Chapter 2 Chapter 1 Spirits in the making
In the wide underground hall, the sound of snorting and the sound of horseshoes echoed loudly in the choking smelly air mass.In the corner of the hall, the fireplace made of solid concrete and smelted iron shoes is burning redly, and sparks are flying.A dwarf was busy at the fire.This person is half naked, with dark skin, bulging muscles, and a funny figure, like a little brother of Thor.As he tapped rhythmically, the biceps in his arms twitched and the workpiece on the anvil bent and deformed obediently.This is a large stone room with a low roof and rough walls.In the nearby stable, Pigasus was presumably chewing his fodder loudly—the stallion with the curvaceous neck, the handsome animal still as fresh as the day it was born.
The mares waiting for it from far and near neigh secretly, or mournfully, or ridicule each other, competing to invite it to be favored.From time to time, it moved its hooves gracefully on the ground covered with hay, and its bright purple eyes shone with the arrogance of its noble Arabian ancestors.
Horses, dozens of horses, horses full of vision; docile, cunning, wild; saddled and obedient and wild and unruly.The stench of horse manure, the horse's snort, and the stench of sweat mixed in the hot air, forming a layer of egg white mist that shrouded the dim space.The harness hanging outside the stables was clean and shiny; the oiled leathers, the brass fittings glistened; the brown saddles were satin-like; the platinum-gold stirrups shone; shiny.The lasso on the pillar is orderly, the blanket from India is very moody...
The majesty of the stable owner is comparable to that of a king.The gorgeous Stetson broad-brimmed felt hat is his crown, the long-barreled Cotter automatic pistol is his scepter, and the smoky wilderness of the American West is his vast territory.
His Praetorians were a band of bow-legged knights who, like the sign of Sagittarius, never left their horses, their hooves clattering.This group of people is good at rolling cigarettes with dexterity, talking in procrastinated, soft and amusing tones, scanning the stars tenderly with brown eyes surrounded by fine wrinkles, and reaping the peace and tranquility from the boundless sky.As for his palace—it was a great ranch stretching thousands of miles away.
However, the owner of the stable, the king with the strange crown, the unique scepter, and the magical guard, did not build his imperial city on the windswept countryside.Not in Texas, Arizona, or New Mexico, nor in any of the legendary places befitting a king of his caliber.His mansion lay beneath the most secular layers of structure in America; there were no majestic alpine canyons or secluded green spaces, let alone the vast expanse of wilderness.Surrounded by skyscrapers and subway networks, surrounded by the atmosphere of singing, dancing and feasting, there are theaters, billboards, neon lights, slums, clubs, telecommunication towers, cultural forums, and media tabloids everywhere.All this is too far from the comfortable existence in a hut in the English countryside or in the green rice fields of Japan.A stone's throw away sits the absurd Broadway, and here and there the humorless, inexplicable hilarity of New York City.Thirty feet above, fifty feet east, and fifty feet west of the ceiling of this cellar was the domain of the roaring metropolis.The buildings are like giants, with thousands of cars passing by every minute in the gaps between them.The Oval is arguably the largest and newest temple of sports in New York...
As for the horses, they are visitors from the vast wild world, no matter they come from the east or the west, they are all locked together in the pen like rabbits, only neighing in a low voice of grievance.
In England, such a thing is unique.Enlightenment has long been rooted in their tepid minds, and there is no need to go back to the sages' precepts that have long since disappeared.Holy springs flow back only in the United States.A long time ago, the strong men in the far west would meet occasionally, beaming like a festival, to compete in their horse training and riding skills.It can be called the carnival of the west, which only belongs to the grand ceremony of the west.Today, this tradition has been uprooted from the alkaline soil of the West, and horses, equestrianism, cowboys and everything have been transplanted to the hard ground of the East.That archetypal title—rodeo—was retained, and its purpose—serving pure entertainment—discredited it.Spectators lined up to buy tickets to enter the arena through the passageway surrounded by iron bars, swarming at the lure set up by the discerning developers.
This is really a huge fruit of cultural pioneering, a horticultural legend - the latest demonstration of cultural transplantation across the East and West - the cowboy riding troupe under the command of Crazy Bill Grant!
At this moment, beside the fence of the noble horse, there were two people standing quietly.One of them was short and grotesquely described, with a thick, well-developed right arm and a left arm hanging in a knotted sleeve between the shoulder and the elbow.
His cheeks were thin and his complexion was gloomy, and it was hard to tell whether this gloom was the result of the scorching sun or the traces of his tormented nature.Somewhat similar to that horse, there was a kind of inherent domineering hidden in this person's aura, and his thin lips carried a look of contempt.Here is the quick, unstoppable character—“One-Armed Woody”—a queer appellation, a most absurd diagnosis of nobility!It is widely known that this title represents the top riding technician in the cavalry troupe; that is to say, Woody, the best entertainer under Crazy Bill Grant, has amber eyes that radiate fear The cold light, strong and powerful muscles and bones show the immortality of the myth.
Another character is very different, but also has extraordinary qualities.This is a tall and burly equestrian, standing casually, like an old tree that has been blown by the wind of a barren mountain, giving people an old and eternal feeling like the peaks of Sierra Nevada; white hair sets off a dark brown With a bright face, bright eyes and bright teeth, his eyes are like torches, and Gu Panjian looks steady after all the vicissitudes of life.There was nothing striking about his face, but when combined with his burly and sturdy body, he looked like a hero in an epic, like a statue of the God of War that passed through the dark fog of time and appeared in the world.The thick dark brown eyelids always cover the wide eyes lazily, leaving only a long narrow slit, from which sharp eyes shoot out continuously.This hero from another world, however, is dressed in the clothes popular in the east, and looks a bit nondescript——Old Buck Horne!A stunner created by the brutal wasteland and romantic Hollywood.
Yes, Hollywood, the Moro god who devours anything that comes to his lips; a temple that fascinates contemporary American teenagers as the Cowboy, Buffalo Billy, and other Western legends of yesteryear were to the faded youngsters of an earlier generation .And in this sanctuary, he, Buck Horne, brought the history of the West to life.It's not the west where Fords, tractors, and gas pumps are running everywhere, but the era of heavy six-shot revolvers in the 1970s, dominated by James Boyce and Kit Horn, A West of horse thieves, Indian drunks, cattle dealers, taverns, parquet floors, violent sheriffs and gunfire.With the help of cameras and projection equipment, Buck Horne completed the miracle of recreating that glorious history, and as a character who really came out of the dust of the past, he brought everything to the screen vividly, which is also extremely romantic.Not one of the passionate youths who are still alive today grew up trembling in the excitement of Buck Horn waving a lasso, firing a gun, and galloping his horse on the silver screen.Thousands of copies were sent across the country, citizens of different races and nations sharing the shock of the same myth.
Got two colors: one-armed Woody, old Buck Horn.
The wheels remained stationary.
One-armed Woody shifted his crooked legs and swished a thin, knife-like face closer to Horne's dun face, staring at him within an inch of him.
"Buck, you disgusting old fellow, you should go back to the studio and hang out with those dandies," he said in a drawl.
Buck Horn said nothing.
"Poor old Buck," Woody said, waving the little half of his stumped arm, "it's hard to walk!"
Buck asked darkly, "What do you mean?"
The one-armed man blinked his bright eyes, and touched the copper head of his belt with his right hand: "You old bastard, what are you doing here!"
A horse snorted.Neither of them looked back.The tall old man whispered a few words to himself.Woody's facial features were twisted into a ball, his mouth was twisted mockingly, and his muscular right arm was raised.Old Buck leaned over to dodge...
"Buck!"
Hearing the sound, the two immediately stood up straight, like marionettes who were suddenly pulled up, and turned their heads together in unison.Woody's raised arm also quietly dropped.
Kit Horne stood in the stable doorway, looking back and forth between them—Old Buck's precious daughter!An orphan, not of Horn's dark blood, but fed by his wife's abundant milk and raised by him alone.The poor wife died long ago, but fortunately Kit was always by her side.
The girl was tall and tall, as tall as old Buck.With sun-dyed reddish-brown skin and a strong outline like a stubborn mare; the eyes are gray-blue, and the small nose flutters slightly; the attire is good-the New York-style dress is fashionable and lively The beanies are also the latest addition to Fifth Avenue.
"Buck, aren't you impatient, you actually bickered with Woody!"
Woody frowned, forced a smile on his face, poked the brim of his cowboy hat with his fingertips, frowned again, muttered something silently, and walked comically with his bowed legs. Walked away, bypassed the blacksmith who was busy at work, and disappeared.
"He says I'm old!" old Buck Horne complained aggrievedly.
She pulled his big bronze hand into hers: "Don't take it to heart, Buck."
"Damn thing! Kit, isn't he going to tell me..."
"Never mind him, Buck."
He suddenly smiled and put his arms around her waist.
Kit Horn is as important to the younger generation as her famous adoptive father was a dozen years ago.Growing up on a vast pasture, chasing horses, playing with tough cowboys all day long, holding a single-edged hunting knife like a modern girl holding a tooth correction ring, running wild in the boundless world, and at the same time having a dramatic personality The adoptive father who became famous on the screen - so Hollywood distribution agents gathered around her one after another, trying to use her to create a more exciting myth.Barker's producers made their own claims.Buck was getting older and older.The masculinity shown by Kit far outweighs her femininity as a woman, but it is much more charming than a pure witch-type character.No doubt she could have a new orgasm in place of her adoptive father.That was nine years ago.At that time Kit was sixteen years old, a strong, tall, wild, naughty girl... The children were crazy about her.She is good at riding and archery, has a lot of unique skills, and has a lot of vulgar words and wit in her small mouth; moreover, there is always a male hero in the story, and she also plays the erotic scenes of kissing and cuddling like fire and tea by the way.So her name is Kit Horn, everyone knows it - a great cowboy actress!A blockbuster hit at the box office!
Old Buck naturally quietly faded out from the screen.
They walked out of the stables, down a ramp, through narrow concrete corridors, and into a long hall lined with dressing rooms.A star-shaped ornament of metal hangs above one of the small doors.Buck kicked the door open.
"What a goddamn star!" he roared. "Come in, Kit, come in, and close the door... I'll rip that horse thief's mouth out sooner or later! Sit down, and I'll tell you."
Like an angry child, he threw himself heavily on the sofa, his brows were furrowed, and his big brown hands kept busy touching and loosening.Kit stroked his pale hair affectionately and smiled; but deep in her gray-blue eyes was a certain concern.
"My God!" she said softly, "it's not like you, Buck, to be so narrow-minded. You gotta keep your temper. Isn't it... don't get so angry, you Old bobcat! . . . it's not good for you to be so excited."
"Don't you play dumb with me, Kit."
"Are you sure..."
"Shut up, Kit! There's nothing wrong with me."
"Didn't the team doctor show you, old stubborn?"
"I saw it today and said I'm fine."
She took out a match from his waistcoat pocket, lit it expertly on the back of the chair, and held it up in front of his rolled cigarette: "You are sixty-five years old, Buck."
He squinted at her through the cloud of smoke and smiled. "You mean I'm done. Kit, even though I haven't been in a movie for three years..."
"Nine years," Kit said mildly.
"Three years," Barker contended, "I told the whole nation to review history. Is that what I did? Well, I'm as good now as I was then. Touch the tendon!" On her right arm, she obediently patted the raised bicep.Really hard as a rock.
"What's the matter, Kit? It's so skinny, pinch it! Riding horses, shooting guns, doing tricks, it's nothing-you know I've been active for the past ten years or so. In this arena, what's the "Crazy Big Bill"? That trick is a piece of cake for me. Bill just lifts my airs and tells those bastard producers to come back to me and sign a few decent ones. big contract..."
She kissed him on the forehead. "Come on, Buck. You just have to... be careful, okay?"
When she got to the door and she turned her head, Buck had put his long legs up on the dressing table.Through the faint smoke, one can see from the opposite mirror that he is still frowning thoughtfully.
Kit sighed like a mature woman, and closed the door.Then she straightened her tall body, took strides like a man's, and walked across the corridor to the other side of the ramp.
bang bang!Gunshots were heard faintly in the distance.Her face suddenly regained a happy life, and she quickened her pace and walked in the direction of the gunshots.People passed her by—old acquaintances, boys in cowboy hats and leather leggings, girls in leather jackets and denim skirts.The air is filled with the smell of leather, people's soft chatting and laughing, and the fragrance of homemade cigarettes...
"Curley! Hey, what a game."
She was standing in the doorway of the armory.There were many guns and implements on stacked shelves in the warehouse—Winchesters, blued revolvers, training targets, and the like.Kit looked in, a dreamy smile on his face.Curley, Crazy Bill Grant's young boy, was strong and flexible in a pair of dirt-stained corduroy trousers, broad shoulders and narrow waist.Curley put down the smoking revolver, turned his head, and shouted happily: "Huh."
"Jitter, you old gun fan! It makes me so happy to see you!"
Kit smiled more obsessively.Curley's contempt for the glitz and pretensions of the metropolis and Broadway fit in well with Kit.Moreover, Kit secretly verified it thousands of times, confirming that Curley is still interesting.Curly threw himself on her face and grabbed her by both hands.Grinning, smiling face to face at her.Kit wondered if this new surrounding—a city of all its magical lures and beautiful traps—would end up making the boy vulgar too.He doesn't have the qualities of a romantic hero, and he's not generally a handsome man who can stand scrutiny.The bridge of the nose is a bit too crooked for traditional aesthetics; however, the shiny curly brown hair, which he always messes up, is interesting; Be straightforward and honest.
"Look at it," he cried, and swished back again.
She looked at him silently, smiling faintly.
He put his right foot on the pedal of an odd little contraption—it must have been a throwing device; A few large, bright barrels of ammunition snapped shut; he put a few small glass balls into the magazine slot of the dropper, and stood up straight.Then he stepped on the pedal suddenly, and several glass balls flew into the air.He watched them fly further and further in the air.At the moment when those small balls almost disappeared, he lifted his wrist gracefully and smoothly, lightly pulled the trigger casually, and shot down several glass balls that turned into small dots in one fell swoop.
Kit was overjoyed and clapped happily.Curley holstered the gun with a snap, took off his sombrero, and bowed to Kit.
"Hey, huh? Every time I play this little trick I think of Buffalo Bill. My dad keeps telling me about him. The guy played glass balls too, he was at the 'Wild West Show' Acting. But he's a rogue, and he's using lead bullets for bears, so he hits every time...Another bastard who's blown away!"
"Your skill can catch up with Buck anyway." Kit said with a smile.
He took her hand again, looking eagerly into her eyes, "Jit darling..."
"Speaking of Buck," she said, blushing a little, and changing the subject hesitantly, "poor Buck, I'm worried about him."
He gently let go of her hand: "Just the old bull?" He couldn't help laughing, "He'll be fine, Kit. Those old guys are made of rawhide and steel. You Look at my dad, if you dare to tell him how different he is from Crazy Bill back then, then..."
"They're not the same after all, Curley."
"'It's not what it used to be, after all,'" Curley imitated her tone gently. "Anyway, don't worry, Kit. I just saw him rehearse and go through the whole thing."
"Has there been a mistake?"
"Not at all. You can't tell the old bastard's over sixty! He rides like an Indian red. He's got to show again tonight, Kit. And everybody's--"
"I don't care what the public thinks," she whispered. "Did he have a problem with Woody?"
Curley was stunned for a moment: "With Woody? Where did it come from..."
The sound of light footsteps came from behind, and the two turned their heads.A woman approached the door of the armory and gave them a ambiguous smile.
Without the deerskin attire that people in the circle are familiar with, the woman was dressed in silk and satin, decorated with animal hair, exuding a pungent perfume smell.The beauty with a pair of luminous cat eyes, skin as smooth as snow, and curvaceous body is named Mara Gay.
The popular lover in Hollywood, the main star of high-yield pornographic movies, has a record of divorce up to three times... All these are the brilliance that millions of ordinary women admire and envy, and they are also the sweet and painful pain of millions of men. Hopeless dreams.
Mara Gay rules a kingdom without geographical boundaries, her subjects are her lowly slaves, and she herself is the rosy flesh embodiment of a forbidden dream.However, many people are discouraged by her lowliness that she wants to hide.Is this the result of people finally seeing clearly after constantly adjusting the focal length?
Right now, she's enjoying some free time between film shoots in the East.A tiresome, insatiable woman with an insatiable appetite for myths and legends and the allurements of Cabelian Yanatis.She was in a deep hunger for a muscular, irresistible man all over her body.Right now stood three men behind her: well-dressed, clean-shaven, and one of them was holding a barking Pomeranian puppy.
Everyone was speechless for a moment, and Mara Gay walked down the flagstone steps, staring at Curley obsessively, sizing up his frame, his narrow hips, broad shoulders, curly curly hair and his dusty buttocks. clothes.Kit's face tensed up, her smile disappeared, and she stepped back alertly and silently to stand still.
"Oh—it's Marla, hello," said Curley with a forced smile, "ah—Jitter, do you know this Marla? Marla Gay? Made her name out of Hollywood too. Ho, ho!"
Maoyan stared blankly at the pair of gray-blue eyes opposite him.
"Yeah, I know Miss Guy," Kit said steadily. "We've run into each other a few times in Hollywood. But I didn't know you knew Miss Guy, Curley. So I should go."
She walked out of the armory calmly.
There was an unbearable silence.Behind the female actress, the three big men in suits and leather shoes still stood there silently, rolling their eyes from time to time.The little Pomeranian barked excitedly when his city-accustomed nose picked up the smell of livestock from the stables.
"Look at that crazy look," said Mara Gay, "how flattering I am! You know me, girl, but you know a little bit of circus." She shook her well-groomed head and looked Curley smiled obsequiously. "Curley, my darling, you're gorgeous! Where did you get such curls like a bird's nest?"
Curley frowned, keeping his eyes on the direction Kit was going out.Suddenly Marla's words echoed in his head, "For God's sake, Marla," he murmured, "don't talk so badly, okay?" It's messed up; he's been working on them over the years, trying to straighten them out, but in vain the strands are still curled stubbornly and briskly.
The actress rubbed his arms tenderly, and opened her eyes pretending to be naive: "It's really scary here! So many terrible guns and ammunition... Do you know how to shoot these guns, Curley dear?"
He deftly dodges the snuggle of her body: "Can you shoot a gun? God, who do you think you're talking to—it's Dick the sharpshooter himself!" He quickly reloaded the gun chamber, and put The dropper is set.The glass balls scattered all over the sky, and Currie raised his gun and wiped them all out.
The actress applauded excitedly and continued to stick to him.
Kit, who was walking outside, stopped for a moment, his eyes became dim and cold.
She heard gunshots, the shattering of glass balls, and the shrill, exaggerated applause of the actresses!She bit her lower lip, turned her head, and strode aimlessly.
In the armory, the female actress chatted happily: "Look, Curley, don't be so cold..." Some kind of possessiveness had leaked from those cat eyes; The three men said, "Go outside and wait for me."
The men filed out obediently, and she turned to Curley and smiled.It was a smile more emotional than the most famous erotic performances in her romantic kingdom.She whispered softly to Curley, "Kiss me, Curley darling, oh, kiss me..."
Curley took a slight step back in alertness, exactly the same as Kit's move just now.He narrowed his eyes and put away his smile.She remained where she was, not moving a muscle.
"Listen, Marla, have you forgotten who you are? I don't want to touch other people's wives."
She moved closer to him; now she was indeed very close to him, and the smell of her perfume hit his nostrils.
"You mean Julian?" she said softly. "Oh, we've already agreed. Curley, that's the pattern of modern marriages! Curley, don't make such a fuss. Five million men would love to Leaving their sweet home so that I could just look at them..."
"Forgive me, I don't want to be counted," said Curley coldly. "What's your husband doing now?"
"Oh, it's upstairs somewhere, with Tony Mars... Curley, please..."
If the oval stadium is a glorious symbol of sports competition, then its planner Tony Mars is the promoter of this form of sports competition.Like Buck Horne, Marth is a living legend, only the content of the myth is different.It was he who raised the amount of the competitive prize to an astonishing price of one million yuan.He was the one who brought the rough sport of wrestling into the limelight—he didn't give a shit about social ethics, it was money-making stuff—and restored the reputation of the sport and its athletes, and they filled the His wallet has also greatly funded the businesses he started.It was him again, in order to punish the boxing sports association, angrily moved the heavyweight boxing match that was traditionally held in New York to Pennsylvania.It was he who made hockey, indoor tennis, cycling six-day race and other sports popular in Japan and other countries.The Grand Oval was the pinnacle of a dream come true in his life, and he went so far as to create the largest stadium in the world.
His office is located on the top floor of the sprawling building, which is reached by a relay of four elevators.This ascendant passage had become the only way the sycophants—whom Hollywood had given such a bad name—could get close to him.In this very office, he sat firmly and condescendingly—he, Tony Mars, was old, wily, healthy-skinned, with a beak like a bird's nose, and a New Yorker through and through.
He himself is the most semantically affirmative interpreter of the word "movement."As soon as he appeared on Broadway, he was immediately praised as "the most easy-going" and the toughest character, and no one could force him to accept anything.The bowler hat was buttoned up to the bridge of the nose, and two large feet in dusty shoes rested on the walnut grain veneered boss platform.With the two-dollar cigar between his yellowed teeth, he dealt with the visitor thoughtfully.
The visitor in front of him is not an unknown person.The well-dressed, elegantly posed Julian Hunt, with the sprigs in his buttonhole, was Marla Gaye's husband;He is rich, owns more than a dozen nightclubs, and can be called the originator of the playboy family. He was also a former athlete, proficient in polo and rowing; What about millionaires?Society opened its doors to him precisely because he was originally from that society.However, this society also critically divides him from the upper-class circles.With drooping glassy eyes and beating-pink cheeks, he always had the air of a lethargic townsman.Only in the lower tiers of society—maybe the upper tiers—could a guy look as grotesque as Julian Hunt: with a face as expressionless as a Indian woodcarving totem.This is the face of a hopeless gambler.In this regard, he was exactly the same as the man sitting behind the wooden table.
Tony Mars said in a hoarse bass: "I can give it straight to you, Hunter, but you'll have to listen to me. As long as Buck is involved—" He stopped short.His feet rolled on the fine silk mats on the floor, and a relieved smile played on his lips.
Julian Hunt turned away lazily.
In the doorway stood a man--a heavyset man, a young man of unusually tall stature, with heavy black eyebrows on a prominent cheekboned face, and small black eyes that shone brightly.He grinned, showing his very white teeth.
"Come in, Tommy, come in!" Tony Mars said enthusiastically. "Just you? Where's your miser agent?"
Tommy Black, the rookie heavyweight in boxing, closed the door softly and stood there smiling.Behind that smile lurks a murderous ferocity of a killer; the look, it is said, is the same as Jack Dempsey's look after beating Jesse Wellard to a pulp at Toledo. .Experts agree it's a killer instinct and, for boxers, an essential quality for winning.In Tommy Black, this quality is more than enough.
He came straight across the carpet—almost gliding.Light as a lynx.He sat down in a chair with an unchanging smile on his face.It is unbelievable that he is so huge, and his speech is as soft and smooth as molten iron.
"Hello, Tony, how is everything going?" The voice was charming. "Going to town for a day. The doctor said I'm better. Trouble is over!"
"Tommy, do you know Julian Hunter? Hunter, come shake hands with the best damn boxer since Malasa Mauler."
So, the handshake of the playboy Hunter and the boxer Black; Hunter was a little indifferent, and Black squeezed him like a constrictor.The eyes of the two quickly met, and Black quickly sat back in his seat.Tony Mars didn't say a word, and seemed to be focusing on the cigarette butt between his fingers.
"If you're busy, Tony, I'll make the way," said the boxer humbly.
Marth smiled. "Don't go away, boy. Hunter, you too. McGee!" He raised his voice and called out.A burly guy poked his bullet-headed head closer to the door. "I've got a meeting - don't want to be disturbed."
"Understood?" The door clicked shut.Black and Hunter sat motionless, not even glancing at each other.
"Listen now, Tommy, it's about a boxing match. So I'm trying to get you back from training camp." Mas puffed thoughtfully, and Hunter looked a little impatient, "You How do you feel?"
"Who? Me?" The boxer grinned, sticking out his broad chest. "That's fine, Tony. It couldn't be any better. I'm going to knock the shit out of my opponents." Down!"
"I heard that your opponent was quite good in the past." Mas said coldly, "How is your training going?"
"Great strength. The doctor made me feel full of energy."
"Very good, great!"
"Had a little trouble with the sparring guy. Broke Big Joey Peterson's jaw last week, and the boys don't seem to let it go." He grinned again.
"Yeah, and the newspaper reporters were talking to me about it, too." Mass stared at the long white ash on the cigar; suddenly he bent forward and caught it carefully with a small silver saucer. That wisp of ash, "Tommy, I think you will win that fight. As long as there are no accidents, you should be the champion."
"Thank you, Tony, thank you."
Mars said slowly, "I mean, you should have won that game, Tommy."
The silence before a storm hits.Hunter sat silently.Mars let out a small smile.
Black stood up from his seat, his eyebrows furrowed fiercely: "What do you mean, Tony?"
"Don't get excited, kid, calm down." Blake breathed a sigh of relief.Mars went on in a gentle tone, "I got wind of it. You know, it's not that simple in here. They're all watching. Now I have to be like a teacher—or rather, like a father." Treat you like that, because boy, that's what you need! Your lousy agent is going to get you out of nothing and make himself rich, old liar. Boy, you're in full bloom. Quite a lot The lads had their chances, and gave them the chance—because they ain't smart enough! Get it? You know what I'm—fair and straight! That's my way of life. You do what I say, and we We could make a lot of money together. If you don't listen to—" He paused, as if he had finished his tirade.These words seemed to echo with irresistible force among the walls hung with heavy tapestries.
He calmly puffed on his cigar.
"Okay," Blake said.
"Then it's settled, Tommy," Marth said, "somebody's making a big bet that you're going to win. It's a game for real—nothing fancy. Size, strength, age, grades. On the one hand, you are all up to the standard of a new boxing champion. This is the general trend. But if you are not careful, you may lose your chance-don't be so naive as to think that the belt of the boxing champion is at your fingertips-it counts when you get it. Understand?"
Blake stood up: "Oh, I really don't understand what's wrong with you, Tony," he said with an aggrieved tone, "You don't need to throw cold water on me like this! I know myself, you should trust me! … ... Well, this Mr. Hunter, nice to meet you."
亨特抬起眉眼看了他一眼，算是回了个招呼。
“再见啦，托尼。两个礼拜后再见。”
"must."
门轻声关闭了。
“你瞧啊，”亨特懒洋洋地说，“你是不是太把那杂种当回事儿了，托尼？”
“我怎么想嘛，”马斯轻松地说，“那是我自己的事。可是我得告诉你一点：镶在我嘴里的金牙，谁也甭想抠了去。”他两眼看定亨特，亨特耸了耸肩膀。
“现在嘛，”这位竞技运动的倡导者换了种语气，同时又把双脚举到他的胡桃木台子上去了，“回过头来说说巴克，也就是那个霍恩吧。那真是上帝送给孩子们的礼物。我跟你说，亨特，你也许要错失良机了——”
“我也会守口如瓶的，托尼，”运动健将低声笑着说，“顺便问一句，那个格兰特是打哪儿起家的？”
“疯狂比尔么？”马斯斜晚着他的雪茄，“你到底指望些什么？早在那大名鼎鼎的野牛带着喀斯特骑马遛弯儿的时代，他就跟巴克在一起，也算是生死之交了。”
亨特咕哝着说：“那么，该是谁的就是谁的，我也犯不着去得罪那个疯子比尔了……”
疯狂比尔·格兰特坐在托尼·马斯为他精心设置的办公室里。从这个神殿发出的每一个神秘或暖昧的指令都会使机制复杂的牛仔竞技运动整个发生变动。办公桌上乱糟糟的：无数熄了火的香烟头儿、半截子雪茄棒躺在桌面上，活像尸横遍野的战场。格兰特对此全无意识，吸完烟就随手一丢，日日堆积在那儿，而备在一边的半打烟灰缸却一直干干净净。
格兰特跨坐在办公桌后转椅的扶手上，好像那是匹马。
左半个屁股悬在外边，左腿僵直地朝前伸着，整个看上去还真像侧骑在马鞍上；他矮矮胖胖，四方大脸，留着老式的海象须一样的胡子。一双灰眼睛暗淡无光；砖红色的脸皮像多孔的岩石，坑坑洼洼，凹凸不平。裸露的双臂上纵横着强劲的肌腱，周身上下没有一点赘肉，这使他看上去像个蜗牛一样坚硬。脖子上打着一个花哨的领结，灰白掺杂的脑袋上惊世骇俗地扣着一顶古董级的老西部帽。这就是那位年轻时代挥师征战印第安疆域的和众国将军——疯狂大比尔·格兰特。这么个人物坐在托尼·马斯崭新的办公室中间，就像爱斯基摩人出现在英国茶屋一样突兀。
他眼前堆着许多纸张——合同啦，账单啦，订单啦，不一而足。他不胜厌烦地一边乱翻那些令人头疼的文件，一边苦艾艾地伸手到处摸索还能再利用一下的烟头儿。
一个姑娘走了进来——伶俐、整洁、修饰得体；典型的纽约淑女，他的速记员。
“有个先生想见你，格兰特先生。”
“放马仔？”
“对不起，请再说一遍？”
“流浪仔吧——想找个活计？”
“好像是吧，他说他带着一封霍恩先生给你的信。”
“哦！快让他进来，小姐。”
她扭着小巧的屁股出去了，不一会儿又把门大敞开，引进一个衣着破旧的西部大汉。
来访者那登着高跟牛皮靴的大脚重重地踏进来，木头地板一阵山响。这人把一顶破烂的墨西哥宽边帽攥在手里，身上穿着件久经风吹日晒而褪了颜色的方格呢衫，皮靴则已经磨烂了。
“请进！”格兰特热情地说，他用赏识的目光上下打量着来访者，“那么，巴克让你带来的信呢？”
来访者刮得溜光的脸有点不对劲儿，甚至有点吓人——左半个脸的皮肤是紫褐色的，而且疤痕累累。这片疤痕自下巴一直延伸到眉骨一下一英寸的地方。右侧腮上有个同样颜色的点子。似乎是给他遭受的火焰或酸液烧伤划上了一个句号。牙齿很烂，布满褐色的牙垢……比尔·格兰特微微耸了下肩膀，把目光移开了。
“是这样，先生。”此人嗓音粗哑，“巴克跟我，我们是老相识啦，格兰特先生。二十年前就在得克萨斯一起逮长角野牛。巴克，他是不会忘了朋友的。”他在衣袋里摸索了一会儿，拿出一个皱皱巴巴的信封，递给了格兰特，接着就焦灼地盯着后者的表情。
格兰特读出声来：“亲爱的比尔，到你那儿去的这位是本杰明·米勒，一个老朋友，需要找个事儿做……”，信上还有一些内容，格兰特兀自看了下去。而后，他把信放在桌子上说，“坐下吧，米勒。”
“你真好，格兰特先生。”米勒小心翼翼地坐在皮椅的边上。
“来支雪茄吗？”格兰特的眼里有种同情的神色；面前这个人看上去就令人同情。沙黄色的头发虽然还没掺进多少白发，但无疑这人已过了中年。
米勒露出黄褐色的牙齿笑了：“瞧，你真客气，格兰特先生。不介意的话我就要一根。”
格兰特从桌子那头递过一只雪茄；米勒接过来嗅了嗅，继而塞进胸前的衣袋里。格兰特按了一下桌子边上的按钮，速记员闻声而来。
“去把丹努——布恩找来，年轻人，醉鬼汉克·布恩。”
她含糊地问：“把谁找来？”
“布恩，布恩！除了那个浪荡矮子谁会老是醉醺醺的！这会儿说不定在哪儿胡聊神侃呢。”
姑娘走出去，照旧扭着小屁股；格兰特很欣赏地从后面望着她。
他叼着雪茄问：“在马术团里干过吗，米勒？”
米勒的肩膀耸了一下：“没有，先生！我一辈子都在牧场过的。没干过什么新鲜事儿。”
“打过枪吗？”
“打过几枪。年轻的时候我还行，格兰特先生。”
格兰特的声音有点低沉了：“会骑马么？”
那人的脸刷地红了：“听着，格兰特先生——”
“我并不是存心叫你难堪，”格兰特和缓地说，“瞧，我们这儿的人够用了，米勒，况且，这儿也没地方放牧，不需要赶牲口的……”
米勒一字一顿地说：“这就是说，你不能给我找到活计了？”
“也不能那么说，”格兰特抢过话头说，“你既是巴克·霍恩的朋友，我当然得罩着点儿啦。你可以参加巴克他们晚上的活动。怎么样？穿用的东西还都有吗？”
“没了，先生。我、我把大多数东西都扔在图克森了。”
“呜——呦。”格兰特依然斜睨着烟头上的灰烬；门开了，一个枯瘦的小个子牛仔摆着两条罗圈腿晃了进来，脖子上歪歪斜斜地用一条花手绢胡乱系了个结。
“哦，丹努，你这样子活像那个斗鸡眼疯子的崽子。快到这儿来。”
小个子牛仔还是醉醺醺的。他把帽檐儿掀到头顶，跌跌撞撞地朝办公台迈过去：“疯——疯狂比尔，鄙人前来听命啦……你，有什么吩咐，比尔？”
“你怎么又喝成这样，丹努？”格兰特厌恶地看着他，“丹努，这位是本杰明·米勒——巴克的朋友。就要参加演出了。带他去看看马具——去马房转转，还有，他的铺位，还有场子……”
布恩醉眼迷离地看着那个寒酸的来客：“巴克的朋友？很荣幸见着你哩，米勒！家什——我们这儿还真有点儿家什，伙计。我们——”
他们走出了格兰特的办公室。格兰特沉吟半晌，把霍恩的来信放进了衣袋。
两人脚步零乱地沿着狭长的引道朝大竞技场的表演区走去。布恩一路蹒跚，米勒好奇地问：“他怎么管你叫丹努？我好像听他跟那姑娘说你叫汉克。”
布恩嬉笑起来：“聪明——又聪明又调皮的小丫头，是不是？就像一袋子新鲜草料！对啦，我告诉你，米勒。我生——生来就叫汉克，可我那个老子，他居然说：'你给他起名叫汉克，跟你妈第二个丈夫的老兄弟用同一个名儿，这像什么话！我偏要叫他丹努，跟那个取下过印第安人首级的、最他妈棒的布恩叫同一个名字！'打那儿以后，我就成了丹努了。吁，往左拐，往左拐！”
“听你口音，你像是从西北什么地方来的。”
小个子牛仔收起笑容，点着头说：“听得出来？说实话，我爸在怀俄明放过牛。老山姆·胡克常对我说：'丹努，永远也别给你的家乡丢脸呀。'他就这么絮叨，'不然的话，我和你的老子都饶不了你。'所以，我一直给鬼魂到处追赶——没完没了……好了，米勒老小子，我们到啦。挺大吧，嗯？”
这是个宏大的露天体育场，几千只聚光灯把场内照射得如同白昼。两万个座位层层排列在椭圆形看台上，眼下还空无一人。表演场总体的长宽比大约是三比一。阶梯形看台与表演场之间用混凝土墙高高地分割开，墙下便是十五英尺宽的跑道。围在椭圆形跑道内侧的就是平坦的表演场了。这正是身怀绝技的马术师们的舞台，可表演各种马上技巧，驯套烈性野马，也有的是地方纵马飞奔。椭圆形场地的两极——东、西两侧各有一个宽大的门道通向后台，此刻米勒和布恩正站在其中一个门口。那一圈混凝土围墙上还星罗棋布地设置了许多小暗门，以满足不同的表演需要。
看台后上方，巨大的钢铁拱梁拔地而起，支撑着高阔的一圈顶檐。在这天穹般的背景下，看台通道上的人物就显得无限渺小——那是一些工作人员来回忙碌着，为这一晚将要举行的盛大活动做准备——疯狂比尔·格兰特的牛仔骑术团在纽约的演出就要在这里正式开幕了。
表演区中央平整的地面上有几个人，都是西部人松散随意的穿着，正站在那儿吸着烟说笑。
布恩一边大摇大摆地向场子中间走，一边转过头来用神情伤感的小眼睛望着同行的人问：“你也是玩儿马术的，米勒？”
“没玩儿过。”
“正走背字儿，嗯？”
“时运不济呀，做牛仔的不好过。”
“没错儿！得啦，在这儿，你只需哄那些疯子观众乐乐，好日子就拿下啦。有好几个弟兄都是大老远从纽约那边过来的呢。”
那一伙人见布恩领着个人过去，让开地方叫他们站入圈子，很热乎地跟他们打招呼。丑陋矮小的布恩似乎很受大家的青睐，他们一直对他亲昵地动手动脚，开着粗俗的玩笑。好一阵儿热闹，米勒似乎叫众人给忘了，一声不响地等在一旁。
“啊——我他妈差点儿失礼啦！”布恩突然叫道，“伙计们，来见见巴克·霍恩的老朋友。叫做本杰明·米勒，来咱们这儿入伙儿的。”
十来只眼睛直勾勾地盯了那新来的好一会儿，谁也不再说笑了。他们打量着他的破衣烂衫，咧嘴的鞋跟儿，以及他那张疤痕累累的吓人的脸。
“这位是苏格兰来的兰塞。”布恩郑重其事地指着一个大块头、长着兔唇的牛仔介绍道。
“幸会。”两人握手。
“这位是得克萨斯来的乔伊·哈力沃尔。”——那人点了一下头，转而去卷他的纸烟了——“得州佬儿可是上帝送给女人们的礼物哇，米勒。这边这位是苗条的哈维斯。”——哈维斯是个矮胖的牛仔，一副笑脸，一双冷眼——“这是雷夫·布朗，这是矮子当斯。”布恩不厌其烦地一一作着介绍。都是些马术界的名角儿。这些人都是带着自家用惯了的行头，辗转于各大马戏团之间，走南闯北的艺人。靠玩儿命换钱，又靠血汗钱果腹，职业生涯带给他们的积蓄只有满身伤痕和由此而生的恐惧，囊中却永远羞涩。
一阵短暂的沉寂过后，雷夫·布朗，那个穿着花哨汗衫的壮汉笑了笑，把手指伸进衣袋摸索片刻：“怎么样，自己卷一棵吧，米勒？”他递过一小袋烟草。
米勒的脸红了：“我想，行吧。”他接受了这个“活计”，动作缓慢、漫不经心却轻而易举地卷好了一支烟卷。
一时间众人开了话匣子；米勒就这样被大家接受了。
有个人朝他裤子上一划，擦着了一根火柴，把它举到他卷好的烟卷前；米勒燃着了烟，悠悠地喷云吐雾起来。众人便更围近了他；他则融入了他们，消隐在这个小团体里了。
“现在你听我一条忠告，”矮子当斯用鹰爪一样的长指甲指点着布恩说，“有他在身边转游，你就得系牢裤带。不然你老得丢裤子，丹努会偷的。他老子就是个盗马贼呀。”
米勒谦恭地赔笑；他们正尽力让他自在一点儿呢。
“问一句，”“苗条的”哈维斯诡异地插进话来，“有个争吵不休的难题，就是驯马笼头和一般的马嚼子，你觉着哪个最好使，米勒？”
“对付野马驹子当然得用笼头啦，这是常识。”米勒抿着嘴儿笑道。
“真人来啦！”众人哄笑道。
“枪法还没露呢，我敢打赌！”
“露一手吧！”有人哄道。
当斯举起手来：“等等，”他慢条斯理地说，“丹努有点儿不对劲儿。嘴让什么堵住啦，丹努？一下子变了个人似的？”
“我么？”小个子牛仔叹了口气，“怪啦，真的。他妈的我那个印第安箭头今儿早上没了。”
顿时一片死寂降临，笑声消失了；众人都像孩子似的瞪圆了眼睛。
“我那杂毛儿马今儿早上发疯，又叫又闹，把我那宝贝踩碎啦！凶兆呀，伙计们。很快就要出大事儿啦！”
“我的上帝！”几个人同时抽了一口冷气说道。当斯飞快地碰了碰衣衫下面的某个物件，神情极为专注；其他人的手也都伸进裤兜里探摸。每个人都疑神疑鬼地悄悄检查自己的护身符是否还在。这件事非同小可，他们齐刷刷用大祸临头般惊恐的目光看着布恩。
“悬了，”哈力沃尔嘀咕道，“真的悬了。今儿晚上最好躺倒不干，丹努。天哪，我兜儿里就算揣着护身符也不想碰那印第安驹子一下儿啦！”
兰塞摸到裤子后兜儿，掏出一瓶烈酒来，同情而忧伤地递给布恩。
本杰明·米勒黑紫色的脸颊抽搐了一下。他朝场子对面搭建的木头台子上望去；那上面有几个穿工作服的城里人正在一堆乱糟糟的特殊器材中忙活着。
那些人显然是拍电影的。三脚架、摄像机、录音箱、电子器材以及许多大大小小的箱子堆了一台子。木台就架设在表演场边上离地十英尺高的地方：有人正铺展开成卷的裹着橡胶皮的电缆，并把各种缆线连接到地板上一个庞大、复杂的机器上去。每台设备的侧面板上都用白漆喷着几个字母，显然是某个有名气的新闻纪录片制作公司的名称缩写。
一个穿深灰色衣装的瘦小男人站在台下的地面上指挥着众人的操作；那人有一副军队里流行过的黑色大胡子，修剪得精致得体，梳理得纹丝不乱。他根本不费心瞥一眼场地对面这一伙奇装异服的西部人。
“长距离拍摄的设备都准备好啦，科比少校。”台上一人叫道。
台下的小个子又对着头上正扣着一架耳机的家伙叫道：“录音设备调好了吗，杰克？”
“还凑合，”那人咕哝着，“场地效果就这样，少校，听听这见鬼的回声！”
“尽量调好点吧。等观众席坐满了人也许能好点儿……我要拍到尽可能多的活动，孩子们，录到所有疯狂的声响。总部就是这么交待的。”
"Ok."
科比少校把他那贼亮的目光投向空旷的看台和光秃秃的混凝土墙，点燃了一支烟卷……
“到此为止，”埃勒里·奎因思索着朝天花板上喷着烟圈，“轮子还处在静止状态、接下来就看看轮子转起来会怎么样吧！”
Notes:
Notes: