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Updated: September 8, 2025
"You ain't any little tin god on wheels. Don't run away with that idee in your bean. I haven't seen any man yet that can lay onto me without getting his hair curled for him. Me, I play my own hand, by God; and I don't care whether it's against Mr. Yeager or Mr. Farrar or Mr. Threewit. See?" "Your pay is waiting for you, Harrison." "What? How's that?" he snarled.
It was possible that Pasquale would let him send a letter through to Threewit if it gave some natural explanation of his death, one that would relieve him of any responsibility. Steve tore out a page and wrote, standing under the little shaft of moonlight that poured through the small barred window: They say I won't live more than a few hours.
And now a cruel fate had thrown him in the way of a barbarian with no sense of either justice or kindness. He felt himself too soft of fiber to cope with such elemental forces. "Look! What is that, Threewit?" Farrar was pointing to something on the table that gleamed white in the moonlight. He stepped forward and picked it up.
Yeager accepted it as settled that he was doomed. But what about his friends? What of Threewit and Farrar? And, above all, what of Ruth? Would Culvera think it necessary to extend his vengeance to them? Or would prudence stay his hand after he had executed the chief offender? Culvera was a good politician.
While driving his car back to Los Robles, Billie Threewit, producing director at the border studio of the Lunar Film Manufacturers, indulged in caustic comment on his own idiocy. "Now, what in hell did I take on this Yeager rube for? He had just finished crabbing one scene. Wasn't that enough without me paying him good money to spoil more? Harrison's sore on him too.
"What's the matter with us sending a messenger down there with a fake wire from the old man to Threewit telling him to hustle up and get busy right away on a feature film? Pasquale would have to show his hand, anyhow. We'd know where we were at." Yeager assented. "He'd have to turn them loose or hold them.
The leading man was, of course, playing for time until Steve, under the guise of Cabenza, could arrange to win the freedom of the prisoners. This would take time, for success would depend upon several dove-tailing factors. To attempt a rescue and to fail would be practically to sign the death-warrant of Farrar and Threewit.
The chances were that he would not risk stirring up a hornet's nest by shooting a man as well known in the United States as Threewit. Since Farrar was in the same case, he would probably stand or fall by the Lunar director. As for Ruth her life would be safe enough. There was no doubt of that. But what of her future? Ramon was a known libertine.
"Frank, tear one of those blankets into strips. We've got to tie their hands and feet and gag them. Shuck your coat, Threewit. You've got to wear this fellow's blouse and sombrero. You, too, Frank. It's Manuel's castaways for you. Move lively, boys. This is surely going to be our busy evening." "What's the programme?" asked Farrar, doing what he was told to do. Steve explained briefly.
"I learned to jabber it when I was a year old before I did English." "Then you'll do. I defy even Harrison to recognize you." He gave her his Mexican bow. "Gracias, señorita." When Threewit and Farrar reached Noche Buena, Pasquale was absent from camp, but Culvera made them suavely welcome.
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