Nan Ryan (5 page)

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 astride 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.

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?”