“Sure it’s right!” Luck’s sympathy was absolutely sincere.  “How well I know it!  Barbed wire scraped me outa the saddle in Wyoming—­barbed wire and sheep.  All there is left for a fellow is to forget it and start a barber shop or a cigar stand, or else make pictures of the old days, the way I’ve been doing.  You can get a little fun out of making pictures of what used to be your everyday life.  You can step up on a horse and go whoopin’ over the hills and kinda forget it ain’t true.”  A wistfulness was in Luck’s tone.  “You pick out the big minutes from the old days—­that had a whole lot of dust and sun and thirst and hunger in between, when all’s said—­you pick out the big minutes, and you bring them to life again, and sort of push them up close together and leave out most of the hardships.  That’s why so many of the old boys drift into pictures, I reckon.  They try to forget themselves in the big minutes.”

The two who rode with him were silent for a space.  Then the Native Son spoke drily:  “About the biggest minutes we get now come about meal times.”

“Oh, we can get down in the breaks on round-up time and kinda forget the world’s fenced clear ’way round it with barb-wire,” Andy bettered the statement.  “But round-up gets shorter every year.”

“My next picture,” Luck observed artfully and yet with a genuine desire to unbosom himself a little to these two who would understand, “my next picture is going to be different.  It’s going to have a crackajack story in it, of course, but it will have something more than a story.  I’m going to start it off with a trail herd coming up from Texas.  You know—­like it was when we were kids.  I’m going to show those cattle trailing along tired—­and footsore, some of them—­and a drag strung out behind for a mile.  I’m going to show the punchers tired and hungry, and riding half asleep in the saddle.  And with that for a starter, I’m going to show the real range; the real range—­get that, boys?  I’m going to cut clean away from regulation moving-picture West; clear out away from posses chasing outlaws all over a ten-acre location.  I’m going to find me a real old cow-ranch; or if I can’t find one, by thunder I’m going to make me one.  I’m sick of piling into a machine and driving out into Griffith Park and hunting a location for shooting scrapes to take place in.  I know a place where I could produce stuff that would make people talk about it for a month after.  Maybe the buildings would need some doctoring, but there’s sure some round-pole corrals that would make your mouth water.”

“We used to have some,” sighed Andy, “at the Flying U. But they kinda went to pieces, and Chip’s been replacing them with plank.  By gracious, you don’t see many round-pole corrals any more, come to think of it.  There’s remains, scattered around over the country.”