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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.