When my brothers started riding horses in Flying Q’s one-reelers, no one (least of all me) ever dreamed I’d wind up in pictures myself. I would bet a nickel my mother would have shut me in a closet before she’d ever let me near Flying Q, if she could have foreseen the crazy things I would wind up doing. I might have shut my own self in a closet if I’d known I’d wind up climbing out of a hot-air balloon forty feet above the ground.
I’m glad we didn’t know.
“Ike got shot off his horse yesterday,” said my brother Bill through a mouthful of egg, about a week after the boys started working for Mr. Corrigan.
“Good heavens!” cried my grandmother, her fork clattering to her plate.
“Just pretend-shot, Grandma,” Ike assured her. I don’t know why she was so worried in the first place. If you’ve been really shot, I don’t think you sit down at the dinner table nice and casual and snatch the biggest piece of ham off the platter.
“For the picture,” Bill added superfluously.
“That was a splendid tumble you took, Ikey,” said my brother Frank admiringly. “I thought you’d broken your neck for sure.”
“GOOD HEAVENS!” shouted my mother and grandmother in unison. My father slowly set down his mug, eyeing Ike appraisingly. Mama rose hastily to her feet, her chair scraping on the floor, snatched up the coffeepot, and stormed into the kitchen. Frank stared after her with an anxious gaze, but Ike went on shoveling scrambled eggs and fried ham into his face.
“Why’s everyone in such a stew?” asked Bill.
“Suppose,” said my father slowly, “you tell us exactly what it is this fella Corrigan has you boys doing out there.” In the kitchen a pot clanged hard on the iron stove.
“Aw, it’s swell, Papa,” said Ike eagerly. “Mostly, we ride hard in a pack of other cowboys and wave shotguns around—don’t worry, they ain’t loaded—but whenever the picture calls for a fancy stunt, Corrigan has me or Frank or Bill do it. We can outdo those other fellas by a mile.”
“Don’t boast, Isaac,” snapped Grandma. Her mouth was pressed into a tight thin line.
“It ain’t boasting, Grandma,” said Ike, brushing a brown curl off his forehead with the back of his hand. “It’s the plain truth. The rest of ’em can ride all right if the terrain’s level, but if you need someone to take a spill or switch horses in the middle of a hard gallop—”
“Ike,” muttered Frank in a warning tone, but Ike ignored him.
“—then you want a Donnelly on the spot.”
“What the blazes kind of picture is this?” demanded Papa. “Sounds more like a circus act.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” interjected my grandmother, making the sign of the cross.
“They’re Westerns, Papa,” said Frank. “That’s why these picture people came looking for rodeo champions. It’s a display of horsemanship.”
In the kitchen my mother snorted. I couldn’t help but let out a snicker. Ike shot me a glare. I quickly blanked my face and busied myself spreading manzanita jelly on a biscuit.
“Mm-hmm,” murmured my father. I could see he was skeptical.
I spooned another dollop of jelly on my biscuit, figuring everyone was too distracted to notice.
“Shucks, Papa, you’re the one who taught us how to take a spill without breaking a bone,” Ike pointed out.
“That was a safety precaution,” Papa snapped. “Everyone takes a tumble now and then. Best to know how not to get yourself killed. I sure as heck didn’t expect you’d be going out of your way to fall on purpose, though.”
“Jacob, language!” said my grandmother. My brothers all burst out laughing—it was always so funny when Grandma scolded Papa like a naughty child, especially since she was Mama’s mama, not his—and I took advantage of the distraction to sneak another spoonful of jelly. I didn’t have much biscuit left at this point, and the jelly slid down around the edges onto my fingers.
“That’s too much jelly, Pearl,” said my mother sternly. I always forget she has the eyes of a hawk and can see through walls. She stalked to the table with a fresh pot of coffee and slammed it down in front of Ike.
“Piggy Pearl,” teased Ike. Frank made an oinking sound, earning a glare from me. Frank’s teasing always had a different flavor, somehow, from Ike’s. With Ike, you felt like you were in on the joke. With Frank, you weren’t quite sure he was teasing. Maybe he really did think I was a pig.
“Don’t you try to change the subject,” Papa told Ike. “I need assurance that this work isn’t putting my sons in danger.”
“We’re careful, Papa,” said Frank. “The whole point is he brought us in because we can do tricks without breaking a sweat. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for us, but I guess it looks tip-top on camera.”
“Plus, the pay’s fine,” said Bill placidly.
My mother rolled her eyes. “The pay’ll do you no good if you’re dead of a broken neck.”
“Just wait’ll you see the picture, Mama,” said Ike. “You’ll be bursting with pride.”
“Hmph,” my mother said, unconvinced. “Pearl, go wash the jam off your face. You look like you took a bath in it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I sighed. Ike gave me a wink. He’s my teasingest brother, but also my most sympathetic one. Whenever I get into a scrape, he’s the best person to ask for help getting out. I do blame him, though, for my lifelong horror of caterpillars because of the time he climbed a tree and dropped a nasty spiky one on my head as I walked underneath his branch. Of course, that was a long time ago and I was just a little kid—but some things you never forget, and the feeling of a million scrabbly little legs on your head is one of them. The oozy splat after you clap a panicked hand to your head is another.
But as long as there were no caterpillars in sight, Ike was a swell brother. Anyway, he was practically grown up now, almost eighteen, and not likely to terrorize me with creepy-crawlies anymore.
I don’t think.
“I believe I’ll ride to town this morning and take a gander at this ‘nothing out of the ordinary’ with my own eyes,” said Papa. My brothers exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing.
“You just watch out that smooth-talking Corrigan man doesn’t rope you in too, Jacob,” said my grandmother. “That man’s so slick he’ll have you dancing a tarantella on horseback if you don’t keep your wits about you.”