The autumn day was stiflingly warm and arid, continuing the pattern set throughout the southern Alta California summer.  The Spanish territory was still sparsely populated in 1812, some thirty years after the founding of the pueblo of Los Angeles.  And no wonder--most of the civilized world considered California to be at the very ends of the earth.  It was largely true.  Though a string of missions up the coast had been established to strengthen the Crown's claim to the territory--an extension of the viceroyalty of New Spain--and a territorial governor ensconced in Monterey, the population had grown slowly.  California was still primarily a wilderness inhabited by more tribal natives and wild animals than Hispanic settlers, admitted a silver-haired gentleman who looked out the open window of his home.
     At fifty-one years, Don Alejandro Sebastian de la Vega was the epitome of a Spanish nobleman--an excellent horseman fiercely proud of his heritage.  He carried an unconscious air of command from his days as a colonel in His Majesty's army, a trait which served him well in running a ranch the size of the de la Vega spread.
     He stopped admiring the sight of his acres and turned from the window.  At the ebony grand piano sat his only child Diego, the heir to the de la Vega fortune, playing a delicate Mozart minuet.  The young man, just three weeks returned from Madrid University where he had been studying the past four years, was tall, slender, and dark-haired like his father had been.  But there the similarity seemed to end.
     Don Alejandro was active, vibrant, decisive.  As a young man, he had been described as "impetuous."  The years had channeled that energy into more acceptable avenues.  Known as much for his compassion and sense of justice as for his gritty toughness, his word carried weight in the community.  Or it had, until the year before when Luis Ramone was appointed alcalde of Los Angeles by the territorial governor.
    The day Ramone arrived in the small pueblo was the beginning of a slow, sure descent into hell.  Taxes had been raised astronomically under the guise of "supporting the garrison."  The taxes, though resented by the big ranchos, did not seriously cripple their operations; beef and hides were ever valuable exports, and the caballeros made a profit in good years and bad.  But Alejandro ground his teeth, remembering the suffocating squeeze the levies had put on the ordinary people of Los Angeles--especially the farmers, whose livelihood was solely dependent upon the capricious rain!
     The new alcalde was as sleek and urbane as a professional gambler.  He smiled often, yet without warmth, and when crossed he displayed a vindictive temper.  It did not take the town long to realize that the official had a strong streak of cruelty, and for that reason he had become hated and feared.  The number of hangings had increased as had the number of public floggings.  Alejandro shuddered; he himself had been witness to several of these and not at all convinced of the victims' guilt.  But Ramone was the law in the pueblo, and no amount of public protest had altered his sadistic stranglehold on the isolated community.
     It was obvious to any person of discernment that the increase in taxes had not improved conditions at the garrison, either.  No, Ramone was lining his pockets, and well, too, judged by the perfectly fitted jackets, pantaloons, and brightly polished cordovan boots.  The older de la Vega smacked his fist into his hand in impotent rage.
     "How do we get rid of Luis Ramone?" he asked aloud.
     The long fingers deftly touching the piano keys did not slacken their speed.  "If you were the governor, you could dismiss him," offered his son.
     Alejandro's frown deepened.  That kind of nonsensical answer from Diego had been so typical since he had returned from Spain.
     "I'm not the governor, so we'll just have to think of something else!" responded the don with a touch of asperity.
     "Then complain to the governor.  The de la Vega name still commands an impressive amount of respect."
     "The governor," explained Alejandro with stretched patience, "appointed Ramone.  Family friends or something.  At any rate, they're hand in glove."
     "That does present a problem," conceded Diego mildly.  "But what can't be cured must be endured, apparently."
     "It cannot be endured!" ground out his father.  "That's what I've been telling you these past three weeks!  Why do you think I called you home?"
     The younger man finished the piece with a flourish.  "Things have certainly changed," he observed, his demeanor unruffled.
     "Yes!  And only a handful of the caballeros are withstanding the alcalde's coercion.  Diego, I need your support."
     "Are you proposing a coup d'état?  Overthrowing the administrator of the king's justice is considered treason."
     "I don't know what I'm proposing," sighed Alejandro in frustration.  "We all know that the situation is intolerable, but the dons can't even agree among themselves what's to be done."  His son looked at him with polite sympathy.  "I guess I have this idea that if we all arm ourselves and march into the alcalde's office, we'd have the leverage we'd need for reform.  You could help too; after four years with Edmund Kendall, you must be a least passable with a sabre.  You might even be better than I," the older man admitted.
     Don Diego smiled apologetically.  "I'm afraid I was a disappointment to Sir Edmund.  'Clumsy' and 'careless' were just two of the adjectives he used to describe my fencing style.  And marching into the alcalde's office sounds like a good way to get killed.  Moreover, from what you've told me of his character, any promises he made he'd be unlikely to keep."
     Alejandro was disgruntled over his son's lack of passion about the dilemma as well as his common sense point of view.  The older man didn't want Diego to play devil's advocate with him; he wanted an ally!
     Through the open windows the sounds of a horse-drawn trap floated inside.  The clatter stopped at their gates, and a low murmur of indistinct voices followed; Martín had seen the arrival approaching and ran to take care of the horse.  Don Diego strode to the door to welcome their visitor.
     The lady on the doorstep was a handsome woman, though past the bloom of youth.  Her dusky hair was bound at her nape in a severe bun, and her face was bronzed from an active outdoor life.  Her clothing was also dour; she was dressed from neck to toes in the unrelieved black of deep mourning.
     "Don Diego," her firm voice said.  "May I speak with your father?"
     "Of course, Señorita Ruiz," he responded instantly.  "He's right here."  He showed the woman in and announced the visitor to his father.
     Don Alejandro was never backward in extending traditional Spanish hospitality in his gracious home.  He took the woman's hand in his, bowed over it to place a respectful kiss on her gloved knuckles, and then led her to the sofa as he offered her a glass of wine.
     "Gracias, no.  Water, please.  The road was dusty."
     The don signaled a servant who hovered on the fringe of the large room.  The man disappeared quietly, returning moments later with a glass of water on a tray.  He set the tray before the guest, then discreetly removed himself.
     "How may I be of service?" inquired Alejandro kindly to the señorita.
     The woman removed her black leather gloves.  A cursory examination of her hands revealed that gloves were a folderol with which she rarely bothered.  Brown and callused, the hands reached for the glass.  She soothed her throat with a sip and then met the rancher's eyes squarely.
     "I have come to ask you to buy my cattle," she replied to his astonishment.  "I have forty-two head:  four bulls, twenty-one cows, and seventeen spring calves.  They are all in excellent condition; during the summer they've grown fat on the grass by my creek.  I must sell immediately, so whatever you think is fair I will accept."
     "Dear lady," began Don Alejandro, consternation creasing his gray brows, "I don't understand.  Have you decided the ranch is too much for you to manage without your father?"
     Diego, easily overhearing the conversation thus far, sat down in the brocaded armchair on the other side of the woman.  His curiosity and concern were roused.  Lorenzo Ruiz had died the previous week; the de la Vegas had attended the funeral of the old ranchero.
     "Er, no, Señor.  I was managing it myself these last few years as Papá's health declined."  Her hands, clenched into fists, tensely pushed into her lap.  "I must sell to pay the tax.  The land will have to go too, but I hope to have enough money left to start a new life elsewhere."
     "What tax?" demanded the rancher ominously.
     "The alcalde has a new tax on inherited property."  Her mouth twisted into an ironic smile.  "He signed it into law the day before Papá died.  What timing, no?"
     "How much is the tax?" interjected Diego.
     The woman turned to him.  "Fifty percent of the assessed value of the estate."
     "Fifty percent!" roared the silver-haired man, jumping from his chair.
     "The assessors--a handful of lancers--crawled all over my place yesterday.  They decided my ranch was worth nine thousand pesos."
     "Hmph," snorted Alejandro, momentarily distracted.  "You can be glad for one thing:  those buffoons undervalued your property."
     "Yes," she agreed sadly.  "But it makes no difference.  The land is worth more than the cattle on it.  Both will have to be sold.  The alcalde demands the cash today, or he'll take over the property and pay me the difference."
     "Wait a minute," the older don said, pouncing on a sudden thought.  "Didn't the alcalde buy that barren plateau adjacent to your ranch?"
     "Yes, though why I don't know.  There's no water on it, so he can't run cattle.  A lot of acres, no profit."
     "He wants your land, Señorita--that wonderful bottom land with the creek."
     Her tanned face whitened.  The caballero was right.
     "I'd rather crawl on my hands and knees to every ranchero in the territory for help than let Luis Ramone have Rancho Verde!" she cried in a low vibrating voice.
     "That won't be necessary," Alejandro said decisively.  "I'll loan you the money, and you can pay me back when you're able."
     Josefina Ruiz considered this generous offer a long moment.  "No, Señor," she responded regretfully.  "I cannot accept a loan, especially of that magnitude."  She overrode his interrupting protests.  "You know as well as I that circumstances beyond our control can cut into our profits.  And if the alcalde wants the land so badly, he will make those circumstances.  I'm sorry to have to say it, but there it is.  If that happens, I want the loss to be mine alone.  No, sir, I must sell the stock."
     The older man read the resolution in her stiff back and set jaw.  He unlocked his desk and dipped a quill into the inkwell.  The pen scratched across the surface of a piece of paper for a few moments; then he said, "I'll give you seven hundred pesos for each of the bulls, and one hundred pesos each for seventeen cows.  That comes to exactly forty-five hundred pesos."
     "Señor de la Vega," protested the woman, "prices haven't been that high for five years, and you know it."
     He shrugged.  "But as you say, the cattle have been fattening themselves all summer.  I think the price is fair, and you'll still have some cows and calves to build your herd again. I'll send Miguel and some of the boys over in the morning to round them up.  Just show them which ones to take."
     The señorita stood, struggling to control her emotions.  "Thank you, Señor.  God bless you."
     "I'll ride into town with you.  First let me see if I can change the alcalde's mind.  If not, I'll withdraw the money from the bank, and you can pay him off."

     De la Vega's efforts at reasoning with the alcalde were brushed aside by that cold, smiling face.  He tried to appeal to Ramone's conscience about the injustice of stripping a woman's inheritance, but the man had no conscience concerning the sufferings of others.  Alejandro abandoned that tack and threatened to bring his transgression before the church.  That too was a fruitless argument.  The alcalde put up only the barest façade of religious respectability.  He did not believe in heaven or hell, and only attended mass when it pleased him to do so.  Finally the older man warned him that the community would not stand for Josefina Ruiz to be robbed so blatantly.
     His opponent laughed aloud.  "Will they storm into my office?  Or seize me in my bed?  I assure you, de la Vega, I'm well-protected at all times.  A single shout will bring all the lancers.  They have orders to open-fire on any citizen who threatens me.  I always carry my sword, and this," he opened a desk drawer and withdrew a deadly-looking pistol, "is close at hand.  Oh yes, it's loaded," he smiled dulcetly.  "As is the one in my quarters.  Señorita Ruiz must pay the tax by the end of the day, or her property is forfeit to the Crown."
     "To you, you mean," corrected Alejandro through gritted teeth.
     The hateful smile widened.  "As you say."
     De la Vega stomped from the office, slamming the door behind him.  A few minutes later he returned with Señorita Ruiz.  On the alcalde's desk, the lady rancher deposited a weighty canvas sack.  She stepped back in stony silence.
     A muscle in Ramone's cheek twitched.  He looked less than pleased to be paid in a timely manner.

     "And then," Alejandro told his son over supper, "he poured out the money on his desk and counted every peso in front of us.  The gall of the man!"
     "It was a good thing you stayed to watch," commented his son.  "Otherwise he might have claimed part of the money was missing."
     That perceptive thought had not yet occurred to the older de la Vega.  "That's the first sensible comment you've made about this whole affair," he complimented grudgingly.  "Now do you see what I mean?  What I've been saying all along?"
     "I understand that he's unscrupulous, but what's to be done?  What choice do we have but to meet his demands?"
     "We can fight!" growled his father.
     "He has the means to take everything we have if we do:  the ranch, our freedom, our lives."
     "And he takes our honor if we don't!" retorted Alejandro.  "Where's your pride?"
     "In my pocket where it belongs during troubled times," his son responded easily.  "An inheritance tax!  You must admit it's a unique idea!"
     "It's preposterous!  Why, who can afford to pay such a tax and remain solvent?  In a few years he'll have impoverished the whole territory!  Don't laugh; even I can't live forever.  What would this ranch be reduced by fifty percent?  But that's not the point; for centuries it's been the cherished right of fathers to pass to their sons the family estate, large or small.  The Ruizes have been here even longer than the de la Vegas.  There's no male heir, and Josefina rightfully should inherit her father's property.  No one can deny that she's as capable a rancher as anyone in the area."  He jabbed his finger at Diego to make a point.  "It's robbery.  Conniving, despicable robbery!"  With that final word, he threw down his napkin and stalked from the table.
     A shadow appeared at Diego's elbow.  A dark-haired eleven year-old boy with liquid brown eyes looked at the young man.
     "You heard?" asked the caballero quietly.  The boy nodded.  Diego sat still, thinking.
     "Felipe, would you saddle Toronado?" he said finally.  "Tonight El Zorro will ride."

     At eleven o'clock, Luis Ramone strode from the tavern where he had been cultivating the acquaintance of a prominent caballero, and returned to his office.  The day had not played out exactly as he had hoped; Señorita Ruiz was still the owner of the land.  On the other hand, he had successfully collected a sizable sum under the new inheritance tax.  He smiled, thinking of the forty-five hundred pesos tucked away in his office safe. Yes, it was a very profitable law.  Though he had written it with Lorenzo Ruiz's imminent death in mind, it was certainly a law worth keeping on the books.  And he would bide his time on acquiring the Rancho Verde; soon that would be his also.
     The day had held another promise--a new recruit had arrived in the morning.  The young man had brought a letter of recommendation from the magistrate in Santa Barbara.  That official had claimed the boy was an expert marksman, and had heard Ramone was in need of such.  The alcalde had read the letter and handed the recruit over to Sergeant Mendoza to be outfitted.
     Ramone unlocked the office door and fastened the bolt on the inside.  After groping for the flint, he struck it to light the oil lamp.  A spark caught and flared; he adjusted the flame.  Perhaps a glass of Madeira before bed.  He unlocked his wine cabinet and poured the deep amber liquid into a cut crystal glass.
     A soft knock on the door to the cuartel courtyard brought a frown to his face.  No doubt Sergeant Mendoza had come with more tedious questions about when the lancers would be paid.
     "Come in," Ramone growled; taking a sip of his drink.  He heard the door open as he turned toward his desk.
     "Thank you, Alcalde," returned a congenial voice.  "How delightful to discover that you're a hospitable man after all."
     That wasn't Mendoza's voice.  Puzzled, the official turned around.  What he saw made him jump back in fear.  The Madeira in his hand sloshed from the glass onto the desk.  A huge black shape emerged from the shadows--a shape with glittering white teeth, a shape that watched him with piercing eyes from behind a mask.
     "Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here?" asked the dark figure.  "That's usually the first question."
     "Wh-What do you want?" Ramone garbled.
     "I've come to rob you," smiled the apparition.  His victim's mouth worked; he tried to call out, but his voice was just a squeak.
     "The Ruiz inheritance tax," supplied the mysterious outlaw helpfully.  "Get it."
     No!  screamed the official's mind.  He thought rapidly and came up with a brilliant ruse.
     "It's in the desk," he told the bandit.  A cold hiss of steel froze him as he reached for the top drawer.  Ramone looked down the lethal blade of a sabre poised at his ribs.
     The masked man clucked his tongue pityingly.  "Alcalde, I know what's in your desk drawer, and it isn't money.  Open the safe," he instructed pleasantly.
     Ramone ground his teeth.  "And if I refuse?  My lancers are in the barracks.  One shout will bring them."
     "If you call out you'll be dead before you hit the floor.  So unless you'd like me to carve my initial in your avaricious carcass, you have fifteen seconds to open that safe."
     The alcalde wondered if the Fox was bluffing.  But as the seconds ticked by with the masked man's implacable eyes fixed upon him, Ramone decided not to call that bluff.  With visible reluctance, he dialed the safe's combination.
     "Put the money in these," said Zorro and tossed him a pair of black saddlebags.  "And remember, count carefully.  I'm watching."
     Ramone loaded the stacks of pesos into the leather pouches; the figure in black did indeed watch his every move.  When he had finished, the bandit instructed him to lift the saddlebags onto the desk.
     "Gracias.  I'll return this to the lady," Zorro told him and gestured for him to move back.  As the masked man hoisted the heavy bags, the alcalde drew his sword in haste.  Now his enemy was at a disadvantage!
     Only for an instant.  The dark outlaw dropped the burden and saluted his opponent with a disconcerting grin.  "Again, gracias.  I can use the exercise."
     The official was rattled by his adversary's unconcern. He lunged tentatively; his blade was turned aside by a neat parry, and the riposte missed his arm only because he jumped back hastily.
     The masked man closed the distance.  He laughed while exchanging blows with Ramone; the alcalde's style was awkward, and his shoulder betrayed his next intention. Within a minute of tense swordplay, Zorro had seen everything his opponent knew about handling a blade.  And the sabre with the intricate gold basket had not come close to penetrating the outlaw's defenses.  With the slightest twitch of his black-gloved fingers, Zorro displaced his foe's blade again and again.
     The official was desperate, and fear makes a poor swordsman.  Zorro himself saw no reason to delay his departure any longer.  He feinted to the flank and with a simple disengage got around the alcalde's sword.  The masked man snapped the flat of his blade down hard on Ramone's wrist, and the ornate sabre clattered to the office floor.  Disarmed, the alcalde cowered against the jail door wall.
     "I'm sure you know the relationship between victors and spoils," reminded the masked man.  With an adroit roll of his fingers, a 'Z' was sliced into the lapel of the official's immaculate coat.
     "Oh, one more thing," recalled Zorro.  "Since Señorita Ruiz has suffered a sizable amount of anguish over the theft of her property, I think it only fair that I return some to you."  A huge left fist flew at the alcalde's jaw and contacted it with a loud crack.  Ramone sprawled on the floor.
     "Buenas noches, Alcalde," said the masked man, saluting before quickly sheathing his sabre.  He picked up the saddlebags once more.  "It's a pleasure doing business with you."  He strode out the front door deliberately.
     Ramone's anger flared.  That menace was not going to escape this time!  He stumbled to the cuartel door.
     "Lancers!  To horse!  It's Zorro!"  He screamed for his men to hurry in a voice as loud as his bruised jaw would allow, and from the barracks soldiers poured out in confusion.
     The powerful black stallion with its equally dark rider fearlessly galloped into the plaza as the ruthless official emerged from his office.  "This is a warning, Alcalde," said the masked man.  "Leave Señorita Ruiz alone."
     Ramone's face glowered at him from the torch light, full of fury.  Zorro turned his horse's head, and they sprinted into the gloom of night.  Moments later the outlaw heard the pounding of horses' hooves in pursuit.  He glanced over his shoulder, but could not count how many chased him.  No matter, really.  Toronado would stretch his long legs, and soon the soldiers would be far behind.
     There was not a horse Toronado's equal within a thousand miles.  A wild mustang Diego and Felipe had found in the high meadows of the San Gabriel Mountains, he was the perfect answer to Zorro's need for an unknown, yet incredibly strong mount.  Breaking the horse to bridle and bit had not been the laborious process of days or weeks that was typically the case with a bronco from the open range.   The mustang was unusually intelligent and seemed to realize that his purpose in life was to work in partnership with the human who helped his colt to live.
     Diego respected that partnership and never treated the stallion as his servant.  Yet the horse needed to learn certain responses that would be useful in Zorro's work to both of them.  For several hours a day, the de la Vega son would ostensibly go for a ride, but in reality switch horses by the mouth of a hidden cave and lead Toronado to a secluded meadow to train.  Lumps of sugar or apples from the hacienda's cellar provided the motivation for Toronado to respond correctly to the gait Diego wanted, and to approach the young caballero when Diego curled his lips and blew a particular whistle.  Other training would come in time; they had made remarkable progress in just over three weeks.
     They raced through a wide meadow and around a bend.  Some sporadic gunfire popped in the distance, but no musket ball whizzed by him.  A musket was a difficult weapon to fire at a distance with any accuracy, especially from the back of a galloping horse.
     Far away, another musket cracked behind him.  But the masked man smiled grimly to himself, knowing he was almost out of range.  The thought was short-lived.  A searing hot bolt tore through the back of his right thigh, and he gasped audibly.  That last shot had been well aimed or extremely lucky.  His leg muscles cramped in agony, and the black trousers became damp and sticky from a warm spurt of blood.
     Zorro's career might be over almost before it started.  What to do?  His mind raced through the options as Toronado thundered over the hard, dry ground.  The moon was barely a crescent; the darkness of the night was his compadre.  On the other hand, in his effort to disguise his route home, he had turned southeast upon leaving the pueblo--the exact opposite direction of the cave and sanctuary!
     His lower leg was prickling inside his boot with numbness; he could no longer tell whether or not his foot was in the stirrup.  Suddenly it became clear that even if he turned Toronado right there and could elude the soldiers in the dark, he could never stay in the saddle all the way home.  If he rolled out of the saddle and into the bushes, the soldiers would likely ride by and continue chasing the stallion.  Of course, Toronado could find his own way to the cave and would run even faster riderless.  But without a horse and a musket ball in his thigh, Zorro himself would be practically immobile.  And he would need help.  Toronado might be able to lead Felipe back to find him tomorrow.  Maybe.  Or maybe I'll bleed to death first.
     Whom could he trust to help him?  Dr. Hernandez probably would in his tireless devotion to the Hippocratic Oath.  But the doctor's home was a mile on the east side of town.  The circuit padre had returned to the San Gabriel Mission three days ago, and the plaza church was unoccupied.  One by one Zorro went through a list of possible sympathizers who might help him.  But with the alcalde's posted reward of two thousand pesos, the masked man had to be very sure.
     Señorita Escalante!  She would help if he dared impose on her.  It was a grave risk for both of them.  A violent ache traveling up his side reminded him that he must act immediately, or he would be incapable of making it back to the pueblo.
     He swerved Toronado into a thicket of scrubby trees and weaved his way through.  The lancers had fallen off the pace a little, thanks to the black horse's speed.  Making a sharp turn behind a dense clump of oak, Zorro waited in silence, holding his breath while listening for the approaching lancers.  Toronado stood like a statue.  The stallion had an unerring instinct for reading Zorro's wishes, and despite the hard gallop they had just made, he managed to breathe in soft whispers.
     The drumming hoofbeats warned both that the soldiers were approaching.  The rhythm slowed; the pursuers were entering the thicket warily.
     "Fan out; search carefully!" ordered Sergeant Mendoza's voice.
     Slow rustlings through the long dry grass followed the command.  The lancers were weary of the chase; their horses were winded, and the likelihood of finding a black rider and black horse on a black night seemed remote.
     Zorro, a perceptive reader of human nature, understood all this as he listened to the half-hearted sounds of lancers in the area.  He stood his ground; the night shadows hid him well.  There was no need to break and run.  But the wait was stretching his endurance to the limit.  The torture of a deeply-embedded musket ball combined with a slow, steady loss of blood put the thought in his head that he might not stay conscious through the wait.
     "He has disappeared, Sergeant," wailed a plaintive voice at last.
     The sergeant grunted in displeasure.  "Do you know what the alcalde will do to us if we come back without him?  You will be marching and drilling the rest of your enlistment!  We can't go back yet; the alcalde will say that we haven't looked long enough.  Let's move on!" he snapped.
     "Sergeant," spoke another voice, "I think I hit him with that last shot."
     "Santellano," replied Mendoza with a touch of derision, "did we pass a body?  Did he slow down?  Your shot fell short.  Vamanos!"
     The masked man breathed out a shuddering sigh of relief as the sound of rustling grass faded toward the west.  He stepped carefully from the shadows and held Toronado to a walk until they left the thicket.  Once clear of the sheltering trees he urged the stallion into an easy canter, checking over his shoulder to make sure the pursuit had not rejoined.  Oh, no--his vision was going!  He must not pass out; it would be his death.
     He lowered his head by Toronado's neck and whispered, "Go, go--to the pueblo."
     The stallion had wings in his heels.  His rider prayed and hung on for the three miles over open country.
     The small Spanish settlement, originally titled the flamboyant name of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels of Porciúcula, was wrapped in silence when he returned and, with the exception of the alcalde's office, shuttered and dark.  Yes, Ramone would be awake, waiting for his men to return, and a light shone from the window.  Carefully skirting the buildings, Zorro steered clear of that one bright pinpoint and approached the rear door of the tavern on hushed hooves.

     The young tavern owner had cleared the inn of customers nearly an hour before.  It was already late, but while cleaning the front room of dirty dishes and mugs, she heard the lancers ride out hastily, noisily.  At the alcalde's cry of "Zorro!  After him!" she ran to the window.  The mysterious masked man had made another appearance in the pueblo, but her straining eyes caught no glimpse of him.  But the alcalde stood at his doorway bellowing orders, and blue-jacketed soldiers galloped out of town to the west.
     "A promotion to the man who brings him down!" shouted Ramone after them.
     Victoria Escalante shivered in fear.  "Dear Jesus, keep him safe," she pleaded under her breath.  El Zorro was somewhere out there in the dark night, playing his deadly game again.  She would not go to bed until the lancers returned.  Then she would know the fate of that brave champion of justice.
     Time dragged slowly.  She wiped the tables, swept the floor, and lowered the iron chandeliers to extinguish the candles.  The front door was bolted.  The two guests in the tavern, travelers from the Monterey coach, had retired to their rooms hours before.  The very silence seemed loud and eerie.  Determined not to let her tension unnerve her, she filled a tub with water and soap and washed the mountain of dirty dishes.  Still the lancers had not returned.  Picking up a clean towel, she began polishing the dishes dry.  But a soft knock at the kitchen door startled her.
     Victoria spun about, staring at the door, suddenly afraid.  Who could it be at this hour?  Who but a friend?  she chided herself.  Thieves don't knock.  She put down the towel and stepped to the door.  As she approached, the knock sounded again; this time there was an urgency to the low rapping.  Sliding back the bolt, she pulled the door open cautiously and peered out into the gloom.  A black shadow moved against the wall.
     "My apologies for disturbing you at this hour, Señorita," a man's cultured voice whispered.  He stepped closer to the dim light coming from the open door.  Black mask, black clothes, hat, and cape.
     "El Zorro!" she gasped, recognizing her visitor.  Only by stern self-control did she resist the impulse to shrink back from the large figure.  The conflict must have shown on her face, because he spoke again rapidly in a low voice.
     "Don't be frightened.  I mean you no harm."
     "The soldiers are still out looking for you," she faltered.
     "I know.  I think I lost them.  Señorita, may I impose on you for shelter?  I caught a musket ball tonight, and I don't think I can make it home," he explained.
     Her sharp intake of breath was his answer.  The door opened wider, and she gestured for him to enter.  "Hurry," she whispered.  When he had passed within the sanctuary of her kitchen, she bolted the door after him and drew the curtain tightly over the window.  Victoria turned to look at her guest.
     Even leaning against the table, he looked huge:  tall, muscular, powerful, and potentially dangerous.  What did she really know of this man except that he opposed the tyrannous alcalde?  Her wide eyes glanced into his face.
     "I regret the inconvenience," he murmured.  He shook his head slightly as if trying to think.
     "Please, Señor, sit down," she urged.  "You are shot?"
     "Yes--the back of my right leg."
     She then noticed that he was standing with all his weight on his left foot.  He was upright, but with difficulty.
     "Let me see."  Victoria easily located the hole torn through the black fabric of his pants; there was a soaked patch of blood surrounding it.  "Señor, I think the ball is still in your leg."
     "Yes, I'm sure it is."
     She stood, knowing instantly what must be done.  "I'll get the doctor.  Stay here; you'll be safe."
     "No!" he cried hoarsely.  "You can't get the doctor.  The soldiers could return at any time, and if they notice extra activity at the tavern, we're both lost."
     She stopped halfway to the door.  He was right.  The garrison might see or hear her saddling her old nag, and certainly the doctor's horse and carriage entering the town late at night would cause curiosity.  Even if the soldiers did not see Dr. Hernandez, perhaps others would, and they might talk about it.  That avenue of assistance closed, she looked up at the man in black.
     "How may I help you, Señor?"
     He read in her face calm resolution.  She was his ally no matter the consequences, and he was grateful.
     "May I lie down before your fire?  I fear I've lost a good amount of blood."
     "Of course, of course," she assured him, though anxiously.  What if he should pass out and still be there in the morning when it was time to open the tavern's doors?
     He staggered before the kitchen oven's open hearth and stretched himself prone on the wooden planks of the floor, a grimace distorting his features.
     "Señorita, do you have a sharp, thin-bladed knife?"  She assented, and he ordered, "Get it and bring a bottle of wine."
     She got the knife from among the dishes she had cleaned a few minutes before and opened a new bottle of white wine from the storage cabinet.  Kneeling beside him with the requested items, Victoria asked, "Do you need a drink?"
     A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.  "Probably.  But no, thank you.  I need you to dig out the musket ball.  Pour the wine over the knife generously."
     She gaped at him.  "M-Me?  Señor Zorro, I don't think I--"
     The dark hero grasped her arm comfortingly.  "I understand; it's a great deal to ask.  But it must be done."
     "B-But I might make it worse, and it will hurt you terribly."
     "It will hurt terribly no matter who does it, and I think your lovely hands are gentle.  Now drench the knife with wine."
     Gulping down her fears, she did as he asked.  When the instrument was sanitized, she said, "I will have to cut your trousers."  He consented, and she sliced the blood-saturated breeches vertically several centimeters above the hole and several centimeters below it.  Spreading the slit open, Victoria exposed the inflamed wound.  It was ugly--a centavo-sized hole in muscled flesh, oozing a bright crimson trickle.  Blood filled the gouge carved by the small lead ball, and bits of torn skin curled around the wound's edges.  But the projectile itself she could not see.
     "I need to get a cloth for the blood," she explained to the man patiently awaiting her necessary ministrations.  She stood and hurried to the cupboard, returning with a clean towel and the lamp.  Setting the light on the floor beside her, she knelt again beside the masked man.
     "I'm going to staunch it now," she warned him.  She twisted a corner of the cloth and thrust it carefully into the open injury.  Zorro's body stiffened, but he did not make a sound.  The blood absorbed into the towel.  She withdrew it a few seconds later and quickly looked into the hole.  A glimpse was all she got before a red pool refilled the cavity.  No musket ball did she see.  Heaven help her; she would have to probe for it!
     "Señor Fox, I couldn't see the ball," she informed him.  "Do you wish me to continue?"
     "Yes," he gasped.  "Use the point of the knife and poke around for it.  It should have gone in at an angle.  You'll feel some resistance when you find it."
     Taking a deep breath, she picked up the knife with trembling fingers.  Jesus, help me be brave like Mamá! she prayed.  Swallowing the rising bile of nausea, Victoria braced her left hand on his thigh next to the wound and inserted the blade delicately into the hole.  This was no good; she withdrew the knife and changed her grip on the blade.  The next time she lowered it into the blood, she gripped the steel less than three centimeters from the point.  Lower and lower the tip descended until it encountered some resistance.  The man in black flinched ever so slightly.
     "I'm sorry," the young woman apologized hastily.  "Your wound is about two centimeters deep.  I'm going to probe for the ball now," she warned.
     When the point lowered again, she made minute stabs at the bottom of the well.  The outlaw beneath her sucked in his breath through clenched teeth.  Victoria, breathing shallowly, concentrated on the gory task at hand and kept her eyes fixated on the blade of the knife and the fresh blood.  After completing a tiny circle, she was fairly certain the ball was directly beneath the knife's tip.
     "I think I found it.  How do I get it out?"
     "Get the point of the blade underneath and pry it up," he panted.
     She muttered, "I was afraid you were going to say that.  Do you want that drink now?"
     He shook his head.  This would be agonizing for him, she knew.  If she dug tentatively she would probably just prolong the ordeal for both of them.  Perhaps one decisive move.  When the sharp tip contacted the ball again, she slid it off the side.  With a small flick of her wrist, the blade dug beneath the ball and dislodged it slightly.  Zorro exhaled harshly, but kept his leg still.
     The lead ball was balanced on the knife's tip, and Victoria held her breath as she drew it out.  Don't drop!  Don't drop!  The blood was in the way, and she needed to see what she was doing.  With her left hand she picked up the towel again and held it to the cavity until the white edge turned scarlet.  But though the cloth absorbed much of the blood from the hole, a fresh supply refilled it instantly from the new cuts she had made.  A millimeter at a time she raised the ball on the blade of the knife until a dark rounded shape rose from the red pool.  Her eyes widened as she lifted it free.
     Grasping it with the towel, she cried tremulously, "I got it!"
     "Gracias a Dios," breathed the man in black.
     She echoed the prayer of gratitude, then said, "Stay still; there's fresh blood.  I'll make a bandage for you."  With that she left his side and returned to the pine cupboard.  Bringing several towels back with her, she began tearing them into strips.  She made a thick soft pad to cover the wound itself and then carefully wrapped the long strips around his thigh.  When she had tied off the ends, Victoria said, "That's the best I can do for now, Señor."  Her head lifted; from the street were the sounds of soldiers returning after a long, weary ride.
     "Wait," she whispered to her visitor and ran to the darkened window facing the plaza.
     The alcalde's office door was open, and the lamplight poured into the dirt street.  Luis Ramone was inquiring eagerly into the pursuers' success, but became enraged when he discovered that his crafty adversary, the Fox, had eluded his lancers without leaving a trace.
     "Imbeciles!  Babosos!"  he fumed.  "Seven lancers, and not one of you could get a good shot on him?  Mendoza!" he summoned his sergeant, who saluted.  "You will be drilling the men from dawn to dusk every day until their proficiency improves!  And yours!" he added with a furious snort.  "That masked bandit will destroy every semblance of law and order in this territory.  Don't you understand?  He's undermining the king's authority and leading the people to revolt!  You, Santellano," Ramone demanded of his new recruit.  "I thought you were such a great marksman.  Why didn't you get him?"
     The young private stepped forward.  "I did get him, Alcalde," he answered boldly with a salute.
     "Did you now?" the official quizzed with awful sarcasm.  "Then where is he?"
     "I wasn't able to kill him; he was almost out of range.  But I believe he was wounded."
     Sergeant Mendoza reprimanded the new recruit, "Santellano, I told you he got away.  Stop trying to impress the alcalde with your story."
     "Just a moment," said Ramone in less strident tones to the young man who had turned away.  "What makes you think you hit him?"
     "I heard a groan," the lancer answered simply.
     The official's eyes narrowed speculatively.  He rubbed his bearded chin a few moments, deep in thought.
     "Do you remember where you were when you fired?"
     The soldier answered affirmatively.
     "Tomorrow, we'll go riding, you and I.  Mendoza, you will pay a visit to Dr. Hernandez."  With that final comment, the alcalde dismissed his men and went inside his quarters.
     Hidden in the tavern's dark interior, Victoria crept away from the window and back to the masked visitor resting in her kitchen.
     "Señor, there is bad news.  One of the lancers told the alcalde that he hit you, and they are going to look for your trail tomorrow.  Mendoza will be questioning Dr. Hernandez."
     He smiled wanly.  "You see?  It was a good thing that you didn't get the doctor.  Now he'll be able to answer honestly that he knows nothing."
     "Will your trail lead them here?" she asked directly, expecting a straightforward answer.
     "It's possible," answered the wounded man, "but the alcalde will have to be a better tracker than he is a swordsman.  The ground is dry and hard.  I doubt there's a trail to follow.  Unless there's a trail of blood," he added, frowning.
     "I'll check outside the tavern tomorrow morning and remove any traces I find," she declared.  "Now Señor, we must hide you during your recovery.  I have a small room on the other side of this wall.  It is a storage room primarily, but there's a bed and a locking door.  And no one goes back there except me.  There are two guests from the stagecoach in the rooms upstairs."
     He nodded in comprehension; their movements to the back room must be accompanied by extreme quiet.  Zorro rose painfully upright, putting his weight completely on his left leg.  She stepped to the masked stranger's side, mutely offering assistance.  He gratefully accepted, putting his right arm heavily around her small shoulders.  She clasped his waist with a slender arm and felt his shirt damp with perspiration.  Taking a short step forward, she paused until he gritted his teeth and hopped beside her.  Slowly they passed from the kitchen to the tavern's great room, Victoria glancing up at the two occupied doors on the landing above after each shuffling step.  But the doors remained shut and silent.
     Together they eased all the way around the bar's counter to the doorway leading to the back rooms.  The masked man fought to stay conscious.  He could feel the warm dampness of fresh blood soaking the clean bandage.  If only he could lie down!  Through one storage room they hobbled, the candle held by Señorita Escalante the only light piercing the darkness.  The tiny room beyond held a bed, and wine crates were stacked against one wall.
     The masked man fell toward the bed as if drawn by a magnet.  "I think the bandage needs to be changed," he mumbled with his face in the pillow.
     Victoria nodded and left hastily to gather more towels.  In the kitchen once more, she covered over the coals for the night and wiped the excess blood from the floor.  Early in the morning, she would burn the stained rags and scrub away every trace of her nocturnal visitor's presence.
     "Here, Señor," she said.  "I brought you a glass of water."  He accepted the cool drink and lay back onto the pillow.
     She changed the bloody linen with a clean, dry bandage.  "Sleep on your stomach to give the blood a chance to clot.  Is there anything else I can do to help you, Señor?"
     "Yes," he murmured.  "Unbuckle my sword belt."  She did so and pulled it from underneath him.  "Unsheathe my sword."
     The young woman did as he requested and slowly pulled the magnificent sabre from the silver scabbard.  It was surprisingly heavy and awkwardly balanced for the petite tavern owner.  Sharp and deadly, the sword gleamed in the candlelight.  She lowered it carefully to the floor, the hilt by the man's hand and the tip pointing toward the door.
     "I think you will be my guest for several days, Señor Zorro," Victoria advised.  "In that case, may I help you with your boots?"
     "That would be most kind," he murmured.  "The left first."  He braced his right foot cautiously against the footboard while the tavern owner grasped the toe and heel of his left boot and gently eased it off.  The right would be even trickier since she couldn't tug on the boot.  But he kicked away with his left, and the right boot slipped off while he clenched his teeth.  She put the large black boots side-by-side next to the bed and looked at him with anxious eyes.
     "Go to bed, my guardian angel," he whispered, a half-smile twisting his well-shaped mouth.  "And I thank you with all my heart."
     "No one should bother you; I open alone tomorrow," she assured.  "But I'll lock the door anyway.  In the morning I'll knock twice."  Victoria left quietly, and he heard the key turn.

     After his human ordered him to the cave, the huge stallion raced toward his new home in the side of a hill.  Stepping on a hidden foot release, he watched the hinged door swing open.  Toronado walked through the disguised entrance and into a dark tunnel.  A dim light at the far end guided him.  There in a stall carved of rock a spring bubbled water into a trough.  He guzzled deeply; the long hard ride had been thirsty work.
     Felipe had been waiting anxiously for Don Diego's return. How long could the young caballero fool the alcalde and the whole garrison of lancers?  Yes, Diego had some skill with the sword; how much the Mexican boy didn't know.  Was it enough?
     The hour was late, or rather early, for midnight had passed some time before.  Felipe's eyes had been growing heavier each moment.  The handful of oil lamps burning against the walls of the cave and on the table cast phantasmal shadows around the room.  The cave was an unnerving place in the dead of night.  But the boy dared not leave.  Don Diego was his idol, his lord.  And Don Diego would expect him to groom the stallion when El Zorro returned.
     At last he heard hooves striking the dirt inside the tunnel.  Relieved, he carried the lamp from the table into the stall as the black mustang came into view.  Riderless!  The boy held the lamp aloft and peered past the horse into the gloom.  He retraced the tunnel path with the light, but his beloved patrón he did not see.  Stepping on the foot spring in the tunnel's floor, he looked outside the cave's entrance.  The moon's low light denied him the visibility he sought.  He clapped his hands loudly and listened for a voice or signal from Diego.  A warm breeze stirred the tops of the pines, but no other sound reached his ears.  He let the door close and returned to the stallion.
     There must have been some difficulty for Toronado to return alone, but not necessarily disaster.  Don Diego could still arrive home by another method, and he would expect the horse to be groomed just the same.  The boy removed the headstall from the animal's ears and the bit from between his jaws.  The saddlebags were heavy and jingled with coins; he could barely lift them over the wooden tack peg.  At least Zorro had managed to get the señorita's money back from the alcalde.  Then Felipe unbuckled the ornate saddle and threw it and its black blanket over the stall's rail.  He brushed the glossy dark coat briskly to remove the dirt and sweat as Toronado lipped the oats in his feed bucket.  Head and neck first, then down the powerful back and flanks.  As he worked his way to the right side, he felt it. His hand jerked away when the crusted stickiness adhered to his palm.  The lamp revealed what it was.  Blood!  Diego's or Toronado's?  He held the light close to the animal to look for a wound.  No, the blood was not the horse's.  It must be Diego's.  Felipe scrubbed the blood from the black coat.
     Think, think!   Should he awaken Don Alejandro and get his help?  What were the possibilities?  Diego could be dead.  Diego could be wounded and captured.  He could be wounded, but hiding.  In the first case, there was nothing to do but look for the body.  If the second scenario was true, they would hear about it soon enough; the alcalde would be at the hacienda later in the morning to crow to Don Alejandro.  The third case demanded a response similar to the first--to search.  That Felipe decided to do at sunrise.  And until he knew more, he would keep Zorro's secret.

     At the first gray of dawn, the tavern keeper rose from her bed and dressed rapidly.  There was no sound yet from the guests' rooms, so she tiptoed noiselessly down the stairs to the back storage room.  She rapped softly twice, and the stranger's voice beckoned her in.
     Her mysterious guest lay under the thin old blanket on the bed, but she noticed a pile of black clothing on the floor, including his hat.  During the night, he had stripped off everything but his mask, which covered his hair and tied at the base of his neck.  Strangely piratical.
     "Buenos dias," he murmured to her astonished stare.  "It was a warm night, wasn't it?"
     Victoria swallowed.  "Are you feverish, Señor?"
     "I don't think so--just uncomfortable."
     "Let me check."  She approached to touch him, and his hand shot up swiftly and grasped her wrist.  Her startled brown eyes met his steely gaze of blue.  For a long moment he measured her.
     "I cannot remove the mask, Señorita," he told her firmly.
     "I wasn't going to ask it," she replied.  "I can tell if you're feverish from your neck."  He relaxed and guided her hand to his warm neck.  "No, thank heaven.  You feel normal."
     "Your hands feel sweet and cool," he noted.  He brought her hand to his lips, and he planted a small kiss on her fingertips.  Her cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink.  I wish I could tell you how beautiful you are,  he thought, but I don't dare embarrass you further.
     "How is your wound?" she asked to cover her confusion.
     "Better," he lied.  It hurt like the devil and had kept him awake.
     "Would you like me to check it for you?"
     "Later.  I know you have other things to do, and I've occupied enough of your time."
     "Then I'll be back in a while with some breakfast."  She swept out of the room and locked it carefully behind her.
     Victoria stoked the fire again and threw the bloody bandages from the previous night onto the hot coals.  After pumping water into a bucket, she used soap flakes and a rough bristle brush on the floor planks.  The smears of blood came up with some elbow grease.
     Outside the back door she found a few more drops, black from the exposure to the warm night air.  She scrubbed the stoop, the wall against which the masked man had leaned, and kicked dirt over the dark spots on the ground.  The sun was rising as she finished, and so was the cuartel.  The innkeeper shrank back into the doorway as she heard Ramone's orders resonate across the plaza.  The girl peered around the corner as horses galloped from the pueblo in opposite directions; Sergeant Mendoza and a patrol left through the town gate, and the alcalde and a lone lancer rode west.  When they were out of sight, her keen eyes searched the landscape for some distance around the back of the tavern.  Only one more drop of dried blood did she see, and that she carefully covered.  She hurried indoors again; the coach passengers would expect their breakfast before the stage left for San Diego.

     At the de la Vega hacienda, Don Alejandro breakfasted early and was in the saddle shortly after that.  He had hoped that his son would ride the stock with him this morning, but Diego was sleeping late again.  The young man had changed so much during the four years--or nearly five counting the travel time--at the university.  The silver-haired man sadly reflected that maybe things would have been better had Diego stayed in California.  The strong young man he had farewelled in 1808--that intelligent, kind, brave boy--returned indolent and dreamy, separated from the harsh realities by a utopian fantasy world inhabited only by science, music, art, poetry, philosophy--bah!  It was enough to turn a man's stomach.  He did not know or understand his son, his only child, anymore.  And that grieved him more than the rest.
     When the patrón had ridden out, Felipe checked Don Diego's bed.  No, the tall caballero had not returned home during the night.  Nor was he in the cave--only the black stallion, who seemed restless that morning.  Was he also concerned about his human friend?  The boy mucked out the stall and patted the horse comfortingly.  If only you could speak,  thought Felipe.  You could tell me what happened, and where he is.
     Maybe Toronado did know where Don Diego was!  The boy considered saddling the stallion and sending him out alone to return to the place where he and Zorro had been separated.  It was daylight, though, and many eyes could see the horse and his outlaw rider.  No, Felipe would look himself now, and send the stallion out after dark.
     Miguel, the rancho's foreman, mounted the youth on a sturdy pinto pony.  Usually gruff, the vaquero had a soft spot for the orphan boy with the big brown eyes, and Felipe knew it.  But the mount was due as much to the boy's natural seat as his charm, and the former quality was worthy of Miguel's respect.  The foreman waved good-bye to the boy as he and some other vaqueros prepared to round up cattle at the Rancho Verde.
     At a humble home outside the pueblo boundaries, Sergeant Mendoza and his patrol pulled up.  The lancers dismounted as their leader rapped firmly on the door.  An Indian proselyte opened the door, his impassive face registering neither surprise nor welcome.
     "I am here to see Dr. Hernandez," announced Mendoza in official tones.
     "Let him in, Akrie," instructed the lean doctor as he left the breakfast table.  He slipped into his frock coat and approached the soldier.
     "Buenos dias, Sergeant.  Are you unwell?"
     "Oh," stuttered Mendoza.  "There's nothing wrong with me; I'm here on a military matter."
     The snowy-haired doctor's eyebrows lifted expectantly.  "Yes?"
     The sergeant swallowed.  "I must ask you, sir, if you have rendered aid to the outlaw known as El Zorro since last night."
     The doctor looked piercingly down his aquiline nose at the soldier, who ran a finger around his collar.
     "We have reason to believe that he was shot while making a robbery of the alcalde's office," explained the lancer.
     "Really," commented the doctor dryly.  "I wonder why he would do such a thing."
     Mendoza had overheard last night the masked man tell the alcalde the nature of his visit, but the soldier knew enough not to repeat that.  "Have you helped him?" he reiterated bluntly.
     "No, I have not," answered Hernandez in a frosty tone.
     The sergeant persevered in his duty.  "I'm afraid I must insist that we search the house."
     The physician's lips pressed together in a grim line, but he ushered the soldiers inside.  "But of course."

     The stage passengers had eaten heartily of the huevos rancheros and fresh tortillas that the tavern owner had prepared for their breakfast.  Juan, the coachman, also came in for his usual mug of coffee and to mooch any leftovers from the kitchen.  Victoria had a plate ready for him; though he claimed he could pay, he never did and she never asked.  But behind her cheerful smile was continual worry for her mysterious guest hidden in the back room.  Would Juan never leave?
     At last the coachman drained his mug and announced that the stage would be leaving in ten minutes.  The passengers from Monterey and those from Los Angeles assembled outside as Juan began to load the boxes on top of the coach.  Not until the vehicle and its four horses lumbered out the pueblo gates did Señorita Escalante bolt the door again as a precaution.  Generally additional customers would not filter in until midday.
     Gathering on a tray a bowl of chicken broth, some warm tortillas, and orange juice, she knocked again twice on the storage room door before pushing it open with her key.
     The outlaw roused from a nap.  "You've had a busy morning," he said drowsily.  "And here am I making more work for you."
     "Señor, you released me from jail.  You made the alcalde give me back my property.  I owe you all the help I can give."  She handed him the bowl of broth, and he struggled to sit up and drink.
     "I think the tally is more than even now," he said after draining the bowl.  "I don't know another woman who would have had the courage and presence of mind to remove a musket ball without fainting or hysterics."  His eyes were full of admiration, and Victoria warmed to his praise.
     "My mother set me a good example.  She gave aid to a badly wounded rebel two years ago during the September Revolution."  She stopped her story there; the rest she still hated to remember.
     "I heard of your mother's fate," Zorro told her quietly.  "She was a very brave woman.  She would be proud of her daughter."  He added with a ghost of a smile, "We must see that history does not repeat itself.  You know the alcalde has threatened to hang anyone who shelters me."
     "Anyone who opposes the tyrannies of Luis Ramone is a friend of mine," she staunchly declared.  "You will find me a loyal friend, Señor."
     "And the two thousand peso reward doesn't tempt you?  It might even be more after last night," he said lightly.
     She shook her head.  "There isn't enough money in the world to make me betray an innocent man to his death."  Offering him the plate of tortillas, she asked, "What did you do to the alcalde last night?  He was in a terrible rage."
     The masked man smiled briefly.  "I don't doubt it after being floored with a left hook.  Do you know Josefina Ruiz?
     "Yes, though not very well.  She and her father have lived together at Rancho Verde practically since Los Angeles was founded.  Now he's passed away, but she's run the rancho almost by herself for the last few years while her father's health was failing.  Everyone knows Señorita Ruiz is a strong, capable woman."
     "Even the strongest have a breaking point.  The lady is alone now; she has no husband, no son, no father, no brother.  Her rancho has the misfortune to be next to the alcalde's land, and he has thought of a way to absorb it."
     Victoria's eyes widened.  "You mean take her land?  How?"
     "He's proclaimed a new tax," explained the outlaw through a tight jaw.  "A levy on inherited property.  And Señorita Ruiz is this law's first victim.  He assessed so heavy a tax on the estate that she sold most of her livestock to pay it."
     "That's monstrous!  Without cattle she can't make a living!"
     "Yes.  Do you see his scheme?  He had hoped to force her to sell the ranch in order to pay the tax, but she sold her cattle at a high price.  The tax nearly bankrupted her but for the land.  But he still wants the land."
     "He must be stopped!" announced the girl, eyes flashing.
     "He has been--at least for the moment.  I relieved him of the Ruiz inheritance tax last night.  But as you see, I've been unable to return the money to its rightful owner."
     "Where is the money?" she asked, puzzled.
     "I sent it away with my horse.  Forty-five hundred pesos is a heavy load for a wounded man."
     "Forty-five hundred!  That's a fortune!  Señor, I would have been happy to return it to Josefina Ruiz."
     "No, since I'm the one who retrieved it, let El Zorro return it also.  It's better for you not to be known as my friend.  Thank you for the breakfast; you're very kind."
     She removed the tray to the kitchen and returned with fresh linen to change his bandage.  Hesitating, she eyed his lithe, muscular form under the coarse blanket.
     "Señor, you have made this very awkward for me," she stated, indicating his clothes on the floor.  "How should I change the bandage?"
     A smile glimmered for an instant under the debonair mustache, but he replied in a serious voice, "Discreetly."
     He pulled the blanket off his bare right leg, and she knelt beside the bed.  In the daylight coming through the small window, Victoria carefully unwrapped the stained strips from his leg, gently soaking off those dried to his skin.  When the wound was exposed again, she examined it closely.
     "It looks better today," she announced, relieved.  "It's not as red or swollen.  The bleeding has stopped, and there's no sign of infection yet.  I can't believe you aren't running a fever."
     "I bled enough to wash away any infection.  That's good news, since I can't stay here a minute longer than necessary."
     "You must give this time to heal," the innkeeper urged while wrapping clean linen strips around his thigh.  She finished her ministrations and covered his leg with the blanket.  "Rest now, Señor.  I need to start cooking lunch.  I'll return when I've closed for siesta."

     The alcalde and Private Santellano spent several hours searching the valley through which the lancers had followed Zorro the previous night.  Twice Santellano dismounted to examine the ground, but not finding any tangible trace of the outlaw he remounted, and they rode on.
     "Well?" asked Ramone with a touch of impatience.  The sun was climbing, and it had been a warm October.  His starched shirt was already damp.  "Is this or isn't this where you supposedly shot Zorro?"
     "Sí, Alcalde.  This is the place, but there is no sign," answered the private.  He snapped his fingers.  "Of course!  If he was hit here, it would take a while for the blood to drip to the ground."  He looked up, scanning the horizon.  "He ran that way.  There's a grove of trees beyond the next rise.  He went in there, and that's where we lost him."  The private led the way.
     At the top of the rise, Santellano spotted two brown splotches in the dust, and the alcalde's interest in the investigation revived.  In the thicket they hunted separately for more tell-tale drops, and after an hour Santellano found the very spot in which Zorro had waited in silence for the lancers to abandon the search.
     "Alcalde!" he shouted.  Ramone galloped to the clump of scrub oak, and the private directed his attention to the stained blades of yellow grass.  "He hid here while we searched.  He bled a fair amount, too.  And then we continued that way."  He pointed west.
     "And Zorro was right here under your noses," ground out the alcalde in frustration.
     "Yes.  But the night was dark.  We could have passed within three meters and not seen him.  He waited here, and when we left--"
     "He escaped.  But where?"
     "That is what we must discover.  But I think one thing is obvious."
     "What is that?"
     "He didn't continue west."  The soldier's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

     The masked man bade the innkeeper enter at her two soft taps.  The tavern was quiet again; the noisy lunch crowd had dispersed for siesta.  The doors securely bolted, she brought her enigmatic guest a lunch tray of rice, fruit, and pan-fried steak strips.  She left him momentarily to return with two heavy pails of water, then picked up his shirt and pants.
     "Señorita, no."  He struggled to sit up and put aside the tray.  "Leave those, please.  You have already done more than I can ever repay.  Don't soil your lovely hands washing my clothes."
     "I do so for all my guests if necessary," she replied calmly, dunking his black garments into a soapy pail.  "Besides, the cold water feels good.  Whew, it's hot today."  She smoothed back an errant curl and began to scrub his shirt with gusto.  "I don't dare wash these in the kitchen, but I can lay them over the crates in here to dry.  In this heat it shouldn't take long."
     "You should be resting," he said seriously.
     "You should be eating," she swiftly countered.
     He smiled, displaying even white teeth and an elusive dimple on the left side of his mouth.  The outlaw did not mind her scolding.  The skinny little girl he knew from long ago had grown into a beautiful woman--spirited, courageous, and kind.  When he had seen her in the tavern again after his long years at the university, she had taken his breath away.  He tried to remember Safíra, the girl he had wanted to marry but who had jilted him without a word.  He had nursed a broken heart during the long voyage home around the Cape, but oddly enough he could not even remember what Safíra looked like.  She had faded into an indistinct blur, just as his romantic feelings had.  And now he knew why, looking at the graceful young woman who was rinsing his shirt in the second bucket.  He heeded the señorita's admonition to eat; he needed the strength it would give him.
     "This tavern is a great deal of work for a young girl," he commented.
     "I am not that young, Señor Zorro," she protested.  "I'm nineteen, and have been running the tavern alone for two years."
     "And very capably, from what I understand," he soothed.  "But how is it that the fairest flower in California has reached the august age of nineteen without being wed?"
     Victoria glanced at him.  Though his tone was light, his eyes were intent on her face.  She lowered her gaze and concentrated on cleansing the dried blood from his trousers.
     "If you mean me, well, my life has just worked out that way.  I was nearly seventeen when the revolution came.  Both my parents were soon gone, so I didn't have their help in arranging a match.  A few of my friends married their long-time beaus, but many of the young men went off to fight, my brothers included.  Some of them never came back.  The ones that did were changed somehow by what they had experienced.  And then some of the men went off to school."  She trailed off, a frown creasing her delicate brows.  "But of course, those were caballeros' sons--nobly born."
     "That shouldn't be a constraint on the frontier; we're far away from the social strata of Spain, or even Mexico City.  And I hear your father was from a good family."
     "Both my parents were, actually," she confided.  "But Papá was the fourth son--no prospects whatever, and my mother's parents wanted her to make a good match.  But they fell in love and eloped.  Papá brought her to California, and together they opened this tavern."
     "But what of the young caballeros who went off to school?" the wounded man prodded.
     "A few decided they liked other places better than California.  Those who have returned are not thinking of courting.  Times are bad."
     "Times are never so bad that a man doesn't notice a beautiful woman."  He watched a faint tinge of color flush her cheeks and added, "Surely other men have told you how lovely you are."
     "Not very many," she admitted.
     "But you've had offers?"
     "A couple."
     "Why didn't you accept one?"
     "I did not love them, Señor," she answered simply.  "And it seemed foolish to bind myself to a man I could not care for simply to have a husband."  Victoria wrung out his pants and laid them over a crate to dry.  "The tavern provides for me, and I can take care of myself--most of the time," she added with a twinkle.  She adjured him to rest some more as she left the room.
     His leg was throbbing unmercifully, but he scarcely noticed.  Zorro lay back on the pillow, his face eased by a serene smile.

     At sundown Mendoza and his patrol returned, and the sergeant reported to his commander.  Having spent all day in the saddle, Ramone was not in a tractable mood.  For hours after they left the grove, he and Santellano had ridden in increasingly wider semi-circles.  Only one more dark spot did they find in the dust, and that in the first half hour.  It was east of the grove, back in the general direction of the pueblo but not conclusive to the direction taken by the masked man.  The alcalde had the lancer follow him as they searched every home and shack in the vicinity, but they returned to town empty-handed.  No one had seen or heard the dark rider the night before.
     Mendoza had no better luck at the doctor's house.  Not only had El Zorro not been there, but though the patrol had lain in wait all day, no one approached Dr. Hernandez about aiding a wounded man.
     A tired eleven year-old boy returned to the de la Vega stables.  He had also spent a fruitless day searching for his master.  Throughout the huge rancho and within sight of the pueblo he had ridden, and every few meters he stopped and clapped his hands twice as a signal.  But his anxious ears caught no answering response.  He had reluctantly turned toward home, hoping that perhaps Diego had arrived safely on his own.  But after checking the caballero's bedroom and the cave, that hope was disappointed.  Toronado was even more restless than he had been in the morning.  Felipe would send the stallion to search as soon as Don Alejandro retired for the night.
     The day had given the boy one light of hope.  For although Diego was still missing, no news from town about Zorro's capture was good news.  With that thought, Felipe planned to make himself scarce at supper when Don Alejandro started asking questions regarding his son's whereabouts.

     The tavern was crowded that evening; the heat of the day seemed to make the residents of Los Angeles thirsty and eager to socialize as the temperature cooled somewhat.  Rosa, the blacksmith's wife, helped Señorita Escalante serve the customers when the tavern was busy.  She waited on tables while Victoria prepared hot meals in the kitchen.  An increase in the noise level from the main room alerted the innkeeper that some more customers had just arrived.
     "Victoria, the soldiers are here," said Rosa, pumping more water into a pitcher.  "And we need more wine."
     "I'll get it," said the girl quickly.  "Stir this for me, please."  She hurried from the kitchen and through the taproom.  Rapping twice softly on the storage room door, she looked behind her before unlocking it.  Holding the candle aloft, the young tavern owner closed the door after herself.  The masked man raised up on his elbows.  He too had heard the noisy arrivals and deduced their identity.
     "Soldiers," whispered Victoria in confirmation, leaving the candle on the crude table beside him.  She looked in an open crate and began filling her arms with wine bottles.  When she had five, she nodded to him and left hastily.  He heard the key scrape in the lock.
     The señorita took a deep breath and pinned on a bright smile before emerging into the tap room.  All she had to do was act friendly and normal.  No one knew she was hiding a fugitive.
     "Buenas noches, gentlemen," she greeted the ten lancers at two tables.  "And how are the fine men of our garrison today?"  Amid groans, she refilled mugs that were held out.
     "It was a terrible day, Señorita," moaned Sergeant Mendoza.  "We spent all day in the hot sun surrounding the doctor's house, waiting for El Zorro to come."  More grumblings from the table echoed the dismal recital.
     "Why would El Zorro visit the doctor?" she questioned innocently.
     "Private Santellano thinks he shot El Zorro," jeered another soldier.
     A lancer from the other table stood up:  brown hair, brown eyes, youthful face--about seventeen years old.  "And so I did," he announced calmly in the face of his cronies' disgust.  "The alcalde and I found the blood."  In the skeptical reaction to that announcement, no one noticed Victoria's hand shake as she poured wine into another mug.
     "You're new to Los Angeles, I believe," noted the girl.  "Victoria Escalante.  Bienvenido."
     The lancer smiled, suddenly bashful at being singled out by the lovely tavern owner.  "Nicolas Santellano, Señorita, at your service."  He bowed awkwardly.  The other soldiers hooted and laughed.
     "You're out of your league, Santellano!" howled Mendoza.  "Señorita Escalante can have her pick of any man in the territory."
     Victoria ignored the sergeant and asked Santellano, "You think you shot the Fox, Señor?  Some think he bears a charmed life."
     "That may be, Señorita, but he bleeds like any other man.  We found traces of blood in the grass."
     "And where did it lead?" she asked, showing no more than polite interest as she refilled other mugs.
     The private admitted, "We lost the trail two miles east of the pueblo."
     The soldiers mocked the newcomer's efforts, and Victoria commented nonchalantly, "Perhaps you saw the blood of an animal."  It was a remark designed to throw doubt in the minds of the other lancers, and it succeeded.
     It was too bad, really, reflected the innkeeper.  Santellano seemed like a nice young man, a dedicated soldier as well as a good shot.  Just the kind of conscientious law enforcer the pueblo needed, but he was under the command of Luis Ramone.
     The conviviality of the taproom didn't dissipate until eleven-thirty when the señorita shooed the remaining men out the door, claiming she was tired.  Her customers left, grumbling good-naturedly, and she bolted the door behind them with a sigh of relief.  She did the same to the kitchen door and quickly gathered some remaining food to take to her concealed guest.  A horse's whinny from outside the window stopped her as she turned to leave the room.  She unbolted the door again and peered out.
     A large black stallion with silver trappings tossed his head and stepped into the light of the doorway.  Her eyes widened, and she closed the door hastily.
     "Señor Zorro!" she cried, bursting into the storeroom without warning.  She gasped; the razor tip of the sabre was a few scant centimeters from her heart.  The masked man, covering himself with the bedclothes, was standing tensely alert, ready to defend himself with his sword.  The man and woman stared at each other open-mouthed for several seconds.
     "Your--your horse is outside," she faltered.
     He blinked once and slowly lowered the blade.  "Forgive me; I thought we'd agreed on a two-knock signal."
     Nodding nervously, she confirmed that.  "Yes, I'm sorry.  But the horse--"
     "Toronado is here?"  He staggered; his face contorted with a grimace.
     "Back in bed please, Señor," she urged.  When he had complied--albeit reluctantly--she asked what she should do.
     He thought.  Felipe must have been frantic with anxiety when the stallion returned alone to the cave the night before.  But the boy had apparently kept his head as well as Zorro's secret and sent Toronado to find him.
     "Do you have anything well-known as your property?" he inquired.
     She concentrated a moment.  "I guess everyone would recognize the tavern's brown glazed mugs."
     "Perfect.  Tie one of those onto Toronado's saddle horn and tell him to go home."
     She looked dubious, but left to do as he requested.  The horse stepped from the shadows again when she called his name softly.  The high-strung animal was enormous.  He pranced toward her skittishly and rolled his eyes.
     "Toronado," she said again uneasily.  "Zorro said to give you this."  She held out the mug for the horse to see and took an apprehensive step toward him.  The black stallion bared his teeth at her, but did not back away.  Victoria edged closer.
     "I'm just going to tie this to your saddle so you can take it home," she explained in a steady voice.  She stretched out her hand to the horse's withers and gave him a gentle pat.  He tolerated that, so the petite innkeeper reached up to the saddle horn high off the ground and tied the mug to it with a strip of cloth.
     "Go home," she ordered the masked hero's mount as she backed toward the kitchen door.  "Go home, boy."  The stallion snorted and galloped into the dark night.

     Felipe had fallen asleep in the straw of Toronado's stall, waiting for the massive mustang to return.  The stallion nuzzled the drowsy boy to full alertness.  Jumping up, he looked around for Diego.  His mentor had not come back with the horse.  His heart sinking in despair, he unbuckled the cinch strap and pulled off the saddle. And there under his nose was a brown mug from the tavern.  The boy recognized it immediately.  Don Diego was hidden at the tavern.  He was wounded and unable to ride, or he would have come home.  But the important thing was that Diego was alive and safe.  Had he taken Señorita Escalante into his confidence?  Felipe would ride into town tomorrow and find out.

     No travelers had overnighted at the inn the previous evening, so when dawn came, Victoria rose and prepared a hearty breakfast for the outlaw staying in the back room.  While he ate, she neatly stitched the gash in his trousers.  "You horse is very smart," she commented as she pressed his clothes with an iron heated by the kitchen coals.  "I hope your wife will understand your signal and know you are safe here."
     "My wife?" he exclaimed.  "I'm not married, Señorita."  Even as he said it, he knew she had maneuvered him into the admission.  But it was imperative that she be informed on that point.
     "Oh," she said, trying to keep a happy little smile from her face.  She handed him his shirt, which he slipped over his head.  "Let me change your bandage."
     "It feels better today," he assured her as he rolled over to allow her access to the back of his leg.  As she unwrapped the linen strips, the señorita told the masked man the news she had gleaned from her interaction with the lancers the night before.
     "The man who shot you is Santellano, Private Nicolas Santellano.  He's just been assigned to the garrison.  Apparently he's a crack shot."  They both understood perfectly the danger of having a good marksman among the alcalde's forces.
     "He seems like a nice boy, Señor Zorro--younger than I, but remarkably self-possessed.  He didn't back down from his opinion that he shot you even when the other soldiers made fun of him.  I believe he's sincerely interested in justice."
     "Then working for the alcalde will soon disgust him."
     "But he's under orders like any other soldier who takes the king's oath.  There's not much room in the military for a conscience."
     "No, sad to say.  Private Santellano will have to go," he decided.  "He puts the balance of power too much in the alcalde's favor."
     "You won't hurt him?" she questioned.
     "Of course not.  But he needs to be serving the cause of justice somewhere other than Los Angeles."
     "How can you get him to leave?"
     He smiled.  "There are ways."

     The alcalde was seething.  Everything so far had gone awry with his plan to acquire the diamond of small Los Angeles ranches, the Ruiz property.  First, Josefina Ruiz had been able to find a buyer for her stock at a princely price and did not have to sell the land to pay the levy (curse de la Vega for interfering!).  Then that black shadow, that devil with a sword, El Zorro, had stolen the tax from his very office with the entire garrison just a shout away.  And their pursuit of the bandit had yielded nothing.  He himself had spent the entire next day in the saddle chasing a slender lead.  Ramone did not know anymore whether or not to believe Santellano's story about the outlaw being wounded; the trail had disappeared as surely as the bandit.  He kicked the foot of the desk in his frustration, scuffing the polished toe of his boot.
     Wait!  All was not lost!  If El Zorro was really the quixotic fool he claimed to be, a champion of the common people, then he would have returned the money to Señorita Ruiz.  An unpleasant chuckle rumbled in the official's throat.

     At the Rancho Verde, the señorita was milking a cow in her stable when a troop of soldiers rode into the yard.  She wiped her hands on her apron and went outside.
     The alcalde indicated for several of his men to dismount.  "Josefina Ruiz, you are under arrest for conspiring with the bandit known as El Zorro."  He gestured for two of his men to seize the bewildered woman.  "Search the house," he ordered the others.  "Find that money!"
     The woman protested to deaf ears that she knew nothing whatever of the bandit Zorro as her hands were bound.  To her wrists a lead rope was fastened, and the other end secured to the alcalde's saddle.  In this manner, he and two lancers started the four miles to the pueblo, the señorita following on foot.
     "Alcalde, I must protest," said Private Santellano.  "It is not right to drag the lady behind us like a common criminal.  Let her ride my horse, and I will walk."
     "Shut up," Ramone told him rudely.  "She's worse than a common criminal because she's in league with Zorro and therefore an enemy of the king.  But after we make an example of her, no one will lift a finger to help the Fox."
     The private glanced back at the woman.  In her black mourning dress and apron Josefina Ruiz stumbled along behind them.  Her dark hair straggled untidily from its bun, and her brown face agonized with despair.  She did not look like a rebel; she looked like a woman bearing a crushing load of sorrows.

     The news of Señorita Ruiz's arrest and degradation roared through the town like a desert wind.  Though the alcalde announced loudly as she was led through the plaza that this fate was due to her conspiracy with El Zorro, the residents were horrified at the treatment of a well-respected woman.
     It was the first topic of conversation at the tavern.  Victoria served her customers and listened.  There was speculation that the alcalde would hang the señorita as soon as he found the stolen tax money.  Others had heard her protest her innocence and thought the alcalde would order her publicly lashed unless she confessed.  But one thing was certain:  though the citizens did not know where Zorro fit into the picture, feeling against the alcalde was running high.  Public reaction was not what he had hoped.
     As soon as she had bolted the door for siesta, Señorita Escalante returned to the storage room.
     "Señor, the alcalde has arrested Josefina Ruiz as your accomplice!" she told him breathlessly.
     "What?"  The man in black sat up in bed.
     "She was torn from her house and made to walk here on the end of a rope tied to the alcalde's horse!" she hotly explained.  She enumerated the various speculations concerning the prisoner's fate.
     Zorro's jaw hardened, and his mouth became a thin, tight line.  "Hand me my pants," he demanded grimly.
     Victoria saw too late what she had done; he was inflamed by injustice yet not capable of effectively combating it.
     "No," she said, snatching his pressed trousers from the crate and backing toward the door.
     "Señorita," he said warningly, putting his feet on the floor.
     "You can barely stand; your horse is not here.  What chance would you have against the whole garrison?" she pleaded rapidly.  "Wait.  Wait a little longer.  She's safe for the moment; they are still looking for the money."
     The red flame of his anger dissipated slightly upon examining her arguments.  A cooler head must prevail in this Zorro business.  Yes, he needed to plan a strategy and take every available moment to recover from the gunshot wound.  For when the Fox appeared next in Los Angeles, he must give no indication that he was injured.  A legend of immortality could be started.  The humorous thought relaxed him.
     "Very well," he conceded.  "I will wait--for now.  But if you hear that the alcalde is going to take further action against the lady, you must promise to tell me immediately."
     Victoria considered carefully.  "I promise."
     "Now my pants, por favor."
     "Promise you won't try to leave prematurely," she countered.
     He replied with a hint of genuine regret, "I can't promise that.  But trust me and leave them anyway."
     Reluctantly the girl returned the mended trousers to the crate, though deliberately as far from the bed as possible.  "You're a stubborn man, Señor Zorro."
     He grinned; that intriguing dimple flashed again.  "And you're a stubborn woman, Señorita Escalante."
     She lifted her chin saucily.  "Then we're well-matched, Señor."
     His smile faded; the eyes behind the mask looked steadily into her face.  "I have dared to think so."
     Victoria's lips parted breathlessly, and a rush of color infused her cheeks.  She darted from the room.  Her hands were trembling as she turned the key on the other side of the door.

     Behind the church, a brown-haired boy dismounted from his pony and tethered the animal to a grapevine stake.  He eased along the church wall to survey the town.  The plaza was deserted; the afternoon heat had chased everyone indoors for siesta.  The boy scooted around the blacksmith's and the mercantile to the tavern.  If Zorro was upstairs, Felipe was uncertain how to attract his attention.  But first, there were two rooms on the lower floor to check.  He sidled up to the cool adobe shaded by the passing sun, clapped twice at the small window of the señorita's wine storage room, and listened.  Nothing.  He clapped again decisively.
     And from within, two claps answered.  Felipe signaled again urgently.  Again the same response.  He brushed his hands across the window shutters barring his view of the interior.
     "Felipe?" whispered Don Diego's voice.  "Is that you?"
     The boy's heart leaped with exultation and relief.  He answered by tapping the shutters twice.
     "Good.  You're a smart, brave boy; you've done exactly right.  Send the stallion again tonight. I'll try to come home.  Do you understand?"
     Two taps sounded on the shutters again.
     "Gracias.  Go home now."
     The boy rubbed his small hand over the shutters in a gesture of farewell.

     Señorita Escalante brought the outlaw his supper early. "It may be hours before I'm free again," she explained.  "The tavern is likely to be full tonight because of Señorita Ruiz.  The soldiers haven't found the money, of course."
     He sat up in bed and accepted the tray of roasted chicken, rice, and beans.  "And we know what that means."  They both did, but neither wished to vocalize the unpleasant images conjured up.
     Victoria sat on the end of the bed, her hands folded demurely in her lap as she watched his long fingers pick up a piece of chicken.  She guessed there was a great deal of strength in those hands.
     The masked man noticed her attention after a moment and said, "I beg your pardon; am I eating too quickly?  I didn't realize how hungry I was."
     "I'm glad," she smiled.  "You must be feeling better."  Though when he recovered, he would leave!  And Victoria did not want the stranger to leave.
     "I've enjoyed having you here, Señor," she said sincerely.
     He put down the chicken leg and wiped his mouth.  She must know too that their time together was almost at an end.
     "You've had a lot of extra work with me here," he pointed out, "and a great deal of danger."
     With a tiny lift of her slender shoulders, she brushed off that observation.  "Señor, why do you fight the alcalde as Zorro?"
     He explained, "Because the alcalde can't fight a shadow--an adversary who comes from nowhere and disappears into nowhere.  He can't exact retribution from an unknown.  I protect myself and others by remaining anonymous."
     "You do have a real name then?  And a home and a family?"
     He smiled but did not answer.
     "I guess it was a silly question," she admitted ruefully.  "Your anonymity does have some advantages; I could never stay alone with a man I knew without the gossips chattering."
     "I'm just an ordinary man, Señorita, doing what any man would do.  With all that Luis Ramone has inflicted on the people, how could a man not stand up and fight back?"
     "Others could have done it; you're the only one who actually did.  You're the bravest man I've ever known."  She spoke simply, and the masked man knew she was sincere.
     "I hope you'll always find me worthy of your good opinion.  But not all men have the resources to fight back.  I have certain skills; they carry the responsibility to use them wisely.  I can't think of a better use than for the people of this pueblo. Someday, Los Angeles may be a great city.  That future rests on decisions that people like you and I make now."
     "You're a visionary then, Señor Zorro."  Her eyes looked beyond him, beyond the walls of the tavern, as she quoted softly,
                  "'The fog muffled and gently spread,
                     Till one man stood upright and said,
                   "Here am I, I can do no less
                    Than to carve a home from the wilderness--"'"
     The masked man picked up the next line without a break in rhythm.
                "'"That those who follow may stretch and grow,
                    Hungry for freedom, thirsty to know
                    What can be won by a lone man's strife--
                    A sweeter and dearer gift of life!"'"
     Victoria stared at his masked face as long seconds ticked by unnoticed.  He understood how she felt!  Moreover, she realized that she understood him.  Zorro was like her; not just a confederate against a mutual enemy, but identical in soul.  At that moment, she glimpsed her destiny--terrifying and resplendent.
     Zorro watched the emotions flit across her lovely face.  Their hearts had just recognized each other as kindred. He knew, and could tell she knew, too.  Not the moonstruck infatuation of a university student, but the love of a man who has found the one woman meant to be his mate.  Joy bathed him, leaving his eyes glowing with deep contentment.
     He said nothing; there were no words.  Instead he reached for her hand across the rough old blanket.  She rested her slim fingers in his and returned the firm clasp.  They had just sealed a pact.

     The alcalde listened to the whining excuses of his weasel-faced corporal and ground his teeth.  The search detail had not found the money at Rancho Verde.
     "Get out!" he ordered.  The man scurried from the office, thankful the commander had not punished him for incompetence.
     In a black mood, Luis Ramone drummed his fingers on the desk.  He had thought that the money would be back in his hands by evening.  Now he would have to do things the hard way.  He unlocked the door to the jail.  The woman dressed in mourning garb turned from the barred window to stare at him from the other side of her cell door.
     "Señorita Ruiz, my men failed to find where you hid the money.  Do you wish to tell me now?"
     Lifting her chin a little higher, the lady rancher--the last of her line--answered in a level voice, "I have not seen the money since I paid you two days ago.  If it was stolen from your office, that is no fault of mine."
     "You are Zorro's accomplice!" he accused, shaking a finger at her.
     "I have never seen the man, Alcalde, and certainly wouldn't solicit his help.  I know nothing except that I have twenty-four head less than I did before you wrote that thieving law."  Her dress was stained and dirty, her hair disheveled, but she had carried a dignity he could not steal.
     "You'll tell me where that money is," Ramone smiled unpleasantly.  "In fact, you'll beg to tell me tomorrow morning when your hands are tied to the post in the plaza."  He chuckled softly as the woman blanched.

     Feelings against the alcalde's latest outrage were running high in the town that night, but no one could think of an effective solution for the lady's difficulties.  Don Alejandro made another unwelcome appearance in the garrison's office, but his arguments again made no impression.
     "Don't worry, de la Vega," smirked the official.  "If the señorita gives me what I want tomorrow, she may go."
     If a snake could smile, thought Alejandro, he'd look like Ramone.  "The people will not stand for your mistreatment of this lady," he warned and turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
     He marched across the plaza and entered the tavern, hoping to see his son.  Diego had disappeared without a word to anyone the previous morning, and his father had no idea where he had gone.  Not that his disappearance was entirely unusual; the young man typically vanished for several hours a day without explanation.  "Communing with nature?" his father had mocked, to which Diego would flash his innocuous smile and nod.  But he had never stayed away overnight since returning from Spain, and Alejandro wanted to point out to him how far Ramone's depravity stretched.
     "Just a small glass of wine, por favor," he told Victoria, who was setting up glasses at the bar.  "Has Diego been by today?"
     "No, Don Alejandro.  I have not seen him," replied the tavern owner, pouring him a drink.  "You've heard about Señorita Ruiz?"
     "Yes.  That's why I'm here.  But the alcalde has shut his ears to everything I have to say."  He sipped the wine.
     "I'm afraid for her," confided the girl.  "The talk is whipping or hanging on the morrow."
     Revulsion seized the silver-haired man.  "He wouldn't dare," he uttered, unconvinced by his own words.  The señorita returned his look of horror, her lower lip trembling.
     At that moment Sergeant Mendoza entered with a handful of lancers.  The murmuring in the tavern abruptly stopped.  Through the vibrantly hostile atmosphere, the blue-and-red uniformed men followed their sergeant to an empty table.  Victoria studiously ignored them as did the other citizens in the room.
     "Señorita!" bellowed Mendoza at last.  "Service!"
     "Better wait on them," advised Alejandro in a low murmur.  "The alcalde's in a nasty mood already."
     Victoria stalked to the tables.  "Yes, Sergeant?"
     Mendoza tried to smile, but was not immune to the frosty environment.  "Some coffee, Señorita."
     She did not budge, but looked down her pert little nose at him.  "Do you have money?"  Her tone flustered him.
     "No, but payday is next week.  Just put it on our tabs."
     "Your credit is no good here.  Cash only."
     His mouth dropped open.  "But, Señorita--"
     "I believe what the señorita's trying to say," boomed Don Alejandro's voice across the room, "is that courtesies such as credit are only extended to customers who don't mistreat women."  An angry buzz of agreement echoed his words.
     Mendoza tugged at his tight collar.  "I am sorry about Señorita Ruiz; I truly am.  But the alcalde believes that she is in league with Zorro and plotted the robbery from his office the other night."
     "Is there any proof of that?" challenged de la Vega.  "When is the trial?"
     "The alcalde is not very fond of trials," admitted the sergeant.
     "A trial is the right of every Spanish citizen. The alcalde knows that."
     "It will all be resolved tomorrow, one way or another," promised a miserable Mendoza.
     "What do you mean?" demanded Alejandro suspiciously.
     "If she knows anything, she's sure to tell the alcalde tomorrow morning before . . ."  He floundered, realizing where his words were leading.
     "Before what?" asked de la Vega in a deadly quiet voice.
     "Before--before he takes measures to make her confess."
     In unison, the men in the tavern rose to their feet with an angry snarl.  Don Alejandro seized the hapless sergeant by his tunic's front.  The wary soldiers leaped to their feet also, ready to intercede with military force if their leader gave the word.
     "And what if she really has nothing to confess?" rumbled the don ominously.
     The sergeant gave a helpless shrug.  In the pandemonium that followed, the defenders of King Ferdinand's remote territory were chased out the door, their uniforms soiled by much of the señorita's best cooking.  They felt fortunate to have escaped so lightly.

     The food fight, in which Victoria had been pushed to the floor--and wisely stayed there, out of the line of fire--left the tavern a mess.  But the taproom emptied shortly after the soldiers had scurried out the door; no one wished to remain in case the alcalde came with an armed squad to arrest those citizens involved in the disturbance.
     "If the alcalde wants to arrest me, he knows where to find me," said Don Alejandro before leaving.  "As satisfying as that was, it won't help Señorita Ruiz tomorrow."
     "No," agreed Victoria glumly.  "He'll just be all the more ready for an uprising."
     When the ranchero had gone, she began the weary process of gathering up dishes and mugs to wash, then scrubbed the tables and floor before the thrown food hardened.  Two hours later, she straightened her stiff, aching back.  The inn was finally clean again, and the alcalde had not banged on the bolted door demanding her arrest.  Maybe the soldiers had been afraid to tell him what had happened; they had suffered the wrath of the townspeople.  The caustic reaction of their commander also would have daunted the bravest of them.
     At any rate, at last she was free and reasonably certain it was safe to visit the masked man again.  She had been eagerly waiting for the evening to pass so she could see him.  He was so valiant, so upright, so zealous.  He was a gentleman, no matter what his birth.  He was honest and trustworthy.  And she was sure, she smiled to herself, that he was very handsome, judging from what she could see of his face.  And she knew she loved him.  And because she loved him, she had to tell him everything that had happened that evening, and trust him to do what he had to do.
     Quickly preparing some bread and fruit to take to him, she knocked at the door twice.  To her surprise, it was pulled open swiftly from the other side.  Zorro stood before her, dressed again in his black garments.
     "Come in, Señorita," he invited softly.  "I'm glad we have the chance to say good-bye."
     Her face fell.  "You heard, then?"
     "The ruckus?  It was easy enough to guess the cause.  So it's to be the whipping post?" he asked, donning his dark satin cape.
     "Yes.  The alcalde thinks she has something to confess."
     "I don't think he cares; he's using her to intimidate.  You see, if he whips a woman, no one is safe; children will be next.  We can't let that happen, can we?" he queried with an endearing smile that warmed Victoria like a caress.
     "I knew you would go to help her," said Victoria sadly.  "But what about your leg?"
     He stepped gingerly back to the bed to pick up his gloves.  The wound still tormented him; she noticed him strongly favoring his left leg.
     "I'll go home tonight and rest.  Tomorrow I'll meet the alcalde again.  But I'll stay in the saddle, and only you and I will be the wiser."  His long fingers splayed as he pulled the gloves over his wrists.  "Gracias for the food; may I eat it before I go?"
     The tavern owner readily assented, and he asked her to carry it back to the kitchen.  He picked up his hat and buckled on his sword belt.  With halting steps, he shuffled after her to the kitchen and sank heavily into a chair, gasping for breath.
     She bit back worried queries about his ability to leave; it was futile to try to dissuade him.  He had made up his mind, and they both knew what would happen the next day if no one intervened.  So instead she dampened a clean cloth and tenderly blotted the sweat that shone on his face and neck.
     Zorro's expression softened.  "I wish there was leisure to recover completely under your care, Señorita."  In a few more moments he caught his breath and ate what she had prepared for him.
     Victoria waited quietly.  So much to say, so little time!  She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but it sounded foolishly premature even in her own mind.  So she waited, her anxiety only betrayed by her hands clenching each other.  Then a whinny directly outside the door snapped their attention that way.
     "Toronado," said the masked man briefly.  He rose carefully to his feet and opened the door.  The black tossed his head at his human friend.  "Wait there, boy," Zorro told him and closed the door again.  He held out a gloved hand to the lovely girl who watched him with her heart in her eyes.  Victoria stepped forward and put her hand in his.  He gathered her other hand and held both.
     "Señorita, how can I thank you?"
     A brave little smile quavered on her lips.  "There is no need to speak of that, Zorro."
     "But there is need to speak of something else."  He paused an instant.  "I'm an outlaw."  He continued over her protests, "An outlaw is not free to do many things that are possible for other men, such as telling a wonderful, precious woman how he feels about her."  The masked man gently smoothed her dark, tumbled curls.  "He's not free to plan a future with her, or think of homes and children.  But I can hope, Señorita, and work for a day when I may be free to do those things.  And when that day comes, I'll take off this mask forever and tell you what is in my heart."
     Her large brown eyes, luminous with tears, nearly broke his resolve.  With effort she responded, "I'll wait for you.  I'll wait as long as it takes, and pray for you night and day."
     "Your prayers are the strongest shield I could ask for.  Adios for now."  He lifted each of her hands to his lips to kiss.  After a long, lingering look, he turned through the door.  She watched his tortuous mount.  He waved two fingers in a salute of farewell, then turned the horse swiftly. Soon Victoria's straining ears could no longer hear even the hoofbeats.

     The lantern was lit at the tunnel's far end as Zorro entered on the stallion.  Felipe appeared, looking both anxious and relieved, as he approached the water trough.
     The masked man nearly tumbled into the boy's waiting arms.  "I was shot in the leg," he explained.  "I think it's broken open again."
     The mute servant supported him from the underground stable into the cave's main room, where he helped his master remove the black hat, mask, and clothing.  Felipe gulped down his distaste when told to unwrap the bandages and check the wound.  As Diego had suspected, the difficult ride home had started his leg bleeding, but not badly.
     "I won't try to describe for you what it feels like," he told the boy as a smile twisted his lips.  "Wrap it again, and fetch my clothes."
     When the young caballero was dressed as befitted a Spanish nobleman, he and Felipe left the secret cave via the hidden door in the fireplace, but they were intercepted by Don Alejandro down the hallway toward Diego's bedchamber.
     "Where have you been?" demanded the older man, and without giving his son a chance to answer, continued, "I've been looking all over for you.  If you're going to go out gallivanting, you could at least have the courtesy to tell me.  I don't care if you are twenty-three; I've been worried."
     Don Diego raised his exhausted head.  "I'm sorry you were worried, Father.  Now I'm not feeling well, and must get to bed."
     "You look horrible.  Diego, if this is how you behaved as a student, let me tell you that it will not do here in Los Angeles.  Coming home in this condition!  A gentleman should be able to hold his liquor or abstain."
     Astonishment transformed the young caballero's face.  "Do you think I'm drunk?"
     "Aren't you?" demanded the don awfully.
     A bubble of laughter rose in Diego's throat--a bubble with a hysterical edge.  He had wondered how to explain his two-day absence to his father, and his father had just put a solution into his hands!  But let his father think what else he wished, Diego could not let him believe that his son was a drunk; that was too much of a sacrifice for his pride.
     "No.  Not drunk.  I've been riding and injured myself."  He groaned as Felipe helped him to lie down on the red damask-covered bed.
     "Oh," said Don Alejandro, somewhat mollified.  "More time in the saddle will toughen you up again, Son.  Then you're less likely to get hurt."
     Diego nodded weakly.
     "Now listen.  While you've been gone, Señorita Ruiz has been arrested and will be whipped tomorrow morning!"
     "Why?"
     "Because the alcalde believes she's in league with El Zorro--the man who freed me from jail a couple of weeks ago.  Zorro robbed the alcalde of her tax money and claimed he would return it. But he hasn't apparently, and the soldiers didn't find the money at her ranch.  So Ramone arrested the señorita!"
     "He's certainly no gentleman," murmured Diego as Felipe pulled off his boots.  Only a small grunt escaped his tightly clamped lips when the right boot came off.
     "You have a brilliance for understatement, Son," responded the don, rolling his eyes. "I hope you'll be recovered enough tomorrow morning to go into town with me and do everything we can to stop this brutality!"
     The man on the bed nodded again.
     "Then good night," said his father and left the room.
     Felipe gestured his questions to the pale caballero.
     "I'm all right.  Wake me before my father leaves the house.  Take care of Toronado now.  Saddle him again in the morning."  He confirmed the boy's incredulous look.  "Of course Zorro will ride tomorrow in defense of the señorita.  I'll need a long strong rope, my whip--and get the French crossbow I brought home. And the money--it's in the saddlebags.  I must take that tomorrow too.  Go now.  And bring some shaving water in the morning," he added, rubbing his scruffy chin.
     The boy scampered from the room to do exactly as Diego ordered.  It never occurred to him to do otherwise.

     Don Diego slept hard.  His own bed was more comfortable than that of the tavern, and it was reassuring to be home again.  He had planned his strategy in the few brief moments before succumbing to exhaustion.
     When he woke at dawn's first light, his leg felt somewhat better.  The relentless throbbing had eased, and now the wound merely ached.  That he could tolerate and hopefully ignore while he rode into town.  Diego reviewed his strategy.  The alcalde and the lancers were no problem. The difficulty would be the unknown factor--this Private Santellano.  Zorro would have to preclude any shooting, especially by a crack shot.  Yet he would also have to expose himself to the garrison's fire.  Musing over that conundrum occupied him until Felipe came in the bedroom with a breakfast tray and a pitcher of fresh water.
     "Gracias," the caballero thanked the boy.  In response to Felipe's gestures, he replied, "Yes, I'm a little better today, which is good with so much to do. Did you gather the things I requested?"
     The boy nodded.
     Don Alejandro knocked and came in as Diego finished breakfast.  "Better get dressed, Son.  I don't know what time the señorita is to be brought out."
     "I'm sorry; you'll have to go without me.  I'm still feeling unwell."
     The don's lips pressed together in a grim line.  "Couldn't you for the sake of the lady make an effort?"
     "My thoughts and prayers are with the señorita, that somehow she may be spared this.  But I'm just too worn out to go with you."
     Controlling his temper with effort, Alejandro told him curtly, "That disappoints me.  I thought you'd have seen the importance of this.  But while this crisis was coming to a head, you go on a riding excursion without a word to anyone and come home a ruin.  I hope that you will rest comfortably knowing that Señorita Ruiz is in jail and worse while you did nothing!"  A final glance at his son's set face exasperated the don further, and with a snort he turned on his heel and left the room.

     Josefina Ruiz did not sleep well; the cell bed, with its straw-stuffed mattress, was lumpy and prickly.  But worse were her thoughts.  Jailed for a crime she did not commit, she fully believed Ramone's threats to have her publicly lashed.  She had heard stories of how he beat people unconscious, the flesh of their backs torn to bloody ribbons.  And she prayed for deliverance, though she could see none on the horizon.
     In the last few days her life had spun out of control, and she was powerless to withstand the onslaught.  Her father's death was not entirely unexpected.  Lorenzo Ruiz's health had been declining gradually the last five years.  In recent months he had not even been able to stay in the saddle, and she had cared for the herd entirely alone.
     The Rancho Verde was well named; even in years of drought the creek running through the property kept the trees and low-lying pasture emerald green.  The sleek, fat cattle never wandered far from the stream; there was no need.  It was a place of abundance, a haven of tranquillity.  Josefina had lived there since she was eight years old; she could scarcely remember any other life.  Ranch Verde was the sweetest, dearest place on earth.  Her mother and father were both gone now, but she had the land.
     Even that was uncertain anymore.  De la Vega had astutely realized the purpose of the new tax law; the alcalde's goal was the ranch itself!  She weighed the notion of using the land as a bargaining tool for her freedom. It might be preferable to the alternative.  But what would she do then, penniless and homeless?  Giving up the land was unthinkable to her strong Spanish pride.  Yet how much pride did one have after being whipped?  And, she reminded herself, the alcalde was just as capable of taking the ranch on some false pretext or other; he really did not require her consent to do so.
     Dawn came, and a soldier brought her a bowl of broth.  Apparently prisoners were on survival rations.  Last meal,  she thought to herself ironically as she drained the bowl.  One thing about jail, she reflected, was that it gave a person time to think.  And to clarify values, she added.  No, she would not give up the land so easily.  Ramone would have to fight her for it, and if the battle cost her heavily, she would make sure he went down with her.  Let the citizens of Los Angeles see how low the alcalde would stoop.  Her public humiliation would also be his, and the townspeople's reaction would get even more hostile.
     With this resolution, a calmness came over her, and acceptance of the horror to come.  When the alcalde entered the jail with two guards at half past nine, she stood and faced him squarely.
     "Well, Señorita?" he demanded.  "Has your memory improved during the night?"
     "My memory has never been faulty," she replied with dignity.  "I know nothing whatever about the theft of the tax money from your office."
     "Who is Zorro?" he thundered.  "Tell me that and go free!"
     "I do not know who he is or where he is.  I've never seen him.  If he robbed you, he did so without my knowledge."
     Ramone's face contorted with rage.  With visible effort he mastered himself.  "Take her out!" he ordered one of the men with him.  "And you," he addressed the other soldier, "call out all the men into the plaza with their muskets."
     A few minutes later, the black-clad woman was led into the plaza by the garrison of soldiers.  As her hands were tied to the post's ring above her head, a crowd of people began to gather in shock and outrage.
     "Alcalde," interjected Private Santellano, "this is not right.  Whipping a woman is inhuman.  And the lady has said she is innocent."
     "Get out of the way, boy!" snarled the official, shoving the private aside.  "Just be ready with your musket for trouble."  He ignored the angry protests and cat calls from the crowd as he took a bull whip from the hand of one of his men.
     "No!" shouted Alejandro, interposing himself between the señorita and the alcalde.  "You can't do this!  Of what crime has she been convicted?  Why hasn't she had a trial?"
     "I am the court here, de la Vega," Ramone growled.  "Judge, jury, and executioner."  He turned to his men.  "Remove him."  Two blue coated lancers grabbed Alejandro's arms and wrestled him from the path of punishment.
     Dr. Hernandez, upon hearing that there was to be a lashing, had driven into town early that morning.  In the past year he had patched up the whip's handiwork several times.  It was an exercise which revolted him; his healer's soul abhorred the deliberate cruelty.
     "I must also intercede in behalf of the lady," he said firmly to the alcalde.  "To whip a man is cruel enough, but a woman!  Why, a few strokes could kill her!  I demand that you stop this madness!"
     "Doctor, Doctor," chided the commandant with a silky smile.  "Don't exhaust yourself prematurely.  In a few minutes you'll have a patient to care for."  A jerk of his head signaled two more men to constrain the doctor.
     "And now, Señorita," Ramone shouted to Josefina Ruiz, "feel the king's justice on rebels and thieves!"
     The crowd watched in abject horror as the alcalde pulled back his arm, the leather thong wriggling snake-like in the dust.  He snapped his wrist forward.  But at that instant, the whip separated at the handle, severed neatly by a crossbow arrow.  Ramone's hand, freed of the length and weight of the leather, pulled him off balance.  As the braided thong twisted and spun away to land at the feet of the hastily retreating crowd, he lurched awkwardly to keep his feet under him.  The people for a few moments did not know what had happened.  Neither did the soldiers, who stood bewildered and dumb.  Ramone looked in confusion at the stump in his hand, and then around him for the remainder of the lash.
     Black hooves roared into the plaza.  And atop the glossy snorting stallion sat a masked rider dressed all in black, twirling a lasso over his head.  Civilians and military alike dived from the path of the juggernaut.  As the alcalde stood, having retrieved the end of his weapon, the loop fell precisely where the masked man wanted it--over Ramone's head.  The rider rode past his snared prey, and the rope tightened in his wake, effectively pinning the alcalde's arms to his sides.  Ramone was jerked into a stumbling run behind the dark mustang before Zorro pulled up abruptly, turned and pointed a loaded crossbow at official's chest.
     "Order you men to lay down their arms!" said Zorro harshly.  "Or I fire!"
     "I have a man who can shoot you down before your finger can squeeze the trigger," the alcalde gritted back, defiance in his eyes.
     "That may be," returned the outlaw, "but you'll notice I've tied this rope around my saddle horn.  If I'm shot, Toronado will take off at a full gallop, dragging your worthless hide all over the desert until there's not enough left to feed a buzzard."
     The suave, smiling courtesy of the other night had vanished; the man on horseback was making a deadly gamble.  Every black-clad muscle tensed, hooded eyes smoldering with fury--the alcalde was again absolutely convinced that his nemesis meant every word.  He fought to control his own rage.
     "Lay down your arms!" he shouted at last to his men.  Some did so readily, others reluctantly, but all obeyed.
     "Now, Alcalde," said Zorro with the same intense ferocity, but in a voice clear enough to be heard throughout the plaza, "let me clarify something for you.  I did not ask permission of Señorita Ruiz to help her.  She knew nothing whatever of my attempt to right your wrong.  But whenever you oppress the innocent people of this pueblo, know for certain that I will ride in their defense."
     The alcalde started to say something, but a sharp jerk of the rope reminded him that he was not in a position to argue.
     "Announce her innocence, and order her release."
     Ramone ground his teeth, unable to combat the formidable strength of this opponent, but a virulent hatred was growing in his soul.  "Release her," he muttered to his men with a curl of his lip, never taking his eyes from the dark shrouded figure.  "She's free to go."
     Private Santellano ran to the lady's side and cut her hands free of the cruel rope.  "There, Señorita, are you all right?"
     The woman rubbed her over-stretched arms, scarcely daring to believe her narrow escape.  "Yes, boy.  Gracias."
     Friends and townspeople crowded around her in joyful relief.  The masked man had turned the tide of the battle!
     "Another thing," Zorro's voice rang clear over the tumult to his captive.  "The new inheritance tax doesn't sit well with the people.  I think now would be a good time to rescind it."  Calls from the plaza's audience soundly seconded the motion.  And Ramone swam in a raucous sea of discontent.
     He backpedaled to save some dignity out of the situation.  "Perhaps I acted precipitously in that matter and didn't give it the forethought it deserved.  Upon further consideration"--and some snickers sounded from the crowd--"I'll rescind the law until further notice."
     "What?" the outlaw's voice cut over the noise.  He jerked hard on the rope, and Ramone stumbled forward again.
     He dropped the conciliatory pose.  "I rescind the law," he gritted.
     "Very wise," commended Zorro grimly.  "If you want water for your land, have your men dig a well.  And should you ever try to whip a woman again, I'll tie you to that post and use this on you."  He patted the thick bull whip at his side.
     "Señorita Ruiz," the bandit called.
     The crowd parted for the woman rancher to approach the jet-black stallion and rider.  She looked up mutely at the masked man.
     "The alcalde is pleased to return this to you," said the outlaw, handing her the heavy saddlebag.  "Buy back your cattle."
     She received her own property with an awe approaching reverence.  "Gracias, Señor Zorro.  Muchas gracias!"
     "Santellano!" called out the Fox, lifting his head to see which lancer would answer.  To his satisfaction, he saw the same soldier who had freed Señorita Ruiz step forward.
     "If Los Angeles doesn't suit you," began Zorro tactfully for the soldier's sake, "that man"--he pointed to Don Alejandro de la Vega--"is a personal friend of the alcalde of Santa Paula.  He could see that you were transferred."
     The young man nodded solemnly.  "I will think on it."  Then he added, "I hope your health is excellent."  He looked at the masked rider's face blandly, speculatively.
     The outlaw's eyes danced, and try though he might, he could not hold back a wide grin.  "Most excellent, thank you."  He spotted the lovely innkeeper a few meters from him, and he lifted two fingers in salute.  The hero rapidly unwound the rope from his saddle horn, freeing both himself and the alcalde.  To the ecstatic cries of "Zorro!  Zorro!" ringing from the crowd, he exited the plaza as fast as Toronado could run.
     "Shoot him!" shrieked Ramone, and his lancers hastily picked up their dropped muskets.  Several shots followed, all which missed their target.
     "Santellano, why didn't you fire?" demanded the alcalde to the young man still standing where he had spoken with Zorro.
     "I think, sir, with all due respect, I'd rather not work for you," said the boy solemnly.
     "That was an order!  I'll have you court-martialed for this!  You swore to obey your commanding officer, and that is I!"
     "No, sir.  I didn't swear any such oath."
     Ramone stared dumbfounded for an instant.  "Sergeant Mendoza!"  That worthy came forward and saluted.  "Didn't you administer His Majesty's oath of a soldier to Private Santellano?"
     Mendoza groped for words, braced himself, and admitted honestly, "Alcalde, I thought you did it."
     The official rolled his eyes.  The day was going to be a total loss.  "Then get out of the king's uniform!" he snapped to the boy.  "And give me back that musket!  I don't believe you could hit a wall at five paces!"
     Santellano's stoic face glanced casually toward the pueblo gate.  "The sign," he stated.  And within the flutter of an eyelash, he brought the musket to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.  Suspended by two pins from the gate crossbeam, the sign, whereupon was printed the name "Los Angeles", suddenly dropped on one side, swinging drunkenly to and fro in the breeze.  Without another word, Santellano placed the fired weapon in the hands of the alcalde and went to the barracks to gather his personal effects.
     When Santellano reappeared in the plaza a few minutes later, most of the crowd had dispersed, and the alcalde and the soldiers had retired in quiet defeat.  But Señorita Ruiz was waiting for the young man, as was Don Alejandro de la Vega and Dr. Hernandez.
     "That was a fine thing you did, young man," complimented the doctor, shaking his hand.
     "And an extremely good shot," added the caballero. "Santellano, what El Zorro said is true; I do know the alcalde in Santa Paula and could pull strings to get you into his command if you still have a desire to serve the king."
     "Thank you, Señor," replied the youth.  "I do wish to serve my country, but I don't want to be caught again on the wrong side of a moral issue.  And as the alcalde pointed out, a soldier must obey orders."
     "Would you like to try your hand at ranching, boy?--I can't keep calling you 'boy'," said Josefina Ruiz.  "What is your name?"
     "Nicolas," he replied.
     "Well, Nicolas, I could use a good man on my place--that is, if Señor de la Vega will sell me back my cattle," she smiled, handing the don the black saddlebag heavy with coins.
     "With pleasure, Señorita," answered Alejandro, receiving the money.  "I'll have Miguel cut them out again and bring them over."
     "I don't know much about cattle, Señorita," said Santellano, "but it seems to me that you could use some protection--at least, for a while.  I'll do what I can to help you."

     Diego had the blankets pulled up to his chin when his father arrived home with the news of the morning's events.  Alejandro studied his ashen face.
     "You look worse," he announced, concerned at last.
     "I think I'm coming down with something," answered his son in a thin voice.
     "Shall I call Dr. Hernandez?"
     The tousled head on the pillow shook slightly.  "I just need rest.  "I'm sure I'll feel better in a few days."
     "Hmm.  Maybe it's the change in climate; your body needs a while to adjust again to our good California air.  I'll send in Felipe to stay with you."  He turned to leave the room and suddenly remembered that he had not told Diego what had transpired in town.
     "Oh, Diego--Señorita Ruiz was rescued by El Zorro!  He charged into the plaza and roped the alcalde--threatened to drag him all over the desert unless Ramone released the señorita.  The alcalde did, of course.  And then Zorro made him rescind the inheritance tax!  I tell you, it was something to see!"
     "Sorry I missed it," mumbled his son with closed eyes.
     "Yes.  Well, I won't tell you all the details now, but as Zorro rode out of town, the people in the plaza started cheering his name!  I felt like joining them!"
     "A veritable hero," observed his son dryly.
     Alejandro heard the note of envy and looked again at Diego's large form huddled under the blankets.  Compassion touched his heart.
     "I'm not asking you to be like Zorro, Son," he stated.  "I guess I haven't been very tolerant since you came home.  You've changed in the last four and a half years, and I--I'm trying to understand who you are now."
     Diego made no response; not an eyelid flickered.  Maybe the young man had fallen asleep.
     "Get some rest," whispered his father and tiptoed from the room.

     Nine evenings later Victoria Escalante closed the tavern and gathered the dirty dishes to be washed.  After adding hot water to her dish tub, she noticed a mug sitting on the kitchen's hearth.  But this mug had a strip of cloth tied to its handle.  Her heart skipped a beat as she glanced around, hoping to see the masked man who surely must have brought it.  She was not surprised, however, that he had vanished.  Coins jingled when she picked up the mug.  Inside was a handful of pesos and a note.  She eagerly unfolded the scrap of paper and read its contents.

              Señorita,
                   Two nights' lodging    --10 pesos
                   Seven meals                --14 pesos
                   One bottle of wine       -- 6 pesos
                   Laundry                       -- 5 pesos
                                    Total           --35 pesos
              Your loyalty and generosity are beyond price;
              those I cannot repay.  But my promises I keep.

                                                Z

     Victoria read the note through three times.  He had overpaid her for the room and the meals; it seemed he preferred to err on the side of liberality.  She certainly had not begrudged him a centavo, even before his spectacular success in the plaza.  Yes, a very good man.  The thirty-five pesos would be a donation to the church's poor box.  The mug with its cloth strip would go on her dresser.  She pressed the note to her lips and murmured a fervent prayer for his continued safety.