across the
valley in which the ranch was located. They went for perhaps two miles
through the hills to a hamlet along a branch line railroad which had
served as the cow town for the picture's locale. It was here that Janet
began her ride, but before she started she looked to the cinches.

She remounted and sat easily in the saddle, waiting for the signal to
start.

Billy Fenstow waved his hand and the truck started swiftly away, Janet
riding hard after it. She rode with a natural lithesomeness of her body.
The light felt hat which had been crushed over her brown hair came off.
She clutched at it instinctively, but missed, and kept on riding, her
golden hair streaming away from her shoulders. Janet smiled to herself.
At least that would give a realistic effect.

She watched the director covertly and when he motioned again she sent
the sorrel racing away from the camera truck at an angle so the cameras
could get a side shot. Then the truck moved ahead of her.

It was hot and dry, and anything but an easy task to ride a horse
pounding along as hard as the big sorrel. Finally they topped the last
hill and swept down into the valley and Janet braced herself for the
last bit of action.

Curt, near the water hole, looked up when he heard the pounding hoofs
and Janet hurled herself from the saddle and ran to him.

"Quick, Curt, they're riding hard behind me. You've got to get out of
here. I'll stay and watch the ranch."

But Curt refused and the action was cut there.

Janet was dusty and sweaty and she walked to the pump and drank deeply
of the cool, sweet water.

"I can imagine there might have been a fight over this ranch in the
early days," she said.

"There was," grinned Curt, "but it wasn't nearly as big a one as we're
putting into the picture."

Janet's hardest scene for the day was over and Helen was in only one or
two minor shots so they passed part of the afternoon packing up their
things in preparation for the departure the next afternoon.

It was nearly dinner time when a dust covered car rolled into the valley
and approached the ranchhouse.

Janet and Helen, sitting on the front steps, watched it with interest
which deepened as they saw an Iowa license plate on the front of the
car.

"That almost looks like home," said Helen. "Why, the number's from our
home county. Maybe it's someone we know."

But the sun was flashing off the windshield, effectively shielding the
passengers in the car.

The