But Don Diego was unlike the other full-blooded youths of the times. It appeared that he disliked action. He seldom wore his blade, except as a matter of style and apparel. He was damnably polite to all women and paid court to none.
He sat in the sun and listened to the wild tales of other men—and now and then he smiled. He was the opposite of Sergeant Pedro Gonzales in all things, and yet they were together frequently. It was as Don Diego had said—he enjoyed the sergeant’s boasts, and the sergeant enjoyed the free wine. What more could either ask in the way of a fair arrangement?
Now Don Diego went to stand before the fire and dry himself, holding a mug of red wine in one hand. He was only medium in size, yet he possessed health and good looks, and it was the despair of proud dueñas that he would not glance a second time at the pretty señoritas they protected, and for whom they sought desirable husbands.
Gonzales, afraid that he had angered his friend and that the free wine would be at an end, now strove to make peace.
“Caballero, we have been speaking of this notorious Señor Zorro,” he said. “We have been regarding in conversation this fine Curse of Capistrano, as some nimble-witted fool has seen fit to term the pest of the highway.”
“What about him?” Don Diego asked, putting down his wine mug and hiding a yawn behind his hand. Those who knew Don Diego best declared he yawned tenscore times a day.
“I have been remarking, caballero,” said the sergeant, “that this fine Señor Zorro never appears in my vicinity, and that I am hoping the good saints will grant me the chance of facing him some fine day, that I may claim the reward offered by the governor. Señor Zorro, eh? Ha!”
“Let us not speak of him,” Don Diego begged, turning from the fireplace and throwing out one hand as if in protest. “Shall it be that I never hear of anything except deeds of bloodshed and violence? Would it be possible in these turbulent times for a man to listen to words of wisdom regarding music or the poets?”
“Meal mush and goat’s milk!” snorted Sergeant Gonzales in huge disgust. “If this Señor Zorro wishes to risk his neck, let him. It is his own neck, by the saints! A cutthroat! A thief! Ha!”
“I have been hearing considerable concerning his work,” Don Diego went on to say. “The fellow, no doubt, is sincere in his purpose. He has robbed none except officials who have stolen from the missions and the poor, and punished none except brutes who mistreat natives. He has slain no man, I understand. Let him have his little day in the public eye, my sergeant.”
“I would rather have the reward!”
“Earn it!” Don Diego said. “Capture the man!”
“Ha! Dead or alive, the governor’s proclamation says. I myself have read it.”
“Then stand you up to him and run him through, if such a thing pleases you,” Don Diego retorted. “And tell me all about it afterward—but spare me now!”
“It will be a pretty story!” Gonzales cried. “And you shall have it entire, caballero, word by word! How I played with him, how I laughed at him as we fought, how I pressed him back after a time and ran him through—”
“Afterward—but not now!” Don Diego cried, exasperated. “Landlord, more wine! The only manner in which to stop this raucous boaster is to make his wide throat so slick with wine that the words cannot climb out of it!”
The landlord quickly filled the mugs. Don Diego sipped at his wine slowly, as a gentleman should, while Sergeant Gonzales took his in two great gulps. And then the scion of the house of Vega stepped across to the bench and reached for his sombrero and his serape.
“What?” the sergeant cried. “You are going to leave us at such an early hour, caballero? You are going to face the fury of that beating storm?”
“At least I am brave enough for that,” Don Diego replied, smiling. “I but ran over from my house for a pot of honey. The fools feared the rain too much to fetch me some this day from the hacienda. Get me one, landlord.”
“I shall escort you safely home through the rain!” Sergeant Gonzales cried, for he knew full well that Don Diego had excellent wine of age there.
“You shall remain here before the roaring fire!” Don Diego told him firmly. “I do not need an escort of soldiers from the presidio to cross the plaza. I am going over accounts with my secretary, and possibly may return to the tavern after we have finished. I wanted the pot of honey that we might eat as we worked.”
“Ha! And why did you not send that secretary of yours for the honey, caballero? Why be wealthy and have servants if a man cannot send them on errands on such a stormy night?”
“He is an old man and feeble,” Don Diego explained. “He also is secretary to my aged father. The storm would kill him. Landlord, serve all here with wine and put it to my account. I may return when my books have been straightened.”
Don Diego Vega picked up the pot of honey, wrapped his serape around his head, opened the door, and plunged into the storm and darkness.
“There goes a man!” Gonzales cried, flourishing his arms. “He is my friend, that caballero, and I would have all men know it! He seldom wears a blade, and I doubt whether he can use one—but he is my friend! The flashing dark eyes of lovely señoritas do not disturb him, yet I swear he is a pattern of a man!
“Music and the poets, eh? Ha! Has he not the right, if such is his pleasure? Is he not Don Diego Vega? Has he not blue blood and broad acres and great storehouses filled with goods? Is he not liberal? He may stand on his head or wear petticoats, if it please him—yet I swear he is a pattern of a man!”
The soldiers echoed his sentiments since they were drinking Don Diego’s wine and did not have the courage to combat the sergeant’s statements, anyway. The fat landlord served them with another round since Don Diego would pay. For it was beneath a Vega to look at his score in a public tavern, and the fat landlord many times had taken advantage of this fact.
“He cannot endure the thought of violence or bloodshed,” Sergeant Gonzales continued. “He is as gentle as a breeze of spring. Yet he has a firm wrist and a deep eye. It merely is the caballero’s manner of seeing life. Did I but have his youth and good looks and riches—Ha! There would be a stream of broken hearts from San Diego de Alcalá to San Francisco de Asis!”
“And broken heads!” the corporal offered.
“Ha! And broken heads, comrade! I would rule the country! No youngster should stand long in my way. Out with blade and at them! Cross Pedro Gonzales, eh? Ha! Through the shoulder—neatly! Ha! Through a lung!”
Gonzales was upon his feet now, and his blade had leaped from its scabbard. He swept it back and forth through the air, thrust, parried, lunged, advanced and retreated, shouted his oaths and roared his laughter as he fought with shadows.
“That is the manner of it!” he screeched at the fireplace. “What have we here? Two of you against one? So much the better, señores! We love brave odds! Ha! Have at you, dog! Die, hound! One side, poltroon!”
He reeled against the wall, gasping, his breath almost gone, the point of his blade resting on the floor, his great face purple with the exertion and the wine he had consumed, while the corporal and the soldiers and the fat landlord laughed long and loudly at this bloodless battle from which Sergeant Pedro Gonzales had emerged the unquestioned victor.
“Were—were this fine Señor Zorro only before me here and now!” the sergeant gasped.
And again the door was opened suddenly and a man entered the inn on a gust of the storm!
CHAPTER 3
SEÑOR ZORRO PAYS A VISIT
The native hurried forward to fasten the door against the force of the wind, and then retreated to his corner again. The newcomer had his back toward those in the long room. They could see that his sombrero was pulled far down on his head, as if to prevent the wind from whisking it away, and that his body was enveloped in a long cloak that was wringing wet.
With his back still toward them, he opened the cloak and shook the raindrops from it, and then folded it across his breast again as the fat landlord hu
rried forward, rubbing his hands together in expectation, for he deemed that here was some caballero off the highway who would pay good coin for food and bed and care for his horse.
When the landlord was within a few feet of him and the door the stranger whirled around. The landlord gave a little cry of fear and retreated with speed. The corporal gurgled deep down in his throat; the soldiers gasped; Sergeant Pedro Gonzales allowed his lower jaw to drop and let his eyes bulge.
For the man who stood straight before them had a black mask over his face that effectually concealed his features, and through the two slits in it, his eyes glittered ominously.
“Ha! What have we here?” Gonzales gasped, finally, some presence of mind returning to him.
The man before them bowed.
“Señor Zorro, at your service!” he said.
“By the saints! Señor Zorro, ah?” Gonzales cried.
“Do you doubt it, señor?”
“If you are indeed Señor Zorro, then have you lost your wits!” the sergeant declared.
“What is the meaning of that speech?”
“You are here, are you not? You have entered the inn, have you not? By all the saints, you have walked into a trap, my pretty highwayman!”
“Will the señor please explain?” Señor Zorro asked. His voice was deep and held a peculiar ring.
“Are you blind? Are you without sense?” Gonzales demanded. “Am I not here?”
“And what has that to do with it?”
“Am I not a soldier?”
“At least you wear a soldier’s garb, señor.”
“By the saints, and cannot you see the good corporal and three of our comrades? Have you come to surrender your wicked sword, señor? Are you finished playing at rogue?”
Señor Zorro laughed, not unpleasantly, but he did not take his eyes from Gonzales.
“Most certainly I have not come to surrender,” he said. “I am on business, señor.”
“Business!” Gonzales queried.
“Four days ago, señor, you brutally beat a native who had won your dislike. The affair happened on the road between here and the mission at San Gabriel.”
“He was a surly dog and got in my way! And how does it concern you, my pretty highwayman?”
“I am the friend of the oppressed, señor, and I have come to punish you.”
“Come to—to punish me, fool? You punish me? I shall die of laughter before I can run you through! You are as good as dead, Señor Zorro! His excellency has offered a pretty price for your carcass! If you are a religious man, say your prayers! I would not have it said that I slew a man without giving him time to repent his crimes. I give you the space of a hundred heartbeats.”
“You are generous, señor, but there is no need for me to say my prayers.”
“Then must I do my duty,” said Gonzales, and lifted the point of his blade. “Corporal, you will remain by the table, and the men, also. This fellow and the reward he means are mine!”
He blew out the ends of his mustache and advanced carefully, not making the mistake of underestimating his antagonist, for there had been certain tales of the man’s skill with a blade. And when he was within the proper distance he recoiled suddenly, as if a snake had warned of a strike.
For Señor Zorro had allowed one hand to come from beneath his cloak, and the hand held a pistol, most damnable of weapons to Sergeant Gonzales.
“Back, señor!” Señor Zorro warned.
“Ha! So that is the way of it!” Gonzales cried. “You carry that devil’s weapon and threaten men with it! Such things are for use only at a long distance and against inferior foes. Gentlemen prefer the trusty blade.”
“Back, señor! There is death in this you call the devil’s weapon! I shall not warn again.”
“Somebody told me you were a brave man,” Gonzales taunted, retreating a few feet. “It has been whispered that you would meet any man foot to foot and cross blades with him. I have believed it of you. And now I find you resorting to a weapon fit for nothing except to use against red natives. Can it be, señor, that you lack the courage I have heard you possess?”
Señor Zorro laughed again.
“As to that, you shall see presently,” he said. “The use of this pistol is necessary at the present time. I find myself pitted against large odds in this tavern, señor. I shall cross blades with you gladly when I have made such a proceeding safe.”
“I wait anxiously,” Gonzales sneered.
“The corporal and soldiers will retreat to that far corner,” Señor Zorro directed. “Landlord, you will accompany them. The native will go there, also. Quickly, señores! Thank you! I do not wish to have any of you disturbing me while I am punishing this sergeant here.”
“Ha!” Gonzales screeched in fury. “We shall soon see as to the punishing, my pretty fox!”
“I shall hold the pistol in my left hand,” Señor Zorro continued. “I shall engage this sergeant with my right, in the proper manner, and as I fight, I shall keep an eye on the corner. The first move from any of you, señores, means that I fire. I am expert with this you have termed the devil’s weapon, and if I fire some men shall cease to exist on this earth of ours. It is understood?”
The corporal and soldiers and landlord did not take the trouble to answer. Señor Zorro looked Gonzales straight in the eyes again, and a chuckle came from behind his mask.
“Sergeant, you will turn your back until I can draw my blade,” he directed. “I give you my word as a caballero that I shall not make a foul attack.”
“As a caballero?” Gonzales sneered.
“I said it, señor!” Zorro replied, his voice ringing a threat. Gonzales shrugged his shoulders and turned his back. In an instant he heard the voice of the highwayman again.
“On guard, señor!”
CHAPTER 4
SWORDS CLASH—AND PEDRO EXPLAINS
Gonzales whirled at the word, and his blade came up. He saw that Señor Zorro had drawn his sword, and that he was holding the pistol in his left hand high above his head. Moreover, Señor Zorro was chuckling still, and the sergeant became infuriated. The blades clashed.
Sergeant Gonzales had been accustomed to battling with men who gave ground when they pleased and took it when they could, who went this way and that seeking an advantage, now advancing, now retreating, now swinging to left or right as their skill directed them.
But here he faced a man who fought in quite a different way. For Señor Zorro, it appeared, was as if rooted to one spot and unable to turn his face in any other direction. He did not give an inch, nor did he advance, nor step to either side.
Gonzales attacked furiously, as was his custom, and he found the point of his blade neatly parried. He used more caution then and tried what tricks he knew, but they seemed to avail him nothing. He attempted to pass around the man before him, and the other’s blade drove him back. He tried a retreat, hoping to draw the other out, but Señor Zorro stood his ground and forced Gonzales to attack again. As for the highwayman, he did naught except put up a defense.
Anger got the better of Gonzales then, for he knew the corporal was jealous of him, and that the tale of this fight would be told to all the pueblo tomorrow, and so travel up and down the length of El Camino Real.
He attacked furiously, hoping to drive Señor Zorro off his feet and make an end of it. But he found that his attack ended as if against a stone wall, his blade was turned aside, his breast crashed against that of his antagonist, and Señor Zorro merely threw out his chest and hurled him back half a dozen steps.
“Fight, señor!” Señor Zorro said.
“Fight yourself, cutthroat and thief!” the exasperated sergeant cried. “Don’t stand like a piece of the hills, fool! Is it against your religion to take a step?”
“You cannot taunt me into doing it,” the highwayman replied, chuckling again.
Sergeant Gonzales realized then that he had been angry, and he knew an angry man cannot fight with the blade as well as a man who controls his temper.
So he became deadly cold now, and his eyes narrowed, and all boasting was gone from him.
He attacked again, but now he was alert, seeking an unguarded spot through which he could thrust without courting disaster himself. He fenced as he never had fenced in his life before. He cursed himself for having allowed wine and food to rob him of his wind. From the front, from either side, he attacked, only to be turned back again, all his tricks solved almost before he tried them.
He had been watching his antagonist’s eyes, of course, and now he saw a change. They had seemed to be laughing through the mask, and now they had narrowed and seemed to send forth flakes of fire.
“We have had enough of playing!” Señor Zorro said. “It is time for the punishment!”
And suddenly he began to press the fighting, taking step after step, slowly and methodically going forward and forcing Gonzales backward. The tip of his blade seemed to be a serpent’s head with a thousand tongues. Gonzales felt himself at the other’s mercy, but he gritted his teeth and tried to control himself and fought on.
Now he was with his back against the wall, but in such a position that Señor Zorro could give him battle and watch the men in the corner at the same time. He knew the highwayman was playing with him. He was ready to swallow his pride and call upon the corporal and soldiers to rush in and give him aid.
And then there came a sudden battering at the door, which the native had bolted. The heart of Gonzales gave a great leap. Somebody was there, wishing to enter. Whoever it was would think it peculiar that the door was not thrown open instantly by the fat landlord or his servant. Perhaps help was at hand.
“We are interrupted, señor,” the highwayman said. “I regret it, for I will not have the time to give you the punishment you deserve, and will have to arrange to visit you another time. You scarcely are worth a double visit.”
The pounding at the door was louder now. Gonzales raised his voice:
The Mark of Zorro Page 6