Tom Mix in Arabia

Beneath a sun-blistered California crag, Billy Evans—vaquero impresario of dude-ranch escapism—vaults skyward on braided hemp, lasso cinching a spitting cougar as though it were merely a misbehaved rodeo calf. Beside him, philologist Janice Terhune and her parchment-obsessed father parse Aramaic whispers while sand from another continent already clings to their boots. Billy shrugs at prophecy, hammocks himself into siesta, until a cream-colored roadster howls across the corral: an Arab prince in gabardine exile, throttle wide, assassins in pursuit. One wardrobe swap later, the cowboy inherits imperial trouble; the wheelman inherits a Stetson. A tire-screeching ballet ends with the Pacific glugging seawater over the chassis—cut to a dhow’s hold, reeking of cardamom and manacles, Billy shipped east like contraband spice. In the bazaars of a kingdom that never sat on any map, he topples a scheming doppelgänger whose turban hides the calculating eyes of a Broadway stage-door Johnny; restores a doddering sultan whose throne had been pawned for oil and chorus girls; and rescues Janice, whose glance—equal parts starlight and sass—had ignited palace intrigue. The film gallops from cliffside to souk to throne-room carpet in a breathless 60-minute arabesque, each reel stitched with trick riding, circus stunts, and the conviction that destiny is just another bronc to be broken.