CHAPTER XIX

A NEW FRIEND

Ruth carried out her determination to send for Edith Lang, the crippled actress, immediately. She knew the reputation the screen star had enjoyed before her accident, and she felt, with Mr. Hammond, that Miss Lang was the very one to give her those points on acting which she felt were so necessary.

It was only a day or two after that that Ruth received an answering telegram in which Edith Lang announced that she was “on the way.”

This welcome news, coupled with the information that the camera tests of herself had been a great success and that she filmed unusually well, served to encourage Ruth immensely. Had Tom only been more sympathetic she felt she would have been perfectly happy in spite of the heavy cost of the delay that Viola’s defection caused.

Edith Lang appeared promptly on the dot and was met at the station by the rickety car--of which, by the way, Headwaters Ranch was inordinately proud.

Ruth’s whole company turned out to meet the crippled actress on her arrival at the ranch, eager to give a cordial welcome to a gifted but unfortunate fellow artist.

When the car rattled up the drive and Edith Lang descended, those who waited to welcome her were surprised to see how easily she carried herself. They had expected to see some one on crutches.

But Edith Lang walked on two feet, and though one of them was artificial the only thing that attested to the fact was an almost imperceptible limp and a certain stiffness in her movements.

What they did not know was that only pride kept Edith Lang from hobbling painfully and that there were times when what was left of her leg pained so torturingly that not even pride could keep her on her feet.

She had been a beautiful woman, and was pretty still, although suffering had etched lines about her eyes and mouth and given her a slightly pinched, old look.

She smiled upon Ruth, though her face was white with the fatigue of the journey.

“I am Ruth Fielding,” said the girl, as she slipped an arm within the older woman’s and led her authoritatively toward the house. “My people have turned out in force to meet you, but we are going to save all introductions until later when you have rested.”

“How kind you are, my dear--and attractive,” said Edith Lang, with a searching glance into Ruth’s flushed face. “I have heard much of you. You are justly famous. I have seen your picture, ‘Snowblind.’ It is perfect.”

All this, while Ruth led her guest into the big front room of the ranch house and settled her in the most comfortable chair it contained.

This praise of “Snowblind” from so real an authority was sweet indeed to Ruth. She felt tremendously drawn to Edith Lang.

Helen had been hovering around in the background and now Ruth drew her forward and presented her to the newcomer.

“My very best friend,” was Ruth’s laughing introduction. “And soon to be married. Meaning, of course, the end of our good times together!”

Miss Lang smiled as she took off her hat and smoothed up her bright hair.

“Marriage means the end--and the beginning of many things,” she said. Before she could continue Mr. Hammond came into the room, hand outstretched in cordial greeting.

The two were good friends, as was attested by their manner toward each other. Mr. Hammond settled down immediately for what he termed “a good old chat.” But Ruth, seeing how very tired the newcomer looked, interposed firmly with the dictum that Miss Lang must have food and rest before being interviewed on any matter whatsoever.

Although the actress laughingly protested, Ruth could see that she was secretly relieved.

In the room assigned to her--the room deserted by Viola and now divested of every reminder of her, the trunks, various hat boxes and other luggage having been sent for and carried away--Miss Lang slipped into a pretty blue dressing gown and lay down upon the bed while Ruth drew the shades partly down to shut out the glare of the afternoon sun.

When the girl went over to the bed to see if there was anything more she could do for her crippled guest, Edith Lang caught the girl’s hand in her own and smiled up at her.

“You are a dear girl,” she said, “and very considerate of one--less fortunate.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again to look at Ruth with an expression of lively interest.

“I have been studying you,” she announced, “and I want to say, my dear, that I hardly need see you act to tell that you can. Besides good looks and a pretty figure, you have brains, which, as you very well know, are at a premium among our beautiful stars of the day. In fact,” with a warm pressure of Ruth’s hand, “I believe I am going to enjoy my new work thoroughly!”

Ruth left Edith Lang’s presence, encouraged and inspired. Besides the pleasant things that had been said to her, Ruth felt that she had found a genuine friend in the actress.

Nor was this belief weakened in the busy days that followed. The friendship between Ruth and Miss Lang grew and strengthened while the work of picture-making went ahead with marvelous rapidity.

Having written the story and created her heroine, Ruth could throw herself into the part with more fervor and realism than would be possible for any one else. While she was acting, Ruth was not Ruth Fielding, but Ann Marks, suffering with the girl, fighting for her love, as the heroine fought. But in spite of this ability to lose herself in the part of the heroine, Ruth was honest enough to confess to herself that the criticism and guidance of Edith Lang were invaluable.

There were times when she felt awkward and embarrassed, was not quite sure how to carry her hands or where to place her feet.

At such times Edith Lang would call to her:

“You have an apron on, Miss Fielding. Remember, you are a little mountain girl, nervous and excited. Twist the corners of the apron--not too much--just enough to register mental distress. That’s right--great, my dear. Face the camera more directly. Remember you must get your emotions across to the public. Fine!”

Or, at another time:

“You have just heard that your lover has been wounded by the outlaws, perhaps fatally. You forget yourself utterly in your despair. Can you cry? Good! Oh, my dear, that is wonderful! You have art. Now your lover suddenly appears. He is wounded, but not fatally. You run to him, smiling through your tears. Do not keep your back turned too long--remember your back tells little--turn toward the camera--closer, closer----”

And so on from day to day, until Ruth, becoming experienced in her turn, came to know instinctively what was the right thing to do.

“But I never could have done anything without you,” she told Miss Lang gratefully one day. “There are so many things to learn!”

Miss Lang patted her hand, laughing.

“You are an apt pupil, my dear, and one it is a pleasure to teach,” she said.

Finally all the smaller scenes were shot. It remained then to make arrangements for the big moment in her picture--the avalanche.

Mr. Hammond had lingered on long past his intention, fascinated by Ruth’s work in her new rôle. He accompanied her each day to location, watched her, and, with Miss Lang, advised and criticized where criticism was needed.

Ruth, in love with her new work, drank in these criticisms eagerly and profited by them so quickly that both her critics were delighted.

Meanwhile, Tom had an amusing little adventure all his own--at least, it would have been amusing if he could have kept it to himself.

It all happened in the first place because he was worried about Ruth. She was doing some pretty dangerous acts in company with “that Boardman chap.” In spite of Tom’s respect for the westerner’s prowess on horseback, he had not reached the point where he could watch with any degree of calm a scene in which the actor was supposed to swoop Ruth up before him on his horse and race with her at thrilling speed along a narrow ledge where a single swerve or misstep would mean almost certain disaster.

Tom had pleaded with Ruth to let some one double for her in this scene. But the girl was now thoroughly interested in her rôle and would not hear to following his suggestion.

“They would all think I was afraid,” Ruth pointed out to him. “Besides, there isn’t the slightest danger, Tommy.”

Since Tom could not agree with her on this point he decided to take a tramp into the hills while this scene was being shot.

“I can’t keep her from risking her life if she wants to,” he told himself as he shouldered his rifle and started afoot along the narrow, rocky trail. “But I don’t have to stay and watch the awful deed.”

Tom knew in a general way whither he was bound. The spot had been a favorite of his from the moment he had discovered it--a great bare rock that jutted out above Golden Pass and commanded an awe-inspiring view of mountains and ravines beyond.

However, Tom found that the gorgeous view only reminded him the more of Ruth and the perilous scene she was to take part in.

So he deserted the rock and made his way into the shadowy woods, there to wander and explore until it should be time again to return to the ranch.

The mysterious sights and sounds of the forest fascinated him, drew him farther and farther into the heart of it until he came to a narrow little path, trampled hard by the feet of countless denizens of the forest.

“Bet this leads to a water hole,” Tom said to himself. “Wish Ruth was with me--she never gets time off from her acting to enjoy herself any more.”

He kept on along the path and presently saw the glimmer of water through the trees.

“The old water hole,” he told himself triumphantly, and the next moment stepped out upon the edge of it. As he did so something rose from the farther bank and slipped quietly and stealthily into the woods.

“It was a deer, I bet,” Tom muttered. A gleam came into his eyes and he raised his gun, only to lower it again despondently. “Closed season,” he warned himself. “Anyway, it might be any sort of animal. I didn’t get a real look at it.”

The spot was picturesque in the extreme and Tom thought that if he stayed around for a while and made himself seem only a part of the scenery he might see something interesting. Judging from the hard ground of the path, many wild creatures must frequent this mountain pool. Tom thought, with a grin, that it would be fun to watch these denizens of the woodland when they did not know themselves observed.

He found a splendid post of observation--a large flat rock backed by a tree against which he might rest weary shoulders if he wished.

Tom settled himself comfortably and waited.

For a long time nothing stirred about the pool. Evidently the woodland folk were still a bit uneasy about the presence of a man creature. However, as Tom remained very still they gained confidence and one by one stole through the heavy underbrush to drink hastily, cast a wary glance in Tom’s direction and scuttle back to the safety of the woods. Once a fox made its appearance and Tom’s fingers tightened instinctively on his rifle where it lay at his side upon the rock.

However, no other movement betrayed his presence and the fox appeared to take no notice of him. It drank lazily, insolently, then turned away and disappeared in the direction from which it had come.

“What a fine neck-piece you’d make for some one, old boy,” Tom mused. “Just the same, your coat will be thicker and finer when the winter comes.”

Wearied by his cramped position, Tom was about to get up when a noise in the woods behind him caused him to change his mind.

Something was crashing heavily through the underbrush--beast or man, Tom could not tell which. But he sat very still, fingers coiled about his rifle.