The Legend of Zorro Page 3

“A landslide in favor of statehood,” cried the tabulator, his face breaking into a wide, glorious grin of triumph.

  A roar of approval burst from the crowd. Music swelled, strangers hugged and kissed, and the echoes of laughter reached out to embrace all.

  Joaquin leaped onto the soapbox, his fist rocketing high as he crowed with satisfaction.

  A few yards away, Fray Felipe crossed himself, held his beads, and nodded to the heavens. “Let’s hope the rest of California voted the same…”

  Moments later, when the celebrants began to settle down, the tabulator locked the certificate inside a box and handed it to one of the Rurales. “Take this to the governor,” commanded the tabulator as he put on his wide-brimmed hat.

  Joaquin’s elation ebbed as he saw Felipe’s probing gaze fall upon the box the Rurale hauled toward a waiting wagon.

  “Be careful, Hombre,” cautioned Fray Felipe, “you carry our future in your hands.”

  Joaquin felt something then: a slight shift in the air, a sudden and bitter chill that snaked across the flesh at the nape of his neck. Then, with nightmarish suddenness, a barrage of deafening gunshots exploded above the sounds of the crowd. Time seemed to slow for Joaquin. He watched with horror as three hats whipped into the air, each sporting a smoking black hole ringed with tiny, licking flames. The tabulator and the two soldiers stumbled back, their now bared heads displaying their wildly shorn hair, but they were otherwise unhurt. Two more shots blasted the air, and the great sign urging everyone to vote today swept down from above, its cable supports severed.

  Screams shot from onlookers in the crowd, and a sudden pressing rush of frightened people surged at Joaquin. He held his ground atop the orator’s box, dimly aware that Cortez’s opponent had already fled.

  The crowd parted, revealing a grizzled man in a black hat and frock coat riding a dusky Mustang. The man’s face was scarred, and he carried a weapon with a long, shining silver barrel. Trotting forward in a mockery of amiable good manners, he tipped his hat to a lady who promptly fainted in disbelief and regaled the pair of Rurales with a soft, but good-natured laugh even as the lawmen had their rifles raised and pointed toward his head.

  “I know you,” Fray Felipe said, his gaze set on the gunman’s distinctive scar.

  Ignoring the padre, the scarred man cast a wicked grin at his gleaming gun. “Latest model in heavy artillery, the Henry Repeater. If God didn’t hurl lightning, he’d carry one of these.”

  “State your business, Jacob McGivens,” said Fray Felipe.

  McGivens shrugged. “I haven’t voted yet.”

  “You’re too late, the polls have closed.”

  Frowning, McGivens shook his head. “Doesn’t seem equitable. I have rights too.”

  Joaquin leaped out of the way as Cortez suddenly lunged at the gunman. Blanca’s steady hand, her touch gentle, yet powerful, restrained his flight.

  Snarling, Cortez called, “You talk about rights when you force us off our land?”

  “Force you?” McGivens laughed. “Railroad pays fair price: two cents an acre.” He thrust his open hand toward the box held by the tabulator, who had picked it up when the Rurale dropped it. “Now, if you’d be kind enough—give me that box, I’ll be on my way.”

  The tabulator tried being reasonable. “You’d only force the people to vote again.”

  A dismissive grunt sounded in the back of McGivens’s throat. Joaquin knew the man was mad. A pair of rifles were trained on the scarred man’s head and he acted as if he was in charge.

  “Well, you remember…’’ McGivens’s eyes blazed suddenly and his voice shot ahead of him, a fanatical, theatrical spike of fury. “Babylon was condemned to ashes for extending its empire to inferior races! I come to deliver the Lord’s work against this vote!”

  The distinctive crackling of muskets cocking from high above arrested Joaquin’s attention. He spun and saw six riflemen on the rooftops, three on each side of the street, their weapons aimed at the frightened mass below.

  McGivens’s posse had the high ground.

  The weapons held by the Rurales wavered—then fell. The soldiers could not risk the lives of the innocents who would surely be caught in the crossfire.

  The tabulator clasped the box to his breast, and Fray Felipe edged beside him, ready to push the man aside and take a bullet himself if need be.

  Unnoticed by the terrified crowd, Joaquin slipped his hand into his back pocket, and slowly withdrew a weapon of his own making.

  “Time to do the Lord’s work,” cackled McGivens, raising and priming his thick heavy rifle. “Three…two…’’

  Joaquin carefully aimed his weapon at the bandito. An instant before he could act, however, he heard a strange high whistling sound, an object slicing the air. His jaw dropped as a black gaucho rocketed into view, smashing McGivens on the bridge of the nose. The gunman snapped back in his saddle, tumbled off his horse and landed with an angry thud in a sharply rising cloud of dust.

  In a heartbeat, Joaquin had judged the angle from which the hat had been flung. He whirled and felt the breath catch in his throat at the sight of the tall masked man standing upon the ledge of the mission’s espadaña.

  El Zorro.

  Zorro waved to the crowd, his eyes sparkling from behind the mask concealing his roguish features. His shimmering silver medallion swung from a thin chain around his neck, the ruby at its heart glowing with his passion. Bold embroidered patterns struck out across his wide belt while gleaming sunlight raced along the sweeping length of his avenging blade.

  The people cheered as their hearts swelled with hope. Joaquin beamed with excitement, his throat growing raw as he hollered, “El Zorro! El Zorro!”

  Zorro’s cape swept the air and rustled like the unfurling of heavy wings as he escaped the barrage of gunfire with a single graceful leap onto the balcony below.

  Joaquin cheered again. His hero had evaded the lethal onslaught of McGivens’s murderous riflemen. This was even better than a scene from one of his dime novels!

  A rough scraping caught Joaquin’s attention. He pushed through the frightened onlookers and saw Jacob McGivens dragging himself up off the ground. The Rurales were reaching for their weapons, but they weren’t quick enough. Mc-Givens swung the Henry Repeater rifle around, forcing the soldiers to back away from their guns once more.

  Snarling like a cornered wolf, McGivens whipped the butt of his weapon against the tabulator’s skull. The man fell back into Fray Felipe’s arms, the box he had been clutching was catapulted into the air. McGivens caught it, stabbed his weapon high then fired to clear a path to the waiting wagon. He jumped on board, clearing the rim of the wagon bed and landing firmly in the long wooden driver’s seat.

  Joaquin primed his weapon and took aim as the gunman tossed the stolen box on the flat bed behind him then spun to grab the reins.

  Screeching with fury, Joaquin fired!

  McGivens jumped as a spiraling apple core splattered against the side of his head. Whirling, he fixed his gaze on the grinning Joaquin, who held his slingshot high. The Rurales had their guns now, and were trying to take aim, but the frightened swell of people pressed against them, confounding their attempts to shoot the thief. Joaquin’s effort had bought them more time to take down this rabid dog.

  The scarred man’s eyes burned with the fury of pure bloody murder, but he had seen the Rurales and knew he had to move fast. Cracking the reins, McGivens blasted away in the stolen wagon, the lock box bouncing and crashing in the open rear bed.

  The riflemen sprang from the rooftops onto waiting horses, galloping after the wagon as it thundered through the mass of fleeing peasants, heading straight for a frightened little girl.

  “El Zorro!” cried Joaquin, who was too far away to reach the girl in time.

  Joaquin spun and searched high for his hero, his soul taking flight as he finally spotted Zorro swinging from the balcony, his black gloved hands catching the dangling corner of a banner whipping over the crowd. Joaquin could hardly be
lieve it—the banner ripped as Zorro descended in a wide, sweeping arc, one arm out to catch the innocent child. The hook holding the banner in place burst free of its mooring atop a saddler’s shop, flinging Zorro headlong into the path of the wagon. And yet despite the thundering earth beneath him, the ratcheting wooden wheels which spat stones at him and the galloping team of powerful dark brown horses hurtling a stolen wagon at him, Zorro remained calm.

  With catlike grace he kicked out his legs and took the ground running. His arm encircled the little girl, her necklace slipping over his hand. The clasp bursting, the jewelry made of donkey teeth, wood and brass beads dropping to the street as the two darting from the path of raging hooves and heavy spinning wheels, the wind biting Zorro’s back, the child safe in his arms and the wagon narrowly blazing beyond them was a sight to behold.

  Joaquin gazed upon the crushed remains of the necklace, the teeth and beads strewn across a dozen feet of road, and nearly fell to his knees to thank the Lord for gracing their lives with the will of one so strong as El Zorro. Fray Felipe ran up beside Joaquin, clamping a firm, yet loving hand on his shoulder. Together, they watched Zorro deposit the girl in the waiting arms of her terrified mother, then race up the shaft of a nearby cart and leap onto the rooftops to give chase.

  Something brushed Joaquin’s face. He eased from the padre and saw Zorro’s gaucho clutched tightly in the older man’s callused hand.

  Felipe tossed the hat to the fleeing figure above. With a robust cry of appreciation, Zorro caught it, slapped it back in place, then leaped for another rooftop and scrambled out of sight. Joaquin surged ahead, chasing the masked man.

  The boy paid no notice to a pair of odd-looking, dark-suited men who emerged from the shadows of a general store half a block away, one tall and built like an ogre, the other shorter, slighter, his hairy paw scratching quickly at his round, stubbly, ratlike cheek. Seemingly intrigued by the spectacle they had witnessed, the big man politely gestured for his shorter companion to stroll ahead of him. In moments, they were atop their horses, and just as Joaquin ran abreast of them, they galloped off in the direction of the fleeing McGivens, nearly running the boy down. Stumbling out of the street, his knee sore, ankle aching, Joaquin dropped onto a rocking chair sitting outside the the general store and shook his head.

  Fray Felipe, who had born witness to the lad’s close scrape, clutched his crucifix and gave a prayer of thanks that Joaquin had not been harmed. Then, spotting the dark figure of Zorro cresting another roof in the distance before dropping down the other side and out of sight, the padre kissed his crucifix and whispered, “Godspeed, Alejandro.”

  Chapter 2

  The rooftops blurred as Zorro blazed across them, his boots finding nimble purchase on the sliding red tiles so common in San Mateo. Below, the stolen wagon careened through the wide bustling streets escorted by six mounted desperados. Three horsemen had pulled ahead of the wagon, three behind, the slowest lagging because he was also leading McGivens’s lassoed Mustang.

  These madmen did not care who they trampled upon or what they destroyed in their crazed flight through the outdoor marketplace. Old women clutching red shawls scurried out of their way as they crashed around corners, while young hombres in deerskin jackets and chaps raced to save their well-tanned hides and other wares. The riders burst through the collection of rough, rickety wood stands and cages, sending chickens and hens flying while guavas, plums and papayas burst and splattered onto the dirt road. Sombreros, billowing white blouses and colorful rugs were ripped from their lines, cast into the dusty street and ground into ruin by the hooves of the relentless riders.

  Zorro judged that he had only one chance of stopping McGivens and his gang before they reached the outskirts of town and bounded forth into California’s wild reaches.

  From high atop the roof of a millwright, Alejandro de la Vega allowed his enemies to slip from his sight. Their wild yelps, the cracking of their whips, and the ceaseless pounding of their horses’ hooves dwindled for a time as he traced a route through San Mateo that would allow him to intercept the gang—if he reached his destination in time. His muscles burned as he ran, his black garb ringing with sweat.

  He had never felt more alive.

  Sunlight reached across the rooftops, lengthening Zorro’s shadow. He soon heard the clatter of hooves and the cries of his enemies. It was an hour before sunset. The twisting ball of fire in the sky was brighter now, almost blinding, though rich red streaks were already forming on high as evening with its cool breezes stole nearer. Hawks and sparrows caroused above as a gull glided toward the distant river.

  Zorro adjusted his mask as he ran. When he wore it, colors were more vibrant, images sharper and clearer than ever. Sounds were bolder, crisper. Every sensation was magnified.

  When he wore the mask, he was more than a man.

  He was a legend.

  The building Zorro sought loomed ahead. He reached the two-story feed and grain store just in time. Golden light glinted off the sharp industrial hook and rope he had remembered hanging outside the open entrance to the upper floor. With it, bags of feed and bales of hay were easily lowered to wagons waiting before the humble store of Señor Suaraz, where the best corn and seed in two counties might be bought. Zorro untethered one end of the device as the trampling hooves of the outlaw envoy approached.

  A rising wind blew across the shimmering crystal lake facing the store, and coyotes howled from the heavy forest of oak and madrones behind it. Hawks careened over the skeletal reaches of the half-finished aqueduct stretching across the lake a hundred yards up the road, and deer scampered for cover as McGivens approached, driving his team as if to burst their hearts.

  Now to bait the trap, thought Zorro. Grabbing the hook, the masked man leaped to the ground, landing directly in the path of McGivens’s wagon. The scarred gunman was now leading his pack. Zorro tipped his hat, then yawned and pantomimed drawing a watch from his silken waist sash. He shrugged quizzically at the time it was taking for the villain to reach him.

  The reins cracked and McGivens screamed with anticipation, completely ignoring the heavy hook in Zorro’s hand.

  The horses rushed at Zorro. Timing his maneuver expertly, he whispered a prayer and dropped between them. The hooves crashed to either side of his head and shoulders, his legs pressed together, arms over his chest. If one of the beasts tripped on the line he held, or snagged it with their sparking hooves, he would be dragged from this safe spot and trampled to death for sure.

  But luck was with him. The horses sped by and the wagon’s shuddering undercarriage rushed overhead. He whipped his hand up, slipping the hook over the front axle. The wheels spun in a screeching, hammering vibrato that made his teeth ache as the wagon sped on, leaving him looking up at the sky once more. Now he had only the seven racing horses coming up behind McGivens to worry about. Spiraling to the marshy grass to his right, Zorro cleared the coming horde of riders with only inches to spare. He held on to his hat as the pack thundered past, then he whirled and sat up, his gaze flickering first on the rapidly uncoiling rope and then on the wagon, which hitched and hiccuped strangely as the rope pulled taut. Then with a grinding screech, the axle was yanked from the wagon, striking back and to one side at the other riders like an enraged cobra. They scattered, most falling from their horses. The wagon flipped over cleanly, sending McGivens and the lock box rocketing into the air.

  On his feet and breaking into a run, Zorro raced to the fallen box and snatched it up. The trio of McGivens’s men that had stopped short of the neatly engineered disaster galloped at him, guns raised. Zorro had planned to call on an ally unseen until now to spirit him from this place, but his friend could not possibly reach him on time. His plan had failed, what was he to do?

  He recalled the words of Don Diego, the man who had willed the legend of Zorro to Alejandro. Only a fool relies completely on plans. If one’s wits cannot serve in a crisis, then one has no business wearing that mask.

  As he ran, Alejandro h
eard the hiss of a rattler near his boot—and the tremulous cry of a duck skimming over the water’s surface, near the half-built aqueduct.

  The aqueduct!

  Zorro burst ahead, looking for any cover he might find between here and the aqueduct. There was none. He heard a trio of rifles cocking, then McGivens’s voice rang out.

  “I want him alive!” cried the scarred gunman, who was half-kneeling in the mud. “I’m gonna skin that mask clear off his greasy damn face!”

  Zorro reached the aqueduct. His gaze fixed on the highest planks of the three-tiered scaffolding directly before him. He lunged at the rope ladder and laughed as he scampered to the first high landing and then the second. His enemies cursed as they leaped from their horses and scrambled after him. The scaffolding shuddered and swayed as McGivens’s men spidered up its sides, the hiss of their labored breathing almost lost against the steady rush of the water far below. Drawing his blade, Zorro leaned back against one of the tall oaks used as a main support beam and playfully scratched a tic-tac-toe board into the planks above his head.

  Instead of “X”s, he sliced “Z”s to counter the zeros.

  An ugly man with a meaty face and wild yellow hair was the first of McGivens’s hired guns to clear the rigging and scramble onto the plank to face Zorro.

  “Hold on, hold on, uno momento,” murmured Zorro as he finished his game by carving a final “Z” in the wood above. Whirling, he winked at his waiting opponent. “Okay, now I’m ready!”

  The mercenary’s hand flashed to a nasty length of chain coiled around his middle. Yanking it loose, he whipped it overhead with a violent rattling, the air humming as the chains whooshed.

  Zorro glanced up, shaking his head and delivering a sympathetic “tsk, tsk” before he sprang forward, his blade whisking through the suspenders holding up the man’s trousers. Yelping as his pants fell, the mercenary stumbled back, the unstoppable momentum of his whirling chains making them whip and coil around his own neck. The startled man choked and chortled as he staggered back, trying to speak.