Mark of Zorro chapter 4 Swords clash and Pedro explains
Author McCulley, Johnston, 1883-1958
Title The Mark of Zorro
Note Published serially under the title: The curse of Capistrano.
Copyright Status Public domain in the USA.
Gonzales whirled at the word, and his blade came up. He saw that Señor Zorro had drawn his sword, and that he was holding the pistol in his left hand high above his head. Moreover, Señor Zorro was chuckling still, and the sergeant became infuriated. The blades clashed.
Sergeant Gonzales had been accustomed to battling with men who gave ground when they pleased and took it when they could, who went this way and that seeking an advantage, now advancing, now retreating, now swinging to left or right as their skill directed them.
But here he faced a man who fought in quite a different way. For Señor Zorro, it appeared, was as if rooted to one spot and unable to turn his face in any other direction. He did not give an inch, nor did he advance, nor step to either side.
Gonzales attacked furiously, as was his custom, and he found the point of his blade neatly parried. He used more caution then and tried what tricks he knew, but they seemed to avail him nothing. He attempted to pass around the man before him, and the other’s blade drove him back. He tried a retreat, hoping to draw the other out, but Señor Zorro stood his ground and forced Gonzales to attack again. As for the highwayman, he did naught except put up a defense.
Anger got the better of Gonzales then, for he knew the corporal was jealous of him, and that the tale of this fight would be told to all the pueblo to-morrow, and so travel up and down the length of El Camino Real.
He attacked furiously, hoping to drive Señor Zorro off his feet and make an end of it. But he found that his attack ended as if against a stone wall, his blade was turned aside, his breast crashed against that of his antagonist, and Señor Zorro merely threw out his chest and hurled him back half a dozen steps.
“Fight, señor!” Señor Zorro said.
“Fight yourself, cutthroat and thief!” the exasperated sergeant cried. “Don’t stand like a piece of the hills, fool! Is it against your religion to take a step?”
“You cannot taunt me into doing it,” the highwayman replied, chuckling again.
Sergeant Gonzales realized then that he had been angry, and he knew an angry man cannot fight with the blade as well as a man who controls his temper. So he became deadly cold now, and his eyes narrowed, and all boasting was gone from him.
He attacked again, but now he was alert, seeking an unguarded spot through which he could thrust without courting disaster himself. He fenced as he never had fenced in his life before. He cursed himself for having allowed wine and food to rob him of his wind. From the front, from either side, he attacked, only to be turned back again, all his tricks solved almost before he tried them.
He had been watching his antagonist’s eyes, of course, and now he saw a change. They had seemed to be laughing through the mask, and now they had narrowed and seemed to send forth flakes of fire.
“We have had enough of playing!” Señor Zorro said. “It is time for the punishment!”
And suddenly he began to press the fighting, taking step after step, slowly and methodically going forward and forcing Gonzales backward. The tip of his blade seemed to be a serpent’s head with a thousand tongues. Gonzales felt himself at the other’s mercy, but he gritted his teeth and tried to control himself and fought on.
Now he was with his back against the wall, but in such a position that Señor Zorro could give him battle and watch the men in the corner at the same time. He knew the highwayman was playing with him. He was ready to swallow his pride and call upon the corporal and soldiers to rush in and give him aid.
And then there came a sudden battering at the door, which the native had bolted. The heart of Gonzales gave a great leap. Somebody was there, wishing to enter. Whoever it was would think it peculiar that the door was not thrown open instantly by the fat landlord or his servant. Perhaps help was at hand.
“We are interrupted, señor,” the highwayman said. “I regret it, for I will not have the time to give you the punishment you deserve, and will have to arrange to visit you another time. You scarcely are worth a double visit.”
The pounding at the door was louder now. Gonzales raised his voice:
“Ha! We have Señor Zorro here!”
“Poltroon!” the highwayman cried.
His blade seemed to take on new life. It darted in and out with a speed that was bewildering. It caught a thousand beams of light from the flickering candles and hurled them back.
And suddenly it darted in and hooked itself properly, and Sergeant Gonzales felt his sword torn from his grasp and saw it go flying through the air.
“So!” Señor Zorro cried.
Gonzales awaited the stroke. A sob came into his throat that this must be the end instead of on a field of battle where a soldier wishes it. But no steel entered his breast to bring forth his life’s blood.
Instead, Señor Zorro swung his left hand down, passed the hilt of his blade to it and grasped it beside the pistol’s butt, and with his right he slapped Pedro Gonzales once across the cheek.
“That for a man who mistreats helpless natives!” he cried.
Gonzales roared in rage and shame. Somebody was trying to smash the door in now. But Señor Zorro appeared to give it little thought. He sprang back, and sent his blade into its scabbard like a flash. He swept the pistol before him and thus threatened all in the long room. He darted to a window, sprang upon a bench.
“Until a later time, señor!” he cried.
And then he went through the window as a mountain goat jumps from a cliff, taking its covering with him. In rushed the wind and rain, and the candles went out.
“After him!” Gonzales screeched, springing across the room and grasping his blade again. “Unbar the door! Out and after him! Remember, there is a generous reward—”
The corporal reached the door first, and threw it open. In stumbled two men of the pueblo, eager for wine and an explanation of the fastened door. Sergeant Gonzales and his comrades drove over them, left them sprawling, and dashed into the storm.
But there was little use in it. It was so dark a man could not see a distance of a horse’s length. The beating rain was enough to obliterate tracks almost instantly. Señor Zorro was gone—and no man could tell in what direction.
There was a tumult, of course, in which the men of the pueblo joined. Sergeant Gonzales and the soldiers returned to the inn to find it full of men they knew. And Sergeant Gonzales knew, also, that his reputation was now at stake.
“Nobody but a highwayman, nobody but a cutthroat and thief would have done it!” he cried aloud.
“How is that, brave one?” cried a man in the throng near the doorway.
“This pretty Señor Zorro knew, of course! Some days ago I broke the thumb of my sword hand while fencing at San Juan Capistrano. No doubt the word was passed to this Señor Zorro. And he visits me at such a time that he may afterward say he had vanquished me.”
The corporal and soldiers and landlord stared at him, but none was brave enough to say a word.
“Those who were here can tell you, señores,” Gonzales went on. “This Señor Zorro came in at the door and immediately drew a pistol—devil’s weapon—from beneath his cloak. He presents it at us, and forces all except me to retire to that corner. I refused to retire.
“‘Then you shall fight me,’ says this pretty highwayman, and I draw my blade, thinking to make an end of the pest. And what does he tell me then? ‘We shall fight,’ he says, ‘and I will outpoint you, so that I may boast of it afterward. In my left hand I hold the pistol. If your attack is not to my liking, I shall fire, and afterward run you through, and so make an end of a certain sergeant.'”
The corporal gasped, and the fat landlord was almost ready to speak, but thought better of it when Sergeant Gonzales glared at him.
“Could anything be more devilish?” Gonzales asked. “I was to fight, and yet I would get a devil’s chunk of lead in my carcass if I pressed the attack. Was there ever such a farce? It shows the stuff of which this pretty highwayman is made. Some day I shall meet him when he holds no pistol—and then—”
“But how did he get away?” some one in the crowd asked.
“He heard those at the door. He threatened me with the devil’s pistol and forced me to toss my blade in yonder far corner. He threatened us all, ran to the window, and sprang through. And how could we find him in the darkness or track him through the sheets of rain? But I am determined now! In the morning I go to my Captain Ramón and ask permission to be absolved from all other duty, that I may take some comrades and run down this pretty Señor Zorro. Ha! We shall go fox-hunting!”
The excited crowd about the door suddenly parted, and Don Diego Vega hurried into the tavern.
“What is this I hear?” he asked. “They are saying that Señor Zorro has paid a visit here.”
“‘Tis a true word, caballero!” Gonzales answered. “And we were speaking of the cutthroat here this evening. Had you remained instead of going home to work with your secretary, you should have seen the entire affair.”
“Were you not here? Can you not tell me?” Don Diego asked. “But I pray you make not the tale too bloody. I cannot see why men must be violent. Where is the highwayman’s dead body?”
Gonzales choked; the fat landlord turned away to hide his smile; the corporal and soldiers began picking up wine mugs to keep busy at this dangerous moment.
“He—that is, there is no body,” Gonzales managed to say.
“Have done with your modesty, sergeant!” Don Diego cried. “Am I not your friend? Did you not promise to tell me the story if you met this cutthroat? I know you would spare my feelings, knowing that I do not love violence, yet I am eager for the facts because you, my friend, have been engaged with this fellow. How much was the reward?”
“By the saints!” Gonzales swore.
“Come, sergeant! Out with the tale! Landlord, give all of us wine, that we may celebrate this affair! Your tale, sergeant! Shall you leave the army, now that you have earned the reward, and purchase a hacienda and take a wife?”
Sergeant Gonzales choked again, and reached gropingly for a wine mug.
“You promised me,” Don Diego continued, “that you would tell me the whole thing, word by word. Did he not say as much, landlord? You declared that you would relate how you played with him; how you laughed at him while you fought; how you pressed him back after a time and then ran him through—”
“Your modesty ill becomes you at such a time,” Don Diego said. “You promised the tale, and I would have it. What does this Señor Zorro look like? Have you peered at the dead face beneath the mask? It is, perhaps, some man that we all know? Cannot some one of you tell me the facts? You stand here like so many speechless images of men—”
“Wine—or I choke!” Gonzales howled. “Don Diego, you are my good friend, and I will cross swords with any man who belittles you! But do not try me too far this night—”
“I fail to understand,” Don Diego said. “I have but asked you to tell me the story of the fight—how you mocked him as you battled; how you pressed him back at will, and presently ended it by running him through—”
“Enough! Am I to be taunted?” the big sergeant cried. He gulped down the wine and hurled the mug far from him.
“Is it possible that you did not win the battle?” Don Diego asked. “But surely this pretty highwayman could not stand up before you, my sergeant. How was the outcome?”
“He had a pistol—”
“Why did you not take it away from him, then, and crowd it down his throat? But perhaps that is what you did. Here is more wine, my sergeant. Drink!”
But Sergeant Gonzales was thrusting his way through the throng at the door.
“I must not forget my duty!” he said. “I must hurry to the presidio and report this occurrence to the comandante!”
“And, as to this Señor Zorro, he will be meat for my blade before I am done!” Gonzales promised.
And then, cursing horribly, he rushed away through the rain, the first time in his life he ever had allowed duty to interfere with his pleasure and had run from good wine.
Don Diego Vega smiled as he turned toward the fireplace.