The Curse of Capistrano by Harrington Strong (story read aloud TXT) đź“•
And again the door was opened suddenly, and a man entered the inn on a gust of the storm.
Chapter 3
Senor 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 die 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 hurried 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 do
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He sprang from his chair and backward to the side of the governor.
“Unfasten my wrists!” he cried. “Let me at this dog!”
“You were as good as dead before—you certainly are dead after using that word,” Senor Zorro said calmly. The comandante’s wrists were untied. He whipped out his blade, sprang forward with a cry, and launched himself in a furious attack upon the highwayman.
Senor Zorro gave ground before this onslaught, and so obtained a position where the light from the candelero did not bother his eyes. He was skilled with a blade, and had fenced for life many times, and he knew the danger in the attack of an angered man who did not fence according to the code.
And he knew, too, that such anger is spent quickly unless a fortunate thrust makes the possessor of it victor almost at once. And so he retreated step by step, guarding well, parrying vicious strokes, alert for an unexpected move.
The governor and his host were sitting in their corner, but bending forward and watching the combat.
“Run him through, Ramon, and I reinstate and promote you!” his excellency cried.
The comandante thus was urged to do it. Senor Zorro found his opponent fighting much better than he had before in Don Carlos Pulido’s house at the hacienda. He found himself forced to fight out of a dangerous corner, and the pistol he held in his left hand to intimidate the governor and his host bothered him.
And suddenly he tossed it to the table, and then swung around so that neither of the two men could dart from a corner and get it without running the chance of receiving a blade between the ribs. And there he stood his ground and fought.
Captain Ramon could not force him to give way now. His blade seemed to be a score. It darted in and out, trying to find a resting place in the captain’s body; for Senor Zorro was eager to have an end of this and be gone. He knew that the dawn was not far away, and he feared that some trooper might come to the house with a report for the governor.
“Fight, insulter of girls!” he cried. “Fight, man who tells a falsehood to injure a noble family! Fight, coward and poltroon! Now death stares you in the face, and soon you’ll be claimed! Ha! I almost had you then! Fight, cur!”
Captain Ramon cursed and charged, but Senor Zorro received him and drove him back, and so held his position. The perspiration was standing out on the captain’s forehead in great globules. His breath was coming heavily from between his parted lips. His eyes were bright and bulging.
“Fight, weakling!” The highwayman taunted him. “This time I am not attacking from behind. If you have prayers to say, say them—for your time grows short.”
The ringing blades, the shifting feet on the floor, the heavy breathing of the combatants and of the two spectators of this life-and-death struggle were the only sounds in the room. His excellency sat far forward on his chair, his hands gripping the edges of it so that his knuckles were white,
“Kill me this highwayman!” he shrieked. “Use your good skill, Ramon! At him!”
Captain Ramon rushed again, calling into play his last bit of strength, fencing with what skill he could command. His arms were as lead; his breath was fast. He thrust, he lunged —and made a mistake of a fraction of an inch.
Like the tongue of a serpent, Senor Zorro’s blade shot in. Thrice it darted forward, and upon the fair brow of Ramon, just between the eyes, there flamed suddenly a red, bloody letter Z.
“The Mark of Zorro!” the highwayman cried. “You wear it forever now, comandante!”
Senor Zorro’s face became more stern. His blade shot in again and came out dripping red. The comandante gasped and slipped to the floor.
“You have slain him!” the governor cried. “You have taken his life, wretch!”
“Ha! I trust so. The thrust was through the heart, excellency. He never will insult a senorita again.”
Senor Zorro looked down at his fallen foe, regarded the governor a moment, then wiped his blade on the sash that had bound the comandante’s wrists. He returned the blade to its scabbard and picked up his pistol from the table.
“My night’s work is done,” he said.
“And you shall hang for it!” his excellency cried.
“Perhaps—when you catch me,” replied the Curse of Capistrano, bowing ceremoniously.
Then, without glancing again at the twitching body of him who had been Captain Ramone, he whirled through the door and was in the hall, and rushed through it to the patio and to his horse.
AND HE RUSHED INTO DANGER.
The dawn had come; the first pink streaks had appeared in the eastern sky, and then the sun had risen quickly above the heights to the east, and now the plaza was bathed in brilliance. There was no mist, no high fog even, and objects on the hillsides far away stood out in relief. It was no morning in which to ride for life and freedom.
Senor Zorro had delayed too long with the governor and comandante, else had misjudged the hour. He swung into his saddle and urged his beast out of the patio—and then a full realization of his imminent peril came to him.
Down the trail from San Gabriel came Sergeant Pedro Conzales and his troopers. Down the Pala road came another detachment of soldiers that had been trailing the caballeros and Don Carlos and had given up in disgust. Over the hill toward the presidio came the third body of men, who had been in chase of those who had rescued the Dona Catalina. Senor Zorro found himself hemmed in by his foes.
The Curse of Capistrano deliberately stopped his horse and for a moment contemplated the outlook. He glanced at the three bodies of troopers, estimated the distance. And in that instant one with Sergeant Gonzales’s detachment saw him and raised the alarm.
They knew that magnificent horse, that long purple cloak, that black mask and wide sombrero. They saw before them the man they had been pursuing throughout the night, the man who had made fools of them and played with them, about the hills and valleys. They feared the rage of his excellency and their superior officers, and in their hearts and minds was determination to capture or slay this Curse of Capistrano now as this last chance was offered them.
Senor Zorro put spurs to his horse and dashed across the plaza, in full view of some score of citizens. Just as he did that, the governor and his host rushed from the house, shrieking that Senor Zorro was a murderer and should be taken. Natives scurried like so many rats for shelter; men of rank stood still and gaped in astonishment.
Senor Zorro, having crossed the plaza, drove his horse at highest speed straight toward the highway. Sergeant Gonzales and his troopers rushed to cut him off and turn him back, shrieking at one another, pistols in their hands, blades loosened in their scabbards. Reward and promotion and satisfaction were to be their lot if they made an end of the highwayman here and now.
Senor Zorro was forced to swerve from his first course, for he saw that he could not win through. He had not taken his pistol from his belt, but he had drawn his blade, and it dangled from his right wrist in such fashion that he could grip the hilt of it instantly and put it into play.
He cut across the plaza again, almost running down several men of rank who were in the way. He passed within a few paces of the infuriated governor and his host, darted between two houses, and rushed toward the hills in that direction.
It appeared that he had some small chance of escaping the cordon of his foes now. He scorned paths and trails, and cut across the open ground. From both sides the troopers galloped to meet him, flying toward the angle of the wedge, hoping to reach it in time and turn him back once more.
Gonzales was shouting orders in his great voice, and he was sending a part of his men down into the pueblo, so they would be in proper position in case the highwayman turned back again, and could keep him from escaping to the west.
He reached the highway and started down it toward the south. It was not the direction he would have preferred, but he had no choice now. He dashed around a curve in the road, where some natives’ huts cut off the view—and suddenly he pulled up his horse, almost unseating himself.
For here a new menace presented itself. Straight at him along the highway flew a horse and rider, and close behind came half a dozen troopers in pursuit.
Senor Zorro whirled his horse. He could not turn to the right because of a stone fence. His horse could have jumped it, but on the other side was soft plowed ground, and he knew he could make no progress across it, and that the troopers might cut him down with a pistol bullet.
Nor could he turn to the left, for there was a sheer precipice down which he could not hope to ride with safety. He had to turn back toward Sergeant Gonzales and the men who rode with him, hoping to get a distance of a couple of hundred yards, where he could make a descent, before Gonzales and his men arrived at the spot
He gripped his sword now, and was prepared for fight, for he knew it was going to be close work. He glanced back over his shoulder—and gasped his surprise.
For it was Senorita Lolita Pulido who rode that horse and was pursued by the half-dozen troopers, and he had thought her safe at the hacienda of Fray Felipe. Her long black hair was down and streaming out behind her. Her tiny heels were glued to the horse’s flanks. She bent forward as she rode, holding the reins low down, and Senor Zorro, even in that instant, marveled at her skill with a mount.
“Senor!” he heard her shout.
And then she had reached his side, and they rode together, dashing down upon Gonzales and his troopers.
“They have been chasing me—for hours!” she gasped. “I escaped them—at Fray Felipe’s!”
“Ride close! Do not waste breath!” he screeched.
“My horse—is almost done—senor!”
Senor Zorro glanced aside at the beast, and saw that he I was suffering from fatigue. But there was scant time to consider that now. The soldiers behind had gained some; those in front presented a menace that required consideration.
Down the trail they flew, side by side, straight at Gonzales and his men. Senor Zorro could see that pistols were out, and he doubted not that the governor had given orders to get him dead or alive, but to see that he did not escape again.
Now he spurred a few paces in advance of the senorita, and called upon her to ride his horse’s tracks. He dropped the reins on his mount’s neck, and held his blade ready. He had two weapons—his blade and his horse.
Then came the crash. Senor Zorro swerved his horse at the proper instant, and the senorita followed him. He cut at the trooper on his left, swung over and cut at the one on his right. His horse crashed into that of a third trooper, and hurled it against the animal the sergeant rode.
He heard shrill
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