Prologue
Eyes narrowed against the intense glare of the sun, a lone vaquero perused a shady trail leading from the El Camino Real. The King's Highway, while conducive for speedy travel, had very little in the way of amenities, at least in this part of California. There was little shade, no inns, except at one-day intervals, and very few haciendas where comfort would be assured. With those thoughts in mind, the vaquero turned up the trail toward the promise of comfortable shade and a cool spring, tugging gently on the lead rope of the horse behind.
The vaquero, Diego de la Vega, was actually a caballero, a gentleman of the wealthy class. He was a young man in the prime of his life, very tall, with dark hair and a handsome face highlighted by intelligent hazel brown eyes, a small trim mustache and a quick smile. Being the only son of one of the wealthiest landowners near the Pueblo de Los Angeles, many señoritas considered him a good catch if he would only reciprocate their advances. What they didn't know was that Diego had a secret. He was also El Zorro, an identity he had assumed after being called home from studies in Spain by his father. It had been the only way he could fight against a tyrannical comandante.
In order to allay suspicions that he might be Zorro, Diego had developed an air of pacifism. He took to reading even more than he usually did, playing more music, and writing poetry, much to the dismay of his father, Alejandro. Once his father had discovered his dual identity, they worked closely to help the oppressed.
Diego examined the rocky, uneven trail as he slowly made his way toward the hint of greenery in the distance. Suddenly, he found himself staring at two well armed vaqueros. They had appeared like ghosts. Diego prided himself on his keen awareness of everything around him, but obviously he had missed something, or else these vaqueros were very, very good.
"Buenos Tardes, señores," Diego said simply, and then waited for the men to speak.
"Señor, you must turn back," the older of the two commanded, without any preamble of civility.
"I have been in Monterey on business and am traveling to the Pueblo de Los Angeles. It has been four long, hot, dusty days of riding and I was only seeking a shady and secluded spot to rest my horses and myself, perhaps to camp if there is a spring nearby. I meant no harm, and I certainly did not mean to intrude on anyone's property or business."
The younger man moved his mount a few paces towards Diego's horse, eyeing the intruder with a look of undisguised curiosity. "Señor, you have the look of a vaquero, but the bearing of a caballero. And the horse obviously belongs to a wealthy landowner. Who are you?"
Diego mentally gave the young vaquero several points for being so astute; he had hoped to avoid any attention that a hacendado might attract, since he was traveling alone, and on desolate stretches of highway. "I am connected with the Rancho de la Vega and following the orders of Don Alejandro de la Vega." This was essentially the truth, but there wasn't a chance he was going to divulge any more information until he had a better grasp of this situation. "As for the horse," he added. "It is indeed the property of de la Vega, who decided to take the coach back to Los Angeles. Now tell me, señores, why should I wear out my only horse?" he asked with a knowing smile.
The older man suddenly drew out his pistol and pointed it at Diego. "It does not matter if you are on the business of King Ferdinand himself, turn around and leave immediately, unless you wish Don Alejandro to have to hire a new messenger. You can go back and stay at the Mission of San Luis Obispo de Tolosa or proceed south to Santa Barbara." The speaker was a stocky, darker skinned man, a mestizo, somewhat short in stature, but fully capable of carrying out his threats.
"Manuel," the younger man chided, "there is no need to be so crude. This man does not even appear to be armed, I am sure he will leave quietly."
"To be sure," Diego agreed fervently, "I am certainly not stupid enough to argue with the end of a pistol. If I may be so bold, your patrón must be a man new to California."
"Why is that?" José, the younger vaquero asked, intrigued by the observation.
"Because he offers no hospitality to those traveling near his hacienda, especially during the time of the siesta." Diego replied coolly. "That is customary in California."
"How do you know there is a hacienda nearby?" the older man asked harshly, flustered by Diego's deductions. "And besides, it really does not matter if there is or not, you are trespassing and you must leave, NOW!"
"By the Saints," murmured Diego. "But of course, I will leave," he said more loudly, and turning his horses around, started back down the hill toward the highway. Feeling a peculiar prickling between his shoulder blades, he knew the two men continued to watch his departure. It was best to pretend they had convinced him that leaving was the best course. Naturally their manner and speech gave just the opposite effect. Diego, wary by nature, knew something was not right beyond that mountain pass. It was his intention to find out before he continued on to Los Angeles.
José was puzzled. The man they had turned away could not hide the self-assured air of a caballero. He was no simple messenger, José would bet his next month's wages on that, and assumed the man was not just delivering the fancy horse to his patrón, but that he was the horse's owner, and therefore a patrón himself. But if the man is a patrón, then why didn't he just insist on spending the night at my employer's hacienda, as was his right? the young man thought. Since he was fairly young and this was his first job with a rich hacendado, he shrugged and turned back up the trail behind Manuel.
Chapter 1
Diego rode for almost a quarter of an hour before halting to check one of his horse's shoes for a stone. He listened for any signs of pursuit and looked back up the trail to confirm he wasn't being followed. Remounting, he continued south along the highway, looking for any spot that would afford some shade until the cool of the evening. Soon Diego found a secluded trail with a small stream nearby.
As he rested in the shade of an old oak tree, the caballero wondered if he might possibly be overreacting, but immediately squelched the thought. In the past, he had learned to trust his instincts, and right now his instincts were sending alarm signals.
Diego watched the shimmering waves of overheated air dance off the rocks. Looking up, he saw an eagle floating on the thermals, looking for prey. It was during these quiet times since he left Monterey that he wished Bernardo, his manservant, could have accompanied him, if for no other reason than for company. While Diego was used to being alone at times, he was nevertheless gregarious by nature and on long trips like this, wished he had a traveling companion. He sighed, knowing there was no reason to dwell on that which could not be changed. Bernardo had been stricken with a fever during their stay in Monterey and while the Franciscan priests had assured him the manservant would be completely well within a few days, Diego's father was expecting him back in Los Angeles for an essential meeting of ranchers. The papers he was carrying from the governor's office were an important part of that meeting, and made it impossible for him to wait for Bernardo's complete recovery.
Diego left enough pesos for the manservant to return home by coach. Then he set out alone. By wearing the livery of a hired vaquero instead of his usual flashy wardrobe, he hoped to avoid any incidents on the way home. Diego also brought Bernardo's mare along instead of stabling her in Monterey until they returned. It made sense during this hot season. As one horse tired he would switch horses, instead of having to stop and rest for extended periods of time. Diego traveled late into the evening, and although it wasn't customary, these strategies had helped him to save almost an entire day—until now. He had to admit he was weary from the long ride of the past four days, and he knew the horses were, too.
Watching another eagle join the first in an aerial dance across the clear blue sky, Diego wondered if part of his decision for riding back alone might not be a reaction to the sometimes scathing comments about his lack of courage. He had come to terms with his role as a passive, non-aggressive caballero, but the comments still stung. There were times he wished he could do as Diego de la Vega, what he had done as a child, when he saw what he felt were wrongs being committed. In those days he had the reputation of being hotheaded and quick with his fists. With a shrug, he hobbled the horses while he rested. As he dozed, Diego contemplated why two ranch-hands would have the manner of bandits.
He woke several hours later, when the evening had progressed enough for the air to change from the simmering heat of the late afternoon to the cooler air preceding night. The eagles were gone, but a single red-tailed hawk searched for a late day meal. The raptor reminded him of his duties, and Diego stretched, fed and watered the horses, and had a very light supper from his provisions. By the time he was finished, the sun had set and the campsite was taking on a ghostly aura, with shadows from the trees and rocks combining with the noises of night creatures and the breeze rustling through the top of the tree.
Diego untied one of the coquinillos or saddle bags. In it were a black cape, shirt, pants, sash, hat, bandana, boots, gloves and the mask, which had become famous around Los Angeles and to some extent, Monterey. The sword, he had tied to Tejas' saddle, under the coquinillo, as he seldom wore a blade other than when he was in his guise as Zorro. Swords had no place in the life of the passive Don Diego, even though, before he had returned home, fencing had almost been life itself. When the transformation was complete, the moon looked down on a different man; El Zorro.