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.
Chapter Eight
An 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!