Zorro and the Little Devil

by Peter David

  Then he saw a wagon being towed. There were copious bales of hay within it, which made little sense to him. Why would someone be hauling hay at this time of night?

  His eyes narrowed, studying it, and then he saw that some sections of straw had fallen away to reveal that it was all covering something: apparently a wooden chest.

  And steering that wagon was the man whom Don Alejandro had thwarted in the square when he had grabbed Maria’s bag.

  That was when Don Alejandro figured it out.

  Immediately he whipped his horse around and attempted to gallop away. It was a reasonable, natural reaction to what he had discerned in front of him.

  Unfortunately the reaction of del Riego — or whoever this bastard was — was a hair faster. He yanked out a gun from hiding and fired directly at the fleeing Don Alejandro.

  The Don cried out as a bullet slammed through his shoulder and knocked him clean off the horse. He fell to the ground and slammed his head against a fallen branch. He lay there, unmoving.

  Maria was by his side in an instant, quickly assessing him. She rolled him over so that she could see the front of his body, and spotted a small pool of blood on the jacket front. Diabolito came up next to her. “Well?” he demanded.

  “The bullet went straight through him. There is only a small amount of blood so the wound does not seem remotely fatal.”

  “Well, this one will be,” said the Little Devil as he began to load his gun again.

  “No!” said Maria, and she interposed her own body between Diabolito and Don Alejandro.

  The pirate did not give her a pleasant look. “Attempting to intercede with me again? This is not a good habit that you’ve adopted, Maria.”

  “You’re holding an entire vessel of Spanish military hostages. What’s one more?”

  “He is the person I would be getting money from. How do you suggest I ransom him?”

  “He has a son, Don Diego. He would certainly pay for his father’s release.”

  Diabolito finished loading his gun and then seemed to stare at it thoughtfully. Clearly he was contemplating doing what his instinct told him to do, which was empty the bullet into Don Alejandro’s head. But he saw the pleading expression in Maria’s eyes and then sighed heavily. “Bring some rope,” he called to his associates. “Bind his hands and legs, gag him, and then put him in the wagon with the treasure. Cover him with hay so we don’t have to worry about anyone spotting him.” Then he turned back to Maria. “Satisfied?” he asked.

  “Thank you,” she said with as much sincerity as she could.

  ***

  It was the dull thudding in his shoulder that finally woke Don Alejandro. As consciousness slowly flowed back to him, he became aware that he could not see anything. He blinked several times and discovered something was blocking his vision. The smell of it immediately tipped him off: He was buried in hay. They had obviously tossed him into the wagon that they were using to haul their chest.

  He struggled furiously but his hands were too securely bound, and there was a gag of cloth over his mouth that prevented him from making any noise. He felt a steady throbbing in his shoulder and came to the realization he had been wounded. He managed to angle his shoulder so he could see it and was relieved to find the bleeding had stopped.

  Now he had to come to terms with Maria.

  He had obviously been completely wrong about her. It was clear del Riego was actually some sort of thief or pirate. And Maria had clearly known it, for she was associated with him. The addition of the man he had defeated driving the very cart Don Alejandro was now riding in made the plan clear. They had wanted something at the hacienda, and Maria had clearly been assigned to fool the idiotic owner of the house into thinking that she was interested in him. But it had all been a ruse to enable her to get herself and her unholy ally into the house, unimpeded by either Don Alejandro or any soldiers.

  But plainly Quintero had somehow found out about it, and now he was as much a prisoner of the group’s foul leader as Alejandro was.

  The strange thing was, neither of them were dead. What purpose did it serve to keep Quintero and Alejandro alive?

  He can make use of us as hostages, Don Alejandro realized. The soldiers will not attack if they see their captain is a prisoner. And me …

  Well, I could keep Zorro at bay, except they have no idea Zorro is my son.

  I don’t think they know.

  The notion they might actually know Zorro’s other identity was chilling to Alejandro. Yet there was no way he could ask them without revealing Diego’s secret just for doing so.

  He had no choice at this point, save to lie unmoving beneath the hay, and to hope something would develop that could serve to aid him.

  Perhaps Zorro would save him.

  That was certainly as likely as anything else.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A Most Poorly Timed Distraction

  Senor Zorro was riding as quickly as he could along the main roads that threaded their way through Los Angeles. He suspected he could make his way to the docks as long as nothing occurred to distract him.

  There was a sharp turn in the road ahead and he galloped around it, moving as fast as Tornado’s powerful legs would take him.

  Five soldiers were blocking the way.

  He couldn’t believe it. Of all the lousy timing in the world to run into a patrol, this had to be the worst moment.

  “There he is!” shouted one of the soldiers, making it obvious that they had been out hunting him.

  Except …

  Perhaps it could be helpful.

  As if he had just happened to run into a neighbor unexpectedly, Zorro raised a hand and said, “Hola, Senors.”

  The cheery greeting clearly confused them. They exchanged puzzled expressions and then appeared to pull themselves together. Two of them had their rifles ready and they were aiming at him.

  “Those won’t be necessary,” said Zorro as if they were aiming slingshots at him. “We need to speak, gentlemen.”

  They were staring at him in obvious disbelief. “What,” asked one, “could we possibly have to talk about?”

  “There are pirates abroad this evening. If you are wise, you will ride down to the docks, sit there and wait for them to return to the ship.”

  One of them laughed. It was not a sound designed to make Zorro feel any comfort.

  “He is feeding us the same story that his idiot friend did!” said a man whom Zorro recognized. His name was Marietta.

  His chortling immediately filled Zorro with a sense of great concern. “My idiot friend?”

  “Yes, yes. He came to the captain spilling foolishness about pirates. The captain saw through it of course and ordered him imprisoned.”

  Idiot. What a damnable idiot.

  Another officer said, “He claimed that you had told him the tale. You should come up with better ways of distracting us. Now raise your hands over your head! Immediately! I will not ask a second time.”

  “As you wish,” said Senor Zorro. He brought his left arm up and his right hand was a second behind it.

  But the right hand was holding his lash.

  The whip snapped out and snared around Marietta’s rifle. Zorro yanked quickly, causing it to angle across Marietta’s chest and discharge into the soldier who was holding a rifle right next to him. The bullet slammed into his arm and he cried out in pain, dropping the rifle as he reflexively grabbed his bicep and tried to stanch the wound.

  Zorro’s options flew through his mind in an instant. He could attempt to gallop the rest of the way to the docks, but he ran the path through his imagination and it was pretty much nothing but straight road. The horsemen would have plenty of time to aim at him and would probably land a bullet in him through sheer dumb luck, if nothing else.

  The alternative was to race toward the woods, where he was reasonably sure he could shake them. But it would take him in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go. Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid it.

&
nbsp; He made the decision in an instant, so even as the wounded soldier gripped his arm in pain, Senor Zorro whirled Tornado around and galloped furiously in the other direction.

  “After him!” shouted Marietta.

  Zorro never had to dig spurs into Tornado’s side. The horse knew all too well that when soldiers were in pursuit, it had to move as quickly as it possibly could. They sped down the road, the hooves of their pursuers thundering in Zorro’s ears. A shot cracked from behind him and he was aware of a bullet whizzing right past his head. Firing a weapon while riding a speeding horse was never the easiest of endeavors, and so — considering that — their bullets were coming uncomfortably close to him.

  His flight was adding precious time to the pirates’ escape. While he was busy galloping away from the docks, he was providing them all the additional opportunity they would require to get to their ship and make a clean getaway. But there was nothing he could do for it until he arrived at the terrain he was seeking.

  Another bullet flew and ripped through part of his fluttering cape. This was definitely not going well. And if it occurred to them to shoot at the far larger target of Tornado, then he would be dead. Keeping ahead of them on his horse was challenge enough. Avoiding capture on foot was simply impossible.

  After what seemed endless minutes, he veered to the right where the yawning forest was awaiting him. He sped as fast as possible, entering the forest’s confines, knowing that the soldiers would be right after him.

  The world seemed to change as he galloped through the forest. There were shadows everywhere, and trees loomed all around him.

  When he saw a low hanging branch in front of him, he knew immediately what he was going to do.

  “Keep going,” he whispered into Tornado’s ear, operating on his assumption that Tornado understood spoken orders. Then he took in a deep breath, preparing to accomplish what he was hoping he would be able to do. He knew he had to time it perfectly.

  Nearer … nearer … NOW!

  He threw his hands up and grabbed the branch, allowing Tornado to keep going. His momentum carried him in an arc and within seconds he was obscured in the camouflaging branches of the tree.

  Four of the horsemen galloped past beneath him. The pathway was narrow, so conveniently they were moving in single file. He was able to discern the shadowed figure of the fifth man, and when he galloped past, Zorro dropped down from overhead and landed on the horse’s back.

  Instantly the soldier was aware that there was someone behind him, but Zorro provided him no opportunity to sound an alarm. He clamped his left hand over the soldier’s mouth, and in his right hand was his gun. He swept the weapon around, slamming it into the soldier’s head. The soldier instantly lost consciousness and Zorro shoved him off the horse without giving him a second thought. Then he seized the reins and spun the horse around before galloping off into the night.

  He was not the least bit worried about Tornado. Since the horse was unencumbered by a rider, there would simply be no way that the soldiers would be able to keep up. Sooner or later they would come to that realization, and it would likely be at that moment they would finally realize they were missing one of their own. But by that point, Zorro would be very long gone.

  The horse he was riding was certainly not on par with his beloved Tornado, but as a simple means of transportation it was definitely adequate.

  He flew by trees and small houses, his mind racing, trying to determine exactly what he was going to do if he got to the docks before the pirates. He was still dreadfully outnumbered, one sword against dozens. To say nothing of the fact that the pirate captain had defeated him.

  He defeated me. The words burned into Senor Zorro’s skull, infuriating him with their cold accuracy. He had actually encountered one opponent who was a better swordsman than he was.

  So he had to come up with something better if he should face him again.

  Careful thoughts were laying track through his mind. Had he noticed any weaknesses? Any at all?

  The only thing that he could think of was that Diabolito had seemed to be tiring the longer the battle had gone on. Yes. Yes, his face had seemed to redden a bit. Sweat had formed on his brow and his breathing became a bit labored. It hadn’t really registered on Zorro at the time because he was busy being incredibly frustrated by his inability to break through the pirate’s defense. He had kept trying different fencing techniques and Diabolito had blocked them, yes. But what if Zorro had played a different game? Pirate sword battles tended to end very quickly because a man with only a modicum of skill was going up against a brute who was accustomed to overwhelming opponents with a powerful attack. Lengthy, sustained battles were not something Diabolito normally had to encounter. But Zorro had far too many experiences with sustained swordplay, and he was reasonably sure he could prolong a battle sufficiently to tire even the formidable Little Devil. If that were the case, then Senor Zorro could definitely defeat him.

  He hoped.

  ***

  He got there too late.

  The damnable distraction of the soldiers had delayed him just long enough. The pirates were loading into small boats that had come out from the great ship, which was anchored off shore. Senor Zorro could see the treasure had been loaded onto one and was speeding toward the Spanish galleon.

  His eyes widened, though, at some other things he was seeing.

  Captain Quintero was sitting stiffly in one of the boats, his hands lashed together. And seated next to him, astoundingly, was Don Alejandro. Zorro was close enough to see a splash of red on his shoulder. One of the bastards had shot him.

  It was all Senor Zorro could do to restrain his fury. His impulse was to come galloping down there at full speed, his sword out, and cut down any of the cretins who had so terribly treated his father. But that was a ridiculous plan of attack, being spurred by his emotions rather than common sense.

  The fact of the matter was, aside from the fact that someone had either shot or stabbed him, his father did not appear to be in any distress. So his son did not immediately have to come riding to his rescue in order to save his life. If Diabolito was going to slay him, he would have done so. Not taken him with him.

  Now Zorro scolded himself for losing the soldiers. If he had managed to keep them on his tail while he had ridden to the docks, then he’d have at least five armed men backing him up. Surely they would have put aside their differences with him, and if he had them backing him up, it was likely, together they could have subdued the pirates.

  Then again, they would still have been outnumbered, and it was entirely possible Zorro might have wound up with five dead soldiers on the ground and Zorro either captured or dead alongside them.

  It was likely better this way.

  So now the only question facing him was: What should he do next?

  The answer immediately presented itself to him. It was not a notion he was especially thrilled about, but it was the only idea he had.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two Idiots Talk

  Don Alejandro lay in the wagon unmoving, trying to determine where he was through sound alone. He received absolutely no help in that regard. The pirates didn’t converse with each other, obviously preferring to keep a low profile and not attract anyone else. And the rest around them was silence.

  He wondered if Zorro was out searching for him. Hell, he wondered if Zorro was even still alive. He had no answers for anything, because he had no clue what they had desired at his hacienda.

  Except he did know he was lying right next to it. Some sort of treasure chest that must have been buried at his home. A map must have led them there, and they had to get Don Alejandro out of the way so that they could attend to their business without a foolish old man hanging about and distracting them.

  Suddenly the wagon in which he was riding rolled to a halt. This meant one of two things: Either there was a blockade preventing them from advancing, or else they had arrived at their destination. That was quickly answered for him when a whiff of s
alty sea air reached his nostrils. They were down at the docks, doubtless to return to their pirate vessel. Not that such a possibility made any sense to Don Alejandro. How could a pirate ship have shown up in the docks and not been discerned as such? How would the arrival of a pirates’ ship not triggered squads of soldiers running out to intercept anyone attempting to disembark? This made no sense.

  Unless …

  Before he could finish the thought, the hay was removed from him. He toyed with the idea of feigning being unconscious in the hopes of overhearing something useful, but he dismissed the idea. He didn’t want to give them the pleasure of pushing at him, or stabbing him, or in some other horrific way attempting to awaken him. So when the hay was cleared from his face, he looked straight at them with a dark scowl.

  “He’s awake!” called the nearest pirate.

  The man whom Don Alejandro knew as del Riego came around and grinned at him. “We meet again, Alejandro,” he said as he removed the gag.

  Alejandro said nothing. His obvious fury amused del Riego. “I hope that you do not have a problem with sea voyages, Alejandro. You are about to go on one.”

  “I have no problems with the sea,” said Alejandro. “I can entertain myself by imagining you drowning.”

  The pirate captain roared with laughter, and then gestured for his men to get Don Alejandro out of the wagon. They did so as briskly as they could. Don Alejandro could not walk as steadily as he was accustomed because his legs were initially weak from being immobile in the wagon. With each step he took, however, he became more certain in his gait. There was a pirate on either arm. As if I pose a threat, Don Alejandro thought grimly, considering that his hands were tied tightly behind his back. His shoulder was aching like hell from the bullet wound, but he was not about to complain. They would just see it as the weakness of an old man. He would be damned if he gave them that satisfaction.

  There was a boat near the docks and he saw that Quintero was already seated in it. Alejandro was managing his best to keep his anger internalized, but Quintero wasn’t remotely attempting to bottle up his ire. “You will pay for this!” he said angrily. “You cannot simply kidnap a garrison leader!”