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dashboard. "The big thing is not to get scared. A horse knows, every time — "
"Not get scared!" Madeleine eyed the wagon and its pair of restive mustangs with unconcealed foreboding. She looked fresh as the dawn in the plain blue dress and cape of an Anglican Mission frontier nurse, but she also looked worried. There were 500 horses in the picture, and these two seemed the least trustworthy of them all. The plot WOULD pick on her to drive up to the fort at a gallop and cry out, "Indians!" or something from a cloud of dust. Her! Probably the only person on the set who didn't know about horses.
Any type of car, now . . . But of course cars weren't invented yet. This was Canada in the year 1885.
It was likewise a vital moment in North West Mounted Police. If Madeleine didn't cry that warning, the plot wouldn't jell; the technicolor camera wouldn't roll; Gary couldn't track down George Bancroft; the Mounted couldn't put down the rebellion; and Cecil B.
DeMille's sixty-sixth production in twenty-eight years would die a-borning.
Madeleine glanced sidewise at the patch of Canada spread over three acres at the rear of the Paramount lot, a slow whirlpool of movement and vigorous color. To and fro sauntered grizzled trappers and voyageurs, rebellious half-breeds, squaws in richly beaded buckskins, stolid Indian braves hugging their green and Vermillion blankets. From a log pole at the center of the stockade, the English flag snapped in the breeze.
And Preston Foster with Robert Preston by his side, both in the scarlet coats and gold braid of the Mounted, perspiring under great fur caps, sat their respective chargers as though horses were harmless as rabbits . . .
"I don't want to use a double for this shot," DeMille was explaining to Madeleine, "I want you to get really into the hoop-la, frontier spirit of the thing."
"I hope I don't get into the hospital, too," Madeleine murmured as she climbed with
Gary's help to the wagon seat. There she sat, tense and alone, while somebody led the snorting team outside the stockade gate. Somebody else yelled a signal. Madeleine said, "Giddyap!" in a timid voice.
Whoooooooshhhh! She entered the stockade at a gallop, sure enough. The mustangs streaked through the gate and at the camera, and were stopped with difficulty by two of the Mounted. Madeleine's Anglican headdress had blown askew, her hair stood on end, her cape was twisted under one ear.
"See?" DeMille soothed, "nothing to it. Safer than driving a car. Let's try it again."
She did it eight times.
"My first Western!" she panted when the ordeal ended, "I ache all over! I look as though I'd been pulled through a wringer! What fun!! I'll wager my hair is white as snow."
But even as Madeleine prepared to limp away, there came round the corner of the set an object [Continued on page 57]
Paulette Coddard as the Lynne Overman accused her
fiery half-breed challenger of stealing. She resents it
A primitive version of the airplane spin goes wrong
There was even money on Overman up to this point
ML\
When Paulette led with a bite to the knee, he was out
Her muffler grip all but ended the gallant Lynne
But it was the fingernails that finally finished him
And the bout turned into a swift cross country rout
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