Luck took a long breath and flung his cigar out over the platform rail.  The dried little man?  Why, just as he stood he was a type!  He was the Old Man who owned this herd that should trail north and on through scene after scene of the picture!  No make-up needed there to stamp the sense of reality upon the screen.  Luck looked with the eye of his imagination and saw the dried little man climbing, with a stiffness that could not hide his accustomedness, into the saddle.  He saw him ride out with his men, scattering his riders for the round-up; the old cowman making sharper the contrast of the younger men, fixing indelibly upon the consciousness of those who watched that this same dried little man had grown old in the saddle; fixing indelibly the fact that not in a day did the free ranging of cattle grow to be one of the nation’s great industries.

Of a sudden Luck got up and stood swaying easily to the motion of the car while he took a long, last look at the moon-bathed plain where had been born his great, beautiful picture.  He stretched his arms as does one who has slept heavily, and went inside and down to the beginning of the narrow aisle where were kept telegraph forms in their wooden-barred niches in the wall.  He went into the smoking compartment and wrote, with a sureness that knew no crossed-out words, a night letter to the dried little man who had sat on the baggage truck and talked of the range.  And this is what went speeding back presently to the dried little man who slept in a cabin near the track and dreamed, perhaps, of following the big herds: 

Baggage man,
Sioux, N.D.

Report at once to me at Dry Lake.  Can offer you good position Acme Film Company, good salary working in big Western picture.  Small part, some riding among real boys who know range life.  Want you bad as type of cowman owning cattle in picture.  Salary and expenses begin when you show up.  For references see Indian Agent.

Luck Lindsay,
Dry Lake, Mont.

If you count, you will see that he ran eight words over the limit of the flat rate on night letters, but he would have over-run the limit by eighty words just as quickly if he had wanted to say so much.  That was Luck’s way.  Be it a telegram, instructions to his company, or a quarrel with some one who crossed him, Luck said what he wanted to say—­and paid the price without blinking.

I don’t know what the dried little man thought when the operator handed him that message the next morning; but I can tell you in a few words what he did:  He arrived in Dry Lake just two trains behind Luck.

Luck did not sleep that night.  He lay in his berth with the shade pushed up as high as it would go, and stared out at the tamed plain, and perfected the details of his Big Picture.  Into the spell of the range he wove a story of human love and human hate and danger and trouble.  So it must be, to carry his message to the world who would look and marvel at what he would show them in the drama of silence.  He had not named his picture yet.  The name would come in its own good time, just as the picture had come when the time for its making was ripe.