Señor Zorro noted the length of the man’s pacing. He judged the distance accurately, and just as the man turned his back to resume his march the highwayman sprang.
His hands closed around the soldier’s throat as his knees struck the man in the back. Instantly they were upon the ground, the surprised trooper now doing his best to put up a fight. But Señor Zorro, knowing that a bit of noise might mean disaster for him, silenced the man by striking him on the temple with the heavy butt of his pistol.
He pulled the unconscious soldier back into the shadows, gagged him with a strip torn from the end of his serape, and bound his hands and feet with other strips. Then he drew his cloak about him, looked to his pistol, listened a moment, to be sure the short fight with the soldier had not attracted the attention of any inside the building, and slipped once more toward the door.
He was inside in an instant. Before him was the big lounging-room with its hard dirt floor. Here were some long tables and bunks and wine mugs and harness and saddles and bridles. Señor Zorro gave it but a glance to assure himself that no man was there, and walked swiftly and almost silently across to the door that opened into the office of the comandante.
He made sure that his pistol was ready for instant use, and then threw the door open boldly. Captain Ramón was seated with his back toward it, and now he whirled around in his chair with a snarl on his lips, thinking one of his men had entered without the preliminary of knocking, and ready to rebuke the man.
“Not a sound, señor!” the highwayman warned. “You die if as much as a gasp escapes your lips!”
He kept his eyes on those of the comandante, closed the door behind him, and advanced into the room. He walked forward slowly, without speaking, the pistol held ready in front of him. Captain Ramón had his hands on the table before him, and his face had gone white.
“This visit is necessary, señor, I believe,” Señor Zorro said. “I have not made it because I admire the beauty of your face.”
“What do you here?” the captain asked, disregarding the order to make no sound, yet speaking in a tone scarcely above a whisper.
“I happened to look in at the window, señor. I saw an epistle before you on the table, and I heard you speak. ’Tis a bad thing for a man to talk to himself! Had you remained silent I might have gone on about my business. As it is—”
“Well, señor?” the captain asked, with a bit of his old arrogance returning to him.
“I have a mind to read that letter before you.”
“Does my military business interest you that much?”
“As to that, we shall say nothing, señor. Kindly remove your hands from the table, but do not reach toward the pistol at your side unless you wish to die the death instantly. It would not grieve me to have to send your soul into the hereafter.”
The comandante did as he had been directed, and Señor Zorro went forward cautiously and snatched up the letter. Then he retreated a few paces again, still watching the man before him.
“I am going to read this,” he said, “but I warn you that I shall watch you closely, also. Do not make a move, señor, unless it is your wish to visit your ancestors.”
He read swiftly, and when he had finished he looked the comandante straight in the eyes for some time without speaking, and his own eyes were glittering malevolently through his mask. Captain Ramón began to feel more uncomfortable.
Señor Zorro stepped across to the table, still watching the other, and held the letter to the flame of a candle. It caught fire, blazed, presently dropped to the floor a bit of ash. Señor Zorro put one foot upon it.
“The letter will not be delivered,” he said. “So, you fight women, do you, señor? A brave officer and an ornament to his excellency’s forces! I doubt not he would grant you promotion if he knew of this. You insult a señorita because her father, for the time being, is not friendly with those in power, and because she repulses you as you deserve, you set about to cause trouble for the members of her family. Truly, it is a worthy deed!”
He took a step closer and bent forward, still holding the pistol ready before him.
“Let me not hear of you sending any letter similar to the one I have just destroyed,” he said. “I regret at the present time that you are unable to stand before me and cross blades. It would be an insult to my sword to run you through, yet would I do it to rid the world of such a fellow!”
“You speak bold words to a wounded man!”
“No doubt the wound will heal, señor. And I shall keep myself informed regarding it. And when it has healed and you have back your strength, I shall take the trouble to hunt you up, and call you to account for what you have attempted doing this night. Let that be understood between us!”
Again their eyes blazed, each man’s into those of the other, and Señor Zorro stepped backward and drew his cloak closer about him. To their ears there came, suddenly, a jangling of harness, the tramp of horses’ feet, the raucous voice of Sergeant Pedro Gonzales.
“Do not dismount!” the sergeant was crying to his men at the door. “I but make report, and then we go on after the rogue! There shall be no rest until we take him!”
Señor Zorro glanced quickly around the room, for he knew escape by the entrance was cut off now. Captain Ramón’s eyes flashed with keen anticipation.
“Ho, Gonzales!” he shrieked before Zorro could warn him against it. “To the rescue, Gonzales! Señor Zorro is
