I Don't Know How the Story Ends by J.B. Cheaney Page B

and I clapped a hand to my mouth. The runner’s face blazed with terror, just before he reached the end of the bridge and dived off to one side. The picture jumped violently and the screen went gray.
    â€œRanger…was that you?” The scene had passed so quickly that I wasn’t even sure.
    â€œYep. Durn train was coming on faster’n I thought.”
    â€œNearly lost the camera right out of the gate,” Sam said from the darkness.
    â€œStop crabbing—you had plenty of time to get out of the way. Now this ,” Ranger remarked, pointing at the screen, “could have been a real disaster.”
    The light was much better; we could comprehend the scene, a creek flowing between the steep sides of a canyon. Nothing seemed to be happening at first, but as we watched, a small figure swung across the creek on a rope or vine. After reaching the other side, he disappeared into the brush. A few seconds later he swung back again, and with a sharp intake of breath, I realized he was wearing nothing but a loincloth.
    â€œRanger!” Sylvie cried out delightedly.
    â€œHere’s the best part,” he said. The view changed; instead of downstream we were at the edge of a cliff, with the water barely visible below. A movement on the opposite bank caught our eye, coming directly toward us. It was, of course, Ranger on the vine, still practically naked, with a look of exhilaration that quickly changed to dismay as he appeared to be swinging right into our laps. Look out! he silently cried, just before the screen went blank.
    â€œTold ya to wear your glasses,” Sam said.
    â€œDoes Tarzan wear glasses? But here’s the best one yet.” On screen, a figure on horseback galloped along the edge of a pasture. Next, in closer view, he reined in his mount and peered over the horizon like a frontier scout.
    By now we knew who it was. Sylvie squealed, “Ranger! Is that your horse?”
    For once the camera was taking its time, and we got a good look at him (Ranger, that is, not the horse). Without his glasses he looked a little older but not much. I recognized the khaki outfit, disguised though it was with a pair of epaulettes, as the proud apparel of the American Boy Scouts. I could not describe the surpassing strangeness of having Ranger in two places at once—on the screen, and living and breathing not five feet away.
    On screen, Ranger bolted upright in the saddle as though he’d spied something worthy of note. Then he kicked his horse’s sides and set off galloping heck-for-leather. The camera swung, a bit jerkily, as he rode by.
    â€œWatch this,” Ranger said. The camera had changed position; we appeared to be on the other side of a ditch, and he was galloping straight toward it and us. Like the locomotive, at almost the same speed. Next—as my breath caught—we seemed to be in the ditch, and the horse sailed right over our heads! Then we were upright again, just in time to see all four hooves strike the ground on the other side. It was a rousing finish, until the horse shied and Ranger fell off.
    The horse then lost interest in acting and moseyed to one side of the screen, while Ranger got painfully to his feet, clutching his shoulder, and addressed the camera. I don’t read lips, but it looked like he was yelling “ Stop ! ”—along with other words that probably were best left unyelled.
    â€œSam!” he complained now. “You were supposed to cut all that.”
    â€œMight be useful sometime,” Sam remarked, palming the end of the film as it went flap-flap-flap on the take-up reel. He must have been lying in the ditch to get that view under the horse, but I couldn’t understand how he’d leaped up quickly enough to capture the landing.
    â€œIt was wonderful!” Sylvie exclaimed, jumping up and down. “Is that how you broke your collarbone? Will it be in our picture? Can I fall off a horse too?”
    â€œAsk