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, Senor Angel. 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?”
Uhoh.
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.”