sympathetic she felt she would have been perfectly happy in spite of the heavy cost of the delay that Viola’s defection caused.
Edith Lang appeared promptly on the dot and was met at the station by the rickety car—of which, by the way, Headwaters Ranch was inordinately proud.
Ruth’s whole company turned out to meet the crippled actress on her arrival at the ranch, eager to give a cordial welcome to a gifted but unfortunate fellow artist.
When the car rattled up the drive and Edith Lang descended, those who waited to welcome her were surprised to see how easily she carried herself. They had expected to see some one on crutches.
But Edith Lang walked on two feet, and though one of them was artificial the only thing that attested to the fact was an almost imperceptible limp and a certain stiffness in her movements.
What they did not know was that only pride kept Edith Lang from hobbling painfully and that there were times when what was left of her leg pained so torturingly that not even pride could keep her on her feet.
She had been a beautiful woman, and was pretty still, although suffering had etched lines about her eyes and mouth and given her a slightly pinched, old look.
She smiled upon Ruth, though her face was white with the fatigue of the journey.
“I am Ruth Fielding,” said the girl, as she slipped an arm within the older woman’s and led her authoritatively toward the house. “My people have turned out in force to meet you, but we are going to save all introductions until later when you have rested.”
“How kind you are, my dear—and attractive,” said Edith Lang, with a searching glance into Ruth’s flushed face. “I have heard much of you. You are justly famous. I have seen your picture, ‘Snowblind.’ It is perfect.”
All this, while Ruth led her guest into the big front room of the ranch house and settled her in the most comfortable chair it contained.
This praise of “Snowblind” from so real an authority was sweet indeed to Ruth. She felt tremendously drawn to Edith Lang.
Helen had been hovering around in the background and now Ruth drew her forward and presented her to the newcomer.
“My very best friend,” was Ruth’s laughing introduction. “And soon to be married. Meaning, of course, the end of our good times together!”
Miss Lang smiled as she took off her hat and smoothed up her bright hair.
“Marriage means the end—and the beginning of many things,” she said. Before she could continue Mr. Hammond came into the room, hand outstretched in cordial greeting.
The two were good friends, as was attested by their manner toward each other. Mr. Hammond settled down immediately for what he termed “a good old chat.” But Ruth, seeing how very tired the newcomer looked, interposed firmly with the dictum that Miss Lang must have food and rest before being interviewed on any matter whatsoever.
Although the actress laughingly protested, Ruth could see that she was secretly relieved.
In the room assigned to her—the room deserted by Viola and now divested of every reminder of her, the trunks, various hat boxes and other luggage having been sent for and carried away—Miss Lang slipped into a pretty blue dressing gown and lay down upon the bed while Ruth drew the shades partly down to shut out the glare of the afternoon sun.
When the girl went over to the bed to see if there was anything more she could do for her crippled guest, Edith Lang caught the girl’s hand in her own and smiled up at her.
“You are a dear girl,” she said, “and very considerate of one—less fortunate.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again to look at Ruth with an expression of lively interest.
“I have been studying you,” she announced, “and I want to say, my dear, that I hardly need see you act to tell that you can. Besides good looks and a pretty figure, you have brains, which, as you very well know, are at a premium among our beautiful stars of the day. In fact,” with a warm pressure of Ruth’s hand, “I believe I am going to enjoy my new work thoroughly!”
Ruth left Edith Lang’s presence, encouraged and inspired. Besides the pleasant things that had been said to her, Ruth felt that she had found a genuine friend in the actress.
Nor was this belief weakened in the busy days that followed. The friendship between Ruth and Miss Lang grew and strengthened while the work of picture-making went ahead with marvelous rapidity.
Having written the story and created her heroine, Ruth could throw herself into the part with more fervor and realism than would be possible for any one else. While she was acting, Ruth was not Ruth Fielding, but Ann Marks, suffering with the girl, fighting for her love, as the heroine fought. But in spite of this ability to lose herself in the part of the heroine, Ruth was honest enough to confess to herself that the criticism and guidance of Edith Lang were invaluable.
There were times when she felt awkward and embarrassed, was not quite sure how to carry her hands or where to place her feet.
At such times Edith Lang would call to her:
“You have an apron on, Miss Fielding. Remember, you are a little mountain girl, nervous and excited. Twist the corners of the apron—not too much—just enough to register mental distress. That’s right—great, my dear. Face the camera more directly. Remember you must get your emotions across to the public. Fine!”
Or, at another time:
“You have just heard that your lover has been wounded by the outlaws, perhaps fatally. You forget yourself utterly in your despair. Can you cry? Good! Oh, my dear, that is wonderful! You have art. Now your lover suddenly appears. He is wounded, but not fatally. You run to him, smiling through your tears. Do not keep your back turned too long—remember your back tells little—turn toward the camera—closer, closer——”
And so on from day to day, until Ruth, becoming experienced in her turn, came to know instinctively what was the right thing to do.
“But I never could have done anything without you,” she told Miss Lang gratefully one day. “There are so many things to learn!”
Miss Lang patted her hand, laughing.
“You are an apt pupil, my dear, and one it is a pleasure to teach,” she said.
Finally all the smaller scenes were shot. It remained then to make arrangements for the big moment in her picture—the avalanche.
Mr. Hammond had lingered on long past his intention, fascinated by Ruth’s work in her new rôle. He accompanied her each day to location, watched her, and, with Miss Lang, advised and criticized where criticism was needed.
Ruth, in love with her new work, drank in these criticisms eagerly and profited by them so quickly that both her critics were delighted.
Meanwhile, Tom had an amusing little adventure all his own—at least, it would have been amusing if he could have kept it to himself.
It all happened in the first place because he was worried about Ruth. She was doing some pretty dangerous acts in company with “that Boardman chap.” In spite of Tom’s respect for the westerner’s prowess on horseback, he had not reached the point where he could watch with any degree of calm a scene in which the actor was supposed to swoop Ruth up before him on his horse and race with her at thrilling speed along a narrow ledge where a single swerve or misstep would mean almost certain disaster.
Tom had pleaded with Ruth to let some one double for her in this scene. But the girl was now thoroughly interested in her rôle and would not hear to following his suggestion.
“They would all think I was afraid,” Ruth pointed out to him. “Besides, there isn’t the slightest danger, Tommy.”
Since Tom could not agree with her on this point he decided to take a tramp into the hills while this scene was being shot.
“I can’t keep her from risking her life if she wants to,” he told himself as he shouldered his rifle and started afoot along the narrow, rocky trail. “But I don’t have to stay and watch the awful deed.”
Tom knew in a general way whither he was bound. The spot had been a favorite of his from the moment he had discovered it—a great bare rock that jutted out above Golden Pass and commanded an awe-inspiring view of mountains and ravines beyond.
However, Tom found that the gorgeous view only reminded him the more of Ruth and the perilous scene she was to take part in.
So he deserted the rock and made his way into the shadowy woods, there to wander and explore until it should be time again to return to the ranch.
The mysterious sights and sounds of the forest fascinated him, drew him farther and farther into the heart of it until he came to a narrow little path, trampled hard by the feet of countless denizens of the forest.
“Bet this leads to a water hole,” Tom said to himself. “Wish Ruth was with me—she never gets time off from her acting to enjoy herself any more.”
He kept on along the path and presently saw the glimmer of water through the trees.
“The old water hole,” he told himself triumphantly, and the next moment stepped out upon the edge of it. As he did so something rose from the farther bank and slipped quietly and stealthily into the woods.
“It was a deer, I bet,” Tom muttered. A gleam came into his eyes and he raised his gun, only to lower it again despondently. “Closed season,” he warned himself. “Anyway, it might be any sort of animal. I didn’t get a real look at it.”
The spot was picturesque in the extreme and Tom thought that if he stayed around for a while and made himself seem only a part of the scenery he might see something interesting. Judging from the hard ground of the path, many wild creatures must frequent this mountain pool. Tom thought, with a grin, that it would be fun to watch these denizens of the woodland when they did not know themselves observed.
He found a splendid post of observation—a large flat rock backed by a tree against which he might rest weary shoulders if he wished.
Tom settled himself comfortably and waited.
For a long time nothing stirred about the pool. Evidently the woodland folk were still a bit uneasy about the presence of a man creature. However, as Tom remained very still they gained confidence and one by one stole through the heavy underbrush to drink hastily, cast a wary glance in Tom’s direction and scuttle back to the safety of the woods. Once a fox made its appearance and Tom’s fingers tightened instinctively on his rifle where it lay at his side upon the rock.
However, no other movement betrayed his presence and the fox appeared to take no notice of him. It drank lazily, insolently, then turned away and disappeared in the direction from which it had come.
“What a fine neck-piece you’d make for some one, old boy,” Tom mused. “Just the same, your coat will be thicker and finer when the winter comes.”
Wearied by his cramped position, Tom was about to get up when a noise in the woods behind him caused him to change his mind.
Something was crashing heavily through the underbrush—beast or man, Tom could not tell which. But he sat very still, fingers coiled about his rifle.
CHAPTER XX
NOT ACTING
The next moment Tom felt an uncomfortable chill creep along his spine. His jumping nerves commanded action, but his common sense said, “Don’t move!”
Breaking through the underbrush not six feet from where he sat rigid upon the rock, blundered the largest, brownest and most dangerous looking bear Tom Cameron had ever seen!
Lightning thoughts raced through Tom’s head. This was not his first experience with bears, and he felt that this one might not attack him unless he himself showed fight. Even in that case, the bear would probably rather retreat than advance. Almost instantly Tom made his decision. He would stay where he was, as motionless as possible, and trust to the chance that the bear would not observe him.
It took bravery, not so much to make the decision, as to act upon it. Tom’s instinct was to jump to his feet, seize his rifle and give battle, counting on the element of surprise to vanquish his enemy. It required every ounce of self-control he possessed to force himself to sit still and watch that bear.
Evidently the animal had not yet discovered the presence of his enemy. The wind, luckily, was blowing away from Tom. Then, too, it soon became apparent that the bear was in playful mood. Startled as he was, Tom had an impulse to laugh at the absurd antics of the huge creature.
It waddled off first to the borders of the pool where it studied its reflection as intently as any pretty girl might have done.
Afterward it posed, cocking its head to one side and raising a clumsy, vicious-nailed paw.
“One blow from that—” thought Tom and cut the thought off short. He watched the movements of the beast with fascinated attention.
But the bear still took no notice of him. Slipping off the bank into the shallow water, it bathed and wallowed luxuriously, ducking its head under water and puffing for all the world like some fat man short of breath.
His toilette completed, he lumbered up upon the bank again and rolled over on the soft moss.
“That’s his bath towel,” thought Tom, still in a detached way as though he were a spectator at a play, safely established in an orchestra seat. “Whew, he’s bound to see me now!”
However, bruin either did not see the man sitting so motionless on the rock or he chose to ignore him. But after rolling about on the ground for some time, he got up and started directly toward Tom!
Again the young fellow felt the tingling along his spine, again his fingers closed about the barrel of his gun.
But the bear wore an amiable, benignant expression. He waddled clumsily forward and lay down on the farther end of Tom’s rock!
It was a huge rock, to be sure, and several feet still separated the young man from the bear, but to Tom’s excited fancy that rock was becoming altogether too crowded for comfort!
Gently his fingers lifted the gun, stealthily and slowly he started to slip off his end of the rock. Suddenly every nerve cried out and he sprang to his feet with a jerk.
A voice had reached him, a familiar voice.
“Tom! Oh, Tom! where are you?”
At the same time bruin sat up, blinking sleepily. Tom saw Ruth coming toward him through the trees, but was too late to signal her to retreat.
“I’ve had a fine time finding you!” she cried, reaching his side. Then, turning slowly to follow the direction of his rigid glance, “Tom! what have you got here——”
The words died in her throat as the bear, disturbed at this intrusion, muttered fretfully and took a step toward them.
“Stand still,” Tom commanded in a whisper. “He doesn’t want to fight.”
If Tom had raised his gun then the temper of the animal would have changed. As it was, the steady stare of two pairs of human eyes bewildered him. He muttered fretfully deep down in his throat and, turning, ambled sullenly off into the woods.
“Since when,” demanded Ruth unsteadily, as the crashing noise of the bear’s retreat died off in the distance, “did you turn bear-trainer, Tom?”
But Tom was not inclined to laugh just then. With Ruth sharing his danger, the woods all at once seemed dark and sinister.
“Let’s get out of this,” he muttered. When they reached the sunlit trail again, they laughed together, however, as Tom recounted his queer experience and imitated the antics of the coquettish bear.
“Poor old thing,” she said drolly. “He was just out for a nice bath and a nap and you spoiled it all. Wish we could have taken a picture of it,” she said, with professional regret.
“Which reminds me,” said Tom, “to ask how you happened to find your way into that deep, dark heart of the woods.”
“I was looking for you,” the girl admitted. “I wanted to consult you about some details for the avalanche. Some one said you had come up this way, so I followed you.”
“That’s a dangerous thing to do, Ruth,” said Tom anxiously. “This isn’t a zoölogical park, you know, with the wild animals caged up.”
“I’m perfectly safe,” said Ruth, patting the neat little revolver that hung at her belt. “You forget that, for the present at least, I am a cowgirl, Tom!”
CHAPTER XXI
THE NARROW LEDGE
Little was discussed in the days that followed but the avalanche.
It was to be a tremendous spectacle and a great deal of preparation was necessary to insure an artistic filming of it.
Ruth and Tom had found what they considered an ideal location—a mountain, rising almost perpendicularly skyward, and at its base a few squat, rambling little cabins.
Ruth had been forced to pay a ridiculously high sum for these cabins. But Tom and she figured that to erect others, no matter how flimsily built, would cost even more. Fortunately, not all the cabins were occupied. Had they been, the Fielding Film Company never could have afforded the price. Some had been deserted long since and were falling to pieces. As Helen laughingly declared, it would be “a mercy to put them out of the way.”
In the picture, bandits were supposed to descend upon the little mining town, robbing, pillaging, and, after a strenuous fight, capturing the heroine, Ann Marks, and her handsome cowboy lover.
After binding the pair securely, the bandits, alarmed at the sound of pursuit, were to fling their victims into one of the deserted cabins and make off.
As they dash about the side of the mountain the avalanche, tons of dirt and rock from the mountainside, overtakes them, burying them beneath its weight and wrecking most of the cabins.
Of course the bandits are to be engulfed by the landslide while the cabin in which the lovers were imprisoned would miraculously escape the full force of the avalanche. Though partly buried beneath débris, the roof of the cabin holds and the hero and heroine, severing their bonds, are at last able to struggle through to sunlight and safety.
Of course Ruth and Boardman were not to remain in the cabin during the avalanche. These, as well as Tom and the rest of the company who were to be imperiled by the landslide, had planned to take refuge in a cave at the foot of the mountain. This cave was so situated that it would escape the débris of the avalanche.
Then one day, when everything was almost ready, Ruth had an accident that came near to putting her out of the reckoning entirely.
She and Helen, with Boardman and Tom, had climbed halfway up the mountainside to inspect the little shack where the dynamite was stored and to give last minute directions for the preparation of the landslide.
“All the dynamite that isn’t used for the avalanche must be removed as far as possible from the scene before the landslide takes place,” Ruth observed.
“I’ve already given orders to that effect,” Tom assured her, and the girl squeezed his arm affectionately. Dear old Tom, always so dependable.
Then it was that Ruth, in an impulsive moment, precipitated disaster upon herself.
She stepped out upon the little ledge of rock and soft dirt from which one might stare down at the precipitous slope of the mountain.
They had come by a circuitous route, a little path that wound snakelike, clinging close to the mountainside. But at this point, rocky and menacing, the mountain seemed to forbid descent.
“I wonder if any one could get down from here,” she said curiously. “I declare, I’d like to try!”
At the moment the soft earth crumbled treacherously from beneath her feet! Ruth flung herself backward—but too late. Before any one could reach her, Ruth was gone—had disappeared completely over the lip of the ledge.
Tom sprang forward, flung out his arm to catch the girl. But the whole thing, the terrible, incredible thing, happened so swiftly that he missed his grip and felt only her dress slide tantalizingly through his fingers.
Now, grim-lipped, he knelt and peered over the ledge.
Behind him Helen, terror-stricken, was wailing:
“Ruth! Ruth! She’ll be killed on those rocks!”
“Keep still!” Tom commanded roughly. He looked up to see Boardman at his side. It needed only a glance to tell him that Boardman had seen also.
Ruth hung there, not ten feet below, grasping the slight trunk of a sapling, feeling for a foothold with her feet on the smooth, treacherous rock.
Tom’s mind worked quickly. Only a few feet below Ruth was a ledge of rock. It was only about two feet wide; still it was enough, provided one jumping from a height of fifteen feet could judge the distance accurately and keep his balance once he landed.
“Hold fast!” he called to Ruth, praying that she would have strength to hold her weight until he could get to her. “It’s all right, girl. Catch hold with your other hand. I’m coming down.”
Layton Boardman, behind him, had seen what Tom was about about to do and was protesting.
“It’s a crazy stunt! You’ll kill yourself, man!”
Tom gave him a look.
“Maybe,” he said briefly. “Meanwhile, go for a rope. Get help here as quickly as you can. Hurry.”
Boardman stopped no more to argue. There was something in Tom’s tone that compelled obedience.
He turned and ran down the trail they had traversed only a short time before. Helen, clinging to a tree, shaking, white, called to Tom.
“If I can do anything——”
“You can pray,” said Tom softly, and let himself over the lip of the ledge.
Ruth was still clinging to the tree, gazing up at him, wide-eyed, terrified.
“Tom, don’t do it! You will kill yourself! I’m all right! I can hold on till some one gets a rope. Tom! Go back! Go back!”
“Save your strength, Ruth. I’m coming.”
With a prayer in his heart, Tom lowered himself till he hung only by his fingers to the treacherous ledge. There was a tree, a sapling like that to which Ruth clung, close to that ledge fifteen feet below. Would he be able to grasp that? Upon that possibility, he knew, his fate hung, and Ruth’s as well.
The girl could never sustain her weight until Boardman returned with a rope and help. Her fingers would become numb, gradually slip their hold——
Tom allowed himself no further time for reflection. Swinging his body away from the cliff, he let go his hold, felt himself dropping! Would he reach the ledge? Could he keep his balance?
The sharp edges of rocks, of rough earth, tore at him, raking his hands and face, but he scarcely felt them.
Down, down, and then a jarring thump that made him reel dizzily backward. With all the force of his body he flung himself forward and reached out desperately.
The tree—the tree—his feet were slipping—he had it—the blessed feel of the rough bark under his fingers!
Tom drew himself against the face of the cliff and clung there for a moment to regain his breath.
The worst, the hardest part, was still to come. And it must come soon, he knew that.
Even in the moment that he rested, Ruth’s voice called down to him.
“Tom! Tom, are you all right?”
“All right, dear. Can you hold on a minute more?”
“I—I guess so,” Ruth’s voice was not so confident as it had been. “My fingers—I’m afraid I’m losing my grip.”
“All right! Now listen carefully and I’ll tell you what to do. I’m right beneath you, Ruth. See—I can touch your foot. Rest it a moment in my hand—that’s the girl! Now, when you drop, keep close to the side of the cliff. Let yourself go. I’ll catch you.”
“Let go! Oh, Tom, I can’t!” Ruth’s voice sounded breathless, faint. “That terrible drop!”
“You’ve got to do it, Ruth. There’s no other way. I’ll catch you.”
“All right!” came valiantly and in a louder tone. “Are you ready?”
“Ready!” replied Tom, and braced himself.
CHAPTER XXII
A TEST OF COURAGE
It was an extreme test of courage to do what Ruth Fielding did then. To let oneself go blindly, trusting to another’s strength and skill to save one from a terrible death, takes bravery of the highest.
Perhaps if any one but Tom had been waiting for her there below Ruth could not have done what she did. But it was Tom—Tom, who, she knew, would give his life for her, who was always there when she needed him.
Without daring to let herself think longer Ruth unwound her numbed fingers from about the trunk of the tree and let herself drop.
Tom saw her coming, leaned outward, caught her as she fell. For a moment they swung out above that dizzy depth, only the strength of Tom’s arm between them and disaster.
Ruth did her best, throwing her weight forward, scrambling for a foothold on the ledge. By a superhuman effort Tom regained his balance and his sure foothold on the ledge. He drew Ruth to him, holding her reassuringly.
“We’re all right, now,” he said huskily in her ear. “That was luck.”
“Not luck!” panted Ruth. She was feeling faint and sick with the reaction and it was only by a tremendous effort that she kept herself upright, even with the strength of Tom’s arm about her. “It wasn’t luck,” she managed to say. “It was just plain pluck, Tommy-boy. No one else would have thought of doing what you did.”
Something in the tone of the girl’s voice caused Tom to look at her sharply.
“Do you feel sick?” he asked, for her face was ashen white.
Ruth managed a smile through tight lips.
“A little dizzy,” she admitted. “I don’t dare look down or up.”
“Don’t, then. Shut your eyes.”
Ruth shook her head.
“That only makes it ten times worse.” Then in a minute as she saw him looking anxiously at her, she added: “I’m all right, Tom. Don’t worry about me.”
Tom replied cheerfully that he was not worried—that he could bet on her always.
But in his heart he was anxious enough. The pallor of Ruth’s face was enough to show her condition. If she should faint there on that narrow ledge of rock how long could he hold her with only the sapling to cling to, and his left hand at that?
Well, he decided grimly, if worst came to worst, they would go together—that was some comfort.
He cast an anxious glance aloft. Boardman should be back by this time. It seemed ages that they had been clinging there.
Tom felt Ruth sag against him and looked down at her again. She was fighting with all her strength the waves of nausea and faintness that threatened to engulf her.
“Hold on, Ruth, just a minute or two more. Boardman’s sure to get here soon.”
He looked up again and saw Helen peering over at them. She was lying prone on the ground, afraid otherwise to approach that perilous ledge.
“They’re coming!” she cried to Tom’s questioning, upturned face. “I can hear them coming up the trail. Can you hold on, Tommy-boy?”
“Sure!” Tom’s voice was hopeful, even buoyant. “Did you hear what she said?” he added to the half-fainting girl at his side. “They’ll be here in a jiffy now.”
Ruth lifted her head and tried to smile.
“Good!” was all she said, but Tom knew that there was plenty of the fighting spirit left in her yet.
It was a matter of only a few minutes before they heard excited voices overhead, Helen’s quick answers, Boardman’s curt commands.
Looking up, Tom saw that the actor held a lariat in his hands and was twirling it with practiced skill. The next moment a loop of rope descended and settled gently about Ruth’s shoulders.
“Under your arms, Ruth. Here, I’ll help,” cried Tom.
Between them they managed to get the loop of the rope beneath Ruth’s arms.
“All right?” called Boardman.
“All right!” responded Tom, and the actor drew taut the noose, fitting the rope snugly.
A dozen hands added their strength to Boardman’s, and in a moment Ruth felt herself drawn over the edge of the precipice—found her feet once more on solid ground.
“Tom!” she stammered, as Helen’s arms went eagerly about her.
“He’s all right. We’ll get him next,” promised Boardman.
A moment more and Tom was standing, shaken but smiling, among them while a dozen admiring cowboys shook him by the hand or pounded him on the back in admiration of his nerve.
“You sure was flirtin’ with the undertaker that time, mister,” one of them remarked, as Tom, feeling very sheepish and not in the least like the hero they were trying to make of him, pushed himself through the group to where Helen was standing with her arm about Ruth.
“Feeling better?” he asked the latter.
“Ever so much!” she responded, but Tom saw that she was still fighting nausea and faintness. Without a word he caught Ruth up in his arms and strode with her down the mountain trail.
A short distance within the woods they found horses tethered to the trees, evidently the mounts of the cowboys who had ridden with Layton Boardman to the rescue.
Tom, unasking, appropriated one of these, placed Ruth in the saddle, and swung himself up behind her.
“It isn’t Layton Boardman this time,” he could not resist saying as Ruth rested contentedly against his big shoulder.
“You were wonderful, Tom!” she said. “I’ll never forget what you did—never!”
All Headwaters Ranch was roused by Ruth’s accident and Tom’s spectacular method of rescue. Every one visited the spot, examined the tiny ledge, and wondered how any one could drop to it and retain his balance. Each one was quite sure he could not have performed the feat. Needless to say, Tom’s heroism raised him immensely in the estimation of every one. As for Ruth, she never approached that spot again without a reminiscent shudder.
The girl had scant opportunity to dwell on her narrow escape, however, for as the day approached for the staging of the avalanche innumerable details had to be attended to, the scene rehearsed again and again.
At last everything was in readiness—dynamite had been planted, extras well instructed. To-morrow the scene would be taken—the great, the climactic scene of the whole drama. Every one was on edge, excited, keyed to a high nervous tension.
Tom, knowing the inevitable danger to the actors in a thing of the sort, went around with an anxious frown on his brow, at times stopping to exhort Ruth to be careful.
“Of course I’ll be careful, Tom,” she said impatiently at last. “But, really, it’s foolish of you to worry so. There isn’t a mite of actual danger.”
“Just the same,” he told her, “I’ll be pretty thankful when to-morrow is safely over.”
To-morrow came and with it the promise of another fine, sunshiny day. Ruth’s entire company was on tiptoe with expectation.
As soon as possible after breakfast Ruth ordered the company out on location. They went gladly, excitedly, catching something of Ruth’s intense enthusiasm, resolved to back up their “leading lady” to the limit.
It was a great party that started into the mountains that sparkling morning. Miss Lang rode in state in the ranch flivver. Mr. Hammond, who had prolonged his stay out of all reason, cantered gallantly at her side.
On horseback, Ruth, with Helen and Tom on either side of her, led the rest of her company, including the cameramen, while in the rear a veritable army of cowboys—those to be used as extras in the scene and others who came along merely out of curiosity—zipped and hurrahed along the dusty road.
Upon reaching location it took but a short time for the cameramen to set their cameras in position and the company to get ready for spirited action.
“I have a feeling,” said Ruth to Boardman, as she spurred her horse toward the group of cabins at the foot of the mountain, “that something tremendous is going to happen this morning—a picture that will give points to the best one I ever made!”
Layton Boardman smiled.
“It’s in the air!” he agreed, and galloped after her.
At the word of command from the film director, the little band of desperate bandits descended upon the unsuspecting mining town and cameras started to grind busily. The “big doings” were on!
Everything went exactly as it had been planned and the fight before the cabins was spirited and realistic. Then the great moment was at hand! A close-up had been taken of Ruth and Boardman bound hand and foot in the deserted cabin. The next moment—the camera having finished with them—they had slipped their bonds and were dashing with the rest of Ruth’s company toward the safety of the mountain cave.
The time for the avalanche was at hand!
CHAPTER XXIII
BURIED ALIVE
Tom had accompanied Shepley, to help him direct the scene of the fight with the bandits. Tom’s advice on fighting tactics was always worth listening to and Shepley was glad of any assistance he might give in handling the extras. There was another point to be gained—and this was quite a personal one with Tom—he would be with Ruth during the course of the avalanche.
Now he seized her arm and half-carried, half-pushed her into the cave. The place was pretty well filled when they got there and Ruth was more than ever glad that the cave was a large one.
There was a moment of tense excitement. One of the boys put his hands over his ears as though to shut out the expected sound of exploding dynamite.
Ruth tucked her hand within Tom’s arm. The boy put his big one over it, holding her fingers firmly.
“Aren’t you glad I’m here?” he whispered. “Honest?”
“Honest, I am,” she whispered in return.
The next moment it came—what they had been waiting for with held breath. A sharp explosion, and the rumble and roar of dislodged rock and dirt starting on its downward slide.
“Here it comes!”
“Oh boy, I wish we were out there with the cameramen to watch it!” some one yelled.
Then, suddenly, cutting off the exclamations of those within the cave, came a second explosion, so loud, so deafening, that the first might have been the popping of a child’s toy pistol.
It seemed as though the whole mountain shook, rocked on its base. There was a rending, tearing, grinding sound as tons of the dislodged mountainside swept downward to the valley.
All those in the cave backed instinctively away from the opening. It was well that they did, for at the moment, the light of day was shut out for them, tons of rock and dirt piling up before the mouth of the cave, barring their way to freedom!
It was a second or more before the extent of the calamity appeared to them.
It was Ruth who spoke first, her voice sounding faint and eerie in that intense gloom.
“Tom, do you realize? We’re buried alive in here! What do you suppose happened? That second explosion——”
“Wasn’t in the picture at all,” Tom finished grimly. “Don’t you suppose I know it?”
“Then what——”
“The dynamite house,” Tom explained briefly. “I told them to take it all away—what we didn’t need of the dynamite. The fools evidently forgot——”
“And we pay for it, mister,” drawled one of the boys from the dark. “Looks like we’d been buried good and proper without any expenses of the funeral.”
“Easy there!” Layton Boardman’s voice came cool and grim. “Remember, if we’re in jeopardy here, our part from now on is to work hard and say little.”
“Do you think there’s a chance to tunnel our way out?” Ruth asked eagerly.
“We can try. And it’s safe to say that those outside won’t sit around and twiddle their thumbs. Don’t worry, Miss Fielding. We’ll get out some way.”
Tom could not but admire Boardman’s poise and cool courage. What he said sounded almost convincing, but Tom knew that in his heart Boardman, like himself, had little hope of escape for any of them.
Blocked as their retreat was by tons of débris, how could they hope to dig a way out from within with only their bare hands for tools?
On the other hand, even though those on the outside who had witnessed the catastrophe set to work at once with all energy—as of course they would do—the chances were that they would not be able to burrow a way into the cave in time to save the company from smothering to death in those close quarters. Even now the air was getting hot, devitalized.
While Layton Boardman, some of the boys, and even Ruth, set to work at the gigantic task of tunneling a way to the outer air, Tom worked his way silently and unnoticed to the rear of the cave. He had no idea what he would find there—if indeed he found anything save the blank damp wall of dirt in which it had seemed to terminate. But, after all, exploration seemed worth while, the chance no more forlorn than that the others were taking.
He groped his way through the blackness. At last his fingers touched the earthy wall at the rear of the cave.
He felt his way cautiously along this and came at last to a spot where the earth wall seemed to end.
His breath caught in his throat. Was the rear of the cave not a solid wall then? Was this break a possible entrance to a second cave or a tunnel that they had not observed before?
He felt in his pocket for matches, found a box and cautiously struck one, shielding its flame with his hand. It was a moment before his eyes could make out anything beyond the tiny flickering light of the match. Then he uttered a low exclamation.
There was a break, an opening through which, by ducking his head, he could go.
The match was burning his fingers. Tom dropped it and cautiously entered the tunnel, progressing by the sense of touch. He did not strike another match for fear those in the main body of the cave might discover what he was about and convey the knowledge to Ruth. He had a horror of giving her false hope. This tunnel might lead anywhere or nowhere. It seemed, just now, to be leading directly into the heart of the mountain.
He groped his way along, carefully testing the walls of the tunnel on both sides of him for any sign of another opening.
But there was none. The walls of the passage presented a blank damp surface, and as Tom progressed he felt certain that these walls were closing in on him.
He was coming to the end probably, a converging of the tunnel into the solid wall of the mountainside, which meant defeat and hopelessness.
Tom’s heart sank. A great horror rose in him. Not until that moment did he realize how much he had hoped for from this unexpected tunnel. With the snuffing out of that hope went his last shred of cheerfulness.
Buried alive! Shut in the horror and blackness of that cave! Such an end—and for Ruth!
What was that! Tom’s hand, groping against the narrowing walls of the tunnel, suddenly slipped off into emptiness!
No wall there! Another break! Perhaps another tunnel!
Tom lighted a second match, and with trembling fingers held it aloft, shielded its feeble flame, peered, half in hope and half in dread, into the shadows beyond the light.
There was a break—another tunnel branching off into darkness. Tom lighted another match and advanced toward the opening. The flame flickered and went out, a curious thing in that airless place.
Swift hope rushed up in him. He stood a moment collecting himself, striving to think calmly.
There must be a current of air in that stifling place, otherwise the match would not have gone out! And a current of air meant only one thing—that there must be another exit from the cave, another opening into the outer air.
Not daring to let himself hope too much, Tom went forward and around the break in the tunnel wall, inch by inch, feeling his way.
Suddenly he stopped, head up. Before him, dim and far away, but undeniably there, gleamed a tiny ray of light.
With a hoarse cry Tom turned and stumbled back the way he had come.
“Light! I see daylight!” he cried.