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Show - 7 - 6~7 Next to mm sat tne actor, tie wore boots, fancy Western-style pants and shirt, and a Stetson as white as skimmed milk. He said nothing, had said hardly anything all morning, and looked upon everything and everyone with cold, blase" eyes. He drank his beer slowly and silently, without smoking. On the other side of the director sat the cameraman, cursing, a tall man with a great deal of black hair on his arms and none on his head. Since his hat had somehow gotten lost, that morning in the sun he had worn his shirt up over his head and buttoned under his chin, cape-like over his shoulders, the collar of the shirt framing his face so that the makeup man had said he looked like an A-rab, haha. Nobody had laughed, least of all the cameraman, who didn't like Arabs. He also wore a white T-shirt, khaki trousers and desert boots. He emptied his can of beer, tossed the can and reached for another one, cursing all the while. Much had gone wrong with the shooting that morning and none of the crew was in a good mood. Now they would have to work through the heat of the day and then drive back over those tracks which led out to the highway, a much longer and very much rougher and very very much hotter trip than any one of the men had thought it would be. A slight breeze stirred, whispered in the willows, and then, just as the men were feeling it, died away. But down at the second spring, tethered to a stake, a bridled and saddled and very handsome bay horse lifted his head and neighed. He had done that before, but this time, faintly, there came an answer. None of the men cared, none had any curiosity except one, the youngest, his first time on location; he hoped to see a cowboy or an Indian ride by. And so he left the shade of his camper and moved out into the open and shaded his eyes, looking about him. Seeing nothing, he walked over to the director's camper and squatted at his feet. |
