That might be stretching the probabilities just a shade, but Luck felt that the effects he wanted to get justified the slight license he had used in his plot.  The effects were there, in generous measure.  He turned the crank on the whole of their descent and got them riding up into the foreground pinched with cold, miserable as men may be.  They did not look at him—­they dared not until he had given the word that the scene was ended.

“Ride on past, down into that gully where the cattle went,” he directed them sharply.  “I’ll holler when you’re outa sight.  You can turn around and come back then; the scene ends where your hat-crowns bob outa sight.  And listen!  You’re liable to lose your cattle if you don’t spur up a little, so try and get a little speed into them cayuses of yours!”

Obediently Andy’s quirt rose and descended on the flank of his horse.  It started, broke into a shuffling trot, and slowed again to a walk.  There was no speed to be gotten out of those cayuses,—­which was what Luck meant to show on the screen; for this, you must know, was the painting of one grim phase of the range-man’s life.  The Native Son spurred his horse and got a lunge or two that settled presently to the same plodding walk.  Luck pammed them out of sight, bethought him of the rest of the boys, and commanded Annie-Many-Ponies to call them in.

They came, half frozen, half starved, and so tired they did not know which discomfort irked them most.  They found Luck; his nose purple with cold marking the footage on his working script with numbed fingers.  He barely glanced at them, and turned away to tell Bill Holmes to take the camera on down the draw to where that huddle of rocks stood up on the hillside.  Andy and Miguel came back and met the others halfway.

“Say, boss, when do we eat?” Big Medicine inquired anxiously.  “By cripes, I’m holler plumb down to my toes,—­and them’s froze stiff.”

“Eat?  We eat when we get these storm scenes taken,” Luck told him heartlessly.  “I’m afraid it’ll clear up.”

“Afraid it’ll clear up!” Pink burrowed his chin deeper into his breath-frosted collar and shivered.

“Oh, quit kicking,” the Native Son advised ironically.  “We’re only living some of Luck’s big minutes he used to tell about.”

Luck looked around at them and grinned a little.  “Part of the business, boys,” he said.  “Think of the picture stuff there is in this storm!”

“Why, sure!” Weary responded with exaggerated cheerfulness.  “I’ve been freezing artistically ever since daylight.  Darn me for leaving my old sourdough coat at home when I hit for the land of orange blossoms and singing birds and sunshine.”

“Aw, gwan!  I never was warm a minute in Los Angeles except when I got hot at the Acme.  Montana never seen the day it was as cold as here.”

“Come on, boys, let’s get these dissolve scenes of cattle perishing in a blizzard.  After that—­hey, Annie!  You come, make plenty fire, plenty coffee.  I show you location.”