Transcriber’s Notes
Cover created by Transcriber, using an illustration from the original book, and placed in the Public Domain.
Table of Contents added by Transcriber and placed in the Public Domain.
THE GIRL FROM HOLLYWOOD
The director’s eyes snapped.... “Only a camera man and myself are here,” he said
THE GIRL FROM HOLLYWOOD
BY EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
AUTHOR OF “TARZON OF THE APES,” “THE RETURN OF TARZON,” ETC.
FRONTISPIECE BY P. J. MONAHAN
NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY
Copyright, 1923, By EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
THE GIRL FROM HOLLYWOOD
CHAPTER I
The two horses picked their way carefully downward over the loose shale of the steep hillside. The big bay stallion in the lead sidled mincingly, tossing his head nervously, and flecking the flannel shirt of his rider with foam. Behind the man on the stallion a girl rode a clean-limbed bay of lighter color, whose method of descent, while less showy, was safer, for he came more slowly, and in the very bad places he braced his four feet forward and slid down, sometimes almost sitting upon the ground.
At the base of the hill there was a narrow level strip; then an eight-foot wash, with steep banks, barred the way to the opposite side of the cañon, which rose gently to the hills beyond. At the foot of the descent the man reined in and waited until the girl was safely down; then he wheeled his mount and trotted toward the wash. Twenty feet from it he gave the animal its head and a word. The horse broke into a gallop, took off at the edge of the wash, and cleared it so effortlessly as almost to give the impression of flying.
Behind the man came the girl, but her horse came at the wash with a rush—not the slow, steady gallop of the stallion—and at the very brink he stopped to gather himself. The dry bank caved beneath his front feet, and into the wash he went, head first.
The man turned and spurred back. The girl looked up from her saddle, making a wry face.
“No damage?” he asked, an expression of concern upon his face.
“No damage,” the girl replied. “Senator is clumsy enough at jumping, but no matter what happens he always lights on his feet.”
“Ride down a bit,” said the man. “There’s an easy way out just below.”
She moved off in the direction he indicated, her horse picking his way among the loose bowlders in the wash bottom.
“Mother says he’s part cat,” she remarked. “I wish he could jump like the Apache!”
The man stroked the glossy neck of his own mount.
“He never will,” he said. “He’s afraid. The Apache is absolutely fearless; he’d go anywhere I’d ride him. He’s been mired with me twice, but he never refuses a wet spot; and that’s a test, I say, of a horse’s courage.”
They had reached a place where the bank was broken down, and the girl’s horse scrambled from the wash.
“Maybe he’s like his rider,” suggested the girl, looking at the Apache; “brave, but reckless.”
“It was worse than reckless,” said the man. “It was asinine. I shouldn’t have led you over the jump when I know how badly Senator jumps.”
“And you wouldn’t have, Custer”—she hesitated—“if——”
