Desperado

  Rafe took a deep breath to compose himself. “Listen, I know some people think lawyers are crooks,” he said, scowling at Helen’s snort of agreement, “but I’m not a bandit.”

  “No, no, no.” Ignacio said, wagging his gun in Rafe’s face. He smiled, displaying two chipped front teeth, probably from biting on bullets. “You cannot fool me. Everyone knows you been robbing banks and wealthy rancheros ever since gold was discovered at Sutter’s Fort two years ago.”

  “Gold? Sutter’s Fort? Two years ago?” Rafe looked at Helen, his brow furrowed. She shrugged, equally confused.

  An odd expression swept Rafe’s face then. He lowered one arm and hit the side of his head with the heel of his hand as if to clear his muddled brain. “Are you trying to say this is 1850?”

  “Sí. Of course, amigo.”

  “Is this Candid Camera?” Rafe asked suddenly, turning to scan the trees surrounding the clearing. When Peter Funt failed to step forth, he narrowed his eyes. “Is this one of those movie sets, like a sequel to The Three Amigos?”

  “A move-hee? What ees that?”

  Rafe exhaled loudly with exasperation. “My name is Rafael Santiago. Captain Rafael Santiago. And this is Major Helen Prescott.”

  “Major? A woman soldado?” Ignacio burst out laughing and elbowed one of the other grinning bandits in the ribs. “Major? Heh heh heh! Do not try to deceive us, señor.”

  Helen lowered her hands and pointed to the oak leaf on her shoulder. “I am Major Helen Irving Prescott, and you men are under military arrest.”

  Ignacio made a rude kissing sound at Helen, commenting, “Esa mujer está pendejada,” at the same time twirling his forefinger in a circle near his head. Then he indicated with the barrel of his gun that Helen should raise her hands back up.

  She decided not to argue.

  “We know she ees the famous Elena,” Ignacio told Rafe impatiently. “Do not think to keep her corkscrewing only to yourself.”

  “Corkscrewing?” Rafe and Helen asked.

  Uncaring of the order to keep her arms raised, Helen lowered her hands and braced them on her hips, glaring at each of them.

  “Esa senorita tiene figura de la primera,” Ignacio remarked to Rafe. The bandit rolled his eyes, which roamed lewdly over her body.

  Rafe grinned from ear to ear, then nodded in agreement.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  Rafe still grinned—smirked actually. She barely resisted the temptation to whack him on the head.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Helen, believe me—”

  “Tell me, damn it.”

  Rafe breathed deeply, then told her, “Loosely translated, Ignacio said, ‘That lady is built like a brick shithouse.’”

  “Liar,” she hissed.

  “Trust me,” Rafe said with a wink.

  “Hah!”

  “Los tetas esta que bonita,” Ignacio continued, speaking to his companions while he gazed appreciatively at—oh, Lord—her breasts.

  “Don’t you want to know what he said now?” Rafe asked, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

  “No. Yes.”

  Helen could see the gears grinding in Rafe’s mind. But then his expression softened. “I shouldn’t be teasing you like this, Prissy. You’ve really had enough harassment for one day, and there’s nothing funny about it—whether from an Army sergeant or a bozo bandit. I’ve been pretty hard on you myself.”

  His gently spoken words touched Helen like a kiss. And she nodded her acceptance of his apology. In truth, she couldn’t have spoken over the lump in her throat.

  And she really didn’t need Rafe to translate, anyway. One of Ignacio’s sidekicks held two hands cupped in front of his chest, chortling at his leader’s words.

  Helen felt her face flame.

  Ignacio spat out a big mouthful of Spanish words then, and Rafe answered him. Back and forth they conversed, their exchange tense. Ignacio’s little band raised their guns higher.

  Shaking his head incredulously, Rafe turned back to her. “You won’t believe this. They think you—”

  “Do not waste our time, señor,” Ignacio interrupted him. “We know she ees Elena, your mistress. She ees famous throughout the West for her secret trick, el corcho tornillo. The Americanos call it the corkscrew. Men pay much gold for her services at Madame Rose’s fancy house in Hangtown.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Rafe said with an insufferable chuckle. “You’re telling me this is 1850. You think I’m this dangerous Mexican desperado, the Angel. And you think Helen here, the prissiest prude in the West, is a prostitute with a specialty for corkscrewing? Helen the Hooker?”

  “Sí.” They all nodded with silly smiles spreading across their filthy, whisker-stubbled faces. One of them even rubbed his groin in anticipation.

  And Rafe, the brute, began to laugh uproariously.

  Chapter Three

  They were the Three Amigos, but worse . . .

  “Not on your life!” Rafe asserted as he took one gander at the two huge horses being led toward them from a string that followed behind the bandits.

  “What’s wrong?” Helen asked.

  “I’m not in the mood for riding. I think I’ll just walk.”

  She looked at him kind of funny, but he didn’t care. One of the horses—a big black beast baring its yellow teeth—was sizing him up with eyes the size of bloodshot eggs. A regular Mr. Ed with an attitude. It was probably a stallion, he decided. Or a gelding. Oh, yeah, it must be a gelding, just waiting for some yahoo to pay for its lost manhood.

  The animal threw up its head, made a loud neighing sound and stared him right in the eye as if to say, “Wait till I get you on my back, sucker.”

  “Uh uh,” Rafe protested, starting to back away. “I don’t think so.” He’d been playing along with this funny business thus far, just to see how it would unfold. Time to bow out of the senseless charade now.

  “Rafe, look out!” Helen shouted in warning, but it was too late. He bumped into Sancho, one of the bandits who’d snuck up behind him when his attention had shifted to the horses. “Ah ha!” Having the advantage of surprise, the short, older man wrestled Rafe to the ground, grunting and wheezing the whole time. “Stop yer damn squirmin’. Ow! Bastante mierda! You bit me, you cabrón.”

  Meanwhile, Pablo, the younger outlaw, stopped Helen from rushing forth by pulling her arms behind her back. “You are in big trouble,” Helen threatened, squirming unsuccessfully against Pablo’s tight hold on her.

  Rafe tried to resist being restrained, using every street trick he could, but he was severely impaired because he was trying to watch out for Helen. But Rafe did get in one good punch to the dude’s nose, causing a spurt of blood.

  Even though he lacked agility and superior strength, Sancho finally won out by pressing Rafe onto his stomach in the dirt and sitting his 300 pounds heavily on Rafe’s buttocks. Then he proceeded to tie Rafe’s hands behind his back.

  After the lardo stood up, Rafe struggled to a kneeling position.

  Ignacio, the leader, chuckled, “Some bandido you are, Señor Ángel! Perhaps your reputation far exceeds your talent.”

  “Oh, damn! That hurts,” Rafe groaned, climbing awkwardly to his feet, his wrists firmly secured behind him.

  “Enough of thees!” Ignacio roared, waving one of his guns in the air. “We mus’ get thees horses to Sacramento City and sell them before someone recognizes the brand.”

  “Sí. If not, we weel be the ones dangling from the lynch man’s rope, not Señor Ángel,” Pablo added.

  Glancing to the side, Rafe saw Sancho grinning with self-satisfaction, despite the blood that continued to stream down to his chin. He must feel real good about having bested a much younger, more athletically fit man. Me!

  Rafe used that opportunity to rush forward, head first, and butt the jerk in his flabby stomach. Sancho sank to the ground on his tail with a loud “Oomph!”

  Rafe started
to smile, but his pleasure was short-lived. Ignacio kicked him in the back, forcing him to the ground, face first in the dust, with his spurred boot pressed to his shoulder bones. Helen tried to come to his aid, but Pablo still held her hands behind her back.

  “Do you give up now, you bastard?”

  “Up yours!”

  The bandit ground his boot harder, and Rafe stilled, deciding to choose his battles more wisely in the future. “I give up,” he conceded. For now.

  Finally, laughing maliciously, Ignacio allowed him to rise agonizingly to his feet. It was clear the leader of this band of misfits took great delight in Rafe’s pain as he twirled his drooping mustache, probably contemplating some new torture. “Murietta weel surely let us join his gang now that we have caught his rival. He weel see that we are great bandidos, worthy of riding with him.”

  “Are you talking about Joaquin Murietta, the famous outlaw?” Rafe scoffed.

  “Ciertamente. The greatest outlaw of them all.” Ignacio sighed, then turned to his pals. “Perhaps, if we are stopped on the way to Sacramento City, we can blame El Ángel and his whore for stealing the horses.”

  “Sí, we could say they are the horse thieves and we are just bringing them to justice,” Sancho added enthusiastically.

  “And they would believe us because there ees a price on the head of El Ángel Bandido,” Pablo said, “and everyone knows Elena ees his woman.”

  “I’m not the Angel Bandit,” Rafe said.

  “I’m not Elena,” Helen said at the same time.

  “You’re not Elena?” Ignacio’s face sagged with disappointment. “Es la verdad?”

  “No, my name is Helen Prescott—”

  “Helen, Helena, Elena . . . there ees no difference!” Pablo exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

  “And I’m not a whore,” Helen asserted.

  “Now that I cannot believe, señorita.” Ignacio stepped closer. “You travel with El Ángel Bandido. You have the red hair. You are Elena.” He boldly scrutinized her body from head to toe and sneered, “Besides, a woman who wears trousers ees not a Sweet Betsy from Pike, as Los Americanos call their gentle women. No, you are a puta, for sure.” He flicked the tip of one of his revolvers over her breast for emphasis.

  Helen inhaled sharply with indignation. She probably would have clawed Ignacio’s eyes out if Pablo wasn’t still restraining her hands. Instead, Rafe could see she was about to spit on the stupid outlaw as she struggled against Pablo’s restraining hold.

  Chivalry had never been one of his strong suits, but Rafe couldn’t let Helen suffer the consequences of antagonizing the brute. Who knew how he would retaliate.

  So, he spit on Ignacio himself.

  And turned the gorilla’s fury on him.

  BAM! Just like that, Ignacio shot at him, barely missing his ear.

  Rafe threw himself to the ground to avoid a second shot, which luckily didn’t come. Instead, Ignacio gave him another kick, this time in the thigh.

  “Heh, heh, heh!” Ignacio chortled. “It weel give me much pleasure turning you over to Los Americanos. I hope they weel torture you before your death. And as for Elena . . . Well, she weel give us much pleasure with the corkscrew before we sell her services to the men in Sacramento City. They are starved for a woman’s company, those lonely prospectors, but a woman who can do the corkscrew . . . Ah, we weel become very rich, muy pronto. Eh, Pablo? Eh, Sancho?”

  “Sí,” they both agreed, licking their lips with anticipation.

  Helen sliced a haughty “just-try-it” look at the three fools, but, fortunately, she decided to remain quiet for one blessed moment. Rafe didn’t think his body could take any more abuse right now.

  Trying to get his bearings in this strange situation, Rafe moved his eyes warily from one to the other of the ragtag gang. Pablo and Sancho, the other links in this chain of idiots, weren’t wrapped too tight—dumb, but not vicious. Ignacio, on the other hand, was a sicko, a sadistic S.O.B., Rafe decided. And he’d known way too many of those in his time—bastards who’d shoot first, with no real provocation, just for the fun of it. Yep, Ignacio was a man to watch closely.

  “Tie her up, too,” Ignacio ordered.

  Pablo released Helen’s hands for one brief second to cut off a length of rope from the riata on his saddle.

  “Why didn’t you do something?” Helen said, tapping her foot impatiently.

  Rafe couldn’t believe his ears. She was actually criticizing him when he could barely stand, when his body was probably turning black and blue. “Like what?”

  “Well, take their guns away, or something, before they tied you up. Oh, never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

  “Give me a break!”

  “Just watch,” she boasted.

  Pablo approached her with a determined glint in his eye. A length of rope dangled from one hand.

  Rafe gaped incredulously as Helen assumed a karate self-defense position. If he didn’t feel so weak, he would have laughed.

  “I have to advise you, my hands are registered as lethal weapons,” she announced menacingly to the dumbfounded trio.

  Holy hell! Do real people say that with a straight face? Did she seriously think she could fight off three men, single-handedly, with her bare hands?

  “No!” he barked out, then lowered his voice at the upraised eyebrows of the bandits. “Are you out of your mind?” he hissed. “They’ll have you flat on your back with your legs spread in two seconds flat.”

  “Hah! I’ll have you know I hold a fourth-degree black belt in karate. HIE-YAH!” She slashed the air with the edge of one hand and pivoted on her heel in a full circle, returning to a low karate crouch. “HIE-YAH!” She also let loose with some impressive grunting noises that probably meant something.

  Pablo stood frozen in his tracks at her loud yell and what must seem a strange exercise to him. Hell, it looked pretty strange to Rafe, too.

  Sancho, only a few feet away, stopped dabbing at his bloody nose with a dirty handkerchief, and his jaw dropped in amazement.

  Even Ignacio stopped twirling his mustache and muttered, “Carámba! La muchacha es loca.” But he never lowered his gun, which was still trained on them both.

  Helen balanced herself on one leg and held a pose that kind of resembled a crane, with her arms extended out at the sides, all the time making threatening, guttural noises.

  “What are you doing now?” Rafe couldn’t help asking.

  “Finding my center of balance.”

  “Was it lost?”

  “Stop bothering me. I’m gathering all my force fields together.”

  “Oh.” Then he commented dryly, “That’s really important now, is it?”

  She ignored his sarcasm and performed a series of fancy forms that included flying side kicks, thrusts, punches, and various other Chuck Norris kinds of nonsense. Finally, she spun on her heel and once again took the self-defense position.

  If his hands were free, he would have clapped.

  “Ay, mierda!” Ignacio grumbled.

  “I’ll second that,” Rafe said.

  “Look at her arse when she bends over,” Sancho remarked.

  I’m looking. I’m looking.

  “Madre de Diós! I think I am in love.” Sancho sighed.

  Yep.

  “Ees that a dance she does before the corkscrew?” Pablo asked him in a voice filled with hope.

  Rafe grinned. “Damned if I know.”

  Then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Most women would be screaming by now, but Helen wasn’t exhibiting any fear at all. Instead, she was putting on a floor show. Hmmm. Maybe these slimeballs were friends of hers . . . military buddies.

  Suddenly, he understood. “Ah ha! I know what this is.”

  “You do?” she asked, never taking her eyes off the young hooligan who was circling her with the rope.

  “Oh, yeah, the lightbulb has finally gone on in my head. The gig is up, baby.”

  “Stop interfering with my concentration.” She flashed him
a quick glower of confusion, then clipped out, “What gig?”

  Oh, she is good, but I’m not going to fall for her innocent act this time. “It’s one of those lamebrained Army war game things. Throw a bunch of clueless grunts out in a field and pretend they’re under attack from an enemy. Real gunfire. Danger. Teach them to survive. Well, I’ve had enough of this stupid shit. Call it off. Now.”

  “You are delusional. What logical point would there be in the Army having 1800’s Mexican outlaws as the mock enemy?”

  “How the hell should I know? And who said the Army ever feels a need to be logical?”

  Momentarily distracted, Helen didn’t see Pablo make a lunge for her. In seconds, the young bandit wrestled her to the ground and bound her hands. She screeched like a banshee and issued some dire threats, but Pablo didn’t appear fazed . . . until Helen shrieked and bucked him off, kneeing him in the nuts in the process.

  “Oow! Oow!” Pablo cried in pain, rolling over on his back and drawing his knees up to his chest. “Mi cojones! Mi cojones!”

  “Stop yer bawling, or I’ll fix you so you can’t ever do no balling again,” Ignacio lashed out. He made a crude gesture at his genitals to explain his double meaning.

  Pablo blanched and cupped his groin with both hands.

  Clambering upright—a clumsy effort with her hands bound behind her—Helen shot Rafe a condemning glare. “That was your fault.”

  “Mine? What did I do?”

  “I’m well-trained in self-defense. I could have gotten us out of this fix. You deliberately distracted me.”

  “I did not. Besides, I plan on getting us out of this fix myself, in my own good time, in my way.” She made a very unflattering snort of disbelief.

  Obviously, Helen considered him a total wimp. He gritted his teeth. She was really starting to irritate him.

  “I’m the officer in charge here. You should obey me. Army regulations say you should—”

  “Chill the hell out! You and your effin’ Army are giving me a headache. Not to mention a stomachache. And a backache.”