Vasquez was a tiny man with a round face beaded with sweat, dressed in a crumpled white linen suit, who swayed as if he had already been drinking. I tried to shove aside an image of the man fully drunk, dressed as a baby, in the arms of a large woman singing lullabies. If Saffire knew about this proclivity, so did many others. So the drop in conversations was certainly not because of respect for Vasquez. The other two who approached, however, seemed like royalty in both dress and posture. Raoul Amador was tall in comparison to his countrymen. Midthirties, hawk-like face with all the proper edges of handsomeness. Long, flowing hair, perfectly barbered—a direct contrast to my hair, hacked by myself in front of a mirror. Amador’s attire was impeccable, fitted across broad shoulders and a trim waistline. As for Raquel Sandoval, who had her left arm linked in Raoul’s right elbow, she looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. My instant judgment was that in all the years traveling to countless cities and countries as a roughrider in the world’s most famous Wild West show, I had not seen a woman of more stunning beauty.
