light missed his canvas fedora by inches. He was sitting right beside it.
—Got his just deserts, right?
—Yeah, I said.—Probably.
He watched me strap the leg on.
—We can do that, he said.—We can show him doing some of the bad things that earn him his bullet. That’s doable.
I folded my blanket. I pushed it in under the deerskin wall of the tepee.
—I’ve an oul’ lad’s bladder, I said.—I’ll be back in a minute.
—Your turn to piss on a dead man.
—If I see one.
—Plenty of ’em out there, he said.
I didn’t go far. But Ford was gone when I got back. The day was well on. The sun was up and biting, and the ground looked like the horses had been across and back across it.
—What date is it? I asked a guy who was passing.
I’d seen him before - I remembered - in the little studio desert, carrying a cactus, when they were making Fort Apache .
—Date?
—Yeah, I said.
—Well, he said.—I’m not sure. Say, Duke?
A big guy—
I was big - I suddenly remembered that. I pulled back my shoulders and tried not to let the pain get loud.
This big guy was some kind of an officer. His hat was different, his moustache was well looked after. He’d been made up to look older than he was. The grey in his hair wasn’t real. I wasn’t sure the hair was even real.
—What can I do for you? he said.
He was huge but it looked like he’d been cut in half; a bigger top was balanced on the legs and arse of a smaller man.
—What date is it? asked the cactus guy.
—Ah Jesus, said Duke.—I don’t have to know things like that. That’s someone else’s job.
I watched Duke step over the dog.
—Is that Duke Wayne? I asked.
I remembered the name. Ford had said it, often.
—Sure is, said Cactus.
I watched Wayne go up some steps. There was a swagger but he got up the steps like a lighter, careful man. He’d have done well in a flying column in 1920.
Now I saw someone I did know.
—How’s it going, Gypo?
It was the guy I’d seen in The Informer . Gypo Nolan. He was older and wider, but it was him. He was hung-over, still half-pissed. He stared at me like he was trying to see through deep water.
—Say, Vic, said Cactus.—What’s the date?
—Fuck off now, said Gypo.
He sounded Irish. But he didn’t - he was pretending to be Irish. It was the accent he’d had in The Informer . He kept going, kicking dust, up the same steps Wayne had danced up. But Gypo tried to smash them as he went. He followed Wayne through an open plank door. There was nothing behind it, only more of the desert.
—What’s Gypo’s name? I asked.
—Vic, said Cactus.—Victor McLaglen.
—He’s not Irish.
—No, said Cactus.—But he thinks he is. Pappy told him he was and Vic believed him. He’s English, in actual fact. I think.
I heard the accordion behind me. There was a young-looking skinny lad coming across the dirt and Danny Borzage was walking ahead of him, squeezing out The Streets of Laredo . Ford came through the door to the desert and it was as if the accordion had been shot dead and brought back to very quick life; The Streets of Laredo became Bringing in the Sheaves . Danny went to meet his master coming down the steps. Ford stopped in front of the skinny kid. He pushed the kid’s cap up an inch, looked at it and left it like that. The kid’s forehead was burnt and his red hair matched it.
—Ready? said Ford.
—Yes, Uncle Jack, said the kid.
—Got your lines?
—Yes.
—That’s the idea, said Ford.
The accordion was sucking in and shaping the dust. The red air danced around Ford. The noise, the sudden space in front of the camera, the blast of white light, the concentration on all the wet, dirty faces - they were ready to roll, just waiting for the go-ahead from Ford.
He stopped in front of me.
—It can’t be in the head, he said.
—That was how it was.
—Fuck how it was. It’s a story, not the Gospel according to fucking Luke.
Then he shouted, straight into my
—Got his just deserts, right?
—Yeah, I said.—Probably.
He watched me strap the leg on.
—We can do that, he said.—We can show him doing some of the bad things that earn him his bullet. That’s doable.
I folded my blanket. I pushed it in under the deerskin wall of the tepee.
—I’ve an oul’ lad’s bladder, I said.—I’ll be back in a minute.
—Your turn to piss on a dead man.
—If I see one.
—Plenty of ’em out there, he said.
I didn’t go far. But Ford was gone when I got back. The day was well on. The sun was up and biting, and the ground looked like the horses had been across and back across it.
—What date is it? I asked a guy who was passing.
I’d seen him before - I remembered - in the little studio desert, carrying a cactus, when they were making Fort Apache .
—Date?
—Yeah, I said.
—Well, he said.—I’m not sure. Say, Duke?
A big guy—
I was big - I suddenly remembered that. I pulled back my shoulders and tried not to let the pain get loud.
This big guy was some kind of an officer. His hat was different, his moustache was well looked after. He’d been made up to look older than he was. The grey in his hair wasn’t real. I wasn’t sure the hair was even real.
—What can I do for you? he said.
He was huge but it looked like he’d been cut in half; a bigger top was balanced on the legs and arse of a smaller man.
—What date is it? asked the cactus guy.
—Ah Jesus, said Duke.—I don’t have to know things like that. That’s someone else’s job.
I watched Duke step over the dog.
—Is that Duke Wayne? I asked.
I remembered the name. Ford had said it, often.
—Sure is, said Cactus.
I watched Wayne go up some steps. There was a swagger but he got up the steps like a lighter, careful man. He’d have done well in a flying column in 1920.
Now I saw someone I did know.
—How’s it going, Gypo?
It was the guy I’d seen in The Informer . Gypo Nolan. He was older and wider, but it was him. He was hung-over, still half-pissed. He stared at me like he was trying to see through deep water.
—Say, Vic, said Cactus.—What’s the date?
—Fuck off now, said Gypo.
He sounded Irish. But he didn’t - he was pretending to be Irish. It was the accent he’d had in The Informer . He kept going, kicking dust, up the same steps Wayne had danced up. But Gypo tried to smash them as he went. He followed Wayne through an open plank door. There was nothing behind it, only more of the desert.
—What’s Gypo’s name? I asked.
—Vic, said Cactus.—Victor McLaglen.
—He’s not Irish.
—No, said Cactus.—But he thinks he is. Pappy told him he was and Vic believed him. He’s English, in actual fact. I think.
I heard the accordion behind me. There was a young-looking skinny lad coming across the dirt and Danny Borzage was walking ahead of him, squeezing out The Streets of Laredo . Ford came through the door to the desert and it was as if the accordion had been shot dead and brought back to very quick life; The Streets of Laredo became Bringing in the Sheaves . Danny went to meet his master coming down the steps. Ford stopped in front of the skinny kid. He pushed the kid’s cap up an inch, looked at it and left it like that. The kid’s forehead was burnt and his red hair matched it.
—Ready? said Ford.
—Yes, Uncle Jack, said the kid.
—Got your lines?
—Yes.
—That’s the idea, said Ford.
The accordion was sucking in and shaping the dust. The red air danced around Ford. The noise, the sudden space in front of the camera, the blast of white light, the concentration on all the wet, dirty faces - they were ready to roll, just waiting for the go-ahead from Ford.
He stopped in front of me.
—It can’t be in the head, he said.
—That was how it was.
—Fuck how it was. It’s a story, not the Gospel according to fucking Luke.
Then he shouted, straight into my
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