Black Stallion's Shadow (9 page)

“Think I'll pass on it, Jim. Those Singing Outlaw pictures were the only decent flicks Kramer ever made. Remember them, Alec?”

“Sure,” Alec said. “Kramer was pretty good in those movies. I liked his sidekick, too. What was his name, Mc—something or other?”

“Hank McBride,” Jim said.

“Didn't something happen to him? Some sort of accident?” Alec asked.

Jim nodded. “I'll tell you the story, if you want to hear. The real story, but don't go repeating it, especially around Kramer.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. Alec guessed she'd heard this yarn before. The old-timer spun his chair around and straddled it like a horse.

“It was on the set of a movie called
Westward, Ho
. McBride and Kramer were playing scouts crossing the Colorado River on horseback ahead of a wagon train. The wagons were being floated across on rafts. Kramer fell off his horse and got swept downriver. McBride jumped in after him because he knew Kramer couldn't swim.

“Just then, some logs broke free of one of the rafts. McBride caught up to Kramer and pulled him over to the riverbank. Kramer scrambled up the bank to safety.
McBride wasn't so lucky. He slipped on the rocks and yelled for a hand. Our hero Kramer didn't even look back. Before McBride could hoist himself out of the way, a log slammed into him. It knocked him unconscious. He drowned.

“The studio kept the particulars about the accident hushed up. Bad publicity and all that. Afterward Kramer made a couple more films, but his career took a nosedive. Guess he started feeling guilty about not helping McBride. He started drinking on the job. His acting went to the dogs. Nobody would hire him until he got off the sauce. By then Westerns were in another slump. He was semiretired when the producers of
Drover Days
talked him into making a guest appearance on a couple of episodes.”

“Now he's all ours, for better or worse,” Ellie said.

“Kramer's not so bad. At least he's a pro.”

“He still thinks he's God's gift to mankind.”

“You'll see for yourself, Alec. He's due here in the morning.”

CHAPTER 9

A
lec left his trailer shortly before seven the next morning. After grooming and feeding the Black, he watched the stallion canter around the corral. The stallion threw back his head. His long mane and forelock whipped in the breeze. Alec's gaze lingered on the refined features of the stallion's Arabian head, then drifted to the slender neck with its high, mounting crest, moved along the muscled withers to the strong back and chest, the marvelously powerful shoulders and legs. Alec knew the Black's features better than his own. Despite this familiarity, he would never tire of simply perching on a fence rail and watching his horse.

The Black stopped beside Alec, tossing his mane and snorting defiantly. “That's it, fella,” said Alec. “You tell 'em. Nothing's gonna scare you. Let's forget all about this shadow nonsense, okay? This sure is the life. No Henry,
no workouts. Let's enjoy it while it lasts.”

Though he'd been resisting it, Alec began to ponder what might happen if the Black really couldn't overcome his fear of shadows. It wouldn't be the end of the world if the Black had to quit racing. The Black could have a fine life at Hopeful Farm. If things worked out that way, perhaps it would be for the best. They might even find more time to travel together, to explore places they'd never been before.

Alec sighed. Who was he trying to kid? The Black still loved to race. When the Black wanted to start slowing down, Alec felt certain he would know it. Every fiber of his being told him that time hadn't come just yet. Some horses kept racing until they were eight years old, and the Black was only six.

Alec walked back toward the ranch house to find Wes or Ellie. A caravan of motor homes and trucks had already arrived to start work on
Drover Days
. Bumper to bumper, they jammed the space in front of the house and backed up out to the driveway. Among them was a brand-new food truck belonging to O'Henry's Catering Service. Actors and technicians crowded around a table spread with coffee and snacks, set up behind the food truck. Ellie was there, talking with Mike and Wes. She waved Alec over.

A door to one of the nearby trailers banged open and two men rushed outside. One of them was the director, Frank. Alec recognized the other, an athletic-looking man in his early fifties, as Paul Kramer.

“Looks like Frank and Kramer are going at it again,”
Ellie said, rolling her eyes.

“Kramer's been having problems with the scripts,” Wes explained.

Ellie smiled knowingly. “And Frank's been having problems with Kramer.” Mike just scowled and shook his head.

Kramer was ruggedly handsome, with broad shoulders, an iron jaw and a tanned face. An inch-long scar creased his left cheek, enhancing his tough-guy image. He'd been a country-and-western singer earlier in his career, then moved into acting in films. He fit the mold of a classic Hollywood cowboy, like John Wayne or Clint Eastwood.

Alec remembered Kramer best as the Singing Outlaw drafted into the job of small-town sheriff in the movies
Saddleburn
and
Saddleburn Two: Sundown at Cactus Ridge
. Kramer had made those films at least ten years ago. Except for some thickening at the waist, his physical appearance had changed little since then. In the flesh, he looked smaller than he did on-screen. He really wasn't much taller than Alec.

Last night Ellie had told Alec that Kramer was playing the part of the bronco-busting star of a Wild West show, Dallas Reed. In the story Dallas hires Jed and Lefty to help out with the show. Now Kramer held up the script and looked at it as if it was a dead fish that had begun to spoil. “Sure, I could deliver these lines. I could. But it would be all wrong. Dallas would never say them. It would be out of character for him.”

“Sounds to me like you're just trying to make up for
the fact that you didn't learn your lines.”

“Maybe I'd know them if they made any sense.”

“Just deliver the lines, will you, Paul?”

Kramer sighed with exasperation and looked away. Frank walked off, and Kramer turned his attention to the service table.

Wes moved over so Kramer could reach the snack tray. “Frank sure can be a pain sometimes,” Wes said.

“I can't work like this,” Kramer grumbled under his breath. “What does he think I am, some kind of machine?”

Wes smiled. “I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel the same way about Frank.” Wes introduced Kramer to Alec. As they shook hands, Kramer's expression was a mixture of distraction and disdain. It changed to a warm smile when Wes mentioned that Alec had just won the American Cup at Santa Anna. Kramer complimented Alec on his victory as he sampled a Danish pastry from the snack table.

“Mmm, these pastries are good,” he said, smacking his lips. “Gonna have to put these on the menu—when I open my restaurant.”

Kramer excused himself, saying he had to get over to the wardrobe trailer. Before leaving, he pocketed the last jelly doughnut on the service tray. One of the sound technicians nudged Wes with an elbow. “Heard the latest? Kramer thinks that somebody in the wardrobe department is shrinking his costume.”

Ellie nodded toward the empty service tray. “I'd say he better lay off those jelly doughnuts.”

One of the cameramen stuck out his stomach, threw back his head and did a fair imitation of an indignant Paul Kramer. “I can't work like this. I'm a ar-teest.” Everyone had a good laugh at Kramer's expense.

Alec caught up to Wes on his way to the filming corral. “About the Black …” Alec started to say.

The old cowboy must have guessed what Alec had in mind and lifted his hand to silence him. “I know you're getting anxious, Alec. We'll do a little shadowboxing with the Black this afternoon.”

Shadowboxing? Alec just shook his head. This was going to be some day.

By early afternoon the actors and crew had finished their work at the ranch, packed their equipment and left. Alec stood by the pasture gate and watched some of the horses as they chased one another, playing tag. Ellie came outside to join him just as a black Mercedes-Benz turned off the road out front and passed through the entrance to Taylor Ranch. The car was halfway down the driveway before Ellie noticed it. “Visitors,” she called out. “Uh-oh. Looks like Rotasky.”

Wes popped his head out of the office door. His eyes narrowed to slits as he watched the black car approach. Throwing the door open, he stormed out of the office and bolted past them into the house.

The Mercedes turned down the corridor and came to a stop in front of the porch. The driver stepped out. He was basketball-player tall and muscular looking. Long, stringy hair and mirror shades hid his face. He walked around the car and opened the rear door. A short, powerfully
built man dressed in a blue suit emerged from the back seat. The man scowled as a cloud of dust kicked up by the car settled on his shiny brown wingtips.

“You know them?” Alec asked Ellie.

Ellie nodded. “They're from Sagebrush. The one in the suit is named Rotasky. He's the head honcho over there. The other guy is the company chauffeur. We're not on very neighborly terms these days. Ever since people started moving in over there, they've been complaining about something or other—the smell of manure, or the noise we make early in the morning, or the fence that divides our property needs repairing.”

Ellie left Alec and walked over to meet the visitors. “May I help you, Mr. Rotasky?” she asked. Rotasky stepped forward. The driver folded his arms across his chest and smirked in the background.

“Ms. Taylor, I'm here on behalf of the Club Sagebrush Members Association. The noise produced by your film crew has brought about several complaints by residents. We've talked about this before. It's got to stop.”

“Please let me explain …”

“If you people keep carrying on this way, we'll never sell the rest of our units. You're scaring off prospective buyers. I'm afraid this must serve as our last warning before—”

The screen door flew open. Wes came out onto the porch brandishing a double-barreled shotgun. He looked like a character out of an old Western. His face twisted into a menacing snarl.

“And I'm telling you one last time, Rotasky. I don't
give a damn about you and your prospective buyers.”

Wes waved his shotgun in the air. A wild gleam sparkled in his eyes. “Get off my land. And take your goon with you. Go on. Git!”

Rotasky stared at the gun and back-stepped to the car, his legs trembling. “What the … Are you crazy?” he cried.

Ellie gasped. Diving past Alec, she ran up onto the porch. “Put that thing down!” she cried. She stepped in front of Wes and then pushed him back through the doorway. Rotasky took the opportunity to escape inside his car. The thug in the sunglasses ducked into the driver's seat and started the engine.

Ellie came outside and pulled the door closed behind her. Her face had turned slightly pale. Catching her breath, she stepped down off the porch. Rotasky lowered his window, keeping an eye on the kitchen door. “You'll be hearing from our lawyers about this, Ms. Taylor,” he called. “That man should be in an institution.”

Ellie called an apology after Rotasky. “Sorry, Mr. Rotasky. He's just been under a lot of …”

The black Mercedes spun its tires in the dirt and sped down the driveway. Wes poked his nose out the door. Ellie turned to him. “Are you trying to land yourself in jail or what?”

“Aw, it wasn't loaded. Besides, it ain't illegal to chase someone off your property. Damn Rotasky and his yard-proud tenants. Why don't they move back to Beverly Hills where they belong?”

Wes stepped toward his truck. “Okay, folks,” he said. “I have to get over to the production office at the studio.”

Ellie nodded to the house. “You're leaving the gun here, right?”