Nan Ryan

by Written in the Stars

  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.

  Right on their heels a special carriage rolled in, carrying the famed female sharpshooter, Texas Kate. She was smiling and waving, basking happily in the loud applause. Her graying brown hair was tightly curled around her broad, beaming face. She wore a fringed blouse and shirt, bolo tie, and boots. The front of her blouse was covered with marksmen’s medals.

  The carriage stopped in the arena’s center. Texas Kate stepped down into the spotlight with pistol, rifle, and shotgun. She was always first on the program. Years ago the Colonel had designed the show to graduate in excitement. Aware that shooting and shouts might unnerve the women and children in the audience, he brought on Texas Kate very early in the performance.

  Kate started very gently, shooting only with a pistol. It worked perfectly. The young children and the nervous women in the audience saw a smiling, harmless woman out there and soon relaxed. When Texas Kate had their total trust, she switched to the rifle and gradually increased until she was shooting with full charge. Skillfully she prepared the audiences for any frightening act that might come later.

  For a good half hour the trigger-talented Texas Kate put on a shooting exhibition unlike anything the paying crowd had ever seen. Bullets cracked and objects exploded as the smiling sure-shot female marksman hit stationary targets, moving targets, flying targets. Texas Kate beat her own record when she hit a total of forty-nine out of fifty glass balls tossed into the air. At thirty paces she hit the narrow edges of playing cards. She perfectly plugged silver dimes tossed into the air.

  The finishing segment of her routine was the crowd’s favorite. Texas Kate’s quiet assistant, the skinny little cowboy who had driven her carriage into the arena and tossed the glass balls, the cards, the dimes for her, now shyly moved into the spotlight, waving a package of cigarettes in his hand. Propmen, hidden in the darkness, rolled into place a protective brick barricade behind him.

  Shorty Jones was not actually a performer, but he assisted Texas Kate in her act. For two reasons. First, nobody else in the troupe volunteered. Second, Shorty seized any opportunity to be around Texas Kate. Shorty Jones had been secretly, silently sweet on Kate for more than a decade. He’d never told her in so many words, but he suspected she knew. Trouble was, she didn’t care. She was still waiting for another man. Shorty knew he could never hope to measure up to the missing Teddy Ray Worthington.

  Shorty stepped back against the temporary barricade, shook a ready-made cigarette from his pack, stuck it into his mouth, and lit up. Texas Kate picked up her pearl-handled pistols, held them high in the air, then paced off fifty feet. She turned and immediately fired ten shots in rapid succession, first with one hand, then the other, snipping an nth of a degree from Shorty’s lighted cigarette with each shot.

  She shot so fast and so accurately that her incredible performance was over too soon to suit the screaming crowd. People were still whistling and begging for more when Texas Kate, allowing Shorty to help her back up into the carriage, waved as she was driven out of the spotlight and into the darkness.

  The applause finally died away.

  Silence.

  Then a shout from a man out in the audience. “Where’s that Beauty? Bring on the Beauty!”

  From another section of the grandstands. “Beauty! We want the Beauty! The Beauty and the Beast!”

  “Beauty and the Beast!” Others took up the chant. “The Beauty and the Beast! Beauty and the Beast! The Beauty and the—”

  Shouting, yipping scouts and vaqueros and bawling steers, untamed horses, and charging buffaloes filled the arena, drowning out the shouts, commanding the crowd’s attention. Lassos whirled through the air, encircling hooves, necks, ears, and even tails of the thundering herds. Nimble vaqueros leaped from horse to horse, from horse to ground, from ground to horse.

  And then the Rough Riders—the tough gristle and bone cowboys—led by the blond, handsome Cherokee Kid astride his snorting chestnut stallion. They were the real thing, these men, wild and rough, the last of a rugged breed being slowly pushed off the plains by progress and civilization. They galloped like the Wild Bunch into the arena, guns blazing, scaring spectators and scattering the troupe.

  In a stirring finale the riders joined forces and staged an old-time roundup. They cut cattle from the herd, roped and branded them. Soon all disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  When the dust settled and the applause subsided, a faint throb of drums filled the air. Into the ring marched the proud redskins as the drums grew louder, faster. Lances raised, feather bustles and headdresses fluttering in the breeze, the old war chiefs and their braves went into their symbolic tribal dances to the riotous approval of the audience.

  However, the crowd’s captivation with the Indians’ colorful ceremony was short-lived. The Indian the people most wanted to see was not dancing to the drums. He was not in the arena. The Redman of the Rockies was nowhere in sight.

  As quickly as they had come, the Indians danced then-way out of the arena as the throb of the drums grew muffled and died away.

  Again there was silence. And again darkness as the calcium flares were lowered and turned out. Seconds passed. A pinpoint of soft blue light suddenly appeared in the darkened arena’s center. The light grew bigger. And bigger. The growing mirrored spotlight picked up a horse and rider. A slender black-haired woman and a sleek black-coated stallion. Neither horse nor rider moved. They might have been an incredibly lifelike statue, save for the slight breeze from out of the east lifting the ends of the woman’s raven hair, the stallion’s flowing black mane.

  The temporarily dazed crowd came roaring to its feet as a dazzling smile began to spread over the pale, perfect face of the rider.

  “Beauty!” they loudly hailed her. “Beauty! Beauty!” they shouted excitedly to the slender raven-haired woman astride the magnificent black stallion. Diane was nothing less than spectacular. Dressed in black satin shirt and tight-fitting black leather trousers, her tall, shapely body mounted up on the big black horse, she looked every inch the western queen, not to be crossed. She was the envy of every woman in the audience, the dream girl of every man. She went immediatel
y into her routine.

  The noise subsided when, with only a soft-spoken command to Champ, the big black wheeled about and went into a fast, dirt-flinging gallop. When the stallion reached top speed, Diane shot to her feet on his back.

  For the next half hour Diane commanded the attention of the crowd with her daring riding and roping skills. She leaped to the ground while the black stallion sprinted across the arena. Then leaped back astride his back. She slid down underneath his neck, slipped down his long, flowing tail, rode the big creature in ways no one would have thought possible.

  She got out her lariat and put on a roping exhibition that was every bit as thrilling as the fancy riding. She lassoed the black’s neck, his belly, his ear, his tail. She roped one front hoof, then two. She spelled out her name with the rope, drawing oohs and aahs as, one letter at a time, she wrote out “Diane” with the spinning, perfectly tossed rope. The crowd stomped its feet and cheered when she tossed the lariat up into the grandstands. She climbed on Champ’s back, wheeled him left, and went into her final act: the mounted somersault.

  Loud applause, whistles, and shouts of “Bravo, Beauty! Bravo, Beauty, bravo!” escorted her out of the arena. Exhilarated, out of breath, Diane slid down off Champ’s back just outside the entrance. She tossed the reins to one of the waiting wranglers and watched as the black was led away.

  In the dim light she backed into something, turned, and saw that it was the Redman’s cage. For a second her eyes met those of the creature. He gave her a wild-eyed look that made her shiver. He continued to look straight at her as his cage rolled away. Diane stood there for a moment, feeling faint and foolishly frightened.

  The roar of the crowd drew her attention to the arena. They were screaming, “Redman! Beast! It’s the Beast! The Redman of the Rockies!”

  Diane drew a shallow breath, shook her head, and started to walk away. She changed her mind. Glancing quickly about, she climbed the arena’s tall fence to watch and was appalled by what she saw.