Desperado (12 page)

“Elena is an officer in the Army?” the trapper said, scratching his head in puzzlement. “I dint know there wuz wimmen in the Army.”

“
Caramba!
” Ignacio growled. “I have heard enough. She ees Elena, and he ees the Angel Bandit. And that ees that.”

With a kick of his spurs, Ignacio propelled his horse forward into the town. Their horses followed him, and about three dozen men trailed behind, scurrying to keep up.

Over and over, the word passed that the Angel Bandit was about to be hanged, and Elena the Corkscrewer had arrived.

Helen's parade of fans increased by alarming proportions.

And Rafe decided he'd better do something soon to change the direction of this sideshow.

F
ace flaming, Helen stared straight ahead as they rode into the primitive 1850 town of Sacramento City. As dusk approached, she tried not to worry about the danger closing in on them: the dozens of lustful men following her, the threat of Rafe being lynched, the time travel itself. Instead, she concentrated on her surroundings, searching for a clue to help them escape.

The picturesque city was situated on the foggy, tree-lined bank of the brown Sacramento River, several hundred yards wide at its juncture with the American River. She'd been in the city many times before, but it had
never
looked like this.

Dozens of schooners and small boats formed a colorful panorama of masts along the levee on Front Street. Many of the vessels had signboards and figureheads on them, indicating they were being used as hotels or business establishments.

Pigs rooted about at the sides of the dusty street, sidestepping the busy inhabitants, little knowing they were the staple of the miners' diet. And cows driven up from Southern California hustled along to be butchered.

Trees from the original forest—oaks and sycamores with trunks as wide as six feet—still nestled throughout the busy town, which should have given it a cozy appearance. Instead, the hometown character was destroyed by the decadent nature of the buildings. Gambling “hells,” saloons, and brothels occupied almost every canvas or ramshackle plank dwelling that lined the streets, barring a few exceptions, like general stores, restaurants, a daguerreotype shop, a newspaper office, billiard and ten-pin bowling halls, and presumably a sheriff's facility.

The canvas-sided dwellings, with their lanterns and candles, created an eerie atmosphere of shifting light and darkness. And everywhere Helen saw an abundance of crimson calico—as curtains, wall hangings, tablecloths, even tents. Some manufacturer from the East must have had a surplus stock of the bright fabric.

Helen glanced about in utter amazement. She couldn't believe she'd actually traveled back in time. She couldn't believe she had a horde of men following her, believing she was a hooker.

Maybe she had died after all. Maybe this was hell . . . although she didn't think she'd done anything
that
bad in her life to merit this punishment.

Helen shifted her eyes to see how Rafe was handling these new sights. He expertly guided his horse beside her and Ignacio, with Pablo and Sancho on either side of them.

Rafe didn't look at all like a man worried about his neck.

Or her distasteful fate.

“Well, this is a fine kettle of fish we're in now,” she finally grumbled to Rafe.

“Stop worrying, babe. Remember what I said earlier about
trust.” He smiled, unfazed by their dilemma. She hated it when he smiled. Her stomach felt fluttery . . . queasy, actually. Yes, that was it, his smile made her sick in her stomach.

Hah! Who am I kidding? His smile would turn a nun to sin. And I'm no nun. Get a grip, girl. Stop gawking at him. Talk about boring, non-stomach fluttering things
. “Can you believe this town, Rafe?” she said, motioning with her head toward the busy streets.

“No. I still have trouble accepting it, but time travel seems to be the only answer.”

“
Silencio!
You are my prisoners,” Ignacio snarled. “I forbid you to talk about time to travel.”

Helen shot the buffoon a withering glare over her shoulder, then proceeded to ignore his command for silence. “But what can we do?” she asked Rafe.

“Do not answer her,” Ignacio ordered Rafe.

Rafe, too, ignored the brute. “Remember how we agreed to be a team.”

“I never agreed—” Helen stopped talking suddenly when she noticed Rafe twisting his face in a funny manner, blinking his eyes rapidly, then mouthing some words at her silently.

Was he trying to signal her something? If so, why didn't he use military codes taught in officers' training? She knew the answer immediately. He'd probably forgotten, or never learned them in the first place. At the very least, he could have tapped out Morse code on his saddle horn.

“You got a bug up your nose?” Ignacio asked Rafe, observing his strange contortions.

“No,” Rafe snapped, seeming at wit's end. “You told me not to talk; so, I was exercising my face muscles.”

“Son of a bitch! I weel be glad when we are rid of you. I think you are becoming loco.”

Suddenly, Rafe burst out in song, a rollicking fifties rendition of “Jim Dandy to the Rescue.” Even with his hands tied to the saddle, he rolled his shoulders and bounced his butt in
the saddle to the rhythmic beat. Several pigs stopped rooting and joined in with a chorus of oinks.

He glowered at the pigs, then started on that old Elvis song, “It's Now or Never.” In the midst of his incredible, off-key song, Rafe suggested, holding her eyes intently, “Why don't you sing along, honey? You know the words, don't you?”

Helen couldn't have sung if her life depended on it. She was stunned by the phenomenon of Rafe bellowing out, over and over, “Jim Dandy to the
rescue
. . . It's
now
or never . . . Jim Dandy to the
rescue
. . . It's
now
or never . . .”

She narrowed her eyes. Finally, Helen nodded slightly, and Rafe breathed a sigh of relief.

Before she had a chance to digest the fact that he had successfully sent her a message, Rafe began softly to hum the music to “Wind Beneath My Wings,” her favorite song. Helen would have recognized the rhythm anywhere. At first, she was caught up in the beautiful lyrics. “Did you ever know that
I'm
your hero?” he sang softly, but horribly off-key. He must be tone deaf.

“Are you drunk?” she asked suspiciously.

He flashed her a look of irritation.

“Sunstroke?”

He continued to croon, “Did you ever know that
I'm
your hero?”

Huh? That isn't the way the song goes
.

Helen's fuzzy brain puzzled over his odd behavior as he persisted in singing his own version of the popular song, all of the changes having to do with
his
being
her
hero. Was he trying to say that he was going to rescue her? Now?

“Why do you sing,
Señor
Ángel
?” Pablo asked kindly. “Do you avoid thinking about the hanging? Don't worry. If you wish, I weel shoot you when the hangman pulls the rope so you weel feel no pain.”

Rafe gave him a blistering once-over. “Don't do me any favors, pal.”

“Perhaps he ees practicing for the heavenly choirs. Heh, heh, heh!” Ignacio joked, and some of the men who still followed laughed at his gallows humor.

Meanwhile, Helen was shaking her head rapidly from side to side, trying to signal Rafe not to take any chances. The last thing she wanted from him was some imbecile attempt at heroics.

“Now what?” Ignacio asked, staring at her head twitching. “Did the bug move from the Angel's nose to your ear?”

Well, that was as good an explanation as any. “Yes.”

Rafe made a clucking sound of disgust, then bit his bottom lip in concentration. Finally, his eyes brightened. This time he belted out a rendition of “Band of Gold,” except that in his version, it was “Hands of Gold.”

Helen shook her head in dismay. She never was much good at charades. Okay,
hands
, he wanted her to focus on hands. With sudden insight, she glanced over at his bound hands and noticed for the first time that the ropes appeared somewhat loose. Her eyes shot up to his and he mouthed, “Finally.”

Still, Helen frowned.
Hero. Rescue. Now. Hands
. Fear gripped her when she realized Rafe planned some foolish move. Even if he got his hands free, he was unarmed and wouldn't be able to challenge these three bandits with their lethal weapons.

“No!” she exclaimed, uncaring if the outlaws overheard. “It's too dangerous.”

“I told you not to talk,” Ignacio said, then furrowed his brow. “What ees too dangerous?”

Rafe crossed his eyes with mounting frustration at her words of resistance. Grimacing at her, he started another song, and she groaned, but still he carried on. This time he favored them with a Bobby Darin tune, “Mack the Knife.” He tried not to emphasize the word knife in the song, but sang stanza after stanza of the old standby.

And Helen concluded that Rafe must have a knife. She
squinted at him questioningly, and he tapped his booted foot lightly along F. Lee's flank.

He had a knife hidden in his Army boot. Well, of course, he would. Old gang habits died hard.

Helen studied Rafe closely, as if seeing him for the first time. No wonder he seemed unconcerned about their safety! No wonder he kept telling her to trust him!

She felt like such a fool, thinking him a defenseless wimp. He must have been laughing at her silly misconceptions, her karate attempts to defend them, her criticism of his cowardly failure to fight off the bandits.

She pressed her lips together, forcing back the lump in her throat, and Rafe apparently thought she still didn't understand. So, he started singing “Wind Beneath My Wings” again, promising in his weird, off-key version to be the wings behind her dreams.

And a slow tear slipped down Helen's cheek.

“See,” Pablo told the crowd, “the Angel ees singing of angel wings to his wife.”

Ignoring Pablo and the miners' “oooh” of understanding, Rafe tilted his head in bafflement at Helen's tearful response to his song. Then, he continued to sing softly, “Did you ever know that
I'm
your hero?”

And inside, Helen wept silent tears because she knew suddenly that she—strong, independent military woman that she was—had been waiting for a hero for a long, long time.

W
hat a team! . . .

A
n ominous sign loomed up ahead,
SHERIFF, SACRAMENTO CITY
. The fact that the sign adorned a rickety plank structure, no more than ten feet by ten feet, covered with a canvas roof and the neverending supply of crimson calico, did nothing to dispel Helen's fears.

She glanced quickly at Rafe, who nodded significantly. Fortunately, he'd stopped his stupid singing once he figured she'd gotten his message. Rafe had a plan for their escape.

They were approaching a small alley, next to the City Hotel, when Rafe made his move. In a blink, he pretended to lose control of his horse and yanked on the reins so that F. Lee bumped Ignacio's mare. In the melee that followed, he pulled his hands from their loose ties and drew a deadly sharp switchblade from his boot.

“I don't believe it!” Helen exclaimed.

“Ay yay yay!” Pablo and Sancho said at the same time.

“What the hell—” Ignacio reached for his pistol.

But Rafe slid smoothly off his horse, grabbed Ignacio by the forearm from where he sat behind Helen on the saddle, and jerked him to the ground. Stunned, Helen could barely hold onto the saddle horn of the skittish horse.

“You bastard, I weel see you tortured before you hang.” Ignacio stumbled to his feet, out of Rafe's grasp, and stretched both hands for Rafe's throat. He was so angry that spit dribbled from his thick lips and his eyes bulged like an enraged bull.

Rafe danced to the side and wrapped an arm around Ignacio's thick neck from behind, the blade pressing against his throat. “One false move and I'll slit your stinking throat.” He shoved the bandit's struggling body into the alley, away from the gaping crowd, which alternately cheered and threatened to come forward and capture “the Angel.”

“Get the sheriff,” Ignacio yelled above the chaos, and Sancho scooted off. Pablo, on the other hand, stood frozen with amazement, seemingly unable to decide whether to pee his pants or run for his life.

“A hanging weel be too good for you,” Ignacio sneered. “Perhaps we weel make you watch as your
wife
ees raped first.” The bandit's words were foolish in the extreme, considering his position.

Rafe pressed the knife tighter, drawing a thin line of Ignacio's blood.

Ignacio bellowed—a loud, bearlike sound—but he couldn't move with the blade against his throat. A steady, red stream oozed from the shallow cut toward the open neck of his shirt. He looked down and his eyes widened with panic. “Somebody do something.
El hombre es loco
,” he cried.

But the crowd was enjoying the spectacle too much. The exuberant men called out macabre bets right and left on the outcome of the struggle.

Easing herself awkwardly off her horse by holding onto the pommel with both hands, Helen approached.

“Get his guns,” Rafe ordered tersely.

Even with her bound wrists, Helen was able to lift both revolvers from Ignacio's holster. She handed one Colt to Rafe, who reached out with the hand that had been wrapped around Ignacio's wide waist. With the gun pressed against the back of Ignacio's head, Rafe used the barrel to propel the bandit forward, face against the hotel wall, arms raised over his head. Only then did Rafe ease the knife away from the outlaw's neck.

“Hold out your hands,” Rafe told Helen. Keeping one eye on Ignacio and the other on her extended arms, he cut the ropes tying her hands together. She flexed her wrists to get the circulation going again.

“Unbuckle your gun belt and drop it to the ground,” he commanded Ignacio. When the grumbling outlaw did as he was told, Rafe asked Helen, “Can you use a gun?”

“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.”

“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.