Desperado

  “I’m a trained military officer. I can probably outshoot you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Pick up the other pistol, Annie Oakley, and make sure this crowd doesn’t come closer.” He grinned at her, and Helen realized that he was enjoying this whole dangerous scenario. Men!

  Tsking her criticism, Helen took the gun out of the belt, checked the barrel for ammunition, then took aim at the entrance to the alleyway, with both hands wrapped around the handle of the weapon. All the men took two steps backward, including Pablo, who gawked at her as if she was Madonna—and not the religious one. Great, now the blabbermouth would add gun moll to his list of her talents.

  Rafe flashed her an appreciative smile. Even in the midst of peril, she felt that annoying flutter in her stomach at his killer smile.

  “Maybe this really is a movie set—Shoot-Out at the O.K. Alley,” he quipped. Then his rascally eyes locked on the seat of Helen’s pants, clearly delineated by the tight fabric of her slacks, which were tautened by her spread-legged, braced-for-firing position. “I know what I want to do when the action scene is over. How about you?”

  Oh, God! The flutter fluttered some more.

  Enough of this silliness! She glowered at Rafe, who was still grinning. “Grow up and stop kidding around. Besides, the only action you’re going to see from me is a wave of the hand when I say bye-bye. You can pan gold till doomsday, but I’m going home.”

  “We’ll see, honey.” He winked.

  Criminey! Smiles and winks. I am losing ground here fast. Maybe this is one of those endorphin highs military men claim to get in the midst of combat.

  Rafe turned back to Ignacio. “I’m going to step back a pace, but I still have my gun aimed at your head. When I move away, I want you to turn real slow and hand me your ammo belts.”

  “I ain’t givin’ you nothin’,” Ignacio protested, spinning to face him.

  “Oh, I think you will,” Rafe said. “Look there.” Pointing to the City Hotel sign about twenty feet away, Rafe raised his gun, twirled it around his forefinger like a regular show-off gunslinger, then shot. Perfectly.

  The miners stepped back another few steps, and a collective “aaaah” of approval swept through the crowd. Odds in the betting shifted in favor of Rafe.

  “Someone forgot to dot the ‘i,’” Rafe said with bald-faced arrogance. “Anyone have an ‘i’ they want dotted?”

  Silence met his question.

  Helen gaped at Rafe, who swiftly took her loaded weapon, handed her his to reload, and aimed once more at Ignacio, this time dead center on his forehead.

  “You shoulda known, Ignacio, that the Angel could handle a gun,” Pablo called out to his boss.

  Ignacio shot his sidekick a scowl of incredulity, stuttering something about not needing advice from halfwits. But, wisely, Ignacio chose to lift his ammunition belts from his chest and drop them to the ground. “You weel pay for this, Señor Ángel. That I promise.”

  Rafe motioned to Helen. “Now, what do you say we head on out to the pass?” he drawled in a husky Gary Cooper rumble, already backing toward the other end of the alley. He held the gun and ammo belts in one hand, the raised revolver in the other.

  Helen joined him, her gun raised as well.

  They had backed up a short distance when a steely voice said behind them, “What the hell’s goin’ on here?”

  Uh oh.

  They turned to see a tall man wearing a shiny badge leveling a rifle at them. The lawman, who resembled John Wayne—Good Lord, first Gary Cooper, now the Duke!—was flanked by four other men, also wearing badges and carrying rifles. Sancho stood in the background, beaming with satisfaction. He gave a little wave to Helen.

  “Lower your guns, nice and easy,” the gruff-voiced sheriff demanded.

  As they dropped their guns to the ground, Helen frowned at Rafe. “If you hadn’t wasted time with your Clint Eastwood games, we would have been out of here.”

  “Do you ever stop nagging?” Rafe countered.

  The Duke stepped closer. “Mind telling me what’s goin’ on here, folks?”

  “He ees the Angel Bandit, and we have brought him here for the reward,” Ignacio announced, rushing forward.

  “And she ees Elena, the greatest corkscrewer in the West,” Pablo added with pride, pointing to Helen, “and she belongs to us.”

  “We’re gonna have us a hangin’ tonight,” some of the miners yelled, moving into the alley. “And tomorrow we’re gonna bid on Miss Elena’s favors.”

  Here we go again, Helen thought. “Any bright ideas now, hot stuff?”

  “God, I’d like to duct-tape your mouth. And that condescending nose of yours, too.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “Are you two married?” the Duke asked Rafe. “The little lady’s got a mighty sharp tongue, jist like my wife.”

  Rafe shot Helen a “So there!” smirk, and she stuck out her tongue at him. She immediately regretted her immature reaction. Lord, when had she reverted to such childish behavior?

  “Did you see what she did with her tongue? Did you?” Pablo enthused to the prospectors who now filled one end of the alleyway. “It mus’ be another trick she ees practicing.”

  Helen put her hands over her ears to tune out the raunchy responses to Pablo’s observation.

  Rafe looked at her, a smile in his dancing eyes, and Helen threatened, “Don’t you dare say anything.”

  The sheriff shook his head from side to side. “Yep, they gotta be married.”

  Ignacio pushed his way in front of the sheriff, whining, “When weel I get my money?”

  “What money?”

  “The reward for capturing El Ángel Bandido.”

  “This guy’s not the Angel Bandit,” the sheriff declared. “I jist got me a telegram from the marshall in San Francisco today. The slimy snake was caught this mornin’ robbin’ an Army paymaster near the bay.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Ignacio stuttered. “He mus’ be. He looks jist like him.”

  “Mebbe.” The sheriff shrugged. “But unless he has angel wings an’ kin fly, there’s no way he could get here from San Francisco in half a day.”

  “He does have angel wings,” Pablo reported joyfully. “On his arse.”

  The sheriff looked at Pablo as if he’d flipped his lid. “I thought angel wings were supposed to be on the shoulders,” he said with a guffaw. The other men joined in his derision.

  “Show him yer arse,” an embarrassed Pablo urged Rafe.

  “Not on your life!” Rafe laughed.

  “Elena has wings on her arse, too,” Pablo continued, despite the hoots of ridicule.

  Everyone’s attention turned to her. She cringed as hot blood rushed to her face.

  “It ees the truth,” Pablo added, more weakly, his shoulders slumping with dejection.

  Helen almost felt sorry for the fool. Almost. “For the hundredth time, I . . . am . . . not . . . Elena.” She turned to the lawman then. “My name is Helen Prescott. I’m a major in the U.S. Arm—”

  “Tell them,” Pablo interrupted, calling on Ignacio and Sancho for corroboration. “Tell them she has the angel’s mark on her arse.”

  Both men nodded vigorously.

  “Sí, they both have matching angel wing tattoos on their arses,” Ignacio elaborated. “That proves he ees the Angel, and she ees his woman, Elena.”

  “It’s a butterfly,” Rafe and Helen said at the same time.

  “Gawdamighty!” the sheriff gnashed out with frustration. “I think ya all lost yer bloomin’ minds.”

  “I want my reward,” Ignacio asserted.

  “There ain’t gonna be no reward,” the sheriff gritted out. “I already told ya that the Angel Bandit was captured this mornin’ in San Francisco. Now, let’s break up this crowd.”

  Ignacio’s crafty face flushed purple with rage. Then he took in the new situation and changed direction. “Well, at least we still have Elena. She weel bring in mucho dolares at the bidding mañana.”

&nbs
p; “You’re not touching my wife,” Rafe snarled, linking the fingers of one of his hands with hers.

  “You can’t prove she’s yer wife. She belongs to us,” Ignacio shouted, pulling on her other arm.

  Rafe clasped her hand tighter, glancing at the sheriff.

  The Duke’s eyes took in her trousers—clearly scandalous attire for that time—and he rolled his shoulders. “I’m not gettin’ involved in any dispute over a whore. Settle it yerselves.”

  Helen seethed.

  Rafe squeezed her hand.

  Ignacio pulled harder on her other arm.

  “Maybe you oughta check out the brands on those horses Ignacio and his gang brought into town tonight,” Rafe suggested coolly to the departing lawmen.

  The sheriff stopped suddenly and turned. His narrowed eyes cut to Ignacio, while his right hand began to raise a rifle. Apparently, harassing a whore amounted to no big offense, but horse theft was another matter entirely.

  Ignacio released her arm, starting to back away. Helen saw Pablo and Sancho sidle toward the crowd of miners and disappear.

  Raising his rifle higher, the sheriff growled, “I don’t s’pose those horses have the Rancho Salerno brand on ’em?”

  Ignacio made a low, gurgling squeak in his throat.

  “C’mon, men, I think we got us a few horses ta inspect,” ol’ John Wayne said, his rifle now pressed directly into the fat belly of Ignacio, whose exit was blocked by the wall of miners. “How many horses they got?” the sheriff asked Rafe.

  Rafe shrugged. “Ten, I think.”

  The sheriff nodded and motioned for Ignacio to move in front of him toward the alley entrance. The miners opened a path in their center for their passage, along with the four deputies.

  Helen and Rafe stayed behind, realizing at the same moment that they were free. They shared a quick smile.

  The miners seemed undecided about whether to follow the sheriff for that entertainment, or to stay and see what Rafe and Helen were going to do.

  “Are you gonna be corkscrewin’ t’night?” the trapper they’d met up with earlier called out to Helen, his attention shifting back and forth between her and the shrieking squeals of Ignacio out on the street behind him.

  “No,” Helen stated firmly.

  “Well, not for anyone but her husband,” Rafe added brightly as he buckled on Ignacio’s holsters, inserted the discarded pistols, and crisscrossed the ammo belts over his chest.

  “Not for anyone,” Helen emphasized.

  “We’ll give you five hundred dollars in gold dust,” one of the hayseed twins offered.

  “Well . . .” Rafe said, tapping his chin pensively.

  Helen could tell by the twinkle in his eyes that he was teasing, but she glared at him impatiently.

  “Just kidding, guys. She’s not for sale. Anytime. Anyplace. Anywhere.”

  Grumbling, the men began to walk away.

  Rafe turned back to her then. “Happy now?”

  A delayed reaction set in. Trembling, she could barely nod her head. “God, I am so tired and dirty and hot. I wish I could take a bath and sleep for two days. Then wake up in the twentieth century.”

  “Me, too.” He reached out a hand and brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. The expression on his face was unreadable, but the whispery caress seemed to have significance. The gesture touched her deeply.

  “How did I do as a hero?” he joked, but Helen saw a vulnerable, almost needful, emotion on his handsome face.

  Her heart went out to him in a way she just couldn’t explain. She should have answered in the same, lighthearted tone, but her innate honesty forced her to confess, “The best.”

  He smiled at her with such tenderness that Helen felt tears well in her eyes. Holding her gaze, Rafe leaned down and brushed his lips across hers—a brush of a kiss, so brief she almost missed it. But Helen’s world tilted askew, and she knew from Rafe’s sharp intake of breath that he was equally affected.

  Without a word, they headed for the other end of the alley.

  “So,” Rafe said huskily, looping an arm over her shoulders as they walked, “we make quite a team, don’t we?”

  She prepared to make a prissy remark, to criticize him for the familiarity of his embrace, not to mention the kiss. Subordinate officers didn’t kiss their superiors.

  Instead, she laid her head on the cradle of his chest, nuzzling his warm neck, and murmured, “Yeah, we do.”

  First we eat, and then . . .

  For more than an hour, they strolled arm in arm, through the 1850 town of Sacramento, stopping every few steps to examine and comment on the extraordinary sights. With their escape from the bungling bandits and their impulsive kiss, their relationship had entered a new phase—tentative friendship and possibly something more precious. Rafe chose not to ponder the latter too closely . . . just yet.

  Darkness now blanketed the town, but bright light from lanterns and candles filtered through the open doorways of the dilapidated structures and through the fabric of the canvas tents, making them glow like golden balloons. The nighttime businesses were putting out their welcome mats—saloons, brothels, and gambling halls—the seedy establishments that fed on the Gold Rush like parasites.

  And they had plenty of comers. The main thoroughfare was alive with crowds of men, and a rare woman, mostly in their twenties, laughing, talking, cursing, gesticulating. Judging by their different languages and colorful attire, Rafe recognized the French, Irish, Italians, Australians, Chinese, Mexicans, native Californians of Spanish descent, and Blacks from the southern states.

  “Talk about melting pots!” Helen commented. “I wonder how they all understand each other.”

  “There’s a common language where gold is concerned.” Rafe laughed. “Listen.” Interspersed throughout all the conversations were buzzwords centered on the topic of the day—gold. Exciting words, like bonanza, Eldorado, placer, diggings, mother lode, rich vein, paydirt, big strike.

  Helen nodded.

  They crossed the dusty street and stopped in front of a big tent from which rich odors of food emanated. A homemade signboard in front proclaimed:

  BIG JOHN’S RESTERANT

  Sacramento Salmon and Boiled Taters, $3

  Elk Steak and Boiled Taters, $5

  Fried Pork, Beans and Boiled Taters, $2

  Rhubarb Pie, $10.

  Coffee, fifty cents.

  “Well, one thing is clear,” Rafe said. “Potatoes are plentiful and pie is scarce.”

  “There’s another thing clear here, too,” Helen added, biting her bottom lip worriedly. “Food is very expensive. Do you have any money?”

  He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. “Back at the landing site, Ignacio picked through my stuff but only kept the loose change. Credits cards and paper money are worthless here.”

  “What are we going to do?” Helen groaned. “I was so worried about our getting free of those bandits that it never occurred to me that we have no way of surviving in these times.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I can work as hard as any man to earn money. I could even open a law practice.” Ignoring her scoffing look, he went on, “But our immediate problem is food and lodging for the night. Tomorrow we can investigate the work situation.”

  “Maybe we could borrow some money.”

  It was his turn to scoff. “Honey, I’ve seen the looks of disdain and the remarks about worthless greasers. No one’s gonna lend me peanuts. And, unless you’re willing to turn tricks, I suspect you’re in the same boat.”

  Helen blushed prettily. He liked that about her.

  “Well, Mr. Know-It-All, what do you suggest?”

  “Follow me,” he said, heading inside the open-sided, unfloored tent where a mammoth Scotsman with a bald head and ginger-colored beard stood behind a counter. Several long plank tables and rough benches filled the entire space where the dining prospectors stopped eating and stared bug-eyed at the sight of a new woman in town, especially one in pants. The first thing Rafe planne
d to do when he got some cash was buy Helen a dress.

  Slipping a thin gold chain and crucifix out of his boot, he reluctantly plunked them on the counter. He hated to part with the only piece of jewelry he ever wore, a high school graduation gift from his mother. At the time, when their only income had come from her housecleaning jobs, the extravagance had probably represented two weeks of scrubbing other people’s toilets. Well, he had no choice. “How much will you give me for this?” he inquired of Big John, who was busy ogling Helen, like every other man within a mile radius.

  “Huh?” the burly restaurateur said, looking down for the first time at the glimmering item on his counter.

  Helen picked up the chain and frowned. “How come Ignacio took everything I had, and he didn’t take this?”

  “I always stick it in my shoe before a jump.”

  “Oh, Rafe, you can’t sell this,” Helen cried when she turned it over, reading aloud the inscription on the back, TO RAFAEL, HAPPY GRADUATION, MAMA. Placing it back on the counter, she said, “It’s an important memento.”

  “You can’t eat mementoes,” he pointed out, seconded by his stomach rumbling.

  Meanwhile, Big John picked up the cross, examined it closely, tested the gold content with his teeth, then offered, “Two pork-and-beans dinners, and five dollars in gold dust.”

  “Two salmon dinners, coffee, two rhubarb pies—whatever the hell rhubarb is—and twenty dollars in gold dust,” Rafe countered, seeing the two-foot, freshly baked fish lying on a plank table behind the owner.

  Big John studied him warily, then agreed. “A deal. I could use me a little fancy fer Veroneesa over at Lily’s Fandango Parlor.”

  “Isn’t fandango the name of a dance?” Helen asked as they walked over to a far table, their tin plates piled high with food. He’d tucked the small poke of gold dust in his pocket. “Maybe we can go over there later and watch the dancing.”

  Rafe began to choke and almost dropped his plate. “Oh, Helen, your naïveté continues to amaze me. Yeah, fandango is the name of a dance, but, believe me, sweetheart, the men don’t go there to tango, if you get my drift.”

  Her flaming face told him she did.

  Big John brought their coffee over personally and sat down with them for a few moments. “Where ya from, folks?”