Nan Ryan Read online

  One of the animal handlers hurried forward. Diane tossed him the reins, thanked him, and gave the black’s rump a swat, sending him on his way. The sun was behind her, making a halo of her dark hair, when she stepped up to the tall fence where her grandfather and the young reporter waited.

  The Colonel made the introductions. Robert Mitchell eagerly reached through the fence to shake Diane’s hand.

  “Miss Buchannan,” he said admiringly, “you were wonderful!”

  “Not really.” She was modest. “It’s the horse who is wonderful.” She withdrew her hand and shifted her attention to her grandfather. “Colonel, soon as Shorty gets back, I don’t want anyone but him around Champ.”

  “I’ll tell him,” assured the Colonel. The reporter cleared his throat. The Colonel glanced at the younger man. Robert Mitchell was making faces. “What is it, son? Oh … oh, yes.” The Colonel turned back to Diane. “This young man has invited me to have lunch with him at the Metropolitan and he thought you might like to join us.”

  “Sorry, I’ve already promised Texas Kate I’d have lunch with her.” Diane smiled at the reporter. “Some other time perhaps.”

  His face immediately registering his disappointment, Robert Mitchell nodded. “Yes. Sure, maybe tomorrow we—”

  But Diane had already turned and walked away.

  Texas Kate sat playing Klondike solitaire. With a deck of fifty-one. It was her favorite way to pass the time. She bragged that she had beat the old joker twice as many times as he had beaten her. She had worn out at least a hundred decks of cards since joining Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show.

  Texas Kate was a big, rawboned native Texan with warm brown eyes, a surprisingly dainty nose, and a wide mouth which was filled with teeth. Her face was broad, plain, and as suntanned as a man’s. She never wore a hat. Her bobbed brown hair was shot with gray and there were permanent laugh lines fanning out from her brown eyes.

  Texas Kate was loud, loyal, and lovable. She enjoyed a good joke, even if it was on her. She never carried tales, or gave unwanted advice, or whined and complained when things didn’t go to suit her. She was dependable, good-hearted, and even-tempered.

  Kate had been the show’s crowd-pleasing female sharpshooter since 1878, the summer she turned thirty-three. She was visiting some distant cousins in Chicago. Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show was in town, and her relatives took her to the Friday night closing performance.

  Katherine Louise Worthington was enthralled with the pageantry, the costumes, and the fine horsemanship. But when the portion of the show came wherein a marksman took the arena to show his stuff, she was not impressed.

  “I could outshoot that fellow with my eyes closed,” she told her cousins.

  And then got the chance to prove it.

  The cocky sharpshooter called for “any man in the audience who thinks he can to come on down. Try and best me.” A half dozen equally cocky men quickly rose and hurried from their seats. Katherine Louise Worthington patiently waited. When all six had been easily put away and sent with their tails between their legs back to the grandstands, she stood up.

  While the smiling sharpshooter, down in the arena, lifted a pair of matching pearl-handled revolvers in salute to the crowd’s appreciative cheers, Katherine Louise Worthington shouted loudly in an unmistakable Texas twang, “How about giving a lady a chance, mister?”

  The crowd guffawed. So did the show’s sharpshooter. But not for long.

  Katherine Louise Worthington didn’t wait for his answer. She scrambled down from her seat, reached the tall arena fence, and scaled over it as easily as an acrobat, her skirts and petticoats flying around her knees. The marksman confidently stood there waiting, watching, a superior smile on his smooth, handsome face. Katherine Louise Worthington ignored his arrogance. Her stride long and determined, she headed for the center of the big arena.

  And in less than five minutes the Texas woman had claimed it for her own.

  Colonel Buck Buchannan was watching that night from the wings. In forty-eight years of living he had never seen such amazing shooting. When the remarkable woman had easily and effectively put his highly paid performer to rest, the Colonel hurried to intercept her before she could go back to her seat.

  He offered Katherine Louise Worthington a salary to match that which he was currently paying the man she had beaten. Katherine Louise Worthington refused him. Said she was mighty tempted but she and her husband owned a ranch down in South Texas. She was just in Chicago on a visit.

  Thinking fast, the Colonel suggested that her husband become one of his famed Rough Riders. It was then Katherine Louise Worthington explained that her husband wasn’t exactly available at the moment to travel with the show.

  “You see, Colonel Buchannan,” the smiling, stocky woman from Texas explained, running fingers through her light brown curls, “Teddy Ray—that’s my sweet husband’s name—Teddy Ray hasn’t come back yet from the war.”

  “The war? What war? I know of no war that—”

  “Why, the War Between the States!” Kate looked at him as if he didn’t have good sense. “Teddy Ray left me behind in Texas and joined up with the Rebs when I was still a bride, sixteen years old. He was no more than nineteen himself, but we had a little spread we worked together, a few head of cattle. I’m still working the place. I expect Teddy Ray will come home one of these days.” She smiled, thinking fondly of her husband. “I feel half guilty just being here in Chicago.”

  Gently the Colonel said, “But, my dear, the war’s been over now for thirteen years.”

  “Lordy, I know that. You think I’m thickheaded?” Katherine Louise Worthington’s fists lifted to rest on broadening hips. “I told Teddy Ray I would wait, and I’m waitin’. I never got word he was dead. They said he was missin’ after that big battle at Rosy Ridge. Missus’ ain’t dead, Colonel. No, sir. My sweet Teddy Ray may just show up one of these days, and when he does—”

  “Tell you what, Mrs. Worthington.” The Colonel interrupted. “You leave word down in Texas where you are, what you’re doing. Come with the show. Then, when Teddy Ray gets back, you quit and go home to the ranch. How does that sound?”

  Katherine Louise Worthington narrowed her brown eyes and mulled it over. “Mind you now, it could only be temporary,” she said thoughtfully, obviously interested in his offer. “The minute my Teddy Ray—”

  “Why, certainly, certainly. Just sign on with the show until Teddy Ray’s return.”

  That had been seventeen years ago, and Texas Kate still traveled with the show, dazzling audiences with her incredible shooting talents, endearing herself to her fellow performers with her unflappable nature and sincere friendliness. And still religiously pointing out to the Colonel and everyone else in the troupe that her traveling with Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show was only temporary. Soon as her Teddy Ray returned, she’d be going back home to Texas to help him work the ranch.

  Texas Kate slapped a black king—the last card in her hand—atop one of the four stacks of cards on the table and laughed out loud. Diane heard the laughter and knew Texas Kate had beaten the joker again.

  Diane knocked, gripped either side of the open door, and stuck her head inside. Texas Kate waved and motioned for her to come in.

  Diane was about to do just that when a commotion from across the arena made her turn to look. Texas Kate heard it as well, shoved back her chair, got up, and hurried to the door.

  The two women stared as a small band of mounted men approached from the west. In the lead was a big, muscular man with dark blond hair who was calling excitedly to the Colonel.

  “Who is that?” asked Diane, a hand lifted to shade her eyes.

  “He’s the Cherokee Kid,” said Texas Kate, squinting as the contingent drew closer. “Come on in. There’s nothing to see. Just the boys back down from the mountains. Heck, I’ll bet they didn’t even manage to catch a big cat.” She laughed and turned away.

  “Mmm,” murmured Diane, still staring.
She saw her grandfather, the reporter close on his heels, limping hurriedly toward the arriving riders and secretly wished she could stroll over and see what all the excitement was about.

  Inwardly sighing, she dragged her gaze away and stepped up into the cozy rail car she shared with Texas Kate.

  The Colonel was out of breath when he reached the western perimeter of the exhibition grounds. The Cherokee Kid swung down out of his saddle, a wide grin on his unshaven face, and stepped up to the older man.

  “Well, son, you get us a big cat?” asked the Colonel.

  “Sure did,” said the Cherokee Kid, stripping off his kidskin gloves and shoving them into his hip pocket. “But forget about the cougar for now. I’ve brought you a real prize, Colonel.” Over his shoulder he called out, “Davey, bring him on up here.”

  Fierce scuffling, grunts, moans, and the sound of clanking chains caused the Colonel’s eyes to widen speculatively and blink in the bright noonday sun. The brawny Leatherwoods forcefully dragged their stubborn prey forward.

  Ironed hand and foot, a heavy steel chain around his neck, a tall, wild-looking Indian, straining against his bonds, hatred flashing in his dark eyes, and fresh bruises on his near-naked body, was proudly presented to the gaping Colonel.

  “Take a look, Colonel Buchannan!” said the beaming Cherokee Kid. “Can you believe it? An honest-to-God wild Injun! He’s just what this old ailing show needs.”

  The Colonel stared at the creature, whose dark face was flushed, mouth skinned back over his teeth, eyes red with rage. When those anguished eyes met the Colonel’s, the redman made some shapes with his lips, but no words came. Only animal sounds. And loud, rapid breaths that were drawn in rattling gasps.

  “I’ve seen one of these creatures before,” boasted the Cherokee Kid. “Spooky! His eyes were bloodred and he foamed at the mouth.”

  The Colonel made no reply. He continued to study the fierce, wild heathen struggling vainly against the imprisoning bonds. In the hot sunshine every muscle of his body strained and rippled beneath the filthy bronzed flesh. Inhuman sounds erupted from the chain-cinched throat. The big near-naked creature’s appearance was that of a trapped animal. He radiated menace. He threw off a scent of danger. Threat shone from his wild dark eyes.

  The Cherokee Kid continued hopefully, “Sure, we have Indians in the troupe—lots of ’em—but hell, they’re all middle-aged or older and as fat and tame as old ladies. They couldn’t scare a child. Look at this beast. He’s totally wild. A throwback to the old days. A heathen that’s still as untamed as his murdering, scalping ancestors.” The Kid looked at the redskin and laughed. “Who knows? Maybe this one’s the Stone Age creature the Pulitzer press has been warning the yahoos about! He’ll scare the living hell out of them.”

  Colonel Buchannan continued to study the trussed Indian. He stepped up to the savage, looked him squarely in the eye, and said, “Savvy English?”

  The Indian grunted, and again his lips made shapes, his eyes flashed, but no words came. Desperately he strained against his bonds. The chains around his throat clanked as he grunted and growled.

  “The creature speaks no English,” said the Kid. “I’m telling you, Colonel, he’s an uncivilized savage and exactly what we need in the show.”

  The Colonel frowned, shook his white head, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He walked around and around the dirty, naked figure. Excitement caused the blood to rush quickly through his veins. Ever the showman, he could already envision huge crowds of curious spectators turning out to see the fragile, fair, refined Diane Buchannan and the fierce, frightening, untamed redskin.

  The Beauty and the Beast!

  No two ways about it, the savage would be a valuable drawing card. Already he could see the creature listed there on the program.

  They would call him THE REDMAN OF THE ROCKIES!

  Chapter 5

  The news spread rapidly.

  Within the hour everyone in the troupe, from the Colonel on down to the lowliest roustabout, was talking of nothing else. All were anxious to have a look at the Redman of the Rockies.

  Including Diane Buchannan.

  The mess tent was abuzz that noontime when she and Texas Kate passed through the long serving line. Tales abounded of how the Cherokee Kid, up in the mountains and temporarily cut off from his hunting party, was suddenly and brutally attacked by a wild, bloodthirsty savage. The Kid, caught totally off guard and unarmed, had been lucky to get away with his life!

  Diane was as curious as the rest. She hurried through the meal, finished in minutes, and left Texas Kate lingering over her apple pie. Outside, Diane looked about, meaning to ask one of the performers where the Redman was being held. It wasn’t necessary. All she had to do was follow the crowd.

  She did just that.

  Everyone was hurrying toward the livestock pens and animal cages located on the flats at the arena’s far north side. Diane rushed to catch up and was just rounding the arena’s large oval when she ran into her grandfather.

  “Diane,” he called, limped forward, and caught her by the arm. “Hold on a minute. Where you headed?”

  “Where do you think?” she said breathlessly. “To see the creature.”

  The old showman shook his white head and gently drew her aside. “Child, you’re to stay away from the Redman. He’s a savage, totally uncivilized and highly dangerous. There’s no telling what he might to do a pretty young woman like you.”

  “Isn’t he restrained?” Diane was annoyed.

  “Yes, chained hand and foot, but there’s no assurance he won’t break away. He’s a powerful brute, and it’s simply not safe to be anywhere close to him. You hear me? Don’t let me catch you near him!”

  “I won’t.”

  Later that same afternoon Diane tiptoed forward.

  Her moccasined feet made little or no sound on the dusty plain. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, breath held, Diane stole steadily closer to the unsuspecting Indian.

  His back was to her. She knew he didn’t see her, didn’t hear her approaching. The relaxed attitude of his body indicated he had no idea she or anyone else was within a mile of him. His heavy, powerful arms were lifted. The fingers of both hands were curled around the slender bars directly before him. A long, shiny braid, its end bound with sleek otter skin, lay atop a massive shoulder. The other braid hung down his back.

  Diane silently crept up on him. Her heart drummed in her chest. Her mouth was dry. She expected him to sense her presence at any second. She reached him, stood not a foot behind him. Slowly, cautiously she lifted her arms. Quickly she thrust her hands in front of his face and covered his eyes with her fingers, taking him totally by surprise.

  For a split second the startled Indian did nothing. Didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t make a sound.

  Then deep laughter rumbled from his massive chest and shook the old Indian’s squat body. Diane laughed as well and withdrew her hands. He turned from the barred ticket cage to face her, his broad, wrinkled face alight with joy.

  “Little Buck!” Ancient Eyes exclaimed happily as his gargantuan arms enclosed her in a bone-crushing embrace. “How you been, Little Buck?”

  Laughing, Diane hugged the old Ute chieftain who never called her by any other name. To him she was not Diane; she was Little Buck. She had known Ancient Eyes all her life. Balanced on his knee, she had listened by the hour while he told fascinating stories of the old days he’d spent among his people. Happy days when he was young and strong and roamed the rugged Shining Mountains as proud and free as the soaring eagle. As wild as the winds that howled around the highest peaks.

  Struggling to free herself from his steel grasp, Diane said, “I’m great, and you?”

  Ancient Eyes released her. The broad smile remained on his wrinkled face; his black eyes glittered. “I old. How good can I be?” He shrugged dismissively.

  “You’ll never be old,” said she. Then: “What are you doing out here at the ticket cage? Something going on inside?”

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bsp; He grinned and confided, “Thought maybeso find tobacco or cigarette somebody leave. No luck. You have tobacco, Little Buck?”

  Diane laughed. “No, but I’ll help with the search. Come on.” She took his arm and they strolled toward the newly constructed grandstands. On the way they bumped into one of the show’s Rough Riders. Diane nudged Ancient Eyes, nodded toward a telltale yellow tobacco sack string dangling from the cowboy’s breast pocket.

  So Ancient Eyes was puffing contentedly on a hastily rolled cigarette when they left the obliging Rough Rider. On they strolled, reaching the grandstands. There in the hot afternoon sunshine they sat and visited, enjoying each other’s company. They laughed and talked like a couple of kids.

  Ancient Eyes was endlessly curious about Washington. Once, long ago, he had visited that distant place with Chief Ouray. There he had met the Great White Father, Andrew Johnson. He wanted to know about the new Great White Father, so Diane answered question after question.

  Finally she asked one of her own.

  “Tell me about the Redman.” Diane was looking directly at Ancient Eyes’ dark, lined face. She caught the strange expression that leaped into his obsidian eyes, saw the slight tightening of his mouth. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing wrong,” said Ancient Eyes.

  But Diane was left with the uneasy feeling that something was bothering the old chief. Something he wouldn’t talk about. Something to do with the Redman of the Rockies.

  Sensitive to his feelings, Diane was sorry she had brought it up. Immediately she changed the subject. She asked how he’d like to watch her put her black show stallion, Champ, through his paces while she did some fancy trick riding on the horse’s back.

  “Break fool neck if not careful, Little Buck,” Ancient Eyes warned.