The Mark of Zorro (7 page)

Acknowledgments

For their assistance, the authors wish to thank Isabel Allende for consenting to a telephone interview; Eddie Brandt's Saturday Matinee, North Hollywood, for providing rare videotapes; William Davis, board member and do-cent, and Jeannette Davis for a private tour of the Casa de Palomares and Casa Primera adobes in Pomona, and for lending us some rare books; Marva Felchlin, director, Autry Library, and assistant director, Institute for the Study of the American West, and Manola Madrid-Jarett, research services assistant, Autry National Center, Los Angeles; Meg Garrett, reference librarian, and Patti Weaver, coordinator of circulation services at the Honnold/Mudd Library of the Claremont Colleges; the Henry E. Huntington Library, San Marino; Carola Kaplan, professor emerita, California State Polytechnic University, Pomona, for her helpful suggestions; Carrie Marsh, Special Collections librarian, Honnold/Mudd Library of the Claremont Colleges; The Museum of Television & Radio at New York and Los Angeles; and Kim Walters, director of the Braun Research Library of the Southwest Museum of the American Indian, Highland Park—all of them in California. And finally thanks to our editor, Michael Millman, for his enthusiasm for the project and his patience with us.

Again the sheet of rain beat against the roof of red Spanish tile, and the wind shrieked like a soul in torment, and smoke puffed from the big fireplace as the sparks were showered over the hard dirt floor.

“‘Tis a night for evil deeds!” declared Sergeant Pedro Gonzales, stretching his great feet in their loose boots toward the roaring fire and grasping the hilt of his sword in one hand and a mug filled with thin wine in the other. “Devils howl in the wind and demons are in the raindrops! 'Tis an evil night, indeed—eh,
señor?”

“It is!” the fat landlord agreed hastily; and he made haste, also, to fill the wine mug again, for Sergeant Pedro Gonzales had a temper that was terrible when aroused, as it always was when wine was not forthcoming.

“An evil night!” the big sergeant repeated, and drained the mug without stopping to draw breath, a feat that had attracted considerable attention in its time and had gained the sergeant a certain amount of notoriety up and down El Camino Real, as they called the highway that connected the missions in one long chain.

Gonzales sprawled closer to the fire, and cared not that other men thus were robbed of some of its warmth. Sergeant Pedro Gonzales often had expressed his belief that a man should look out for his own comfort before considering others; and being of great size and strength, and having much skill with the blade, he found few who had the courage to declare that they believed otherwise.

Outside, the wind shrieked and the rain dashed against the ground in a solid sheet. It was a typical February storm for southern California. At the missions the
frailes
had cared for the stock and had closed the buildings for the night. At every great
hacienda
big fires were burning in the houses. The timid natives kept to their little adobe huts, glad for shelter.

And here in the little
pueblo
of Reina de Los Angeles, where, in years to come, a great city would grow, the tavern on one side of the plaza housed for the time being men who would sprawl before the fire until the dawn rather than face the beating rain.

Sergeant Pedro Gonzales, by virtue of his rank and size, hogged the fireplace, and a corporal and three soldiers from the
presidio
sat at table a little in back of him, drinking their thin wine and playing at cards. An Indian servant crouched on his heels in one corner, no neophyte who had accepted the religion of the
frailes
, but a gentile and renegade.

For this was in the day of the decadence of the missions, and there was little peace between the robed Franciscans who followed in the footsteps of the sainted Junipero Serra, who had founded the first mission at San Diego de Alcalá, and thus made possible an empire, and those who followed the politicians and had high places in the army. The men who drank wine in the tavern at Reina de Los Angeles had no wish for a spying neophyte about them.

Just now conversation had died out, a fact that annoyed the fat landlord and caused him some fear; for Sergeant Pedro Gonzales in an argument was Sergeant Gonzales at peace; and unless he could talk, the big soldier might feel moved to action and start a brawl.

Twice before, Gonzales had done so, to the great damage of furniture and men's faces; and the landlord had appealed to the
comandante
of the
presidio,
Captain Ramón, only to be informed that the captain had an abundance of troubles of his own, and that running an inn was not one of them.

So the landlord regarded Gonzales warily, and edged closer to the long table, and spoke in an attempt to start a general conversation and so avert trouble.

“They are saying in the
pueblo,”
he announced, “that this Señor Zorro is abroad again.”

His words had an effect that was both unexpected and terrible to witness. Sergeant Pedro Gonzales hurled his half-filled wine mug to the hard dirt floor, straightened suddenly on the bench, and crashed a ponderous fist down upon the table, causing wine mugs and cards and coins to scatter in all directions.

The corporal and the three soldiers retreated a few feet in sudden fright, and the red face of the landlord blanched; the native sitting in the corner started to creep toward the door, having determined that he preferred the storm outside to the big sergeant's anger.

“Señor Zorro, eh?” Gonzales cried in a terrible voice. “Is it my fate always to hear that name? Señor Zorro, eh? Mr. Fox, in other words! He imagines, I take it, that he is as cunning as one. By the saints, he raises as much stench!”

Gonzales gulped, turned to face them squarely, and continued his tirade.

“He runs up and down the length of El Camino Real like a goat of the high hills! He wears a mask, and he flashes a pretty blade, they tell me. He uses the point of it to carve his hated letter ‘Z' on the cheek of his foe! Ha! The Mark of Zorro they are calling it! A pretty blade he has, in truth! But I cannot swear as to the blade-I never have seen it. He will not do me the honor of letting me see it! Señor Zorro's depredations never occur in the vicinity of Sergeant Pedro Gonzales! Perhaps this Señor Zorro can tell us the reason for that? Ha!”

He glared at the men before him, drew back his upper lip, and let the ends of his great black mustache bristle.

“They are calling him the Curse of Capistrano now,” the fat landlord observed, stooping to pick up the wine mug and cards and hoping to filch a coin in the process.

“Curse of the entire highway and the whole mission chain!” Sergeant Gonzales roared. “A cutthroat, he is! A thief! Ha! A common fellow presuming to get him a reputation for bravery because he robs a
hacienda
or so and frightens a few women and natives! Senor Zorro, eh? Here is one fox it gives me pleasure to hunt! Curse of Capistrano, eh? I know I have led an evil life, but I only ask of the saints one thing now—that they forgive me my sins long enough to grant me the boon of standing face-to-face with this pretty highwayman!”

“There is a reward—” the landlord began.

“You snatch the very words from my lips!” Sergeant Gonzales protested. “There is a pretty reward for the fellow's capture, offered by his excellency the governor. And what good fortune has come to my blade? I am away on duty at San Juan Capistrano, and the fellow makes his play at Santa Barbara. I am at Reina de Los Angeles, and he takes a fat purse at San Luis Rey. I dine at San Gabriel, let us say, and he robs at San Diego de Alcalá! A pest, he is! Once I meet him—”

Sergeant Gonzales choked on his wrath and reached for the wine mug, which the landlord had filled again and placed at his elbow. He gulped down the contents.

“Well, he never has visited us here,” the landlord said with a sigh of thanksgiving.

“Good reason, fat one! Ample reason! We have a
presidio
here and a few soldiers. He rides far from any
presidio,
does this pretty Señor Zorro! He is like a fleeting sunbeam, I grant him that—and with about as much real courage!”

Sergeant Gonzales relaxed on the bench again, and the landlord gave him a glance that was full of relief, and began to hope that there would be no breakage of mugs and furniture and men's faces this rainy night.

“Yet this Señor Zorro must rest at times—he must eat and sleep,” the landlord said. “It is certain that he must have some place for hiding and recuperation. Some fine day the soldiers will trail him to his den.”

“Ha!” Gonzales replied. “Of course the man has to eat and sleep! And what is it that he claims now? He says that he is no real thief, by the saints! He is but punishing those who mistreat the men of the missions, he says. Friend of the oppressed, eh? He left a placard at Santa Barbara recently stating as much, did he not? Ha! And what may be the reply to that?

The
frailes
of the missions are shielding him, hiding him, giving him his meat and drink! Shake down a robed
fray
and you'll find some trace of this pretty highwayman's whereabouts, else I am a lazy civilian!”

“I have no doubt that you speak the truth,” the landlord replied. “I put it not past the
frailes
to do such a thing. But may this Señor Zorro never visit us here!”

“And why not, fat one?” Sergeant Gonzales cried in a voice of thunder. “Am I not here? Have I not a blade at my side? Are you an owl, and is this daylight that you cannot see as far as the end of your puny, crooked nose? By the saints—”

“I mean,” said the landlord quickly and with some alarm, “that I have no wish to be robbed.”

“To be—robbed of what, fat one? Of a jug of weak wine and a meal? Have you riches, fool? Ha! Let the fellow come! Let this bold and cunning Señor Zorro but enter that door and step before us! Let him make a bow, as they say he does, and let his eyes twinkle through his mask! Let me but face the fellow for an instant—and I claim the generous reward offered by his excellency!”

“He perhaps is afraid to venture so near the
presidio
,” the landlord said.

“More wine!” Gonzales howled. “More wine, fat one, and place it to my account! When I have earned the reward, you shall be paid in full. I promise it on my word as a soldier! Ha! Were this brave and cunning Señor Zorro, this Curse of Capistrano, but to make entrance at that door now—” The door suddenly was opened!

In came a gust of wind and rain and a man with it, and the candles flickered and one was extinguished. This sudden entrance in the midst of the sergeant's boast startled them all, and Gonzales drew his blade halfway from its scabbard as his words died in his throat. The native was quick to close the door again to keep out the wind.

The newcomer turned and faced them; the landlord gave another sigh of relief. It was not Señor Zorro, of course. It was Don Diego Vega, a fair youth of excellent blood and twenty-four years, noted the length of El Camino Real for his small interest in the really important things of life.

“Ha!” Gonzales cried, and slammed his blade home.

“Is it that I startled you somewhat,
señores
?” Don Diego asked politely and in a thin voice, glancing around the big room and nodding to the men before him.

“If you did,
señor
, it was because you entered on the heels of the storm,” the sergeant retorted. “‘Twould not be your own energy that would startle any man!”

“H-m!” grunted Don Diego, throwing aside his sombrero and flinging off his soaked serape. “Your remarks border on the perilous, my raucous friend.”

“Can it be that you intend to take me to task?”

“It is true,” continued Don Diego, “that I do not have a reputation for riding like a fool at risk of my neck, fighting like an idiot with every newcomer, and playing the guitar under every woman's window like a simpleton. Yet I do not care to have these things you deem my shortcomings flaunted in my face!”

“Ha!” Gonzales cried, half in anger.

“We have an agreement, Sergeant Gonzales, that we can be friends, and I can forget the wide difference in birth and breeding that yawns between us only as long as you curb your tongue and stand my comrade. Your boasts amuse me, and I buy for you the wine that you crave—it is a pretty arrangement. But ridicule me again,
señor
, either in public or private, and the agreement is at an end. I may mention that I have some small influence—”

“Your pardon,
caballero
and my very good friend!” the alarmed Sergeant Gonzales cried now. “You are storming worse than the tempest outside, and merely because my tongue happened to slip. Hereafter, if any man ask, you are nimble of wit and quick with a blade, always ready to fight or to make love. You are a man of action,
caballero!
Ha! Does any dare doubt it?”

He glared around the room, half drawing his blade again, and then he slammed the sword home and threw back his head and roared with laughter, and then clapped Don Diego between the shoulders; and the fat landlord hurried with more wine, knowing well that Don Diego Vega would stand the score.

For this peculiar friendship between Don Diego and Sergeant Gonzales was the talk of El Camino Real. Don Diego came from a family of blood that ruled over thousands of broad acres, countless herds of horses and cattle, great fields of grain. Don Diego, in his own right, had a
hacienda
that was like a small empire, and a house in the
pueblo
also, and was destined to inherit from his father more than thrice what he had now.