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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