ON LOCATION WITH STEVE MCQUEEN

I MET STEVE MCQUEEN in 1978, when he filmed Tom Horn in Tucson. I worked as a wrangler and supplied livestock for that production. That year, the Tucson Teamster wranglers were given all the work we could handle.

To my surprise, Rudy Ugland, the head wrangler for the production company, hired me at Steve's request — 10 days before filming began. My duties were to teach Steve how to rope a horse in a corral. I reported to work every day and practiced my hoolihan loop, but I only saw Steve from afar. His camp, at the east windmill of the San Rafael Ranch, was close to the corrals where I waited, but he stayed away.

I met his wife, Barbara, on the day the company began filming. She always kept her camera ready. We visited often on the set, and have been friends ever since. She took the photograph of me that was used on the jackets of my books Steeldust and Steeldust II.

"Our camp, way out in the middle of the gorgeous San Rafael Valley, was the greatest place ever," she said. "Our motor home suited us just fine. The production company had reservations for us at the Hilton in Tucson, and also rented a house with a swimming pool for us there, but we spent most of the time at our camp. Steve could practice his shooting out there, and we enjoyed being alone and at peace together.

"We hardly ever went to town," she added. "Once in a while, we went into Patagonia for a Mexican breakfast at the Stage Stop Hotel restaurant, and we visited Nogales once."

AFTER filming began, I assumed my regular duties with Rudy Ugland's wrangler crew, and my son, Billy Paul, doubled as Steve for the scene in which Tom Horn roped his horse. The company couldn't seem to settle on who would direct the film, so Steve took on the role himself to keep everybody moving. He made sure company indecision didn't waste time. Filming happened on schedule. Steve and John Alonzo, the cinematographer, brought the company together every morning before the first scene and kept it busy until the film wrapped.

On one of the first days, Steve appeared at my side at the coffee urn, introduced himself, shook my hand, and walked me away from the company. I thought I was about to earn my pay as his teacher, but we talked about books instead. He said that he and Sam Peckinpah agreed that my novel The Forests of the Night was the best book they'd ever read. We talked about my experience in writing it, and his in reading it, then he went back to his work on the set.

Steve and I didn't talk again until the company moved to Mescal for the last segment of the filming - the scenes in the jail and the execution of Tom Horn. One day I was in the wrangler van about to leave the set, when Steve sent word that he wanted me to stay and visit with him.

He and Barbara waited for me on a raised boardwalk outside Mescal's main building. We talked about The Forests of the Night and cowboying in general for about an hour. Then he said he wanted me to play Father Brown, the priest who stood by togive Tom Horn the last rites in the jailhouse, before Tom's last walk to the gallows. I told him I was no actor. He said, "Leave that to me."

Wardrobe dressed me in the cassock of a priest, and I stood by every day for a week. Then we did the scene in two takes. That wasn't because I was such a good actor. After the first take, Steve walked over to me and whispered that my leg had shook all through the scene.

"Relax," he said. "Don't let me down. I went to bat for you to do this." Our next take was good enough to print.

After the company wrapped and left Tucson, I figured that was all for me and Steve McQueen, but we began to take turns telephoning one another.

One day, he said he was at an airport and about to go up in his biplane and practice stunts. He knew I was a pilot and invited me to come to California and fly with him. For me, an airplane has usually only been a vehicle to get me from one place to another in straight and level flight. I declined. Another time, he asked me if I'd like a part in The Hunter, the last picture he made, in Chicago. I said I wouldn't.

We continued to phone each other through the trials and treatments that he underwent during his fatal illness. I couldn't help him, except to talk to him. I sent him herbs that I believe might have helped him, but they never got past the buffer zone that surrounds actors of Steve's caliber.

The more I visited with him on the phone, the more I became aware of his down-to-earth integrity and sincerity. I didn't have much regard for the actors I knew before him. Most could do nothing except imitate the character of men and women who had accomplished real things. Because of their fame as actors, they came to believe that they were the last word in everything from rocket science to horsemanship. They weren't able to talk about anything but themselves and the way they felt.

Steve changed my opinion of actors. I learned that to be admired, actors only have to ply their craft well. They give us the great joy of movie entertainment. But Steve shared the special joy of adventure he found in making pictures. He knew better than most how to do that because he was an adventurer in real life. He showed me that acting can be an adventure, too.

He was a man of his word, unassuming and unaffected by his fame. To me, he became a respectful friend, the kind that a man can talk to as a brother. He knew his business, and when he worked, he tried for perfect performance. He made no excuses and suffered none from others. In my short association with him, he always comported himself as the same man, whether he talked about books, granted a favor, prepared to fly high in a stunt plane, or stood up to face the final, most difficult and most futile fight for his life.

Some men are ordinary and some are not. Some have great style, some have none. All good men are extraordinary and glow with style. Steve's glow is still bright.

Today, Barbara lives alone in Ketchum, Idaho. She remembers her last good time with Steve in Southern Arizona. "My childhood dream was to be a cowgirl," she said. "Every day, after the cast and crew left the set and returned to town, I mounted a horse, rode out on the broad San Rafael and pretended I was something. Steve made that kind of adventure happen for me every day of our life together. He was so good at that."