UNEXPECTED HELP.
Left behind helpless in the guard room of the _presidio_, Señor Zorro
fought to control his emotions, telling himself that he could think out
no proper line of action while his brain was in sad tumult.
His case seemed hopeless. He was unable to make an escape, and Captain
Ramón was leading the troopers against the pirates. Señor Zorro began
wondering whether his good fortune had deserted him entirely. The
_señorita_ was in grave peril, and also his friends the _caballeros_,
and he could do nothing.
But there was a certain outside influence at work regarding which
Señor Zorro knew nothing, an influence caused by his just acts when,
as Zorro, he had ridden up and down El Camino Real righting the wrongs
inflicted on _frailes_ and natives.
The native fisherman had guided him to the vicinity of the pirates’
camp before dawn, and then had disappeared. Señor Zorro did not wonder
at that, since it was commendable in the native to save his own skin.
The fisherman, however, had continued across the hills to San Diego
de Alcála to pay a visit to relatives and friends. There he waited
impatiently, anticipating news of a fight at the pirates’ camp. And,
because he admired uniforms, though they inspired fear in him as well
as admiration, he drifted near the _presidio_.
He was in time to behold the arrival of Captain Ramón, and later of
Señor Zorro. After a time, he saw Señor Zorro’s attempt at escape,
and watched the troopers gallop away. And then, by loitering near the
_presidio_, he ascertained something of the truth――that Señor Zorro was
being held a prisoner in the maniac’s shirt and would be dealt with at
some future time.
The native wandered around the huts of the village, doing more genuine
thinking than ever before in his life. He remembered how Señor Zorro, a
long time before, had saved his father. He was a neophyte native, and
he remembered, also, how Señor Zorro had fought for the _frailes_ when
they were being persecuted.
The native fisherman did not have to think long on the subject before
arriving at a conclusion. Having done so, he went to the hut of a
cousin and begged a bottle of palm wine, potent stuff that could make a
man mad.
He took a good drink of the palm wine and slipped away, carrying the
bottle. He had a short, sharp knife that he used for the cleaning of
fish, and he took this out and inspected it, and then hid it beneath
his ragged shirt and in an armpit, fastening it there cleverly with a
bit of rag.
Having made these preparations, the native fisherman drank more of the
wine and gathered false courage. He spilled some of the liquor on his
sorry clothes, so that its well-known odor mingled with that of fish.
And then he approached the _presidio_ again.
One of the two troopers remaining was sitting before the main door,
and the other, supposedly, was in the corridor outside the guard room,
where his duty called him. The native fisherman went close to the man
before the door and regarded him evilly. He held up the bottle and
guzzled more of the palm wine. The trooper looked up and saw him.
“Dog of a savage!” he cried. “Know you not that it is against the laws
and the wishes of his excellency for natives to drink the stuff?”
The native blinked his eyes at him. “May the devil take the laws,” said
he, boldly, “and his excellency also!”
“What words are these?” the soldier cried, getting to his feet.
“Every man who wears a uniform is a rascal and a thief!”
“This to me? A dog of a native speaks so to one of the soldiers of the
Governor?”
“If the Governor was here,” said the native, “I’d throw this drink in
his face! And if you trouble me more, I’ll throw it in yours!”
“Ha! In that case――”
“For you dare not put me in the guard room!” the native declared. “I
have too many friends.”
The trooper exploded and rushed forward. “Low-born dog!” he shrieked.
He caught the native and cuffed him, and instead of taking the blows
calmly, the native fought back. It was too much!
“Into the guard room you go!” the soldier shouted. “And when the
_commandante_ returns he probably will order you whipped. And I’ll
wield the lash! Give me that bottle!”
The trooper took the bottle and sat it down carefully, having noticed
that it was half full, then hustled the native inside and along the
corridor to the door of the guard room. The other soldier looked up
questioningly.
“This dog has been drinking palm wine and making remarks about his
excellency!” the first soldier said. “Throw him into the guard house.
He is fit company for Señor Zorro!”
The door was opened, the native was hurled inside, and the door was
closed and barred again. The two soldiers peered through the small
aperture in it. They saw the native pick himself up and look around as
though dazed.
“Ha!” one of the troopers cried. “He will wonder what it is all about
before morning. That palm wine is dangerous stuff.”
“And I took half a bottle of it from the dog before we put him in,” the
other whispered.
“Let us watch a moment before we sample it.”
The native glanced toward the corner where Señor Zorro, in the maniac’s
shirt, was propped up on a bench. He lurched toward him, bent forward,
and peered into his face.
“A white man!” he gasped. “In the guard room the same as me!”
He threw out his chest and strutted around the room, as though a great
honor had come to him. The soldiers at the door laughed. The native
turned and blinked his eyes at them, mouthed some meaningless phrases,
and appeared to be dazed again. Twice he shrieked like a soul in
torment. He beat his fists against the wall of the guard room.
“_Sí!_ That wine is strong stuff!” one of the soldiers said.
Still they remained watching. But the native, it seemed, was exhausted.
He slipped down to the floor, crawled over against the wall, and let
his head topple to one side. Twice he nodded, and then he began to
snore. The troopers closed the little door of the aperture. The fun was
over.
Though he had recognized the native, Señor Zorro had spoken no word.
He was not certain whether the man was under the influence of palm
wine or shamming. He listened and heard the two soldiers walk down the
corridor, then turned his head and glanced at the native again. The
native had opened one of his eyes and was watching the door.
“They are drinking your wine,” Zorro hissed.
“_Sí, señor!_ One moment!”
The native slipped slowly and carefully along the wall until he was
within a few feet of Señor Zorro.
“I thought it out, _señor_,” he said. “I know those maniac’s shirts,
for once they bound me and put me in one. And I have a sharp knife――”
“Careful!” Señor Zorro warned. “If you succeed in this I will make you
rich for life!”
“I am not doing it for riches, but because you have been kind to my
people and to the _frailes_,” the native said. “I must do my work
swiftly.”
He had the knife out now, and began working at the tough leather of the
shirt. The thong that drew the shirt about the neck was fastened with
a metal clasp, a sort of lock, and so the tough leather had to be cut.
The native sawed through it, and loosened the thong.
He stopped to slip noiselessly across to the door and crouch and listen
there. He hurried back and began peeling the leather sack off Señor
Zorro. He worked frantically, guessing what would be in store for him
if he happened to be caught.
“If I escape, then must you do so,” Señor Zorro said. “And keep away
from San Diego de Alcála for many moons to come.”
“I understand, _señor_. And, if I do not escape, remember, please, that
I did what a poor man could.”
“I’ll help you, and I can.”
“A good horse belonging to one of these soldiers is just in front of
the _presidio, señor_.”
“Good!”
“And some daggers are in leather boots near the front door, on the
wall.”
“Again, good!” Señor Zorro said.
The native slashed the last of the bonds, and Zorro stood and moved his
limbs to restore circulation. Then he motioned the native toward the
door.
“Stand on that side,” Zorro directed. “And shriek as though you were
being killed.”
The native shrieked. Señor Zorro himself felt shivers run up and down
his spine at those blood-curdling shrieks. The two soldiers listened,
and then hurried back toward the guard room. They opened the little
aperture in the door. They saw neither of their prisoners, but they did
see the empty maniac’s shirt in one corner of the room.
And then they did what Señor Zorro had judged they would do――unlock
and open the door and rush inside. Zorro hurled himself upon the
first and floored him, rolled aside just in time to escape the rush
of the second, delivered a blow that laid this second on the floor
unconscious, got the dagger from the soldier’s belt, and whirled to
take the rush of the first, now upon his feet again.
“Fly!” he ordered the native. But the fisherman stood just outside the
door, waiting to see the outcome.
Señor Zorro had no quarrel with the soldiery, and he did not want to
wound a trooper. But it was demanded of him that he make an escape as
quickly as possible, and make certain that he could not be followed for
some minutes.
And so he rushed his man with the dagger, and the other gave ground
and put himself on guard. But suddenly Señor Zorro whirled and rushed
backward instead of attacking, darted through the door, slammed it
shut, and shot home the bar. Inside were the two soldiers.
“_Señores, adios!_” Zorro said at the aperture. “I regret that you
cannot accompany me and see the fighting.”
“For this――” one of the imprisoned troopers began.
“Have you ever seen this one?” Señor Zorro asked. And he slammed shut
the door of the aperture, laughed loudly, saw that the native fisherman
was free, and ran like the wind down the corridor and through the front
door and into the sunshine.
A moment later he was in the saddle and galloping like a madman in the
wake of Captain Ramón and the troopers.