Saturday's Cowboy

By R. E. Mitchell

Rusty Reynolds, an ex-B-grade western movie star, arrives in Tucson, Arizona, nearly broke and no prospects. Chuck Baxter, a ruthless land developer, hires Rusty at low wages to promote the Bar M Ranch, a remote desert subdivision. While Baxter schemes to relieve eastern retirees of their money, Rusty finds a way to relieve Baxter of some of his ill-gotten profits. When Baxter discovers that Rusty's revenge includes the stealing of his wife the plot turns deadly.

When Baxter, in a failed attempt on Rusty's life, accidentally kills one of Rusty's Friends, Rusty gets even by entering the race for the U.S. Senate against Baxter. Although running as a stalking horse, Rusty proves to be an adept politician.

Does Rusty get the girl? Does he win a seat in the U.S. Senate? Does he ride off into the sunset? Saturday's Cowboy is an irresistible page-turned replete with exciting subplots and a colorful supporting cast. If the plot of Saturday's Cowboy reminds you of a Tim Holt or Clint Eastwood western, the effect is intentional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469777528

R. E. Mitchell

R.E. Mitchell is a Civil War scholar who earned degrees in international relations and economics as well as a master of arts degree in history. He lives in western Kentucky near a nature preserve and close enough to Kentucky Lake to see an occasional eagle.

Book preview

Part I

Fools’ Paradise

Chapter One

Id probably be better off dead.

William Howard Rusty Reynolds, born in Amarillo, Texas, fifty-one years ago, was not going to kill himself. He loved life too much for that. But since leaving Atlanta in his car four days ago to return to Los Angeles, he had been obsessed with the thought: If I don’t get a break and get it soon, I’m going to starve to death.

Except maybe for his sometime movie sidekick, Freightline Jones, he couldn’t think of anybody who would care if he did. He didn’t blame them. He had been an unfaithful husband to Helga, his ex-wife, neglectful of his daughter, Teresa, contentious with his producers and directors, and had shown up on the set more than once with a hangover. Watch out for Reynolds, the word got around Hollywood, he’s trouble.

But Rusty could make a good case to anyone willing to listen that his movie career had not hit the skids until westerns—and not just his westerns—lost their audience. That more than his womanizing and drinking accounted for the fact that he had not made a movie in six years, he preferred to believe.

After leaving Hollywood, Rusty was forced to take a dozen different menial jobs—greeter in a Las Vegas casino, beer salesman, truck dispatcher, Remington Arms factory representative, wrestling referee, cold-canvas insulated window salesman—each paying less than the last until hitting rock-bottom as an announcer for a small touring rodeo. A week ago it had folded, leaving him unemployed again.

That was why he wondered if he might not be better off dead. He had $350 in his pocket, a Cadillac that needed a valve job, a daughter who would not speak to him, and not much else. He had lost everything from his Rolls Royce and Beverly Hills mansion to a portfolio of stocks and bonds. From being a millionaire, with his picture on the cover of movie magazines and a fan club as large as anybody’s, he was now three hundred and fifty bucks from being dead, flat-busted broke, and no prospects.

Rusty tilted his sunvisor against the harsh glare of the Arizona desert. On each side of I-10, creosote bushes created a false green against barren, tawny mountains. From the looks of things, Apaches might still be spread-eagling settlers over anthills.

The highway ran straight as an arrow for several miles and began a tortuous climb into bare-boned hills. He was entering Texas Canyon, a sign informed him. Winds buffeted the big car, and the engine pinged in the thin air, reminding him that he was only a mechanical failure away from disaster. Boulders with strange, wind-carved shapes loomed around him as the highway tilted upward into the mid-afternoon sun. That made a billboard at the top of the grade nonsensical. But there it was, a garish cartoon sun in cowboy garb and sunglasses, sipping on a frosted cocktail while suspended over a body of water looking to be the size of Lake Michigan:

BIENVENIDOS, AMIGOS! WELCOME TO DESERT LAKES COUNTRY WHERE THE GOOD LIFE BEGINS!—Another Earthly Paradise by Baxter Enterprises of Tucson, Arizona’s Largest Home Builder and Developer.

Rusty smiled for the first time in days. He had seen enough blue on yellow THE THING! WHAT IS IT? billboards for the past two hundred miles to know more roadside hype when he saw it. The lakes were probably nothing more than golf course water hazards, because, as any damned fool knew, there weren’t any natural lakes in the desert. And since the washes and rivers were dry for most of the year, he doubted much would be accomplished by damming them up. The whole idea of lakes in a howling desert struck him as ridiculous. Where would you get the water?

Baxter Enterprises, Rusty puzzled aloud. Hadn’t he met a man named Baxter from Tucson several years ago, maybe at a cocktail party on the sound stage at Old Pueblo, a permanent western movie set just west of Tucson? Maybe Baxter invested in motion pictures from time to time? He tried to conjure up a mental picture but couldn’t. It had been too many years ago.

But Rusty’s memories of Old Pueblo were vivid. He had shot several westerns there over the years, including The Cimarron Kid, the first of a number of Kid pictures. It had grossed nearly $8 million—a lot of money in those days, the late fifties, when movie tickets were a buck and popcorn a quarter. He had gone on to make bigger budget films—A Man Named Slade and Mountains of the Moon were his personal favorites—until his name had become a household word and mothers named their sons after him. But then his fortunes waned, going from three pictures a year to two to one, until he found himself standing in the unemployment line, dark memories he’d rather not recall.

Once through Texas Canyon, the highway began a long descent, ending at the outskirts of the small town of Benson, also looking down on its luck. Past the town the interstate angled sharply upward again. TUCSON 30 MILES, a sign read. Rusty had driven half that distance when he saw the first motel billboard, a new Sheraton with a heated indoor swimming pool. But he was looking for a more affordable Motel 6—well, not exactly affordable to him even at the nationally advertised rate of $20.95 for a single, but the best he could do in his circumstances.

After checking into the motel, Rusty was thinking, he would go to some posh bar for happy hour—they always had the best hors d’oeuvres—and if he was lucky somebody might pick up his drink tab, and if he was very lucky somebody might pay for his dinner. He was thinking, too, about the prospect of finding female company for the night when he spotted another Desert Lakes advertisement. It was identical to the first except that this one provided directions to the development, instructing him to take the next exit and follow the signs to paradise.

Saying to himself, That I’ve got to see, Rusty glanced down at his watch. It was 4:05. This being January, it would be dark in less than an hour. Disappointed, he had almost passed the exit when he suddenly remembered that he had not turned back his watch upon entering the Mountain Time Zone that morning. Hitting his brakes, he just managed to negotiate the off ramp.

Another Desert Lakes sign took Rusty northward toward a mountain range he remembered was the Catalina. To his right, eastward, was another range. He could see yet a third range to the west just beyond the skyline of downtown, the Tucson Mountains, which he had driven across many times on his way to and from Old Pueblo. Therefore, the city occupied a sort of bowl-shaped valley perhaps forty or fifty miles across. In every direction new housing subdivisions were under construction, indicating to him that Tucson, like most other Sunbelt cities, was booming.

Twenty minutes later, Rusty found himself at Desert Lakes. A quarter mile or so past the entrance the road forked, the blacktop continuing to the model homes, a gravel road to the construction office. Being a looker rather than a buyer, he decided to take the haul road. A few minutes later he came to a parking lot and pulled in among a score of pickup trucks. Getting out of his car, he saw a KEEP OUT! CONSTRUCTION AREA sign in red hung on a chain-link fence, but a gate was open.

A hundred paces or so past the gate, the haul road curved around a knoll. Rusty walked to the top, carefully avoiding the needles of the spindly cholla cactuses that grew thickly in the rocky soil. In the distance, yellow bulldozers crawled over the hills. Closer by, beneath the hills, a dragline swung its bucket into what reminded him of an open-pit copper mine, while a scoop-shovel loader dumped spoils into a hopper truck. The boom of another dragline pocked into the dusty sky from behind the next hill. The overall effect was that of a moonscape.

Hey you!

Rusty turned. A heavyset man with a drooping black mustache stood at the base of the knoll waving his arms like a semaphore.

Can’t you read? the man shouted into the wind.

Rusty scrambled down the slope. Sorry,he said.I guess I didn’t figure the sign meant me.

It sure as hell— The man broke off and pushed back his hard hat. After studying Rusty closely for a moment, he puzzled, Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?Before Rusty could reply,he continued, You might have told ’em at the construction office. We don’t want anybody getting hurt. OSHA’d come down on us like a ton o’ bricks. What are ‘ya doin’ here anyway?

I just wanted to see if there really were lakes. I never figured on Baxter diggin’ ’em.

They began strolling back toward the gate. The wind was still blowing, carrying on the growl of heavy equipment and a smell of diesel fumes. The man cut his eyes to Rusty. I’ve seen you somewhere before. I never forget a face.

Rusty said, I used to be in the movies.

Yeah, the man exclaimed. You’re…? It’s on the tip of my tongue.

Rusty Reynolds, Rusty said.

The man stopped abruptly. Sure…sure, he said with shakes of his finger. Well I’ll be damned.I seen some of your movies on TV.One was on no more’n a month ago. An’ what’s your sidekick’s name?

Freightline Jones, Rusty said.

Yeah, the man said, that horse of yours—musta cost plenty, huh?

Plenty, Rusty agreed.

They continued toward the gate. I get it now, the man said with a self-congratulating smile. You’re gonna work for Baxter at the Bar M.

The Bar M? Rusty puzzled to himself. It sounded like a dude ranch. He almost said no, when curiosity prompted him to ask, What makes you think so?

The man laughed knowingly. Sometimes Baxter comes by. Sometimes I hear him talking about the Bar M. He’s been looking for a western movie star, so I jus’ put two and two together.

They had reached the gate. The wind died down and black puffs of diesel smoke hung in the air. Rusty’s mind was racing, wondering if he might not have stumbled onto something promising. I gotta go, Rusty drawled, but I sure wish I had time to talk to ya longer. You seem to know more about the Bar M than I do, me just havin’ got into town. Fact is, I’m not even sure what Baxter’s tryin’ to sell out there.

With another knowing laugh, the man said, It’s one of them land deals. He shook Rusty’s hand. You’re the first movie star I ever met. Been a real pleasure.

Same here, Rusty said, walking toward his car.

Rusty had crossed Speedway Boulevard on his way to Desert Lakes. Extending from the Rincon Mountains in the east more or less all the way to Old Pueblo, it was one of the longest streets in America. It was also, according to an article in Life magazine, one of the country’s ugliest. He doubted it. There were far uglier streets in any Rustbelt city. But his mind was not on the unsightly Putt ‘n’ Putt he passed, featuring a purple near life-size Tyrannosaurus with glowing pinkish eyes, or the aged strip shopping centers, or the juke joints and porno shops. He was absorbed with the question: Has Baxter already cast the part of the Bar M cowboy?

Something whispered into Rusty’s ear that this was the day his rotten luck changed. He would be perfect for the role. Not just any ol’ cowboy huckster would do. Not some singing cowpoke-type with his guitar where his Winchester ought to be. Not an Autry or a Rogers who dressed in funny clothes, dabbed their hair with Brylcream, and splashed their smooth faces with Aqua Velva. No, Rusty was thinking, Baxter needed more of a he-man type like a Wayne or a Mitchum—or himself.

True, it was a long shot. But he had hit a few of those in the good ol’ days at Santa Anita, plus his fair share of daily doubles and exactas as well. In any case, it would only cost him a quarter to place his bet, and with that in mind he pulled into the self-service bay of a Gulf station. After filling his tank, he went to a pay phone, looked up the number of Baxter Enterprises in a greasy book, deposited a coin and dialed. One ring. Two rings. The switchboard operator answered on the third ring and transferred him to Baxter’s secretary.

This is Rusty Reynolds. I’d like to speak to Mr. Baxter.

Certainly, Mr. Reynolds, the secretary replied pleasantly. May I tell him the nature of your business?

It’s about the Bar M, he said.

Rusty’s heart pounded. Would Baxter remember him?

Hello, Rusty. Good to hear from you. So you’ve heard about the Bar M?

Yes, Rusty replied. Word gets around. Since I’m in town, I thought I’d give you a call. Have you found anybody yet? This was the moment of truth.

As a matter of fact I have, Baxter said. —But, Baxter added, we haven’t signed anyone at this point in time. Why don’t we have lunch together tomorrow—that is, if you’re staying over.

I hadn’t planned to, but I could, Rusty said.

Fine, Garvus responded. Oneish then at the Old Pueblo Club. It’s downtown on Alameda. Easy to find."

I’ll be there, Rusty promised and hung up the phone with a long sigh of relief. It was possible that Baxter had another western star on his hook, but he doubted it. For the first time in years he felt optimistic about his future.

Chapter Two

Rusty had his hair trimmed and rented a new Western costume including hat and boots. There was a spring in his step as he walked down the street to where a small brass plaque on a furred block wall modestly identified the Old Pueblo Club. He proceeded through a wrought iron filigree gate and entered an adobe building that opened up inside like a piazza. There were Moorish arches, potted ornamental fig trees, flowering azaleas in gaily painted pots, oil-stained tile floors, and fountains. White ceiling fans trimmed in gold lazily stirred the pleasantly cool air. Waiters in apricot-colored jackets moved leisurely among the tables.

There was not another Stetson or pair of boots in the place, Rusty noticed. Everybody was dressed in business suits. They were conversing in low, confidential voices as though talking about money—lots of it, he imagined. The maitre d’ approached and looked him over calculatingly, as if trying to estimate his net worth.

Yes? the maitre d’ wondered.

Mr. Baxter is expecting me, Rusty said.

Ah, but of course, the maitre d’ said, instantly deferential. Baxter never lunched with anybody in his private dining room unless they were VIPs. This way, sir.

Rusty followed the maitre d’ across the room to a rosewood door marked PRIVATE in brass letters large enough to mean it. The maitre d’ knocked softly and swung open the big door. Rusty stepped inside onto a thick Kirman Oriental carpet that felt good under his boots. The door closed behind him. A celestry window admitted a shaft of sunlight that fell on Baxter, revealing him looking as smooth and polished as the shiny table he sat behind.

Garvus Mendez Baxter, shrewd and tough and the richest man in Arizona, rose, shook Rusty’s hand and indicated the chair opposite him. At the top of the feeding chain, devouring men who wanted or needed something from him, he had a low opinion of actors and of entertainers generally. They tended to be an overpaid, pampered lot, with an exaggerated sense of self-importance. They had their uses, of course, in spicing up a party and selling over-priced real estate to the general public. And while a star might occasionally be worth seven figures for a picture, it was the people behind the scenes who were the most important.

Garvus preferred to hire a cowboy actor other than Rusty. But those at the top of his list (such as Robert Mitchum and Clint Eastwood) were not available at any price. Others (such as John Wayne and Alan Ladd) were dead, leaving an odd assortment of mostly over-the-hill yodelers and other B-grade types. That narrowed the field down to Rusty and two more has-beens who were unwilling to spend any significant time at the ranch.

And so that left only Rusty. But what he had learned about Rusty from a few well-placed phone calls to Hollywood made him leery. He was not concerned about the cowboy’s fall from stardom. Far from it. After all, that would only make him cheaper to hire. But for a star of Rusty’s magnitude to end up announcing for a two-bit rodeo suggested a serious defect of character.

I took the liberty of ordering for you, Garvus said as they took their seats. We call it prawn and prairie—shrimp and steak. The chef makes an excellent garlic sauce for the prawns.

Fine, Rusty replied, glancing around the room, enjoying all the luxury: checking original paintings in gold frames hanging on expensively papered walls, chairs covered with rich Moroccan leather, antique furniture that emitted a musty smell. His eyes focused finally on an oil portrait of a man with a strong, squarish face and shrewd eyes wrinkled at each corner.

Garvus’ eyes followed Rusty’s. My father, he said, declining to elaborate.

He took after the Mendez side of his family—a fact he was sure people talked about behind his back, which was why he avoided the sun as much as possible, especially after the Old Man, as everybody called his father, began to call him Mex. Even though the Old Man had been dead for twenty years, people out in town seemed to think that he still hovered around running Baxter Enterprises. But, the Old Man, cunning fox that he had been, had never done a deal as slick as the Bar M.

Let me hear you say, ‘Hello, folks, I’m Rusty Reynolds. Welcome to the famous Bar M Ranch.’

Rusty obeyed, adding, Partners.

Garvus approved with a faint nod. Rusty fit the image he wanted for the ranch. He could picture him riding up to the ranch house, dismounting, six-shooter on his hip, and saying that line into the camera. They would dress him in shrink-to-fit jeans and surround him with admiring, well-endowed ladies in cowgirl costumes.

A Mexican waiter entered with their dinners. While he was being served, Rusty commented, I guess you want me to do a commercial.

Uh-huh, plus billboards, radio spots, and maybe a few public appearances in the Chicago area, my target market. When the Bar M opens for business next fall, I’d like you there once a day. You’ll have a limousine, chauffeur, everything, just as though you’re still big box office. You can live in town, but you’ll have a house down at the ranch.

Rusty stuffed a dripping prawn into his mouth and said around it, Sounds like a full-time job.

Garvus shrugged. No more than two or three hours a day after the commercial’s finished.

So how much are you willing to pay for a cowboy in residence? Rusty wondered.

Garvus said, cutting into his steak, Five hundred a week.

You gotta be kiddin’, Rusty said. I used to make more than that when I first broke into films.

Yes, you made a lot of money. But you blew it on booze and women and you’ve been on the skids ever since. The truth is, I’m not sure you’re worth five hundred.

Rusty could feel his face getting hot. You and your offer insult me.

Garvus looked up from his lunch and pushed his chair back from the table. How much are you making now? he asked.

Rusty swallowed back the heavy taste of the garlic sauce. Baxter had done his homework. After moistening his mouth with a sip of vin rosé and wishing it was bourbon, he said, It’s worth at least ten grand for the commercial and a grand a week for the rest.

Garvus slowly shook his head. Like I said, I’m not sure you’re worth even five hundred. I’m taking a big chance. I wouldn’t be so worried if I was selling sticks and bricks at the Bar M. Houses tend to sell themselves. But I’m selling a fantasy down there. As any shit-kicker in the business will tell you, promotions are the key to success. You mess up and it will cost me a ton of money.

Rusty added, swiftly, And if I do my job, you’ll make a fortune.

Garvus said, You forget that I’m putting up all the money and taking all the risks.

Garvus watched little balls of sweat pop out on Rusty’s forehead. It was true that he was taking a chance on the cowboy. He didn’t trust anyone who drank or couldn’t hold on to their money. Rusty was simply reaping what he had sown. Garvus went on in a take-it-or-leave-it voice, I’m waiting for an answer.

Rusty squirmed in his chair. He had done business with Garvus’ type in Hollywood—sharks in expensive suits with manicured fingernails, who solicited kickbacks from investment houses and skimmed fifty cents off every dollar of stars’ money that touched their sticky fingers. They could lie without blinking an eye, sell out a friend to the highest bidder, work every crooked angle in the book, and all that with no more conscience than a timber wolf.

What about fringe benefits? Rusty wondered.

You’re an independent contractor, Garvus replied.

Rusty said nothing. It was the answer he had expected. Such men never paid a nickel more than they had to. To them it was a dog-eatdog, nice-guys-finish-last world.

Garvus played his last card. He reached into the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers suit and removed an envelope. He tossed it on the table in front of Rusty and said, In there is a thousand dollar advance. We start shooting in a month. Deal?

Rusty picked up the envelope, tore it open, and riffed through ten one hundred-dollar bills. It was a bad deal but he had no choice.

Garvus flashed a smile. Cheer up, Rusty. Try to look on the bright side. You’re going to be a star again. The commercials will be first rate. We’ll show you having the time of your life down on the Bar M. I’ll have a contract drawn up. I agree to pay you five hundred a week for a year, with an option for another year and a cost of living increase in pay. And tell you what. You can stay in my hotel until you find a place of your own.

You’re a generous man, Rusty mocked.

Chapter Three

It was later that afternoon, southeast of Tucson. Garvus pulled his gray Mercedes off the road and stopped on the crest of a hill. Clustered below around a crossroads were several buildings—bar, restaurant, bank, feed store—all disguised to give the appearance of a Western town. Beyond the town, range land extended indefinitely, flanked by snowcapped mountains to the east, a line of low hills to the west, and beyond the hills more snowcapped mountains. The air was cold and thin and crystal clear.

You can see all the way to Mexico from here, Garvus said.

Good country, Rusty said.

Garvus recalled with a laugh, "When my father came to Arizona, people back east were still calling this The Land That God Forgot.They claimed that it was fit for nothing but gunfighters, Indians, and fools. They said it reminded them of hell. Tucson was just a dusty little outpost. Until after World War Two you could