“Now, Gary, try that again. Keep that business with the bow. And try and get that same vindictive look--you know, with your lips drawn back while you’re trying to bend the bow and let fly one last arrow. This time you die alone. Can’t have a death scene like that gummed up by a boob like Bill lopin’ in and actin’ like he’d sat on a bee--all right--come in--_camera_---- “That’s fine--now take your time, take your time--now, as the bow sags--you’re growing weaker--rouse yourself and chant your death song! That’s the stuff! Lift your head--turn it so your profile shows” (Gary swore without moving his lips “--hold that, while you raise your hand palm out--peace greeting to your ancestors you see in the clouds! _Great!_ H-o-o-l-d it--one--two--three--now-go-slack-all-at-once----_Cut!_” Gary picked himself up, took off his war bonnet and laid it on a rock, reached into his wampum belt and produced a sack of Bull Durham and a book of papers. The director came over and sat down beside him, accepting the cigarette Gary had just rolled. “Great scene, Gary. By gosh, that ought to get over big. When you get back, call me up right away, will you? I ought to know something definite next week, at the latest. Try and be here when Cohen gets here; I want you to meet him. By gosh, it’s a crime not to give you a feature company. Well, have Mack drive you back in my car. You haven’t any too much time.” That’s what it means to have the director for your friend. He can draw out your scenes and keep you working many an extra week if you are hard up, or he can kill you off on short notice and let you go, if you happen to have urgent business elsewhere; and must travel from Toponga Cañon to the studio, take off your make-up--an ungodly, messy make-up in this case--pack a suit case, buy a ticket and catch the eight o’clock train that evening. Gary, having died with much dignity and a magnificent profile in full view of future weeping audiences, was free from further responsibility toward the company and could go where he did not please. Which, of course, was Tonopah. He was just boyish enough in his anger, hurt enough in his man’s pride, to go without another word to Patricia. Flabby-souled, hunh? Painted eyebrows, painted lashes, painted lips--golly grandma! Pat surely could take the hide off a man, and smile while she did it!