“You know the detective is following you,” explained Baird, “and you’re going to get him. Take your nag over a little so the tree won’t mask him too much. That’s it. Now, you look back, lean forward in the saddle, listen! You hear him coming. Your face sets--look as grim as you can. That’s the stuff--the real Buck Benson stuff when they’re after him. That’s fine. Now you get an idea. Unlash your rope, let the noose out, give it a couple of whirls to see is everything all right. That’s it--only you still look grim--not so worried about whether the rope is going to act right. We’ll attend to that. When the detective comes in sight give about three good whirls and let her fly. Try it once. Good! Now coil her up again and go through the whole thing. Never mind about whether you’re going to get him or not. Remember, Buck Benson never misses. We’ll have a later shot that shows the rope falling over his head.” Thereupon the grim-faced Benson, strong, silent man of the open, while the cameras ground, waited the coming of one who hounded him for a crime of which he was innocent. His iron face was relentless. He leaned forward, listening. He uncoiled the rope, expertly ran out the noose, and grimly waited. Far up the road appeared the detective on a galloping horse. Benson twirled the rope as he sat in his saddle. It left his hand, to sail gracefully in the general direction of his pursuer. “Cut!” called Baird. “That was bully. Now you got him. Ride out into the road. You’re dragging him off his horse, see? Keep on up the road; you’re still dragging the hound. Look back over your shoulder and light your face up just a little--that’s it, use Benson’s other expression. You got it fine. You’re treating the skunk rough, but look what he was doing to you, trying to pinch you for something you never did. That’s fine--go ahead. Don’t look back any more.” Merton was chiefly troubled at this moment by the thought that someone would have to double for him in the actual casting of the rope that would settle upon the detective’s shoulders. Well, he must practise roping. Perhaps, by the next picture, he could do this stuff himself. It was exciting work, though sometimes tedious. It had required almost an entire morning to enact this one simple scene, with the numerous close-ups that Baird demanded. The afternoon was taken up largely in becoming accustomed to a pair of old Spanish spurs that Baird now provided him with. Baird said they were very rare old spurs which he had obtained at a fancy price from an impoverished Spanish family who had treasured them as heirlooms. He said he was sure that Buck Benson in all his vast collection did not possess a pair of spurs like these. He would doubtless, after seeing them worn by Merton Gill in this picture, have a pair made like them. The distinguishing feature of these spurs was their size. They were enormous, and their rowels extended a good twelve inches from Merton’s heels after he had donned them.