Descanso

The wind whipped his face and the harsh sunlight stung his eyes, but he rode as hard as he could.  For a long time, he wasn’t sure where he was going, or even what he was running from.  Not until the horse began to stumble did he realize it was nearly played out.

As they came up the side of a little hill and onto a dry grassy mesa dotted with thistle, sage and mesquite, he pulled to a halt and slid off.  The animal was wet with lather, even its face streaked with sweat, and its eyes had a dim glassy look, nostrils flared, wet and quivering, its sides heaving, the veins in its neck and legs pounding furiously.

He knew he ought to try to keep it moving or the blood vessels in its legs would rupture, but just looking at it he figured that if he asked it to take one more step it would fall.  Quickly, he fumbled to undo the sweaty cinch.  Then, noticing the canteen that hung from the saddle, he picked it up and realized he wouldn’t even have enough water to let the animal drink—nor was there any other source of water in sight.

Wincing, he let his clenched fist come down lightly on the cantle and shook his head.  Then he slid the saddle to the ground and himself with it.  He almost couldn’t believe what he had done.  He had never run a horse to death before.

And he hadn’t done himself any favors either.  At the moment, he hadn’t the least idea where he was, except in the middle of nowhere and now, apparently, on foot.  If the horse wasn’t able to walk in a few hours, the coyotes would have it by morning.  And if he himself didn’t start walking right now, they might well have him too.

And why not, he thought as he winced again and hung his head between his knees to cup his forehead.  Heaving a deep shaky sigh, he squinted up at the animal again, slamming his fist on the saddle seat as he tried to figure out what had just happened to him.  Had he really lost his ability to fight, or only to fight Endicott?  Was it temporary or forever?  Only a few years ago they had called him the finest swordsman in Europe, perhaps in the world, and certainly the best since the legendary Don Francisco Lorenz de Rada.  From one perspective, falling just a bit from such a dizzying height should not seem like an incalculable disaster.

But Oreana had warned him not to fight Endicott, even if it meant her death.  If you take his life, she had said, he will take yours, and wasn’t that more or less what he had done?  Without the magic that el Zorro could work with a blade, the outlaw, at least, was as good as dead.  And without Zorro, Diego himself might as well be.  As often as he had yearned to be free of the onerous responsibility of playing the hero, at least it did give his life a purpose and a significance that few people’s lives ever had.  Without Zorro, he really would be no more than the ineffectual academic popinjay his father and everyone else thought he was.

"But I didn’t kill Endicott," he said to the stiff clumps of cupgrass at his feet.  "I did nothing to him."  And from somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard a voice saying that this was what he deserved for toying with witchcraft, and that what he really needed to do now was get on his knees and pray.  But then, another voice assured him that this had nothing to do with magic at all.  He had just gotten distracted and lost faith in his own abilities, and all he really needed to do was quit sniveling and forget all this foolishness of creatures and spells.

He himself didn’t really believe either voice, but as he finally got to his feet and went to slip the bridle off the exhausted animal, patting its neck, he felt so bad that he thought it wouldn’t hurt to pray anyhow.  He didn’t think he had ever felt so utterly wretched in his whole life.

For a long time he stood there beside the horse, patting its withers, stroking its windpipe as he felt the breeze turn the lather on its hide to crust, not really wanting to touch the animal at all, but not wanting to leave it there either.  Finally he knew he had no choice.  The sky overhead looked huge and hard, but a few puffy clouds hung low on the horizon that, judging by the sun’s position and the probable time of day, he took to be west.  That was where the mission would be, just a little to the south, near the ocean.  He would know it when he came to it.

As he took the canteen from the saddle, he decided there was no point in taking the saddle itself.  His chances of being able to catch another horse out here were slim so long as he remained on foot, though wild horses were plentiful.  In the saddlebags he found a few strips of dried meat carefully wrapped in oiled paper.  At least he wouldn’t starve.  Finally, not able to bring himself to pat the horse one last time, he simply turned and started walking away—only to realize after a few paces that somehow, miraculously, the animal was following him.

Turning around, he studied its gait as it clumped toward him, head low.  At least it wasn’t limping.  As it nosed the side of his leg, he thought he might cry.  But instead he only walked back to pick up the bridle and, slinging it over his shoulder, said a small prayer of thanks, hoping that this was indeed the sign of grace he had decided to take it for.  Then he and the animal headed off in what he hoped was more or less a bit south of where they had started out.

The mission del Descanso de San Miguelito looked like a rather small, insignificant square in the midst of the grassy plain that threatened to engulf the few carefully cultivated plots of grain, wheat, vineyards, gardens and orchards surrounding it.  Beyond the far wall, a small collection of dome shaped huts housed the married inhabitants of the Indian rancheria.  Nearby, the adobe wall of the church took up one corner of the mission’s large outer wall, its thick slab of a bell tower set to one side, large iron gates opening into a cobblestone courtyard with an open well and carefully tended beds of poinsettias, roses, lavender and various culinary herbs.  Above the big brass-hinged church door, three small stone statues stood in pyramid formation, each sunk in its own arched alcove.  Above them, just past the edge of the scalloped roof line, the topmost bell in the tower gleamed in the late afternoon sun.  Soon it would ring out the angelus.

As Endicott and Muñoz dismounted, several natives gathered up the reins of their horses, and Muñoz, still quite clearly shaken, watched after them as they also led away the horse with his comrade’s body draped across the saddle.

Shaking his head, he glared up at the girl without daring to look directly at her, as if he thought she might still say something to curse him, despite the gag Endicott had tied over her mouth.  He only hoped the padre could do something to loosen the hold she still had on his corporal.  Although Esquivel hadn’t done or said much after Endicott had tied him up, it was clear from the way he looked at them that he was still very much under her spell.  Muñoz was relieved when several more natives came to take both prisoners away.

"So de la Vega managed to escape, eh?"

Endicott nodded, then shrugged at the padre.  "I’m surprised they even made it to San Diego," he said.  "By the time I caught up with them, she had the corporal all but charmed into letting them go.  He just gave her the keys to their irons.  Lucky I caught her.  I only wish I could have stopped de la Vega before he killed poor private Zavala."

"That is unfortunate," said Marigál, letting his gaze drift to Muñoz.  "But rest assured, he will pay—for this and for all his crimes."

"Do you want to send a patrol out tonight to look for him?" Endicott asked as the three of them stepped through the iron gates and into the mission courtyard.

Marigál shrugged.  "Oh, I doubt that will be necessary."  Then with a nod, he invited Muñoz to walk beside him as they headed up a small flight of stone stairs where rows of dormitory rooms housed unmarried native workers and a handful of other soldiers.  "After all," he added, still talking to Endicott, "where would he go—a man like that?  He’s led a soft, sheltered life.  He won’t just disappear into the wilderness.  If he heads for the presidio, they’ll arrest him.  And my guess is that, with the hold that witch has on him, he’ll probably turn up here first—and sooner rather than later.  We will post extra guards tonight, maybe send out a patrol tomorrow."

Endicott chuckled.  "You’ll never guess what he tried to tell me."

"What was that?"

"Well, he actually tried to convince me he was Zorro."

Marigál raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t laugh.  "An interesting claim," he said.  "Do you suppose he might have been telling the truth?"

Endicott’s chuckle became a laugh.  "Not hardly," he said.

"You seem quite certain."

"Well, how could he be Zorro?  Zorro followed us to San Gabriel the night of the alcalde’s dance.  Silvio shot him, or at least he shot the horse.  And I don’t think even Zorro would last long out there on foot.  Even if the soldiers didn’t get him, he probably made a nice meal for some hungry cat.  De la Vega was chained inside a packing crate the whole time."

"It could have been someone else following you.  An accomplice."

"I suppose," Endicott shrugged.  "But that seems pretty far fetched, Padre.  Or do you know something I don’t?"

A ripple of amusement raised Marigál’s brows for just an instant before he pursed his lips and shook his head.  "Sometimes it is more a matter of intuition than knowledge," he mused.  "But I do have a feeling that Zorro wasn’t fooled by our decoy.  Call it a hunch.  Perhaps it was just the way the corporal kept looking up toward the hills, as though he knew someone was out there."

"Well, de la Vega may be out there," said Endicott, "but he’s not Zorro.  Believe me, I know.  Oh, he does have some skill with a blade, more than you might think, actually.  But he’s not nearly that good."

"Then why would he claim to be Zorro?  What would he stand to gain?"

Endicott shrugged.  "Who knows?  Just trying to intimidate me."

"Mmm . . . and you don’t think he could simply have been feigning ineptitude, perhaps, to lull you into a false sense of confidence?"

"No, I don’t think so," said Endicott, frowning thoughtfully.  "It’s hard to fake that kind of ineptitude.  I mean, it wasn’t as if he were holding back, or as if he were a poor swordsman.  He just wasn’t a great swordsman.  And at that level, the differences are pretty subtle."

"I would imagine," said Marigál as he paused at the door of an empty room and opened it to wave Muñoz inside.  "Try not to worry about your friend, private," he said, letting his hand come lightly to rest on the man’s shoulder as he stepped through the door.  "We will all pray for him, and for your corporal as well.  You will be called to supper, but now you should try to get some rest."

"Gracias, Padre."  Muñoz tossed his gear onto the small bunk and sank down beside it as the priest nodded and shut the door, then turned back to Endicott.

"And what about Silvio?" he said.

"I left him to watch Don Alejandro."

"And do you think the don is still in Los Angeles?"

"Well if he’s not, I’m sure Silvio will have taken care of him."

"I see."  Marigál folded his hands before him and nodded thoughtfully.  "Then you did give him the carbine?"

"Well, actually," said Endicott, "I didn’t.  I guess I thought I might need it more than he did."

Marigál sighed lightly as they turned down the corridor that led to his own quarters.  "But I take it, then, that everything else is going according to plan," he said.

Endicott pursed his lips and held up his hands in an expansive shrug.

"So what are you not telling me?" said Marigál.

"Why, Padre," said Endicott brightly, "you know I always tell you everything."

Don Alejandro pulled his horse a little farther back into the shadows of the big trees beside the riverbank.  He would wait here, at least for a while.  Once the angelus sounded, the natives would leave the fields, and then maybe he could move in closer and try to figure out where Endicott and the soldiers had taken his son.  Earlier he had seen them arrive at the mission gates with Oreana and another prisoner, both shackled.  But that man looked to be another soldier, or at least he had been wearing a soldier’s uniform.  And Diego hadn’t been with them—or at least Alejandro hoped it hadn’t been the blanket-shrouded body of his son they had taken away.

That possibility was, at the moment, simply unthinkable, so he had decided not to jump to any conclusions.  But he meant to make very sure.  And to do that, he would first have to try to get a little better sense of how this place was laid out.  He hadn’t been here in such a long time, and then just briefly.  Besides, they seemed to have added a few new outbuildings.

Naturally, it would be just as hard getting inside the main gates once they were locked for the evening as it had been getting out of the mission San Diego.  Harder, in fact, since this time he wouldn’t even be able to steal a set of keys.  And unlike Zorro, he couldn’t just fly over the walls.  Still, it might not be necessary, for he didn’t think they had actually taken the girl and the soldier inside.

Instead, they seemed to have taken them down a little road that led toward the bay.  They would surely be well guarded, wherever they were.  But if he saw where the guards were posted, he might be able to devise a plan to get them out—Diego and the girl, anyway.  Then with two or three good horses they could head south for La Paz, maybe cross into Sinaloa.  They had relatives there, still, and maybe a few influential friends who could help them make a case, even if they had to take it to General Iturbide himself.

As he sat back against a large boulder to wait, Alejandro shook his head thinking how far ahead of himself he was getting.  Well, he always had preferred to make his plans far in advance, not like Diego, who, for all his education, seemed much more inclined to take things as they came.  Alejandro didn’t understand the boy, that much was certain.  But perhaps he had been a little too hard on him over the years.  If they both got out of this mess alive, he vowed, he would make it a point to tell him so.

Halfway up a cliff that formed the side of the canyon where the river rose up into the sage covered hills, Bernardo surveyed the fertile plain, though he never moved his eyes very far from the spot where he had seen Alejandro stop along the riverbank.  He had no idea what he would do when the don decided to leave the shelter of his hiding place, but he did know it was a question of when rather than if.  He, too, had seen that Diego was not with the other prisoners.  And he, too, had seen the body taken away.

He hadn’t exactly followed the prisoners once they left San Diego.  Rather, he had tried to stay ahead of their company, hoping he could watch out for both the father and the son at more or less the same time.  But at some point along the way, something had happened.  There had been a gunshot; Tornado had heard it as well.  And by the time Bernardo had found the group again, not only was someone dead, but someone had disappeared—a fact that Don Alejandro could not have been aware of.  Instead of five men, there were only four.

Bernardo would have bet practically anything that Diego was not the man draped over the saddle.  But if not, then where could he be?  Would he go back to the presidio without trying to rescue the girl and Marigál’s other hostages?  Bernardo thought it much more likely that his master would be lurking around here somewhere even now, trying to find him.  But Diego wouldn’t expect to see his father, and if his father saw him first, that would certainly complicate Zorro’s task.

Bernardo had thought that perhaps Tornado could help him find Diego, but for some odd reason the stallion seemed to have wandered off somewhere.  Bernardo was never quite sure how much the horse understood.  Certainly he knew every command he had ever been taught, and at times he seemed to understand a situation better than either of his two-legged accomplices.

But there were also times, like now, when he just didn’t seem to be paying attention to the human world at all—and why should he?  He was a horse, after all.  But his timing could be better.  As Bernardo sat down on the edge of a nearby rock, he sighed heavily, figuring that now there was nothing for him to do but wait for something to happen, though he had no doubt that it would.

As he trudged slowly toward the sunset, Diego found himself in no mood to appreciate its beauty.  Oh, it was quite beautiful—he had to give it that—the soft billowy clouds lit from within by the huge golden ball of light, big thick sunbeams falling down to illuminate the dessert floor, striking here and there as if to glorify this particular patch of ground or that, this particular hill or another, the sky fading from gold to pink to rose to lavender.  Behind him, a few bright stars began to sparkle through a hazy dark blue shell.  Little wonder men had long believed in gods.

But his feet had begun to hurt, since the boots he was wearing didn’t quite fit.  And he still didn’t know where he was—nor had he come across so much as a puddle of water from which to water the horse, or to fill his canteen.  At least there had been enough dried meat in the soldier’s saddlebags to keep him from being hungry.  Still, it was amazing, he thought, how being just a little closer to the landscape—by no more than the height of a horse’s back—could make it seem so much bigger and more formidable, and once again he cursed himself for having been so foolish, though it wasn’t such a harsh curse this time.

Actually, the more he thought about his reaction to the duel with Endicott, the less foolish he felt.  Oreana had been right.  He was in over his head.  What little knowledge he had gained about her world had only made him more vulnerable in it.  Now he would need her help as he had never needed anyone’s help before—not just to free Marigál’s hostages, but to regain his fencing skills, if he could.

And if he even made it to Descanso.  The lower the sun sank in the sky, the more he tried to keep it on his right, knowing that this time of year it would set just a little north of true west.  He also knew that once it did set, he would be left in full darkness for at least two or three hours before the moon rose.  That would be a dangerous time, even for someone who didn’t usually fear the dark.  He had no way to build a fire, and if he couldn’t find some kind of shelter, he would just have to keep going, hoping he didn’t attract the attention of some large predator.

Even now, it almost seemed as if his encounter with Endicott really had opened up a door to some other world, for once in a while, in the gathering twilight, he was beginning to think he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the shapes of odd, otherworldly things moving around in the shadows, though they vanished the instant he tried to look at them directly.  This particular time of day, hovering right between dark and light, could be even more frightening sometimes than the darkest night, he thought.  It teased and tempted the imagination.  Little wonder, then, that men had also long believed in devils.

For a while he tried to dismiss the feeling of being watched.  Then he realized the horse was starting to get a little skittish, too, lifting its head from time to time, flaring its nostrils, pricking its ears, mostly off to the left.  Quickening his pace, Diego began to look for the slightest bit of movement from one big sage to the next.  He couldn’t hear anything, but that had to mean it was probably a cat, and he was considering the possibility of seeing whether the horse had even a little bit left to give when suddenly something tore across their path, about five or six paces in front of them, letting out a horrible shrieking noise as it went.

The horse shied away before Diego could grab its mane, but as he heard the nasty yowl and hiss, and saw the merest flicker of a long black-tipped tail vanish into the shadows, he had already begun to laugh.  Moments later, the big black stallion came trotting up to him and stuck his velvety muzzle in Diego’s ear, nostrils flaring.  Diego caressed the side of his face, then let his arms slip around the animal’s neck.

Pues, mi compañero, he said.  It’s about time!  Tornado lifted his head a little higher, then brought it down to nuzzle his master’s chest.  Finally, he snorted as Diego slipped wearily up onto his back.

Diego didn’t want to leave the other animal behind, knowing the cat was probably still out there somewhere, so he was more than a little relieved when Tornado tossed his head and trotted casually around behind the horse, half coaxing, half commanding it to follow.  And it did, without much hesitation.  Before very long the three of them were all trotting gently along a little trail that soon descended through the rocky cliffs of a canyon carved out by a shallow river that spilled across its floor.  Then the distant sound of a church bell drifted in like the smell of the ocean on the quiet twilight air.

Vespers.  A time when everyone should be praying.  But as he saw, first the palomino colt, then Bernardo, who lit up with a glow to rival that of the big orange sun, Diego felt his own prayers had been answered—or the most immediate ones anyway.  Sliding down off Tornado’s back, he could tell, as Bernardo ran up to him, that it was all the servant could do to keep from embracing him, so he chuckled broadly, folding his arms across his chest, and said, "Well, I certainly hope you weren’t thinking of taking any more time off right away, after the holiday you’ve had."

Then, as Bernardo let his mouth fall open a little wider and rolled his eyes, Diego laughed and took him by the shoulder, slipping an affectionate arm around him.  Bernardo flattened his lips into a thin line, wincing and laughing all at once as he patted Diego’s arm.  Then his smile faded as he motioned for Diego to follow him.

Diego stood his ground at first, glancing up the steep rocky path.  "I just got here," he said, "and now you want me to climb a mountain?"  But Bernardo continued to wave and widened his eyes for emphasis.  No, this wouldn’t wait.  Finally, with a shrug and a sigh, Diego followed him up to where a small ledge gave them just enough room, and a high enough vantage point to survey the entire mission, which sat on a grassy plain that stretched toward the ocean.  Through the soft haze, Diego could see torchlights starting to twinkle here and there, illuminating the outer wall of the compound.  Campfires flickered amid the small thimble shaped huts of the adjacent rancheria.

But as he squinted down in the direction Bernardo was pointing, toward the shadows of the trees that grew along the riverbank, Diego had no idea what he was supposed to see, so Bernardo made his sign for a horse and rider, then pointed back down the trail to where the palomino colt stood grazing.  Then he cupped his chin as if he had a beard.

Diego frowned.  Then he understood.  "My father," he said.

Bernardo nodded.

"He’s here."

Another nod.

"To rescue me, no doubt."  Diego sighed and shook his head.  "Well, it looks as if el Zorro’s holiday is over too."  Then, as he rubbed his own chin and noticed the bandages and the ragged clothes that still somehow clung to his body, he added, "I don’t suppose you brought any soap."

Bernardo tried not to smile too broadly as he nodded, then headed back down the steep little path toward the riverbank.  When he reached the saddlebags that he had left slung over a nearby rock, he fumbled through them for a moment, then pulled out, not only a bar of soap, but a straight razor.  Then he gave up trying to contain his amusement as Diego, who had followed him back down the path, squatted down now to dip his hand, briefly, in the cold river water, withdrawing it with a wince and a shake of his fingers.

"Well, at least I won’t be tempted to linger over this," he said.

By the time he stood buttoning up the front of his own black shirt again, Diego thought he felt better than he had in quite a while.  At least his own boots fit his feet since, like all his clothes, they had been made for him.  And Bernardo had insisted on feeding him again, having packed a good supply of dates and figs, as well as more dried meat.  Still, as he wrapped a cinturón around his waist, he wasn’t surprised that the pants felt a little looser now.

Only when Bernardo brought him his sword did his sense of relief start to fade a little.  As he fastened the all-too-familiar weapon to his side, he tried not to let on how strange it suddenly felt.  In the dim light of that invisible door into the other world, he could sense—and, indeed, almost see—that the blade shone with a kind of deadly power all its own.  He had always just taken it for granted, another piece of equipment, not even as valuable or as finely wrought, really, as some of the ones he had left in Spain—or even some of the ones he had broken.

Yet here it was—Zorro’s sword.  Was he still worthy to wield it?  Though he hadn’t really thought about it before, now that he did, it occurred to him that just putting on the costume had been fatal to more than one man.  It was dangerous to impersonate Zorro.

As Bernardo handed him the silk mask and laid the heavy cape across his shoulders, he found himself wondering if that was in fact what he was doing now.  When the time came, would the cloak and sword lend him their power, or would he be remembered, finally, as just one more presumptuous imposter?

Bernardo motioned him to come look at Tornado’s rump, just near the croup, where a scab still clung to the wound.  "Yes, I had noticed that," he nodded.  "What happened?"

Bernardo made his sign, first for Silvio, a dark man with curly hair, then for the dapper left-handed swordsman Endicott.  Then he fired an imaginary pistol.

"They shot him?"

As Bernardo nodded earnestly, Tornado tossed his head as if to agree.

"Well, he seems all right," said Diego, shaking his head in surprise.  "But, no, you don’t need to saddle him tonight.  You’re both lucky to be alive.  Señor Endicott is not a well man."

Bernardo nodded, showing Diego the hole in the saddle bags and demonstrating how their contents had stopped the slug, but as Diego chuckled he knew that Bernardo’s other question was still unanswered.  And he simply didn’t know how to explain what was troubling him—at least not in terms that would make any sense to a rational person.  So once he had knotted the black mask and the paliacate behind his ears, then slipped on his gloves and pulled the rim of the black felt hat down on his forehead, el Zorro simply patted his friend on the shoulder.

"Do not worry, he said.  This should not take long.  Once I find out where the hostages are, I might even be able to get back here and get a little sleep tonight before we get them out, eh?" he added, flashing a mischievous grin.  Bernardo shrugged, rolled his eyes and shook his head, grinning too.  But his grin faded quickly as he watched Zorro take just a few more seconds than usual to climb onto the horse’s back and disappear into the shadows, leaving him alone again in what, by now, was a quiet starlit darkness.