Billy Fenstow, taking advantage of the stop, spoke to Janet and Helen, his voice so low that it was doubtful if he could be overheard by any other member of the company.
“What about staying in the company for my next picture?” he asked.
“When will it start?” Janet countered.
The director mopped his brow again and grinned.
“Just as soon as I can hash together a good enough story. Two weeks, maybe three, or it might even be a month. Why?”
“We’re not certain what we want to do,” explained Helen. “You see, college starts next month.”
“My heavens,” exclaimed the director. “What under the sun do you want to go to college for? You’re smart enough right now.”
“That’s just it; we aren’t,” replied Janet. “And we’re terribly young, if the truth were known.”
Billy Fenstow looked at them critically.
“Yep, you’re young enough,” he conceded, “but what’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, we’re nothing sensational as actresses,” replied Janet, “and neither one of us would want to go along playing minor rôles for years. If we ever hope to do more than that we’ve got to have more of a background in education and college seems to be the easiest and surest way to attain that.”
Billy Fenstow nodded in agreement.
“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted, “but you could stay on with me at one hundred or one hundred and fifty dollars a week for a long time.”
“But how many weeks a year would we work at that rate? There wouldn’t be more than twenty-five or thirty at the most and our expenses of staying on in Hollywood would become heavier.”
“Now that you put it that way, you’re probably right. But when you do get through college, don’t forget to come back and we’ll see how things go then.”
The director started to get up, then sank back on the cushions.
“You helped doctor the script of ‘Kings of the Air,’ didn’t you?” he asked Janet.
“I made a suggestion or two,” she admitted.
“I heard it was a little more than that,” smiled the director. “Why don’t you see what you could do with a western script for me. I haven’t got an idea and if I turn it over to the studio writers, I’ll probably get another stereotyped plot.”
“Are you serious?” demanded Janet.
“Very much so. You might be able to put together something with a new angle. Mind you, it must be simple in action, for I’ve got to operate on a slim budget, but we must have a satisfactory love angle and a plausible plot. Think you can do anything with it?”
“I’ll try; I’ll do my best,” promised Janet.
“Then I guess I’ll take a little vacation when we get back to Hollywood. I’ll need the story in about ten days, or at least a complete outline by that time.”
The tubby little director lifted himself off the seat and ambled down the aisle to learn how much longer they would be detained and Janet watched him go with a strange elation in her heart.
Chapter Five
DEADLY FANGS
Helen looked at her companion through smiling, quizzical eyes.
“Well, what do you make of that?” she asked.
“I’m a little bit dizzy, but I guess Mr. Fenstow meant what he said. Do you suppose I can really turn out an acceptable story for a western picture?” Janet turned and shot the question squarely at Helen.
“I’m sure you can. That is,” she amended, “if you don’t let the thought of it scare you.”
“I’ll give it a lot of time and thought before I start writing the story.”
“There isn’t much time,” warned Helen, and Janet knew that her companion was right.
Ten days – sometimes it seemed like an endless length of time; then again it vanished like magic and she had a feeling that this might be the case.
Some members of the company left the bus and walked around to stretch their legs; the others remained quietly in their seats, only a few of them talking for they were glad the strain of making the picture was at an end.
Janet sniffed the late afternoon air. There seemed to be a faint odor of smoke, but she decided some of the men in the company must be smoking nearby.
The heat abated somewhat as they waited for the driver to repair the engine and a sharp breeze swept down out of the hills sending little swirls of dust dancing along the winding road ahead of them.
Helen leaned close to her companion.
“Smell smoke?” she asked.
“Not now, but I thought I did a few minutes ago,” replied Janet.
“I’m sure I can now,” went on Helen, sniffing intently.
Janet thought she caught another whiff of smoke, but she couldn’t be sure.
Curt Newsom, who had been trying to help repair the engine, came back along the bus. His face was smudged with grime and dirt and his hands were covered with grease. He raised one of them and motioned for Janet and Helen to join him. The girls left their seats and walked down the bus, Curt meeting them at the doorway.
“Come on,” he said sharply and in a manner that was little like his own.
He strode away through the dry grass, which crackled like tinder under his boots. He was a good fifty yards away from the bus and far beyond earshot when he stopped and faced the girls.
“It will be hours before that bus can be repaired,” he told them. “Someone will have to go back to the ranch or the nearest village and phone for another vehicle to come out from the city.”
The freshening breeze stirred up a cloud of dust which enveloped them for a moment. Curt sneezed heavily and then sniffed.
“Smell anything?” There was desperate intentness in his question.
Janet and Helen wrinkled their noses and sniffed eagerly.
Helen shook her head.
“Not now, but a while ago I thought I smelled smoke.”
“So did I,” added Janet. “It was kind of like tobacco smoke and then it wasn’t.”
Curt shook his head. “I’m afraid it isn’t tobacco smoke. I’ve been getting whiffs of it right along. Smells like a brush fire to me, but I can’t locate any sign of smoke.”
“What do you mean by brush fire?” asked Janet.
Curt looked at her sharply and then his eyes swept the rugged countryside where the sparse grass was brown and the brush as brittle as glass.
“It’s like a prairie fire – only worse. It’s even worse than a forest fire. It spreads more rapidly. Once a fire gets started in this dry, combustible stuff, it’s almost impossible to stop it. Either a good rain comes along or the blamed thing just burns itself out.”
“But I should think you could dodge a brush fire,” put in Helen.
“Maybe you could if you knew which way it was going to jump. But it moves almost like lightning and it’s on you before you know it.”
The cowboy star cast an anxious eye over the rolling hills, but there was no sign of smoke, no spear of flame to flash a warning of impending trouble.
“Keep your nose busy and your eyes and ears on the job. You might even stir around in the hills a bit. If you see anything that looks like it might spell trouble, let me know. I’m going back to try and help the driver.