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The three pioneers in the old-fashioned buggy are J. Farrell MacDonald, Olive Borden and Tom Santschi, and that's
George O'Brien leaning against the side.
A Letter from Location
Written by Olive Borden from the wilds of Wyoming during the filming of "Three Bad Men."
To Myrtle Gebhart
Jackson's Hole, Wyoming.
DEAR MYRTLE: Here I am far from sunny Hollywood, in the great primeval, where boulevard stops, traffic cops and cushion roads are unknown, and I love it. It is my very first location trip — and the first time I have ever been away from telephones and bathtubs, and things like that. It's "Three Bad Men" that we're making here, you know.
I was not enthusiastic in the beginning. Director John Ford told me such wild tales of the terrible things that still happen in the unsettled parts of the West, and I believed him. Finally, the Irish twinkle in his eye made me decide to wait and see, before I got excited about being held up and kidnaped and all the other cheerful things he mentioned. Why, Myrtle, to hear him talk, you would have thought that the uncivilized Indians still scalped three people every morning before breakfast.
The biggest thrill of the trip was the last sixty-fivemile lap, made from the end of the railroad line, at Victor, Idaho, to our camp at the foot of the mighty Teton mountain range. This was traversed in an automobile, over roads that would make a good comedy gag — one of those gags where the machine falls to pieces because of the bumps — and the fastest we could "speed" was
five to seven miles an hour, on the good parts. I thought I would pass right out of the picture. Only the moral support of mother, George O'Brien, and Lou Tellegen saved me from total wreckage.
Then jog, jog, jog upward for miles, it seemed, over the famous Teton Pass, twelve thousand feet high. We went past the celebrated tree where Tranipas was hanged, in Owen Wister's "The Virginian." There I go, givingpublicity to Kenneth Harlan, and he works for another company, but I don't give a rap, I just adored him' in "The Virginian."
And we skated around innumerable thin ledges from which we could — if we had wanted to — have gazed over the side of our car and looked miles straight down. I peeked every now and then, but you know how afraid I am to be over two feet from the ground, so mostly, I let them tell me about the chasms.
At last, we reached the summit of the pass, and then I did look, and simply couldn't stop looking. I never will forget that sight : the magnificent Tetons, formidable and serene, with snow-capped peaks, and those tremendous valleys, broken only by the winding, twisting course of the Snake River.
At first, I was a little timid about camping in a tent. At home, in Norfolk, Virginia, we had a two-story Continued on page 112