The wharf of San Pedro was drifting to sleep that late February evening.  The only tavern had closed a half-hour before, and the last of its clientele had retired to a haven for the night.  Some staggered back onto one of two ships anchored in the port, one a Spanish man-o-war being refitted, and the other a British merchant marine.  The two eyed each other hostiley across the water while an uneasy peace settled over both for the night.  The British ship was not allowed in any New World Spanish port; the lawful agreement between the mother country of Spain and her colonies was exclusive as well as mutually beneficial.  The Americas were to supply the Crown with raw materials, and in return the colonists received the protection and privileges of Spanish citizens.
     The man-o-war, a heavily framed frigate, had journeyed up the coast of South America and New Spain, stopping at Lima and Guayaquil for supplies.  Her mission was to patrol the Pacific coast ports and defend against the encroachment of other nations:  the British, the Russians, and even the United States.  There was speculation in the palace that the brash young country across the Atlantic aspired to span the continent, and that fear motivated Spain to jealously guard her far-flung empire.  That empire was getting more difficult to hold; Spain's own merchant marine fleet was almost non-existent, and her once-mighty navy was thin and many ships no longer seaworthy.
     The merchant marine was aggressively holding her position.  Caught red-handed trading in a closed port, her sleek, smaller hull warned off the larger vessel by running out her guns.  In response the Spanish ship did likewise; however, in the close quarters and calm water of the port her guns held too high a line to do anything more effective than rake the bow of the upstart.  The British ship, fully laden with Californian beef, hides, and tallow, sat lower in the water, her cannon aimed at the larger ship's water line.
     The captain of the Spanish ship decided wisely to avoid a fight.  The British merchant fleet was known to recruit seaworthy fighting men, and he judged the strength of the two crews to be about equal.  He pulled at his fine mustache as he paced his quarterdeck. Like a circling vulture, he thought, surveying the British ship sourly.  They know we can't possibly keep them out of our ports.  The tide would be going out just before daybreak; he suspected the foreign vessel would make good use of it.  If she did, he would not press a confrontation.  On the open sea was another matter entirely, but first he needed to re-supply his own ship.
     Across the tiled rooftops of the few buildings another man watched and waited.  The tense standoff in the harbor did not concern him; his scope was smaller and more personal.  He stretched his black booted legs one at a time; oh, these late vigils made him feel older than his thirty-two years!
     In the humble dwelling beneath him lived Pablo Silva, a good-hearted man without an enemy in the world, so one would think.  Yet twice in the last three weeks the solitary fisherman had been attacked at night and beaten badly by several unknown assailants.  He had survived the attacks but was unable to identify their purpose to Dr. Hernandez or the soldiers.  The thugs robbed Pablo of a few meager pesos each time and smashed the crockery and a chair, but theft did not seem an adequate explanation for the assaults.  But one man believed the gang would return, and that man was waiting on the rooftop in the small port near the pueblo of Los Angeles.
     A fragrant salty breeze freshened the air around him; he drew his cape closer against the chill and wondered if his vigil could be safely ended for the night.  Home and his bed were still some fifteen miles distant across a dark, desolate landscape.  With the bar closed and the lights extinguished, the odds of another attack against Pablo seemed remote this evening.  But the fisherman's tallow light still burned; fear had chased away sleep.
     The watcher rotated his stiff neck and straightened his arms.  It was time to climb down and return to the stallion who was waiting in the nearby copse.  He crept to the roof's edge and rolled onto his stomach to drop to the ground when the muffled sound of a scuff froze him.  Had his own boot made the noise?  His ears strained to detect anything further while he held his breath.  There it was again, and not a noise of his own making.  He weeded rapidly through the possibilities--not animal or natural.  No, it was human--the sound of a furtive boot scraping along the dirt.  The watcher peered over the edge, trying to locate the wearer of those boots.  In the alley behind Pablo's house three darker shadows separated from the wall of the adjacent building and crept toward the fisherman's back door.
     The gray-haired peasant gasped when the first hard bump impacted his back door, and he reached for a stout stick with which to defend himself.  The second bump splintered his crude latch, and the door swung open.  A large bulk crossed the threshold, a man with a scarf concealing the lower half of his face.  In his meaty hand he carried a club.
     "You still don't get it, do you, old man?  San Pedro is not a safe place for you!"  He advanced menacingly toward the owner of simple house, and two more masked men followed the spokesman inside.
     "San Pedro is certainly not safe for you, Señores!" rang a clear voice in the doorway behind them.
     The intruders whirled around and leaped back at the sight standing there.  A tall man, dressed in black from hat to boot, advanced upon them with a gleaming Toledo sabre.  A mask partially covered his face around his eyes, but a dark mustache and humorless smile were exposed.
     The swordsman addressed the trio again.  "If it's a fight you want, you'll find me a more challenging opponent!"
     One of the bullies did not doubt that; his club and knife were no match for a meter of razor-sharp steel.  Nevertheless, the fear of being thought cowardly by his partners prompted him to throw his bludgeon at the black apparition.  The sword parried the club deftly, and the clumsy weapon fell harmlessly aside.  Daunted, the attacker reached for his knife and threw it with unerring cunning toward the masked man.  The long blade merely twitched, and the knife point was successfully diverted from its target and embedded into the wall.
     "You appear to be out of options, Señor," observed the dark defender.  "Next."  He beckoned with his finger to the second of the three attackers while the first man groped his way past Pablo to the front door.  The fisherman swatted the escaping rascal across the backside with his stick.
     The second man had a little more courage; he advanced upon the man in black, swinging his club.
     "Impressive," murmured his intended victim.
     He let the thug swing at him once more to judge the timing.  The man attacked too widely, leaving himself off balance and open after each swing.  The swordsman met the third swing, and the steel blade severed the club in two.  The lightning parry impressed the attacker; his eyes grew big as he jumped back from the range of the sabre.  He too could think of nothing further to do than hurl the stump of his weapon at the masked man.  The stump went the way of its top half, and the second man followed his compadre out the front door, likewise buffeted soundly by Pablo.
     "Can you think of something more original to do?" complained the black-garbed man to the burly bully remaining.  "This has been a long wait for such a dull fight."
     "How do you like this?" snapped the gang's leader.  He jabbed his club at the swordsman's hand, which he was hoping to hit hard.
     The dark figure turned adroitly aside, stepped toward his opponent, and seized the extended club with his left hand.  He pulled it hard toward himself, and the bully came with it, thrown off balance.  The would-be assailant slammed into the wall and found the sword point pressing against his throat.
     "And how do you like this?  Señor Silva, pull down his mask."  The fisherman did so, eager to learn the identity of one of his enemies.  The features were not familiar to the man in black.  "Do you recognize him?"
     "No, Señor Zorro.  I have never seen him before."
     "Could he have come from the ships?"
     "I don't think so.  The Madre Maria just came in this morning, and the British ship has been at anchor only two days.  But this man has attacked me before; I recognize his voice."
     "Perhaps the alcalde can place him.  Drop your club, Señor, very gently."  The tip of the sabre dug deeper for emphasis.  The wood clattered to the ground.
     "You don't have anything on me, Zorro!" the thug snarled.  "You're not exactly on the right side of the law yourself.  You can deliver me to the alcalde, but I'll be out again in a day.  You have no evidence!"
     "We'll see," gritted the masked man.  "I know your face now, and if I ever see you again, you'll regret the day.  This man is under my protection, so don't return here."  He said to the fisherman, "Tie his hands behind him."
     Silva did so rapidly with a length of fishing twine.  Zorro marched his captive out the back door and whistled for his equine partner.  A black stallion trotted from the shadows at his master's signal.
     "Hola, old friend.  Señor, this is going to be an uncomfortable ride for you, but think how much worse for poor Toronado, who has to carry us both!  No, I really can't have you struggling; that makes things so much more difficult."  A black-gloved fist cracked into the scruffy jaw, and the bully went limp.  Zorro hoisted him across the saddle and mounted behind.
     "Gracias, Señor Zorro! Muchas gracias!" thanked the old angler.
     "Amigo, go to the pueblo tomorrow and give evidence against this man.  Then perhaps these attacks will stop."
     "I will certainly tell the alcalde all I know," assured Pablo.  "Adios!" he called softly after the departing horse.

     Zorro reached Los Angeles nearly an hour later.  Normally the ride from the port would not have taken the powerful stallion so long, but the outlaw hero was conscious of the extra burden he was asking Toronado to carry.  The pueblo was sleeping when he arrived, the garrison dark and silent.  His captive had regained his senses the last few miles but was incapacitated by the jarring motions of the gallop.
     "All the decent folk have gone to bed," he informed the bully.  "It would be a shame to rouse them, especially the alcalde who tends to be--shall we say--protective of his rest.  He'll be ill-tempered enough when he finds you in the morning."
     The masked man picked the lock of the commandant's office door with a small tool and brought his prisoner inside.  "This is Alcalde DeSoto's office.  Lovely at night, isn't it?  Unfortunately this is not your destination."  He thrust the bulky man through the connecting door leading to the jail cells.  "Here we are, and you have the whole place to yourself."  He took the keys down from the peg in the wall and unlocked a cell.  After thrusting his captive inside and locking the door, he saluted with two fingers and a flash of teeth.  His cape swirled around him, and the black figure vanished through the door.
     "You will see me again, Zorro; that I promise you!" muttered the prisoner.

     Ignacio DeSoto was summoned early from his bed by urgent knocking on the door of his private quarters.  Sergeant Mendoza's harried voice greeted him from the other side of the thick pine.  Irritated, DeSoto put his feet on the floor and stomped to the door, tearing it open.
     "What are you babbling about, Sergeant?" he snapped.  "You better have a good reason for waking me before seven o'clock!"
     "Sí, Alcalde.  I'm sorry that it's so early," placated the sergeant, "but there's a man in the jail!"
     The commandant's eyes pierced him.  "What man?  How did he get there?"
     "I don't know!  He's not talking!"
     "Get my breakfast ready!  I'll be in my office in ten minutes!"
     When the alcalde next appeared, his nightcap and gown had been substituted for the military regalia of a major in His Majesty's army.  His full head of snowy white hair had been brushed and styled and his goatee meticulously trimmed.  He eyed the prisoner occupying his jail.
     "Who are you, and how did you get here?"
     The burly man grasped the bars of the cell.  "You the alcalde?"  Upon receiving confirmation, he hissed, "I didn't do nothing!  That Zorro man is crazy!  He attacked me, an honest citizen on my way home from the San Pedro bar, and tied me up and threw me in here!"
     The alcalde and Mendoza exchanged a glance.  DeSoto deeply distrusted Zorro, who had on many occasions thwarted both his efforts at controlling the populace and his personal ambitions.  The sergeant, a twenty-year veteran of the garrison at Los Angeles, had different views on the notorious outlaw.  Zorro had saved his life on more than one occasion, and Mendoza could only think of one instance--probably involving that hypnotist who came to town--that the masked man had ever been on the wrong side of moral law.  Since he himself had fallen victim to the hypnotist's tricks, the lancer could not fault the masked man there, especially since Zorro had returned the booty he had stolen.  Secretly the sergeant considered the outlaw a friend, but was often obligated to follow orders contrary to that friendship.
     DeSoto drawled, "Really.  If that's true, I imagine no evidence will appear against you.  But we'll wait a few hours and see."  He summoned the soldier to follow him from the jail, and he closed the connecting door behind them.  "Where are the keys?" he demanded.
     Mendoza glanced at the empty peg.  "I don't know, Alcalde.  Wait!  There they are on your desk!"
     "Lucky for you!  If Zorro had run off with them, I'd have to replace all the locks out of your pay!"  DeSoto sat down at his desk, and a paper caught his eye.  He grunted while reading it.  "According to Zorro, this is one of the men who has been attacking Pablo Silva.  Pablo himself is supposed to come and give witness today."
     "That's good!" commented the kind-hearted sergeant, relieved to hear that one of the dangerous gang had been captured.
     "Ye-es, isn't it," mused DeSoto.

     "But I told you I don't know that man!" protested the fisherman in front of the alcalde's desk.  "I don't know why he and the others keep bothering me!"
     "Señor Silva, do you really expect me to believe that you have no idea at all why you are repeatedly attacked?"  DeSoto looked at him cynically.  "Frankly, you don't make enough money to tempt most thieves.  It can only be revenge.  Who are your enemies?"
     "I didn't think I had any," mourned the unfortunate man.  "I mind my own business and never bother nobody."
     "'Anybody,'" corrected the officer wearily.  "There must be something in your past that you're concealing.  Think, man!  What is it?"
     "Nothing, I tell you!  I own my own house, my own boat, my own nets.  I don't owe nobody money, and nobody owes me.  My wife died ten years ago, and my boy is in the army with Colonel Mendez in the Yucatan.  I fish every day and sell my catch at the market here every Friday, and the other days I sell to the port people or the sailors.  That's all there is to my life, Alcalde; there is nothing more to tell."
     "Alcalde, please--if I may," said a cultured voice from the room's corner.
     "De la Vega, I allowed you to be here for the newspaper's sake only, not to interfere with an official investigation!" barked DeSoto.
     The tall, athletic gentleman smiled apologetically.  "Yes, and thank you for your forbearance, Alcalde.  Perhaps you could ask Señor Silva if he recalls anything about the other two men."
     "No, sir.  The other two didn't talk at all.  That one you got in there," he jerked his head toward the jail, "is the leader of the three.  He does all the talking.  The punching, too, while the other rascals hold me."
     "Have you established the prisoner's identity, Alcalde?"
     "No," was the growled reply.  "No one recognizes him, and he refuses to give his name.  I think he must have come from one of the ships."
     "Impossible," asserted Diego de la Vega.  "According to Señor Silva's testimony, one of the ships was British, but the man speaks Spanish flawlessly.  It's his native tongue.  The Madre Maria had just arrived in port, which wouldn't account for the previous attacks."
     "Anything else you want to add?" the alcalde questioned Silva.  "What exactly did that big hulk say to you?"
     The fisherman's brow wrinkled as he thought.  "He said that San Pedro was not a good place to live.  I've always been able to make a living there, though.  And he also said that you wouldn't have enough evidence to keep him for more than a day."
     "I'm sure the alcalde will keep him locked up for a long time," soothed de la Vega.  "You don't need to worry about your safety, Pablo."
     "I ain't worried no how.  Zorro said that he'd look after me," Silva announced proudly.
     Diego cringed inwardly as the guileless fisherman revealed a piece of information that caught the alcalde's attention.  Unwittingly Pablo had made it much more difficult for Zorro to protect him in the future.
     "Very well, Señor Silva.  If you have nothing more to add to your testimony, you may go."  DeSoto busied himself writing notes on the arrest and ignored the old man who bowed himself out of the adobe office.  "Diego, if you don't mind I have work to do."
     Overlooking the brusque dismissal, de la Vega asked, "How long will the man be in jail?"
     "A while!  I'll decide later," was the testy reply.
     When the editor of the pueblo's newspaper had returned to the office of The Guardian, DeSoto summoned his sergeant.
     "Sí, Alcalde!" answered Mendoza with a snappy salute.
     The commander leaned back in his desk chair, fingertips pressed together.  "Sergeant, I don't think we have enough evidence to hold this man for more than a day."
     "A day?  He beat up Pablo Silva twice and would have done it a third time if not for--"  He caught himself before he gave credit to the alcalde's nemesis.
     "We can't impose a long sentence for what the man might have done had he been given the opportunity.  And as for the two previous occasions, Silva testified that the men were masked.  His identification is dubious at best."
     "Alcalde, that man is dangerous.  If we let him go, we should follow him to find out who he is."
     "There's no need.  I know where he's going."  A satisfied chuckle rumbled in the officer's throat.

     Diego de la Vega glanced out the open window of the newspaper office toward the cuartel.  Tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, he moved with the easy grace of a man who habitually pushed his physical prowess to its limit.  He was considered handsome:  dark brown hair, thick but trim mustache, high cheekbones, strong jaw.  When he received criticism, it was not for his appearance, however.  Neither was it for his musical abilities on the piano and violin--unequaled in the territory.  Nor was it for his writing skill, which brought the pueblo accurate and informative news each week in the small paper he published.  And it certainly was not for his paintings and sculptures; the young artist showed remarkable talent.  No one could fault his intellect; on subjects such as Greek philosophy and mathematical theorems Diego could talk at length.  He was also fluent in French and English.
     No, the young man had many virtues.  There was only one flaw in his character that his neighbors, friends, and the townspeople could not overlook.  The man was entirely too passive.  Rarely could he be provoked to a fight, and when he was he did not give a good account of himself.  Apparently the de la Vega son had spent his time at Madrid University with his nose continually buried in a book, rather than learning any manly skills such as swordsmanship or boxing!  He was soft-spoken, even-tempered, did not drink or gamble, and preferred his own company or that of his deaf-mute servant, Felipe, to carousing with other men his own age.
     He had been considered an excellent marital catch when he had returned to California eight years before, but the tempting lures thrown his way by young ladies were politely ignored.  The man had no passion, complained the pueblo's women, and even the de la Vega fortune was not considered adequate compensation for an indifferent husband.  Gradually the hopeful females abandoned their attempts to arouse his interest--a circumstance which afforded him great relief.
     But Diego had inner fire which he had adroitly hidden from the world and even his own father.  He burned against the injustice and governmental corruption he saw oppressing the remote settlement, and unlike most men he decided to pit the lion's share of his abilities toward fighting those evils.  The task before him required cunning; a continual deception had to be maintained.  Thus he adopted a mask and cape, dressed in black, and wielded a sabre with dazzling accuracy.  He became the Fox--El Zorro.  Shortly after establishing a separate identity, he discovered something else that ignited his heart:  the beautiful young tavern owner, Victoria Escalante, loved his dark persona.  Since he returned her regard, they had begun a bittersweet romance long ago--Diego disguised and Victoria waiting for the day when his crusade would be over.
     A sixth sense, developed by years of living on an emotional high-wire, told him that morning that DeSoto would not hold the prisoner for long, and so the corners of the well-cut mouth turned down.  Diego too knew where the man would go:  back to San Pedro.  Pablo Silva was still in danger, and Zorro's work would be even harder now.

     At eight that evening DeSoto visited his prisoner.  "Señor, I hope you like jail food because that's what you'll be eating for a long, long time."  He laughed in contempt of the unshaven burly man who glared at him.
     "You got nothing on me!" he spat.  "And why do you believe what Zorro says?  He's the worst bandit in the territory!"
     "It isn't on Zorro's word that I'm holding you," the alcalde refuted, "but on the testimony of Pablo Silva."
     "That old man?  Ha!  He can't see straight after nine o'clock; he drinks like a plowed field!"
     "You're wasting your time trying to defame the reputation of a law-abiding citizen.  If you want out of here, you'll have to give me something I want."
     A crafty gleam brightened the eyes of the large man.  "And just what might that be?" he asked in a moderated tone.
     The bait had been taken; DeSoto stepped closer to the bars and lowered his voice.  "What does that old man have that could possibly be of interest to you?"
     The bully's brows lowered suspiciously.  "What's in it for me?"
     A coarse chuckle.  "You're the one behind bars, Señor.  Tell me what I want to know, and those bars might open tonight."
     "'Might' ain't good enough."
     "Your bargaining position is poor.  Perhaps a few more days in this cell will alter your perspective."  DeSoto stepped to the connecting door and opened it as if to leave the prisoner alone for the night.
     "Wait," called the jailed man.  "Maybe we can strike a bargain."
     The commandant turned and raised a bored eyebrow.  "My supper is getting cold.  If you have something to say, make it fast."
     "That old man don't got nothing, but if he don't leave, I don't get paid."
     DeSoto paused.  "Who's paying you?"
     "I don't know; I swear!  A man who came into the bar."
     "What did he look like?"
     "Younger man," he shrugged.  "Nice coat."
     "And why does he want Señor Silva to leave?"
     "I don't know."
     "How did he arrange to pay you?"
     The prisoner looked discomfited.  "He said he'd find us when the job was done."
     "You don't know very much," said the alcalde coldly.  "I think you can stay in there a while longer."
     "Wait, wait!  I got something else!  Zorro!"
     The officer smothered a yawn.  "What about him?"
     "He said that old man is under his protection!"
     DeSoto's eyes narrowed.  "Do you think Silva knows Zorro personally?"
     Another claim of ignorance would likely leave him in his cell, so the bully lied, "Yes!  They were real friendly with each other!  The old man probably knows who Zorro is!"
     The commandant took the iron ring of keys from its peg and unlocked the cell door.  "Get out."
     His captive did not need to be told twice.  In the dark of the new moon, he ran from the garrison and down the road.

     A black shadow slid over the barred windows of the jail; as Zorro had suspected, the alcalde had released the prisoner.  He urged his stallion toward San Pedro.
     The port was not quiet that evening; the British ship had gone with the morning tide, and the Spanish sailors were celebrating their small boost in morale.  The masked man again left Toronado in the copse, and warily approached the dock-side buildings.  His keen eyesight and hearing served him well; two uniformed men from the garrison were waiting with their muskets at the corner of a building diagonally situated to Pablo's home.  One of the soldiers quietly rested the butt of his weapon of the ground while his fellow kept alert eyes on the fisherman's home.  Zorro could think of a ruse that would distract the pair long enough to allow him access to the roof, but where two soldiers were assigned, likely there were more.
     He eased from his location to the front edge of the building.  No one was in plain sight along the wooden dock.  Long minutes crawled by, and the masked man kept careful watch, his shadowed gaze flicking between the pier, each home and store, then to the water lapping against the pilings.  He could detect no further sign of military presence, but his senses warned him that more soldiers lurked nearby.  Was Mendoza in charge or the alcalde?  Mendoza, for all his good heart, would be an easy opponent to confound.  DeSoto's intelligence made him a more challenging adversary.  Several times the outlaw had underestimated the alcalde's wiles and had barely been able to outwit him.
     The corner was an acceptable vantage point, but Pablo's roof was preferable.  There Zorro could lie down unseen and rest, yet be ready if trouble should threaten Pablo again.  He tested an old barrel with his foot; it appeared to be able to support his weight.  With an athletic spring, he mounted the roof of Pablo's neighbor.  The Spanish tiles clicked together as his boots grazed them; he froze to listen for any response.  The combination of the soft waves against the pier and the distant sounds of revelry from the bar made detection of more ominous sounds difficult.  The masked man stretched himself flat and shortly heard a faint scuffle and "shh!"--garrison privates, who did not know how to wait in silence.  They prowled beneath him, never thinking to look up, and returned to their post at the back of the building.
     The Fox breathed out slowly and measured the distance to Pablo's roof.  A leap of three meters would put him there, but to have his landing unnoticed required a diversion.  He lifted a baked clay tile from the roof line and, standing, hurled it over the rooftop behind the house where he was.  It shattered with a satisfying crash, and no less than three pairs of soldiers ran toward the sound.  The man in black made the leap to Pablo's roof easily, landing crunched with his feet under him.  He glanced around carefully.  His ruse had apparently worked, for he heard no reaction to his own noise.  Stretching himself prone of the old fisherman's roof, he settled down to wait for the night.
     An hour passed slowly, then another.  The tavern continued in merriment with no abatement of the festivities.  The masked man kept himself awake by thinking of the lovely owner of the Los Angeles tavern.  How he wished that he could be visiting her instead of making good on his promise to protect Pablo!  As he had suspected, the alcalde had used the information the humble man had unwittingly offered and had laid a trap.  So far Zorro had crawled into the trap, and his nemesis did not know he was there.
     A hoarse cry from the humble dwelling startled him.  Had he dozed?  Perhaps the gang had gotten by him in the dark!  Zorro got his feet under him and jumped lightly to the ground.  No more sound filtered from the lighted interior.  The door did not yield to the gentle pressure of his gloved hand; he would have to go through the window.
     His fists broke the feeble latch barring the shutters as he dived into the one-room house and rolled to regain his feet.  There were three occupants of the room:  the alcalde, Sergeant Mendoza, and Pablo, with Mendoza's sword held under his chin.
     "Very impressive," sneered Alcalde DeSoto.  "Don't even bother drawing your sword; you're not faster than a pistol ball."
     The outlaw perceived the force of the argument.  The commandant had a flintlock pistol trained on him, so the hand that had curled around the grip of the Toledo sabre dropped to his side.
     "How right you are," agreed the masked man.  "And what a pleasure it is to find you taking the trouble to investigate Silva's complaints personally!  I'm getting tired of doing your job.  And you, Sergeant--I see how hard you're working to--protect--the citizens of the territory."
     Mendoza had the grace to look ashamed, but the officer was not as easily discomposed.  "Our first priority is ridding the territory of a rogue who thinks he's above the law.  Sergeant, call the men."
     With the arrival of the soldiers, escape would be much more difficult.  Zorro turned his shoulder from the alcalde and freed his whip from his belt.  Like a striking snake, the lash flew toward DeSoto's face even as the outlaw ducked.  The alcalde's finger tightened on the trigger as he backpedaled, and the pistol belched its deadly load.  But the ball was buried harmlessly into the crumbling adobe wall beyond the outlaw.  The braided thong flicked again, and the candle on the table was extinguished, smothering the interior in inky darkness.  Running footsteps shuffled outside, and garrison musket barrels intruded through the open window.
     "Don't shoot!" screamed DeSoto.  "Zorro is in here, but so are we!  Sergeant, get the door!"
     Mendoza groped for the door latch, expecting each moment to feel the powerful hand of the masked man on his neck.  His fumbling fingers found the piece of wood that barred the door and threw it aside.  The soldiers cautiously stepped into the blackness where the only objects they could identify were the silver buttons on their sergeant's tunic as the starlight struck them.
     One, two, three, four!  Enough soldiers for now!  Zorro, crouched on the dirt floor, sprang through the window again.  The one unfortunate lancer still there guarding the interior with his musket was thrown to the ground; the masked man used him as a cushion to break the fall, and the musket discharged into the ceiling of the hut.  He rolled off the uniformed boy, landing on the wooden planks of the wharf.  Confusion generated by his sudden move turned the soldiers around to stumble over each other.  The first two outside again raised their muskets and fired at his departing shadow.  Their target was long gone, however, and shortly they heard the fading hoofbeats of his legendary stallion.