Nan Ryan Read online

  Chapter 3

  It was about two o’clock in the afternoon several days later that a long westbound train snaked its way across Colorado’s flat eastern plains. Its journey from Kansas City, Missouri, was nearing an end. Just ahead and looming steadily closer on the near western horizon, the forbidding Front Range of the awesome Rocky Mountains rose to meet a cloudless August sky.

  Steaming directly toward those soaring peaks, the train boasted an impressive procession of thirty-four rail cars. On each and every one of those cars, with the exception of the locomotive’s powerful steam engine, prominent gold lettering decorated the shiny black sides. “Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show,” the gold letters proudly proclaimed.

  At the very front of that long show train, in the big steam engine’s sweltering cab, Boz Whitman, the engineer, jumped down off his stool. Grinning from ear to ear, Boz reached up and gave a firm tug on an overhead rope. The train’s whistle instantly sounded a long, loud blast, startling a small herd of white-faced cattle grazing near the tracks.

  The aging engineer laughed, then moved his big wad of chewing tobacco from right cheek to left, and spit a string of brown juice over the side of the train. Boz wore his regulation striped railroad cap with a bright red bandanna, a red shirt, striped overalls, and a pair of goggles to protect his sensitive sixty-two-year-old eyes from cinders as he leaned out the window.

  Continuing to laugh, Boz gave the whistle cord another yank, eased off on the throttle, and slammed on the brakes. A great grinding sound was almost deafening. Orange sparks flew from beneath the heavy steel wheels. Finally the train began to slow. Curious show people poked their heads out the windows, wondering why they were stopping when Denver was still a couple of miles west.

  When the locomotive had come to a complete stop on the tracks, a pair of loading doors slid open on an animal car at the train’s rear. A wooden ramp was lowered into place. Then a broad-shouldered, powerfully built young man with dark blond hair appeared in the car’s opening.

  Billed on the program as the Cherokee Kid, the big suntanned man coaxed a nervous chestnut stallion, heavily packed with weapons and camping gear, down the wooden ramp and off the train.

  Following the Cherokee Kid were a pair of the show’s brawny equipment handlers, the Leatherwood brothers, Danny and Davey. The playful, loudmouthed Leatherwoods yanked brutally on their mounts’ reins, unmindful and uncaring of the steel bits punishing the horses’ tender mouths.

  On their heels came a short middle-aged cowboy. William “Shorty” Jones was a leathery-faced little man who was so painfully thin he had trouble keeping his faded denim pants up. A silver whistle hung from a chain around Shorty’s neck and a cigarette dangled from his lips. Hitching his breeches with one hand, leading a roan gelding with the other, he squinted through the smoke curling up into his eyes. Never taking the handmade cigarette from his mouth, Shorty warned the thoughtless, overgrown Leatherwood pair, “Take it easy, boys. Take it easy!”

  Shorty was the troupe’s animal wrangler and he couldn’t stand to see any kind of animal abused. A very quiet, very shy little man, Shorty was consistently gentle with all God’s creatures—man and beast—and it sorely rankled him to see the bullying Leatherwoods mistreat frightened horses.

  Sharing Shorty’s concern, a white-haired old Indian, his bronzed, stony face deeply creased and sun-weathered, led a big paint pony down the ramp after Shorty. He was called Ancient Eyes, and he had once been a powerful subchief of Colorado’s Uncompahgre Utes. Those days had long since passed. Ancient Eyes had seen seventy-five winters come and go. The last twenty had been spent with Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show. Ancient Eyes realized his value to the Colonel was not so great as it once had been. He was far too old to be the daring fierce warrior, which had been his role in the beginning. Still, he knew that so long as the troubled show kept operating, he had a place with the troupe, with the Colonel, his old and valued friend.

  Drawing the long leather reins up over his paint’s lowered head, Ancient Eyes groaned a little as he climbed up into the saddle. Then, seated astride the paint, the old Ute suddenly shuddered involuntarily. Shorty, mounting his roan near Ancient Eyes, saw the tremor go through the Ute’s thick, squat body.

  “Chief, you okay?” Shorty spoke in low tones so the others couldn’t hear. “You feeling sick?”

  Ancient Eyes shrugged and shook his head no, sending his coarse shoulder-length white hair swinging around his dark, wrinkled face. He looked Shorty in the eye and admitted, “For one split second it was as if’—he lifted a broad hand and gestured toward the clear blue sky—“as if old friends from spirit world were warning me this trip not be good. Something bad happen.”

  Shorty neither laughed nor made light of the old chief’s superstitions. He asked gently, “You mean the show’s upcoming engagement in Denver?”

  Ancient Eyes again shook his head. “No. Mean this hunt we go on up in Shining Mountains.”

  Before Shorty could respond, the loading doors slammed shut behind them, the signal was given, and Boz, the engineer, pumped up the train’s engine again. And the eager Cherokee Kid, standing in the stirrups atop his chestnut stallion, shouted loudly, “What are we waitin’ for? Let’s go get us a big cat!”

  He lowered himself into the silver-trimmed saddle, dug his sharp roweled spurs into his mount’s belly, and the responsive chestnut shot away. The train slowly began to pick up speed. The rowdy Leatherwoods galloped after the Cherokee Kid, whooping and hollering. Shorty and Ancient Eyes exchanged looks of disgust, then set out after the younger riders.

  In the lead the Cherokee Kid raced across the plain, his horse’s hooves kicking up dust and flinging clumps of grass. He rode directly toward the towering Rockies.

  The riders would not be stopping in the city. It was three days until the show’s first scheduled Denver performance. While the troupe spent that time pitching the tents and erecting the grandstands and doing a dress run-through, the five who had left the train early were to spend those days camped in the high country west of Denver. Their mission: to find a mountain lion for the show. Always eager to gain the Colonel’s approval, the Cherokee Kid had promised the old showman that they wouldn’t come down from the hills until they had trapped a prize specimen.

  He meant to keep that promise.

  So the horsemen thundered swiftly toward the foothills as the much slower show train steamed steadily toward the outskirts of Denver.

  * * *

  On the platform outside Denver’s newly refurbished Union Depot, Diane Buchannan squinted into the brilliant sunlight on that warm August afternoon. She was both comfortable and striking in a crisp white piqué frock and wide-brimmed straw hat, a violet silk scarf tied around its crown, the ends fluttering in the slight breeze stirring from the north.

  On her slender hands were violet cotton gloves, and above her head to shade her face and pale white shoulders from the fierce alpine sun was a dainty silk parasol of the same hue. Diane anxiously looked down the tracks for the train, which was due at the station any minute. She had been looking down those tracks for the past half hour.

  That, and pacing restlessly back and forth on the nearly deserted depot platform. She could hardly wait to see the Colonel and Granny Buchannan. Could hardly wait to see the look on the Colonel’s face when he stepped down from the train and found her waiting.

  Diane smiled, anticipating the moment.

  She hadn’t wired her grandparents that she was meeting them in Denver, hadn’t informed them that she was joining the troupe. It was to be a total surprise and she wasn’t at all certain how the Colonel would take the news. The fiery old man might be downright furious that his upstart granddaughter would deign to think he needed her to help bail him out of his financial woes.

  The Colonel was and always had been an extremely proud man. His adventurous life had been one of which legends are made. An Arizona native, Buck Buchannan had been an Indian fighter, a scout for the Army, a Civil W
ar soldier with medals of bravery decorating his blue uniform blouse.

  Numerous scars of which he was proud were left from his glorious youth. An Apache’s arrow had pierced his left shoulder; a Reb’s bullet had wounded his right hip. His broad chest was scarred from an encounter with a grizzly, and a run-in with a jealous husband had put character into his youthful, perfect face.

  At age fifty, as he was breaking a wild mustang for the show, the angered thousand-pound beast fell on his left leg, leaving him with a permanent limp.

  The Colonel had fully enjoyed every day of his life. It had all been a lark, and none of it more satisfying than being the owner of the traveling wild west show. And so it was painful for the fearless old scout even to admit that his beloved wild west show was in serious trouble.

  The short, loud blast of a train’s whistle made Diane look up and again squint down the tracks. And her heart skipped a beat.

  Steaming down those vibrating tracks directly toward her—old Boz, the engineer, leaning out the window and waving his striped cap—was that long, very special train she was waiting for.

  Suddenly there were crowds of excited, chattering people swirling around her. She realized—and was delighted by the knowledge—that they, too, had come to meet the troupe’s train. At the sight of all those eager faces, Diane felt a great sense of relief. She had been so afraid that the crowd would be embarrassingly sparse, that only a handful of people would turn out. And that the Colonel would be miserably disappointed.

  A smile of pleasure curving her lips, Diane quickly lowered her violet parasol, tucked it under her arm, and hurried toward the train, jostled and pushed by the swelling crowd. She tried, but couldn’t break through the mass of humanity gathered around the very first of the passenger cars, the lead passenger car with big gold letters shining in the sun: “Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show.”

  At last the train came to a complete stop.

  A uniformed conductor opened the car’s door. In his gloved hand he held a set of portable steps, which he placed on the ground directly beneath the door. He straightened, tugged his black jacket back down into place, lifted then lowered his black-billed cap, folded his hands behind him, then nodded to someone unseen on the train.

  All eyes were riveted to that train door. Reporters from the Rocky Mountain News and the Denver Post were poised with pads, pens, and flash cameras, ready to conduct interviews.

  Minutes passed. Anticipation grew. Diane grinned.

  She knew the Colonel. The crafty old showman knew exactly how to play crowds. Likely as not, he was standing just inside, concealed in shadow, purposely making his audience wait, allowing the excitement to build.

  Then, sure enough, after several long minutes, the very first passenger to step down to the platform was a stately figure in velvet-soft buckskins with fringed collar and leg seams, rust suede gauntlets, hand-tooled cowboy boots, a white Stetson, and a butter yellow silk bandanna tied at his throat. Ruddy-cheeked, blue eyes eager, teeth flashing in a broad smile, the Colonel gallantly doffed his Stetson to the cheering, whistling crowd, revealing a full head of long white hair pulled back and secured in a ponytail.

  “Colonel!” Diane happily shouted, addressing her grandfather by the title he most favored. “Colonel Buchannan!”

  He didn’t hear her.

  Frustrated, manners totally forgotten, she pushed and elbowed her way through the crowd, rushing toward the noticeably lame, aging man who was already posing happily for the Denver newspaper photographer.

  “Colonel!” Diane shouted again, and a pair of bright blue twinkling eyes cut quickly to her.

  Total shock flared for a brief second in those expressive blue eyes, but the surprised, quick-witted Colonel never missed a beat. He was instantly overjoyed. Instinctively he knew why Diane had come. And in a flash he realized that she would be sure to draw audiences with her delicate good looks and her fancy trick roping and riding, skills he himself had taught her when she was a child.

  As if it all had been planned, the Colonel swiftly swept his slender, raven-haired granddaughter into his massive arms, placed a quick kiss on her cheek, and proudly announced to the press, “Boys, meet Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show’s newest star attraction, Miss Diane Buchannan!”

  Chapter 4

  Colonel Buck Buchannan and Rocky Mountain News reporter Robert Mitchell stood with their arms draped over the tall fence at the West Denver Fairgrounds.

  The eyes of the old Colonel and the young reporter were riveted on a lone horse and rider in the center of the dusty arena. They studied the silhouette, framed against the azure sky, moving as if the two were one. The horse was a shimmering, saddleless black stallion with one white-stockinged foot. The rider was tall and slender, had black hair, and wore tight buckskin pants, a white cotton shirt, and soft, beaded moccasins.

  Robert Mitchell, the reporter, gasped and gripped the wooden fence when the daredevil rider, galloping the big black at full speed, recklessly rose to a standing position atop his bare back. Knees slightly bent, back perfectly straight, toes and heels hugging the steed to ensure good balance, the fearless rider shifted the long leather reins to one hand, reached up with the other, and withdrew an unseen silver restraint from a mass of lustrous curls.

  A shimmering curtain of long hair, the exact shade of the black’s sleek coat, fell for a brief second around a high-cheekboned, delicate face and white-shirted shoulders, then quickly caught the wind and streamed out like a beautiful banner of black silk, much like the stallion’s long, billowing mane and tail.

  For a long moment the reporter was too awed to speak. When he could find his voice, he said, “Colonel, how does it feel to be the grandfather of a legend?”

  “Diane,” replied the Colonel, putting his hand on the shoulder of the youthful reporter, “is a top star trick rider and lariat artist. I am the legend!” He applauded and further boasted, “Son, I taught that girl everything she knows.” Then, cupping his hands to his mouth, he called out, “Diane, that’s enough for now. Bring him on in. I don’t want you gettin’ too sore to ride in tomorrow’s parade.”

  It was noon Wednesday.

  The troupe had been in Denver for less than forty-eight hours, but Diane had wasted no time. That first evening, a few hours after the train’s arrival, she had handpicked the show-trained horse she would use in her act. She knew the minute she laid eyes on the magnificent black that she had to have him. A half hour after choosing him, she’d taken him out into the arena and put him through some tests. He passed with flying colors. She was more than pleased. She and the big brute would make a striking pair.

  Since then Diane had been at the arena every free minute, working up a daring routine. She was not alone. The fairgrounds was a beehive of activity from early morning to setting sun.

  Handbills advertising the show had been passed out by local schoolboys. Giant posters decorated telephone poles and were prominently displayed in store windows throughout the city. Excitement was in the air, and the male citizens of Denver with time on their hands wandered down to the exhibition grounds. They watched as the troupe’s strong-backed laborers hauled in lumber, hammered and sawed under the hot August sun, hurriedly constructing grandstands.

  Shorty’s boys were busy with the show’s many animals. On the arena’s north side the unloading of the stock into the holding pens was in progress. Once in the pens, the animals had to be tended constantly, fed and watered, bathed and brushed, doctored and guarded.

  Most of the performers hung around the fairgrounds. Many practiced their acts; others watched or played poker or gossiped or simply relaxed, saving their energy for the show. A string of the troupe’s rail cars were parked on a spur less than a hundred yards away. The show’s performers were quartered in the private rail cars.

  And so fellow entertainers, milling about the grounds that sunny August morning, stopped what they were doing and came over to watch along with the curious townsfolk. The slender black-haired rider a
stride the big black horse had effortlessly caught the attention of every male within sight, a fact which didn’t go unnoticed by the crafty old Colonel.

  As Diane waved a hand high in the air, bent her knees, and sat back down astride the black, a growing male gathering was at the rail watching, several with field glasses raised. Diane was aware of their presence. And of their interest. She didn’t mind their being there. She hoped they were impressed enough by what they saw to come back and pay hard cash to get into the show.

  One hand riding her thigh, Diane wheeled the stallion about, cantered over to the fence, leaned down, and spoke into the black’s pricked ear.

  “Come on, boy. Let’s take a bow.” She pressed her fingers firmly to his neck, just behind his left jaw, and commanded, “Now, Champ.”

  The black responded just as she knew he would. The well-trained thousand-pound stallion dropped his right knee to the dirt, then crossed his left white-stockinged foot over it and dramatically lowered his great head.

  The uninvited gallery whistled and cheered.

  “Bravo, bravo,” shouted the pleased Colonel.

  “Amazing!” enthused the young reporter.

  “Good boy,” murmured Diane, patting the black’s neck. She softly commanded him to remain as he was, head lowered. Then agilely she slid forward from his bare back, down along his curved neck, over his bowed head, and off.

  She threw her arms triumphantly in the air, went up on her moccasined toes, flashed a million-dollar smile, turned immediately back to the black, and snapped her fingers. The stallion instantly rose to his full-imposing height and shook his great head about, sending the long black mane dancing. Diane laughed, stuck two fingers down into the pocket of her snug buckskins and produced a lump of sugar.

  Champ eagerly gobbled it up, swallowed, then nudged her gently, whickering softly. Pleading for more.

  Diane refused. She grabbed a handful of his coarse mane and gave it a playful yank. She shook her head and told him, “Beggars never get anywhere with me, big boy. The sooner you learn that lesson, the better well get along.” But she affectionately clamped an arm around his head, pressed it to her chest, and laid her cheek against his. Then she swiftly slapped him away when he sniffed and nuzzled her breasts, searching for the hidden sugar.