Nan Ryan (8 page)

Shorty stepped up to the creature’s locked cage. The key to the cage had been taken from its secret hiding place in Ancient Eyes’ quarters. Other than the old Ute chieftain, only Shorty knew where it was kept. Key in hand, Shorty unlocked the barred door, opened it, and stepped up inside.

And grunted in shock and pain when the fierce Redman knocked him flat on his back. The cigarette flew from Shorty’s mouth. The chains and steel cuffs fell from his hands. The Redman exploded from the unlocked cage and ran so swiftly he was a hundred yards from the exhibition grounds before anyone could react. Shouts and yells of warning went up from the troupe. Diane, astride her black stallion, turned in the saddle and stood in the stirrups. She drew in a quick breath when she saw the nearly naked Redman sprinting barefoot across the plain, a picture of graceful ferocity.

The Cherokee Kid and a half dozen mounted Rough Riders wheeled their horses and galloped after the fleeing savage. Despite their inequitable advantage, the Redman almost managed to elude them.

Running for his very life, the creature raced with lightning speed toward the foothills to the west, his silver-streaked raven hair streaming out around his noble head. His long bronzed legs were churning with swift, longstrided precision when all of a sudden a bare foot struck a sharp rock or he sprained an ankle. His powerful, fluid gait abruptly changed. Any hope he’d had of getting away disappeared with that one misstep.

The Cherokee Kid spurred his gelding forward and managed to catch up with his prey. Hugging the lunging mount with his knees, the Kid leaned down, snagged a handful of the Redman’s flowing black hair. He yanked hard. The Redman’s body was jerked backward. He stumbled, fell to his knees, struggled up again.

The Rough Riders encircled him. A well-thrown rope fell over the Redman’s bare shoulders and tightened around his chest, trapping his arms at his sides. A couple of riders dismounted, wrestled the Redman to the ground, and tied his hands behind him. The Kid stayed in the saddle. Smiling, he led the recaptured Redman back to the fairgrounds. Applause rose from the troupe as the Kid cantered his mount, purposely making the Redman run and stumble on his injured foot to keep from falling.

The runaway redskin was promptly placed back in his cage and the door securely locked. He would still have a part in the parade—couldn’t disappoint the public—but he’d remain behind bars, locked safely in his cage. The wheeled flatbed supporting his cage would be drawn down Broadway by a quartet of horses.

While the workmen made the necessary adjustments, the Colonel reined his mount over alongside the Kid.

The Kid looked up, shook his blond head, and said, “That was a close one, Colonel. I’m afraid that savage is nothing but trouble.”

“On the contrary, Kid,” the master showman calmly replied, “he’s a godsend. We’ll make his attempted escape a part of the show.”

The Kid frowned. “You mean … no, I don’t think—”

“This is not the East, Kid. The people in Colorado still remember the Meeker Massacre. We’ll set the creature free in the arena. Let him attempt an escape.” The Colonel smiled broadly, blue eyes twinkling, and added, “Then you’ll ride in and recapture him to the sound of deafening applause.”

Beginning to nod, the Kid said, “Imagine the screams and pandemonium when we turn him loose.”

“I can, Kid! Why neither Pawnee Bill nor any other wild west show in the country has an act to compare.”

*   *   *  

After the parade, members of the troupe seized the opportunity to rest, to take a long breather before the evening’s eight o’clock opening performance.

It was a very still, very hot August afternoon. The streets of Denver were now nearly deserted. Workers and shoppers and those who had viewed the parade had fled to the haven of their homes to relax, cool off, and have their evening meals before returning to town for the opening presentation of Colonel Buck Buchannan’s traveling extravaganza.

Diane was not resting. She was restless. She strolled alone down the quiet city streets, stopping to look in store windows, lingering before a fancy restaurant to read the menu posted outside the door. She made a sour face. None of the offered fare sounded good. She wasn’t hungry, though it was well into the supper hour. She blamed the dry Denver heat for her lack of appetite.

She wandered aimlessly on down the street to where the sidewalk ended. Across an empty city block stood the fairgrounds. Diane stopped and smiled guiltily, realizing she was very near the Redman’s cage, realizing as well that she’d been heading there all along. She’d simply taken a detour, choosing the long way around so that no one in the troupe would see her.

Diane crossed the street and plunged determinedly through the empty, weed-choked lot, pushing dead sunflowers out of her path, yanking irritably when her lacy petticoat snagged on a thorny bush. She reached the far side of the block and was about to step down into the dusty street when she heard a whimper, some laughing and scuffling.

She paused, turned her head, listened, and heard it again. She went immediately to investigate, a frown of puzzlement on her face. She came upon a couple of young ruffians behind an old boarded-up warehouse. The large teenaged boys were crouched on the ground, tormenting a tiny, terrified white kitten.

Diane was horrified. She shouted at them to stop and raced to the kitten’s rescue. Her eyes flashed purple fire and she angrily grabbed one of the boys by his shirt collar. She snatched him up with such force it startled him. He came stumbling to his feet, covering his face with his arms, cowering before her.

“Get out of here, both of you!” she snapped commandingly. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, abusing a poor dumb animal!”

She released the boy’s collar with a forceful shove, and both bullies turned tail and ran as fast as their legs would carry them. Her jaw hard, chin squared, Diane shouted after them, “How would you like to be treated like you were treating this defenseless creature? You’re a disgrace to mankind!”

Her eyes lowered and the severe expression on her face softened immediately. She went down on her knees, her long skirts swirling out around her. She very slowly, very gently picked up the trembling kitten and clutched it to her breast. She cradled the scared, meowing little creature close, stroked the soft white fur of its quivering back, and murmured soothingly, laying her cheek to its head.

When the kitten had calmed and quit shaking and mewling, Diane rose to her feet. Holding the tiny ball of white fur against the side of her bare throat, she went in search of its mother. She walked briskly about in back of the warehouse, calling loudly..

In seconds a relieved old mama cat came flying through the tall weeds of the vacant lot. Diane went back down on her knees and quickly gave the kitten over. Then stayed as she was for a long moment more, kneeling on the ground, watching the heartwarming, demonstrative reunion.

Someone else was also watching.

Someone had silently witnessed Diane Buchannan’s sudden flash of anger toward the pair of heartless young bullies. Had mutely observed her surprisingly admirable display of bravery when she straightaway confronted the rough-looking pair with no thought to her own safety. Had been an entranced bystander when she comforted the frightened kitten with the inborn tenderness of a protective young mother toward her own precious offspring.

Someone had seen it all.

His dark, impassive face softening ever so slightly when the beautiful raven-haired woman hugged the furry white kitten to her breast, he watched unblinkingly from his barred cage across the dusty alley.

The fierce Redman of the Rockies.

Chapter 7

By sunset the fairgrounds’ newly constructed grandstands were filled to overflowing. Extra folding bleachers had been hastily added to stretch the seating capacity. It was as if not only the city of Denver but the entire state of Colorado had turned out en masse for the nighttime premiere performance of
Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show
.

As the appointed hour approached, the heart of every performer beat a little faster. Opening-night jitters were nothing more than a building excitement, a tingling anticipation which caused the blood to surge swiftly through veins, pulses to quicken pleasantly. The troupe was experienced and totally confident. All the same the performers felt vitally alive and childishly eager to get out there before the huge, expectant crowd and do their stuff.

All was ready.

Run-throughs had gone smoothly. The lights had been tested and retested. The dusty arena watered down. Huge, colorfully painted backdrops stood just outside the show ring, arranged numerically, their numbers corresponding to the show segments in which they would be used.

So now, as the still summertime darkness settled over the Queen City of the Rockies, Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Cowboy Band serenaded the last of the straggling spectators into their seats, a late change had been made on the show’s agenda. One not listed on the printed programs. The eager crowds filling the fairgrounds were in store for an even more exciting evening than promised.

SHOWTIME
.

The oval arena was totally dark. The crowd in the packed grandstands sat in darkness. The brief flare of matches, the scattered glow of cigarettes sprinkled orange pinpoints of light throughout the bleachers. It appeared to be a giant gathering of luminous orange fireflies. The hum of a thousand separate conversations competed with the band’s playing of martial and show tunes.

And then …

All at once the band went into a loud fanfare. At the same time bright calcium flares blazed to life, illuminating the empty arena as wild west banners slowly descended. All conversation stopped. Every head turned. Each pair of eyes focused on the lighted arena’s south entrance gate.

Loud cheers and whistles greeted him as that grand old gentleman of the Plains, Colonel Buck Buchannan, galloped into the arena astride a glorious white stallion with wild, glowing eyes. Horse and rider, caught and framed in the blue mirrored spotlight, were a sight to behold.

The Colonel was dressed all in snowy white gabardine. His shirt and trousers were heavily fringed and decorated with gleaming silver embroidery. The trousers were stuffed into handmade leather boots; the boots’ tops inlaid with silver. On his hands were fringed white gauntlets, and atop his white head a white Stetson was cocked at a jaunty angle.

His magnificent white steed, Captain, was equally well turned out with fancy trappings of white and silver. His long white mane and strips of wide silver ribbon had been meticulously plaited together into a dozen perfect, gleaming silver and white braids. Saddle and bridle were heavily embellished with silver.

The wide smile on Colonel Buck Buchannan’s face was brighter by far than the calcium flares. The Colonel reared Captain up on his hind legs and lifted his white Stetson in a sweeping salute to the audience. A crescendo of applause erupted as the mighty stallion turned around and around on his two hind legs, the man on his back seated militarily straight.

Flowers were tossed at the Colonel and Captain as they began a tour of the ring. One hand loosely holding the reins, the other proudly waving his Stetson, the Colonel hailed his adoring gallery. The white stallion pranced, strutted, cantered, and danced to the music, leaping softly in the light.

So entranced was the crowd by the old master showman and his trained white stallion it took a minute for them to realize that other performers had followed the Colonel into the arena.

Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show
was officially under way, the extravaganza opening with a colorful Grand Review. The fast-paced spectacle left the audience breathless. Featured performers galloped into the ring and pulled up sharply on their horses right in front of the packed stands. Some mounts reared as the Colonel’s white stallion had done. Others bowed. Still others pranced back and forth.

The smiling, waving stars made a full circle around the arena and followed the Colonel out into the darkness as the rest of the cast entered. First came the big bell wagon, all bells clanging loudly, the heavy wagon being pulled by the renowned Belgian horses weighing- a ton each. Next the old-time chuck wagon, making a perfect figure eight in the arena. Then the gilded lion cage, bars close together, tawny mountain lion snarling and pacing inside. Other cages decorated with mirrors and gold gilt and housing wild animals paraded into the ring.

Then in rode the Indians, led by Ancient Eyes in colorful war bonnet, his lance raised. Feathered and painted and shrieking war hoops, a contingent of Utes and Pawnees and Arapahos rode their bareback paint ponies into the light.

After the Indians, dozens of Mexican vaqueros in bright, colorful serapes and oversize sombreros. Next the Cossacks and Bengal Lancers, all in native costume. Then the Rough Riders and charros. And suddenly the big arena was filled with cowboys, on foot and on horseback, herding along steers, buffaloes, mules, and horses.

The shouts of the riders, the whips’ lashes, the neighs, bellows, and snorts of the animals, the creak of saddle leather, the colorful costumes, the stirring music—sounds and sights of the magnificent spectacle. With remarkable precision and pace, hundreds of men and animals moved around the arena and back out into the dark recesses outside.