“Honey, I’m not that horny. These bunnies bark.”
She was about to chastise him for his crudity, but saw that he was smirking expectantly, just waiting for her to rise to his bait. She clamped her mouth shut.
“Besides, I have you, babe,” he crooned softly in her ear.
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Behave.”
As they moved through the crowd of about two hundred, Helen saw some of the men glancing from her to the paintings, probably picturing her in similar positions. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Let me guess. You want to go somewhere else.”
“Can we?”
Surprisingly, he agreed. “It’s too crowded in here anyway, and smoky. We can’t have you fainting all over the place.”
The next tent, The Plains, also was adorned with oil paintings, but these were of scenes of the overland trail to California: Independence Rock, the Sweetwater Valley, Fort Laramie, the Wind River Mountains, the Sierra Nevada Pass.
Rafe decided that tent was too crowded, as well.
They strolled through J and K streets near the levee where most of the saloons and gambling places were located. As they made their way through the labyrinth of half light and moving shadows, musical instruments sounded from practically every quarter — flutes, French horns, violins, fiddles, trumpets. And because the establishments were jammed so close together, all the musical sounds blended into a chaotic symphony.
In the distance, she heard the occasional report of a gun firing and the sound of male baritones singing ballads, like “Old Dan Tucker” and “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”
From one of the tents, a brassy woman’s voice said, “How do you want it, cowboy?” followed by a gruff male reply, “French.” Three other men were lined up outside, waiting their turns.
Helen blushed and pretended not to hear, even when Rafe chuckled.
Next, they tried The Humboldt, The Mansion, The Diana, and Lee’s Exchange. Eventually, they settled on a small tent at the end of K Street. It had only three tables and a board over two barrels that served as a makeshift bar. Whiskey was the only beverage served. A dark-haired señorita in an off-the-shoulder camisole and a colorful full skirt leaned against the tent pole talking to a handsome Spanish vaquero. A thin brown cigarillo dangled from her loose lips.
At one of the tables, chuck-a-luck — a simple dice game — was being played. At another, it was monte. At the third, poker.
“Which one are you going to try?” she asked in an undertone.
“Monte. It’s the fairest game. Least chance of cheating.”
They stood for a half hour, watching the action, before a young miner threw in his cards, having lost what seemed a fortune to Helen.
To her discomfort, she recognized the banker — the slimy Frenchman who had wanted to purchase her earlier that day for a brothel in San Francisco. His cold snake eyes watched her and Rafe with calculating interest.
Rafe squeezed her hand when she shivered with apprehension.
“Well, Monsieur Angel, care to try your luck?” the gambler said with oily condescension. “My name is Pierre Lamoyne.”
“Sure,” Rafe said, sitting down on the stool, “and the name is Rafael Santiago. Mr. Santiago to you.”
Lamoyne’s elegant nose turned up at the affront. In the background, Helen heard someone remark snidely, “These greasers jist don’t know their place.”
“And this is my wife, Helen.” Rafe reached over his shoulder and pulled her up tight against his back, placing her hand on his shoulder. “For luck,” he said aloud to the other men, but for her ears only, he murmured, “Stick close, baby. I’m not feeling warm, fuzzy vibes here.”
That was an understatement.
“Enchante, ma cherie!” Lamoyne said in response to Helen’s introduction, inclining his head toward her with respect. Then he ruined the aristocratic effect by remarking to Rafe, “Your wife? Non, she is certainment a… um… une fille de joie.”
“What did he say?” she asked, leaning down near Rafe’s ear.
Rafe told her, “He thinks you’re a pavement princess, babe. A hooker.” When her fingers clawed into his shoulder, he cautioned, “Take it easy, hon.”
“Where is your ante, monsieur!” Lamoyne barked, suddenly impatient.
Rafe pulled out his meager pouch of gold dust and ignored Lamoyne’s snort of disdain.