Hollywood (1939)

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This time, Warner had gone to WarWynne alone, and at first was getting along fine, rising early every morning and catching fish for breakfast in the little lake in front of the cabin; eating prodigiously of his own cooking with the satisfaction of a man who doesn't have to watch his waistline; hunting all day long. The weather was perfect, with never a cloud in the sky. Everything was perfect. He came home late one evening to find that situation slightly changed. The electric lighting system, usually very efficient, had failed. Baxter expected a man in the morning from Banning to do some odd jobs and thought probably he could fix the lights, too. So, tired and hungry, he didn't bother with them. Instead he built a roaring fire in the fireplace and whipped up a delicious stew in the big kettle on the crane. He went to bed in the darkness and lay there, blissfully relaxed, listening to the mournful cries of the coyotes, the rustle of the night wind, the soft crackle of the dying fire in the living room. It was all very peaceful and remote from that turbulent place called Hollywood. Just on the verge of sleep, something rushed him back to consciousness, precipitately and horribly. There was the thud of a falling log in the fireplace, and then, sinister and unforgettable, the whirring of a coiled rattler. With a hand that he confesses was shaking like a leaf, Warner reached for the matches on the night table. His movement was signal for another buzzing, this time much nearer. Warner says he is sure his hair was literally standing on end by then. The dim firelight cast wavering shadows across the floor, but the darkness around the bed was thick and black. Whirrrrr! The snake sounded its fearsome warning once more, nearer than ever. Fumbling with the match box, Warner's trembling fingers dropped it. He heard the matches slither to the floor. The rattling was so close to the bed that he didn't dare to reach down. So what did he do? "So I stayed there in bed, huddled beneath the covers, scared stiff, the whole night through," he told me, wryly. "And I can tell you it was the longest night a man ever spent. I couldn't smoke, because I had no matches. I couldn't see. And every time I moved, that unwelcome visitor of mine would let me know that he resented it." Just before dawn, there was a soft swishing sound and Warner realized that his guest was departing. "But by that time," he declared, "I was too jittery for pursuit. I just stayed put until daylight, when I could make sure that the way to my shotgun was clear." He found the snake in the kitchen, coiled and waiting. But a blast from the gun put an end to him. Warner has his rattle — three inches long — to remember that night by. The rattler wrecked Warner's lovely peace of mind and enjoyment of solitude for the rest of that vacation. On his way back to Hollywood he made arrangements for the sealing of all places where a snake might get into the cabin. | After a few months, however, the memory of the rattler dimmed, and he developed a new aversion to all things civilized. Optimistically, he hied himself back to the San Jacintos for some deer hunting. This time, however, "buck fever" practically ruined his vacation. "I was going along, feeling fine, certain of bagging an extra good one," he told me, "when, pushing through a thicket I saw a beautiful buck, horns flung skyward, standing not a hundred feet away, looking directly at me. "Well," he confided, ruefully, "I followed suit. I simply stood there and looked at him, too, fascinated. I didn't even have the presence of mind to raise my gun to my shoulder. . . . Until, finally, Mister Deer, apparently satisfied that I was harmless, turned his back on me and trotted away, slowly, lqoking back as if to say, 'Hope I see you again, old pal, old pal,' while I still stood there like a graven image. "Yes," Warner concluded, "disgust at my performance during that little episode pretty well spoiled that outing, and the ribbing I got from Frank McGrath didn't make matters any better!" B On another hunting expedition, Warner managed to shoot a fine buck, all right, but the next day apparently was taken for a buck, himself, by an impulsive hunter who took several shots at html "I was out by myself, after quail," he recounted. "As I was pushing through some underbrush, I heard the report of a gun, and a bullet whizzed by my head, certainly not more than a foot away. Seared stiff — I admit it — I dropped to the ground, when a second shot came, lower and closer to me than ever. I yelled out, but the only answer was a third shot." "Well," he concluded, "that ended my hunting for the time being. I stayed on the ground in that clump of bushes for a long time and even after it seemed pretty certain that the barrage was over, crawled along on my stomach a goodly distance — in the opposite direction, I might add. Now, I wear a red cap and a red coat, too!" ■ Being shot at was no more uncomfortable or dangerous, than what happened to Warner and Frank McGrath at War-Wynne op still another occasion. "It was late in March. So late that there seemed little danger of heavy snow, despite the fact that the mountains were still covered," Warner said. "We left Hollywood in the middle of the afternoon, and stopped in Banning to lay in [Continued on page 38] 36