Alejandro Rides Alone

Starlight twinkled down through the branches of olive, oak, palm and sycamore to sparkle in the ripples of the old stone fountain in the mission courtyard.  Well kept flowerbeds of rosemary and lavender scented the dewy morning air.  The waning moon had finally risen far enough to sharpen the shadows under the arches of the old stone porticos opposite the scalloped roof of the church’s thick facade.  In a few hours the sun would rise.  Alejandro knew he would have to be well away from here by then.  Bad enough they knew where he was going.  But he thought he could at least outrun them, if he could find his horse.

Quietly he made his way past the line of stairs that led up to the bell tower, its thick adobe walls slotted to enclose five large bells stacked, two, two and one, like layers of a wedding cake.  On the very top a small white cross presided over everything.

But Alejandro knew quite well that missions were not just havens of Christian charity in the midst of a savage wilderness.  They were designed to keep the natives in.  At night they were locked down tight, like prisons.  The only way out was through one of two iron gates, and the only two people who had the keys were the two resident padres whose quarters, as a further security precaution, were situated one right beside each gate.  Of course, the natives didn’t have pistols.

Luckily, Alejandro had tucked Silvio’s pistol discreetly into his saddlebags and forgotten about it long before he had seen how things were going to go.  Even if he had anticipated trouble, he doubted he would have been able to come up with an excuse to take his carbine from his saddle when the stable hands had led his horse away.  He hadn’t kept his sword either.  This was, after all, the house of God.

But as the evening wore on, he felt more as if his own prayers had been answered when he suddenly remembered he had the pistol.  The only trouble was that, once he fired it—if he fired it—he would have no way to reload it, since it didn’t take ordinary gunpowder and shot.  He would have much preferred the saber.

As he tried to keep his footsteps from echoing too loudly on the hard red-brown tiles, he thought of what an enigma Padre Luis had turned out to be.  To begin with, he had come to San Gabriel searching, he said, for a renegade priest who tortured false confessions out of people to extort money, or even confiscate land, as penance for their sins.

But ever since Silvio had caught up with them yesterday afternoon, not even Padre Felipe had known quite what to make of Padre Luis’ open minded attitude toward this villain Marigál.  Not that it wasn’t legal to arrest people for judizante, or for following the Protestant heresies.  Such offenses had some basis in reality, at least.  But to accuse people of brewing magic potions, flying through the air or casting evil spells?  How could anyone but superstitious peasants take such nonsense seriously?

Nor was Alejandro truly convinced that Padre Luis or either of the two San Diegan priests took it seriously either.  But as he and Padre Felipe had told their story over supper, it quickly became clear that none of these men of God, not even Padre Felipe, felt entirely comfortable admitting they knew it was nonsense.

Both Don Urbino and Marigál had apparently stayed at this mission before, as had Silvio; the priests had welcomed him warmly.  And somehow, Marigál had managed to frighten everyone just enough so that no one wanted to risk being charged with heresy.  It was almost as if they were the ones who had been put under some sort of a spell.

"But surely we cannot condone the use of torture," Padre Felipe had said.  "Why, I myself have seen the injuries suffered by Señor del Valle."

"Oh sí, the man accused of being a Jew."  Padre Ancelmo, a large man, almost the same size and shape as Sergeant Garcia, had paused thoughtfully over a bowl of pozole, (1) waving his spoon like a punctuation mark.  "He was guilty," he said.  "The son confessed.  They never ate pork, and they had been secretly lighting candles in their wine cellar for years."

"But how do you know if you have an honest confession when it is obtained under duress?" Padre Felipe had persisted.

Padre Tomas, the older and much sterner looking priest across the table, had set down his wine glass and fixed Padre Felipe with a thinly congenial glance.  "Well, naturally, he was asked to confirm his confession the following day," he said.  And as Alejandro had swapped a furtive glance with Padre Felipe, he knew they all understood that such a confirmation would be worthless if the prisoner thought he would be tortured again for recanting.  But Padre Felipe said nothing.

"Besides, we know del Valle was in league with that outlaw el Zorro," said Padre Ancelmo with a shrug, exchanging his own oblique glance with Padre Tomas.  "We’ve heard from Capitan Acevedo in Los Angeles that this Zorro helped him escape from the carcel, and then they went on to murder Silvio’s employer, Don Urbino Guzman."

"El Zorro had nothing to do with that," Padre Felipe insisted.

"And how would you know this?" said Padre Tomas.

"El Zorro is not a murderer," Alejandro put in, sensing that Padre Felipe had no answer.  "He was merely trying to protect my son.  Silvio himself has admitted that Señor Guzman stayed with us so he could help them take Diego, just as he helped them take Señor del Valle’s son."

"Well of course he would do what he could to assist the church," Padre Tomas replied.  "And such actions would not be illegal if your son were under grave suspicion.  But surely you do not condone the actions of an outlaw who sets himself up as judge and executioner?"

"Del Valle attacked Urbino out of revenge," Alejandro insisted; "they killed each other."

"Well that is, of course, what Zorro would say," said Padre Ancelmo idly, sipping his wine.

"And what about Señor Endicott?" said Alejandro sharply.  "He murdered that girl.  He sent Silvio to kill me.  Are these the sorts of actions the church condones?"

"Of course not, Señor de la Vega," said Padre Ancelmo with a shrug, "but we have no reason to think that Padre Eusepio would have condoned them either."

Alejandro shook his head.  He knew it was at this point that Diego would have reminded him not to lose his temper.  He took a deep breath.  "Does an accused man no longer have a right under the law to face his accusers?" he asked pointedly.

"Well, not really," said Padre Ancelmo.  "Not in such cases as these, where there would be fear of retaliation.  It is dangerous to accuse a witch.  If the church did not protect its informers— "

Alejandro’s eyes grew wide.  This was more sheer absurdity than he had ever heard in his life.  He started to protest, but Padre Felipe’s helpless shrug told him it was no use.

"Señor Guzman’s wife was also a guest at your hacienda, was she not?" said Padre Tomas, and then it had been Alejandro’s turn to fall silent, for he saw all too well how it looked: Zorro, in league with Jews, helping this evil woman lead Diego into temptation and sin, Marigál intervening just in time to save his soul.  And why couldn’t that be the way it really was?  He might even have believed it himself, thought Alejandro, if his heart wasn’t telling him something else.

"But this is no way for an inquisitor to behave," said Padre Felipe, having seen another way into the discussion.  "All this secrecy, sneaking around, conducting investigations even without the knowledge of the local clergy.  Questioning everyone but the accused.  You would think that this was Germany or France in the Dark Ages."

"I am certain it must have seemed that way from your perspective," said Padre Tomas as he leaned back to let the native servants remove what was left of his meal.  "But you must realize that we had heard some rather disquieting rumors.  It was said that even the priests at San Gabriel, and you yourself, in fact, were in league with this outlaw Zorro."

Padre Felipe’s eyes grew just a little wider.  Then they drifted toward Alejandro, but this time Alejandro knew his friend would be silenced for good, especially when Padre Tomas added, "Of course, we are far from convinced of the truth of such charges, but Padre Señán is concerned."

"No one would like to see the San Gabriel mission in the hands of a less experienced priest," said Padre Ancelmo quietly, especially at this delicate stage in our relationship with Mother Spain.

And Padre Felipe had merely shook his head.  Clearly he did not want to risk going before the Commissary Prefect of all California, possibly losing control of his mission.  Even if he had been found innocent, the mere accusation of heresy would tarnish his reputation forever.

Later, when they had returned to the small dormitory room they had been given to share, he hadn’t been eager to discuss the matter, though he was clearly in agony over Diego.  He had spent quite a while praying before he finally went to sleep.  Nor could Alejandro blame him, really, for doing what he believed was in the best interests of the natives he thought of as his children.  But Padre Luis remained an enigma.

Throughout the entire exchange over supper, he had not said a word, almost as though he were waiting to see which side would win before he sided with anyone.  Afterwards, he and Silvio had both simply disappeared into the church.  And that had been when Alejandro had decided he would have to take matters into his own hands, especially if el Zorro really had been killed.

He didn’t think Silvio would be quite as likely to try to kill him now, since things seemed to be going in Marigál’s favor.  Nonetheless, he was not about to sit idly by and let anyone torture his son, even if it meant being branded a heretic himself, losing his land or being excommunicated.  Even—God help him—if Diego were somehow guilty of something.

He had considered the possibility of going to the presidio, but that would be the first place they would go for help tracking him down once they realized he was gone.  And he had no reason to believe the commandante in San Diego would be any less under Marigál’s spell than the one in Los Angeles.  And his friend the governor was much too far away.  No, he thought as he eased quietly up to the door of Padre Tomas’ sleeping quarters.  There really was no other way to do this.  He set his saddlebags carefully on the floor, then pulled out Silvio’s pistol.

Even before he turned the latch, he could hear the old priest snoring soundly, but the room was even blacker than the moonlit corridor.  He didn’t cock the pistol, thinking that whatever else happened, he wasn’t about to kill a priest, hoping that maybe he could just club him before he cried out.  But now he still had to find the keys, and, since the room hadn’t been locked, he knew he wouldn’t be likely to find them hanging right by the door.  So despite how hard his heart was hammering in his chest, he tucked the pistol into his cinturón, took a few slow deep breaths and tried to calm his nerves as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

A priest’s quarters were never what one might call cluttered, he thought, as he scanned the area.  A small bed, a night stand, a few shelves, a simple chair or two, a table, a crucifix on the wall near the fireplace.  A few pegs for hanging clothing.  Slowly, he began running his fingers through the fabric, listening for the clink of metal, but there was nothing.

Next he boldly tried the night stand and the shelves, but soon he had run out of places to look.  As the priest stirred in his sleep and turned over, Alejandro slipped back out into the corridor and shut the door behind him.  Then he went to take a closer look at the big iron gates just a few steps away, but they were solid.  There wasn’t even any point trying to climb over them, since they extended all the way up into the archway of the outer wall.  Nor could anyone possibly squeeze under them.  Now there was only one thing to do.  He would have to force the priest himself to open them.

Knowing that by this one simple act of violence, he would be costing himself everything that he and his father had built over the last forty years—everything he owned, everything he would have left his son, including his own good name—Alejandro paused a moment to examine the intricately carved scroll work that formed the trigger guard and the firing mechanism of Silvio’s pistol.  Then with a shrug and a sigh he turned around, only to find Padre Luis standing just outside the rectory door, watching him.

Deeply startled, he almost couldn’t keep from speaking even when the man raised a finger to his lips and shook his head.  Alejandro tightened his grip on the pistol.  Having already decided to attack one priest, he had nothing to lose now—except that this one was quite a bit younger and might be tougher to handle.  But as the man came forward, holding out his hands in front of him, Alejandro saw something that nearly made him drop the weapon.  Then he stepped aside as, with a barely perceptible smile, Padre Luis lifted the set of keys he carried on a large iron ring and slipped one of them into the lock of the gate.  The tumblers fell.  The gate itself creaked slightly as it opened.

"Your horse is over there," he said, nodding to an outbuilding in the distance.  Then he returned to where Alejandro’s saddlebags were lying, picked them up, came back to the gate and handed them over, pocketing the keys once Alejandro was outside.  Then he shrugged.  "Well, you didn’t think Padre Tomas would really sleep with his door unlocked, did you?"

Alejandro looked him up and down.  Then he whispered, "Whose side are you on, anyway?" Padre Luis seemed to be trying very hard to contain his smile.

"The side of God," he said.

Bernardo awoke to the feel of a not so gentle nudge in the middle of his back.  He had no idea what time it was, but he knew it wasn’t yet morning.  The stars were still shining, though the moon had edged far enough toward the western horizon that he knew the sun would rise in only a few more hours.  His small campfire was nothing but ashes now, and the morning air felt brisk and damp.

But it wasn’t chilly enough to account for the chill he felt as he turned on his back to find the huge black shape standing over him, blotting out the lacy outlines of the trees under which he had spread his bedroll.  Then he felt the soft velvet muzzle against his cheek and the gust of warm breath in his ear.  A heavy hoof sank into the nearby dirt as Tornado nosed him again, sending him rolling, then scrambling to his feet.

Hastily he looked around, scanning the dense shaded undergrowth that lined the riverbank. Then he gave the stallion a quizzical shrug, as if he thought he might get an answer. But the big horse just swiveled his ears, then raised his head a little higher, nostrils flaring. After a moment he walked slowly away until he stood in the shade of a nearby willow.  Bernardo quickly gathered up his bedroll and scuttled under the tree as well.  By now he too could hear the soft steps of another big animal making its way along the rocky banks of the river, which was low at this point, just downstream from the dam that irrigated the mission lands.

When the horse and rider emerged from the shadows of the trees and started to cross the shallow riverbed, Bernardo felt his heart leap, and later he would think it was a good thing he couldn’t speak, for otherwise he might have cried out, the man looked so much like Diego.  But when a ray of moonlight caught the thick wavy shock of silver grey hair that had fallen across his forehead, Bernardo knew who it had to be.

Immediately he glanced behind him to see if he could spot the palomino colt, which he was sure the old man would recognize.  Fortunately, the animal was nowhere in sight, though he might easily be somewhere farther downstream.  Still, Bernardo didn’t want to move, since he was sure he would be seen, and if he were, he might be shot.

Alejandro would not be out on horseback in the middle of the night like this unless something was wrong.  His horse had already picked up their scent.  It snorted, shook its head and let go a soft throaty grunt.  Tornado, well trained as he was, made no sound, but even so, Alejandro suddenly grew more watchful, too, as he patted the animal’s neck.

Holding his breath, Bernardo tried to imagine what had happened.  If Alejandro had been staying at the mission, his presence here could only mean the mission padres were refusing to help him.  More than that, they must have actually tried to stop him—which had to mean Marigál had gotten to them.  Which had to mean he had gotten to the soldiers too, for they probably wouldn’t go against the priests.  Which had to mean Diego was in big trouble.

Even if he did free Marigál’s hostages, he could hardly take his case to the authorities if Marigál had beguiled them all.  Diego and his father and the girl might well end up spending a very long time in jail, or worse.  Bernardo shuddered to think what conclusions the soldiers would be forced to draw if they happened to find Diego’s servant with a saddlebag full of black silk—and in the company of Zorro’s horse.

His worst suspicions were confirmed when Alejandro, rather than heading downstream, edged his horse into the tree line, heading south.  He was not even going to risk stopping by the presidio.  He was heading straight for Descanso, and he would probably get there well ahead of Diego, unless he took his time—and that was about as likely as a leisurely avalanche.  With Alejandro’s determination, he could probably get himself captured by midday, or even get killed, before el Zorro had so much as a chance to size up the situation.

Once the don was out of sight, Bernardo heaved a sigh, then bent to shake out his bedroll and roll it up.  Tornado nickered softly, then headed off downstream to find the colt, who would probably be grazing in the thick grass along the bank.  Then Bernardo lashed his bedroll to the saddlebags, shouldered them, and grabbed the big saddle he had left lying across the broken trunk of an old cottonwood.  As he headed after the stallion, he imagined how amused Tornado would be to see him staggering under this load, even though the animal himself hadn’t carried a thing these past four days.

But it was good his wound was healing, for soon he would have to carry the weight of at least one rider, maybe two.  Like it or not, Diego could no longer afford the luxury of playing this polite game of cat and mouse, escorting the señorita on her secret mission, arriving at Descanso a prisoner.

She herself had been right about that.  His abilities were better suited to rescue than escape.  He was only in this predicament because he hadn’t trusted her to take care of herself, and because he had let his father bully him into going to that dance, rather than just telling the old man the truth.  But now it was time to quit playing Marigál’s game.  It was time for el Zorro to ride.

And it was up to Bernardo to deliver that message, before their time ran out.  Once the padres discovered Alejandro was gone, they would certainly notify the soldiers.  And neither the padres nor the soldiers were known for being late sleepers.  They could just as easily have everyone in jail in a matter of hours.