Ellery had moved his chair closer to Kit Horne, leaving Mara Gay with Tommy Black, while Hunter sat quietly by himself in the rear of the box. Mars had vanished.
“You’re fond of your father, I take it,” murmured Ellery as he noted her eyes roving about the arena.
“He’s so darned — Oh, it’s hard to explain those things.” She smiled, and her straight brows came together in a solemn way. “My affection for him is — well, perhaps greater because he’s not really my father, you know; he adopted me when I was a kid-orphan. He’s been everything the best father could be to me—”
“Oh! I beg your pardon. I didn’t know—”
“You needn’t be apologetic, Mr. Queen. You’ve committed no social error. I’m really very proud. Perhaps,” she sighed, “I haven’t been the best daughter in the world. I see Buck so very seldom these days. The rodeo is bringing us together for the first time in more than a year — closely, I mean.”
“Naturally, with you in Hollywood and Mr. Horne on his ranch—”
“It’s not easy. I’ve been busy on location in California almost without let-up, and with Buck secluded up in Wyoming... I haven’t been able to visit him for more than a day or so every few months. He’s been a lonely man.”
“But why,” asked Ellery, “doesn’t he move to California?”
Kit’s brown little hands tightened. “Oh, I’ve tried to make him. But three years ago he tried a screen comeback and — well, they just don’t come back, it seems, in the movies any more than the prize-fighting game. He took it rather hard and insisted on shutting himself up on his ranch, like a hermit.”
“And you,” said Ellery softly, “the apple of his eye, to be more than slightly horticultural.”
“Yes. He has no family or relatives at all. He leads a horribly lonely life. Except for his yellow cook-boy and a few old-timers who punch the small herd he’s got, he’s alone. Really, his only visitors are myself and Mr. Grant.”
“Ah, the colorful Wild Bill,” murmured Ellery.
She regarded him rather queerly. “Yes, the colorful Wild Bill. Occasionally he stops over at the ranch to spend a few days between rodeo shows. I have been remiss in my duty to Buck! He’s not been well for years now — nothing really wrong with him. I guess it’s just old age. But he’s been losing weight, and—”
“Hi, Kit!”
She flushed, and leaned forward with eagerness. Ellery through half-closed eyes saw Mara Gay’s lips tighten, and her voice faltered the merest trifle as she saw what was happening. The curly head of the glass-ball exterminator was grinning at them from below the rail. Curly Grant had with an easy leap left the saddle, caught the rail, and now hung suspended over the arena. The horse waited philosophically below.
“Why, Curly,” said Kit, “you’ll— Get down this instant!”
“And you a lady acrobat,” grinned Curly. “No, ma’am. Kit, I want to explain—”
Ellery mercifully turned his attention elsewhere.
There was another diversion. The short military figure of Major Kirby appeared at the entrance to the box by the side of Tony Mars, who now seemed in the ultimate heaven of nervousness. He greeted Curly’s disembodied face with a smile, and bowed with a precise little click of his heels to the ladies, shaking hands quietly with the men.
“You know young Grant?” asked the Inspector, as the curly head disappeared below the box and Kit sat back with a flushed smile.
“Yes, indeed,” replied the Major. “He’s one of those fortunate young devils who makes friends everywhere. I met him on the other side.”
“In service, eh?”
“Yes. He was attached to my command.” Major Kirby sighed, and smoothed his little black mustache with an immaculate fingernail. “Ah, the War... A peculiarly rotten brand of delicatessen, if I may say so,” he added. “But Curly — well, he was sixteen, I believe, at the time the great war to end wars called; enlisted under false colors, and very nearly lost his damn fool life at St. Mihiel when he tried to break up a machine-gun nest single-handed. These youngsters were — rash.”
“But heroes,” said Kit softly.
The Major shrugged, and Ellery suppressed a smile. It was evident that Major Kirby, who had probably acquitted himself with distinction in the War, had very few illusions about the glories of battle and the privilege of laying down one’s life for the doubtful importance of wresting two yards more of torn earth from the enemy. “I’m in a bigger war right now,” he said grimly. “You don’t know what competition is until you try to score a scoop on some photographic story. I’m in charge of the newsreel unit here tonight, you know. We’ve got an exclusive.”
“I—” began Ellery with some eagerness.
“But I must be getting back to my men,” continued Major Kirby evenly. “See you later, Tony.” He bowed again, and quickly left the box.
“Great little guy,” muttered Tony Mars. “You wouldn’t believe it to look at him, but he’s one of the crack pistol-shots of the U.S. Army. Used to be, I mean. In the Infantry during the big scrap. Some kind of expert, he’s turned out to be. Newsreels!” He sniffed, and nervously eyed the arena as he fumbled for his watch. Then a vast intensity came over his rather blurred features, and he sat down with the suddenness of a dog coming to point. They all turned their attention to the arena.
It was emptying. Cowboys, cowgirls were riding briskly toward the exits. In a short time there was nothing left to see but the deserted track, the hoof-pocked dirt core of the oval, and the men on the newsreel platform. Major Kirby’s erect little figure appeared, half-running, from one of the side doors; it closed behind him; he bounded across the arena, clambered like a monkey up the wooden ladder, and took his place on the platform among the sound and cameramen.
The crowd hushed.
Djuna drew a curiously musical breath.
Then from the big western gate came small sounds, and a uniformed man swung back the large leaves of the gate, and a lone man on horseback rode forth. He was a squat powerful man dressed in tattered old corduroys and a rather aged Stetson. At his right side hung a holstered revolver. He galloped recklessly across the track to the very center of the dirt oval, brought his horse to a sliding stop in a cloud of flying clods, stood erect in his stirrups, took off his hat with his left hand, waved it once, put it back on his head, and stood there that way, smiling.
Thunderous applause! Stamping feet! One Djuna’s feet particularly.
“Wild Bill,” whispered Tony Mars. His face was pale.
“What the devil you so nervous about, Tony?” asked Tommy Black with a deep chuckle.
“I’m always twitchy as a snow-bird at these damn openings,” growled the promoter. “Shh!”
The man on horseback shifted his grip on the reins to his left hand, with his right jerking the revolver out of his holster. It had a long dulled-blue barrel which winked wickedly under the arcs. He flung his arm roofward and the gun kicked back, exploding with a roar. And he opened his heavy old mouth and screamed: “Yooooowwww!” with such a sustained wolfish quality that the echoes slithered off the rafters and startled the crowd into silence.
The revolver was hammered back into the holster. And Wild Bill, sinking down into his saddle, put one hand affectionately on his saddle-horn and opened his mouth again.
“La-dees and Gentle-men,” he bellowed, and the words carried far distances, so that those in the topmost tiers heard clearly: “Per-mit me to wel-come you to the Grrrand Open-ing of Wild Bill Grrrant’s Rrro-deo! (Applause) The Larrrgest Ag-gre-ga-shun of Cow-boys an’ Cow-girrrls in the Worrrld! (Cheers) Frrrom the sun-baked plains of Tex-ahs to the Rrrroll-in’ Rrrranges of Wy-oming, frrrom the Grrreat State of Arrrizo-nah to the Mount-ins of Montanah, these Darrre-devils have come for Yore Enter-tain-ment! (Wild Stamping of Feet) To risk Life an’ Limb in Dange-rrrous Con-tests of Skill in Rrrropin’, Rrrridin’, Bull-doggin’, Shootin’ — all the stunts that go to make the Grrreat-est Sport in the Worrrld — the Good Ole-Fashion’ Rrrrodeo! An’ T’night, La-dees and Gentlemen, in ad-di-shun to my reg’lar show, I have the Grrreat Hon-or to pre-sent to the Grrreat Cit-y of Noo Yawk A SPECIAL EXTRAH ADD-ED AT-TRACTION!”