The Third Dead Indian From The Left

Okay, so my fiancé enjoys my stories … (or at least is polite and says she enjoys them. We are not married yet, so …)

 Anyway …

 Anyway, she has encouraged me to share this one with you, so, if you don’t like it, blame her. I’ll be glad to point her out – myself, I never would have thought of doing this. Never. Ever. Never ever.

 Anyway …

 (Boy, that felt good, ya know? Kinda clears the emotional … something …

 ANYWAY …

 American movie westerns had passed their peak in popularity, but still being mass produced. John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart had passed their peaks as well, getting on there, but showed absolutely no signs of slowing down.

 And movie westerns were being cranked out at a frightening pace, sucking every movie extra in Hollywood into the black hole of spurs, chaps, feathers and war paint.

 And that’s where I came in. I was attending school in California, and used to pick up money – first by being in crowd scenes walking down the street … (Oh? You didn’t know those people were paid? Why do you think a movie costs enough to bankroll a small South American country for a year?)

And later I worked as a stunt man. (More money.) My specialty was in portraying an American Indian. Why? Because I was a natural at falling off a horse. And I never went to school to learn how to do it. I was a natural at it. Why, falling off a horse was as easy for me as falling … uh … well, you get the idea.

 

Here’s how it worked: They would dig a trench in the ground, fill it with foam and sand, and I would ride along, pretend to be shot, and fall onto the pit (trying not to bounce.) At least that was the theory. My horse was FAR better trained than I. She knew if she dumped me in the right spot, she would get an apple. She also was aware, I think, that if she dropped me beyond camera range (onto rocks, bushes, or an occasional gopher hole, she would be taken back to the barn where it was cool and she would receive a bucket of food. This was supposed to be punishment …)

Ha! And again ha! After about the third time I am deposited unceremoniously onto whatever horse finds interesting, she looks at me and … (They say animals don’t have the facial muscles to smirk. Don’t believe that for a minute.)

… and I have the scars to prove it.