He was patient. He took small roles and learned from them. He watched how experienced actors prepared and performed. He worked with coaches. He was not a natural performer in the technical sense — the accounts of his film work generally note that he was more effective in action sequences than in dramatic dialogue, more convincing as a physical presence than as a character with complex psychological depth. This is not a criticism unique to Murphy; it describes a great many screen actors of the period who had physical presence and limited formal training.
The Western genre fit him in specific ways. The Western of the 1950s valued a certain kind of quiet toughness, a physical competence with horses and guns, and a moral directness that did not require complex emotional performance. Murphy could do all of these things. He had grown up with horses. He was a marksman beyond any doubt. And the kind of moral clarity that Western narratives require — the hero who does what is right even when it is costly — was something his character had already demonstrated under conditions considerably more demanding than any film scenario.
His signing with Universal-International in 1950 gave him steady work and steady income. The studio system of that period worked by contract — actors were employed by studios that controlled their public image, the roles they accepted, and the terms under which they worked. Universal-International used Murphy efficiently within the Western genre, producing films that reliably drew audiences without requiring the kind of large-budget production that the studio reserved for its prestige projects.