Ignacio had insisted that Helen ride with him on his horse once they neared the town, fearing the two captives would call for help or try to escape. Throwing a blanket over Helen’s shoulder, the vicious outlaw had hidden his revolver pressed against her heart, warning, “One word from either of you, or one move to escape, Senor Angel, and Elena ees one dead puta.”
Rafe had every intention of taking care of the bastard, and soon. It wouldn’t be much longer before he made his move. Then the rotten creep would pay for every insult, threat, inconvenience, and bruise he’d delivered to either of them.
But for now, Rafe couldn’t help gaping at the men who sat about the numerous campfires, talking enthusiastically. Others leaned against trees reading letters from home or smoking thin cigars. Some strummed guitars and fiddles, singing poignant songs. A few curried horses. Many were eating meager meals from tin plates in front of their sorry tents and drinking large amounts of what must be hard liquor from metal cups or straight from amber bottles.
And while Rafe was doing all his gaping, the scruffy, sunburned, bearded prospectors, wearing the typical miner’s garb of red flannel shirt; suspenders; baggy, snuff colored trousers; and high leather boots, gaped right back at him.
Actually, not at him. It was Helen who fascinated these googly-eyed men, most of whom were in their twenties.
Their passage was marked by a domino effect. The music gradually stopped. Voices stilled. And the raucous camp noises ground to a halt at first glimpse of that rare, and highly prized commodity in an 1850 mining town — a female. And an attractive one, at that. In Helen’s wake, Rafe heard them murmur, with awe, “A woman!”
“She rides astride. Don’t that beat all creation?”
“A woman! Hell’s bells! And she carries herself like a highfalutin’ lady.”
“But she’s with greasers. Can’t be no lady, ‘ceptin’ mebbe a fancy lady.”
Rafe bristled at the racist slur. He’d experienced more than his share of discrimination, but somehow he hadn’t expected to find it here, too.
“A woman! Hot diggity damn!” new arrivals to the scene chanted to Helen’s departing back.
“Would ya look at that red hair. Whooee! Bet she’s a feisty one in the saddle. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Her legs look mighty fine grippin’ that horse. I’d like her ta ride me the same way. Yessirree, I would.”
“Lordy, Lordy, I ain’t had me a good diddling in a coon’s age.”
“Me, neither,” a whole bunch of the gold seekers concurred.
“Did you see her titty juttin’ out against that shirt? Oh, damn, I bet the nipple’s pink, and I do like me a pink nipple.”
Luckily, Helen didn’t hear the remarks that were made after she passed. Her attention was centered, like Rafe’s, on the unusual historical view unfolding before them.
“Yep, redheads have brown ones, and they’re big as grapes.”
“How would you know, Zeke? You ain’t never had a woman ‘cept in a haystack with her skirts thrown over her head.”
“Well, a man don’t look at the mantel when he’s pokin’ the fire.”
More laughter.
“Gawdamighty, do you think her woman hair is red, too?”
“You’ll never find out, you sons of bitches,” Rafe lashed out, finally fed up with the lewd observations. Whether Helen heard their comments or not, she was supposed to be his woman, and he couldn’t allow the insults to go on.
The miners studied him for the first time, startled by his proprietary remark. Their eyes swept over his strange shirt and bound hands, questioningly.
Sancho and Pablo edged closer, their slitted eyes warning him to remain quiet. Their unholstered guns reinforced the message.
Rafe glanced forward to see Helen’s reaction. Still unaware of the attention she was garnering or the suggestive utterances of the men, she pivoted her head from side to side, inhaling the fantastic sights from her vantage point in front of Ignacio.
Ignacio, however, noticed the dozens of prospectors who began to follow them on foot as they left the encampment and moved into the town itself, but he ignored their questions.
Pablo and Sancho were not so reticent.
“Who is she?” the miners asked.