"I can't think of any explanation," Pietro murmured. He looked on the verge of tears, and hung his head shamefully. "I barely even remember what happened. We were drinking, you see. Enjoying ourselves. It went on all night and into the morning, actually. We had good reason to celebrate. Ramón had finally met with success in his proposal to Señorita Gilberto, and I had bought a new horse, such a beauty, you should have seen him!" For a moment his face lit up at the memory, before sinking back into desolation. "Now I will never have the chance to ride upon his back. I can… never go home."
As if finally realizing it for the first time, the boy began to weep. "Ah, saints above!" he sobbed and clutched his head. "I wish to God none of this had ever happened!"
Stroking her drowsy pet, Anatolia blew out her breath to show what she thought of this emotional outpouring. Belasco winced and mimed for her to keep silent. When her face clearly demanded a reason, he raised his hands and tilted his head in a gesture of resignation, as if to say, 'What's the harm? Let him talk.' She frowned but made no rebuff. Satisfied, the veteran actor cast a surreptitious glance at his watch and then went back to playing the attentive listener.
The Sanchez heir took a long swig of water. Dropping the canteen with a gasp, he shuddered and closed his eyes. "I can't even remember the man's face." His voice was a defeated whisper. "Do you believe that? Much as I try, I can't bring anything about him to mind. It shouldn't be like that. A man's face… it shouldn't just slip away."
"Especially not if you killed him," Anatolia pointed out calmly.
At her words, Pietro went a different shade of pale. His eyes snapped open, going very wide. For a moment David feared he might start screaming like a lunatic.
Then the ashen youth spun about and fell to his knees, grabbing the startled woman's hands. Both assistants swiftly rose in her defense, but Belasco signaled them to stop.
"I swear to heaven, I didn't know what I was doing!" Pietro moaned. "On my immortal soul, I didn't know! I had so much to drink, he… he should have seen that! He shouldn't have challenged me to a duel, I was in no fit state for it! The fault was his! God have mercy on him!"
"Don't touch me!" Anatolia pulled herself free of the murderer's grip. When he reached for her again, she quickly stood up and backed away. "I am not your mother or your priest, boy! You'll get no sympathy from me!"
Sanchez dropped to the floor and curled up into a ball, sobbing, "God forgive me, God forgive me…"
"Calm down, everyone calm down," Belasco spoke without moving a hair from his seat. His soothing, professionally trained voice seemed to quell the ardor of all concerned. "Anatolia, my dear, please forgive the young master. He's had a very rough couple of months. And Pietro, do take your seat again. You're safe from all harm with us, rest assured."
Their anxious passenger did as he was asked, moving back to his seat and hunching down miserably upon it.
Belasco leaned forward and patted him on the knee. "Now, then, leave off those grim thoughts for a while. Tell you what, why don't you satisfy our curiosity about something else, hmmm?"
A confused look was sent his way. "What about?"
"Well, I know Anatolia might have heard, but perhaps you'd like to tell us where exactly you've been hiding these past few months. Wait, wait," and he lifted a finger just as Pietro was about to respond. "Please let me guess. Now, then…" Belasco stroked his chin and studied that shuddering form intently. "It would have to be in a location that offered a measure of safety and comfort while providing the basic necessities for living. Somewhere it wouldn't arouse suspicion should friends of your father be seen coming and going. A site whose regular occupants could be relied upon not to crack under the strain of a federal manhunt and reveal the location of their charge. If I were to make a reasonable deduction about the safest place for a fugitive to seek sanctuary in any city, it would be…!"
"The church."
All heads turned to Anatolia, who stood with arms crossed leaning against a wall. When Belasco glowered at her, she merely lifted her eyebrows. "Must you turn everything into a performance?"
"It keeps me young," he retorted crossly before returning his attention to Pietro. "Well, is that right?"
"Yes," he nodded in confirmation. "I was sheltered at La Iglesia Del Hijo Santo, under the care of Padre Juan Esposito."
David smiled to himself. That certainly explained all the unexpected piety.
"My father made the arrangements. He is the church's most generous supporter, they owe him a great deal. There is a secret door located in the temple sanctuary. It leads beneath the cells of the priests and off to an underground room near the animal pens. Padre Juan told me it was originally used to hide farmers who had been accused of false crimes so the government could take control of their land. The soldiers wouldn't be able to desecrate the church while searching for me like they would anywhere else, so it was the safest place of all."
A sudden lurch of the train caused them all to lean forward slightly, and Pietro to almost fall off his seat, catching himself on one hand. When the motion subsided, he resumed. "The Padre was the only one who knew I was there. He counseled me while I was living in that hole in the ground. We read the Bible together, and he said that I needed to show attrition for the mistakes in my life. I… felt remorse for what I had done. Padre Juan thought I should join holy orders to express my penance, forsake the world of men and embrace God for having spared my life. It sounded like a good idea. When my father came to church on Sundays, they would meet in the confessional, and discuss what to do there."
"I never really knew what went on between them. But two weeks ago when the Padre came back, he said my father had rejected the idea. They had another plan to see me safely out. A circus would come to town and…"
"Theatrical troupe."
Pietro looked up. "Pardon?"
"We are a theatrical troupe," Belasco emphasized pointedly, "not a circus."
A monkey leapt up on the grille behind him and bared its teeth.
"Oh."
The lad looked around the darkening room. His companions were becoming shadowy figures as the sky dimmed outside and light no longer shone through the cracks in the wood. "Well, anyways, we waited a week for you to get here, and learned what to do. Padre Juan was supposed to wait until he saw a single golden firework go off at night during the performance. That was the signal for me to go out into the crowds and make my way to the Snake Princess booth. Afterwards…"
"We know the rest," Belasco interrupted. He stretched out his arms overhead and considered the situations. There were some holes in the story he had just heard. The python Artemisia had indeed ingested a calf earlier that selfsame evening as was widely rumored, but only to lend credence to the lie in case the soldiers were keeping a close watch. On the evening of their final performance, Anatolia coaxed her trained pet into disgorging its lunch. The remains were washed free of acids, dismembered and taken to be fed to the tigers later on. After Bong Cha sent up the signal during her archery display, the attentive priest informed Pietro, who blended into the festive throngs and found his way to Anatolia's tent. He had been informed of their plan and made to understand that by this point, whatever misgivings the idea of being eaten might engender, he had no choice but to go along with it. There was simply no turning back.
Sanchez Senior had indeed contacted him about a month ago. Their negotiations had lasted for some time, as the penurious old blowhard tried to bargain Belasco down on the asking price. But in this he had remained firm. The cost of transporting his offspring to safe territory would be half a million U.S. dollars. Tomás had stubbornly refused to concede, until two weeks ago, when he abruptly telegraphed to give his consent.
On their first face-to-face meeting, Sanchez informed him that he had been prompted to agree to Belasco's demands by a visit to church one particular Sunday. A certain priest had revealed Pietro's desire to become a member of the cloth rather than continue in hiding. Tomás had been furious at the idea. He declared that this had been a thinly veiled tactic by the Church to convince him to donate all his land and holdings to them after his passing, owing to his only heir being an anointed brother. David saw the reasoning: Better to lose part than whole. And to be honest, he had to agree with that assessment. Not a particularly religious man by nature, he did have a very great sense of where profit could be made. It was entirely possible that this Padre Juan had gone into this affair with the intention of securing a huge windfall for the Catholic Church, no doubt netting himself a promotion and even a transfer to cooler climes in the process.
Fortunately, the greed of God's Holy Church had ultimately served to line Belasco's pocket instead. The Lord certainly worked in mysterious ways.
The boxcar rattled along the tracks. Those familiar with its movements could tell that the engineer was gradually decreasing their speed, which meant that they were already back in the United States and headed into the station. The train's whistle confirmed this. All members of Belasco's company breathed an inward sigh of relief at this realization.
"And that's all the time we get for storytelling," the director declared. He stood up, and the rest followed suit. Pietro gazed around uncertainly but scrambled to his feet all the same. They trooped out of the animal pens and back into the living quarters. The brief time between cars revealed that they were indeed on the American side of the border, judging by the buildings and people still about at this hour.
The train was slowing as it approached the relay station. Belasco mimed for silence, then led them across two more cars. Blinds were pulled down over the windows. In addition, all oil lamps in the passenger cars had been lowered earlier, plunging the train's interior into darkness. Wearing workman's clothes similar to the other men with them, Pietro would not stand out in any particular way should they encounter someone in the halls. As it turned out, these precautions were unnecessary. No one else was about at this time.
At last they came to a particular compartment. A quick scratch with his finger on the door saw it come open almost immediately, and a hulking figure loomed large in the square of light. Sanchez cringed back at the sight, but the two men behind him prevented any attempts at flight.
Belasco gestured towards the giant. "Hernando," he whispered by way of introduction. "You'll be staying with him for the rest of our journey. He will explain the rest."
No more words were spoken. With some trepidation, the spindly fugitive shuffled forward. His new host stepped aside to allow him to enter the cabin. The door closed behind him securely.
And it was done.
The remainder of their party dispersed back to their own rooms. Before returning to his own comforts, however, David made the trip to inform the last member of their group of what had happened.
His train had come to a full stop by the time he reached the door. He scraped on its surface lightly. "Sheelay hamnida?"
After a second, the portal slid open. Bong Cha, known to their public as Lady Hwa-Rang, gazed up at him with that cold stare. She studied her employer's face, then moved aside indicating he should enter.
"Kamsa hamnida," he thanked her, and stepped in.
Bong Cha closed the door. The lamps were still lit in her tiny quarters, but the blinds were drawn. Several sticks and a knife were laid out on the bed, indicating she had preoccupied herself with fletching while waiting for news.
David sat down on a chest across from the cot. The archer resumed her seat opposite him. Picking up a slender shaft, she once more began to pare down its length. "What is wrong?"
Her words were spoken in Korean, a language that he had some rudimentary facility for as a result of living in California for the past few decades. Combined with his more comprehensive knowledge of Chinese, Belasco was the only person in their family of entertainers capable of carrying on a full conversation with this close-mouthed young woman. Bong Cha knew enough of the latter language to understand when his Korean failed him, and as a result, he was the closest thing to a friend she had among them.
It also made her somewhat dependent upon him, which David didn't mind having in this temperamental and often contrary pack of ego-inflated maniacs he chose to spend his days with. The rest had learned early on not to approach her for anything less than essential. The Dragon Lady, as they called her, was not here for the pleasure of their company.
"The boy is safe, but I am worried," he responded to her question.
She sighted along the length of the arrow with one eye. "Why? Are we not safe?"
"Not that." He leaned forward slightly. "Money."
Bong Cha put down the quarrel and regarded him with her flat black eyes. "He cheats us, then?"
"Maybe." The master showman fingered his golden pocket-watch. Any measure of humility and good humor had drained from him in the past few seconds, and his gaze was just as hard as hers. "The father makes a promise to me, but he is greedy. Maybe when his son is in Canada, he will not send the money. Or just not all. Always a problem, with this kind of man. We cannot trust him. He is made of…"
His vocabulary failed him at this point.
"Jokkah ji mah," she supplied.
"Yes. 'Bullshit'. Thank you."
The girl crossed her legs beneath her and played with the knife in her hand. "I get $80,000 this time. Enough for my family to live on all their lives, maybe even to come live here. You promised me, he promised you. No cheating either way. Or someone dies."
Belasco got the uncomfortable feeling she included him among the potential targets should that happen. He had never asked what brought her to America, but the impression had always been it wasn't peaceful. Perhaps somewhere in Korea, there was another general who had lost his nephew, son, or whatever. If so, the culprit had made good on her escape. And she had come to be someone he could depend on to do those things others would not.
"I need you to use your eyes, Bong Cha. Watch to see no one tries to cheat us. If that happens, the price goes up. But the boy must live, until we have our money. That does not change. You see?"
"I do." The knife rose and hovered steadily right in front of his left eye socket. Belasco had to struggle to keep from flinching until she withdrew it and pointed the weapon at her own face. "Eyes open."
"Yes." He was sweating slightly as he arose. "Goodnight, then."
"Anyonghi jumeseyo." She returned to fletching, the blade making a sound like scraping bone as it went down the shaft.
David Belasco shut the door securely behind him. He retired to his private cabin feeling more at ease.
Laredo proved to be a problem. On the one hand, they probably wouldn't unload Sanchez there, simply because it was too close to Mexico and word of the reward might have stretched across boundary lines. But on the other hand, he couldn't infiltrate the train now because if Pietro managed to escape in the confusion, he would be lost in the city's inner workings in no time. Hunting him then would be neither quick nor easy.
Which wasn't to imply that what he had planned would be a breeze. No, his best chance of getting the boy out alive would have to come once they were well clear of the city limits.
Thus Zorro stayed close to the station, watching to be absolutely certain no one disembarked. The lines were shifted. Their course lay north then, as he had expected. He could conceivably get on board now, but that would mean abandoning his own method of escape.
As the locomotive carrying his target began to peel away from its berth, the masked avenger dropped down from the rooftop and landed in Tornado's saddle. A flick of the reins saw those pitch-black partners galloping through the streets, riding out ahead of the train while maintaining distance so as not to be spotted.
His message had been sent. Now all that remained was to get the timing down.
About to ask a question, Pietro stopped short when the towering Hernando turned back around and fixed him with a ruthless look. At once his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and stuck there.
"Sit," the big man grunted, indicating the bed. He complied, while Hernando remained standing.
"Here are the rules," his oversized roommate murmured softly. The deep voice, the way he pronounced his Spanish and the low volume made it difficult to understand. But Pietro recognized the importance of what lay in store for him, and so he listened attentively as the sound of locomotives cooling down came from all around. "We arrive in Winnipeg, Manitoba within four days of travel at most. You do not leave this cabin during that time for any reason."
Suddenly the Mexican criminal felt a very pressing need to use the bathroom. As if sensing this, Hernando said, "There is a chamber pot by the door, and you use that to do your business, then dump it out the window. Wash with soap and water from the jug, same for your bath." One great hand indicated where all this was to be found. "I will bring food in to you. My meals are large enough no one will notice if there is extra. No one will bother us. They think I have chronic headaches and do not like to be disturbed at times. There are no conversations permitted, no loud noises when I am not here, and no moving about either." He paused then. "Do you have any questions?"
"Uh." Pietro's eyes darted around the small chamber. He kept his voice barely above a whisper. "Wh-why am I still hiding? Is someone not supposed to know I'm here?"
"On this train, only six people are aware that you are onboard. The rest know nothing about our arrangement. That is how it has always been. We split the money among us. Ten percent for Belasco, ten percent for the troupe's account, and the rest goes to us."
A quick mathematical calculation was made then that caused Pietro to doubt he had heard right. "Wait… ten percent for…" He checked to make sure he was correct. "But that means… you get six percent more than Belasco. Why is that?"
"He makes more than us on the business side of things already," the performer replied. "This way nobody is upset about him getting too big a slice. Keeps the family happy. You got more questions?"
Absolutely nothing else came to mind.
"No? Then go to sleep. You get the bed. I sleep on the floor beneath. Good for my back, and that way you don't step on me in the morning. Okay?"
Pietro nodded rapidly.
"Good. Lights out, then."
He capped off the oil wick, and before the other man could say a word, Hernando dropped down to the floor and crawled under the cot, brushing the edge of the blanket aside along with Pietro's legs. The sheet fell to cover his nook. There was the sound of him getting settled in that small space, and then only quiet.
With nothing else to do, Pietro cautiously knelt by the side of the bed. Clasping his hands over the sheets, he coughed and whispered, "Bless us, O Lord, You who are…"
A deep voice rumbled below him. "No prayers."
"But I have to…!"
The hem of the sheet lifted, and a single eye glowered out.
Without further protest, Sanchez hopped up on the mattress. His racing heart seemed so loud he felt certain the great brute would call him out on that as well. But nothing more came.
Feeling sick with equal parts fear and longing for home, the lonely youth recited his prayers to himself. As his head touched the pillow, he felt certain that any rest would be a long time coming this night.
Two minutes later saw him fast asleep. The train was moving again soon after that.
Like his namesake, Tornado tore across the Texas prairies. Laredo diminished behind them in the distance. There was no moon that night. Whether this boded well for the criminals or the man pursuing them had yet to be fully revealed. For the time being, Zorro took advantage of the foreboding gloom. Coupled with his dark raiment, it meant he was less likely to be spotted making his approach. And stealth was a favorite weapon of his.
Thus the midnight stallion and his rider sped along a parallel route to the train tracks. At a kick of his heels, Zorro's steed surged forth at even greater speeds than before. As a result, the metal caterpillar that had been slowly passing them for a short time now began to keep level with their pace. They bridged the distance swiftly, and not for the first time that legendary figure gave thanks to the lineage that had fostered such a magnificent animal as this. The exhilaration of chasing down the train was getting to him. For a space he imagined himself a knight on a charging destrier, bearing down on a great long fire-breathing dragon. It made him laugh to think it, this reminder that at heart he remained a boy on an adventure.
Well, there were worse things to be.
Galloping along, the two of them at last drew near the caboose. Had to start from the back to make certain everything went well. Tornado drew near, and Zorro loosened his boots in the stirrups. The train was picking up speed now. He didn't permit himself to think about what might happen to him if he missed his timing, or if his horse happened to stumble. The best attitude in dangerous situations was optimism.
With this in mind, he stretched out a black-gloved hand and reached for the railing on the back of the caboose. Everything was jumping around; his perch, the target, and so the skilled acrobat tried to make his body be the medium between them, matching his movements to keep in time with the train. This was a precarious position he was now in. One last stretch, and…
The caboose lurched suddenly to one side. Zorro's clutching hand caught only air, and he felt himself falling.
There was nothing left to do but jump. So he did.
A black cape billowed like angel's wings as that figure of myth left his horse's saddle, all his concentration, and even his life, focused on a metal bar. He hung suspended in midair, truly flying for less than a single heartbeat.
And then his fingers found their purchase. Zorro was pulling himself onto the swaying balcony soon after. He gave a short sharp whistle once his position was secure. Behind him, Tornado slowed his gait appropriately, gradually diminishing in the wake of the iron horse. Wouldn't do to have him get tired out trying to keep up. They would catch one another again further down the line. Assuming, of course, everything went as planned. And speaking of which…
There were thirteen cars attached to this steam engine counting the caboose. Three of them were devoted to the animals; horses, tigers, even monkeys, from what he remembered. No way to know whether Pietro was in a compartment with the rest of the company or if they had him secreted away in a hidden spot. And it wasn't as though he could go knocking on doors.
Well, when it comes down to it, there's only one sensible way to find out.
I'll ask the man in charge. Him, at least, I know where to find.
David had decided to go to bed early this night. He assured himself he would rise before the dawn and make up for any lost time then. One could accomplish a great deal if you were only willing to commit to certain things, like a schedule.
Or crime, he reflected as he extinguished the lamp and retired to bed.
His dreams involved motion, sliding downward in what looked to be a huge quarry. But the only thing coming out of it was mud. Misery was on the faces of every worker he could see. David hated that, reminding him as it did how so many people he met nowadays seemed absolutely wretched in their life's pursuits. Fortunately, he had decided early in his career to only do those things that brought him joy. It made one's days remarkably easier.
While he was involved in these ruminations, his progress down continued. Where am I headed? To Hell, maybe? Am I to be damned? Strange, it's not frightening. I feel quite calm. Look, the fires are growing brighter, but I feel no heat. Perhaps the pits are not quite as tormenting as we have been led to believe. Certainly wouldn't be the first time they tried to frighten us into doing what we're told without question.
Now it's quite bright. Bright, the light, it's…
His eyes were closed. He was seeing the light through his eyelids.
I'm not dreaming.
Belasco came awake. The ceiling overhead was visible to him, more than should be in the dark. That's because it's bright in here. Did I forget to blow out the lamp? No, I'm certain I did, you have to be careful, traveling in a big wooden box, fires could spread and…
"Good evening, Señor Belasco."
The director sat bolt upright, whipping around to identify the source of that voice. The lamp's been lit, he realized that instantly, filling his small office with golden warmth.
His eyes went wide when he caught sight of the living shadow sitting before his desk.
It was like something out of his more fanciful plays, the kind designed to appeal to the child in every one of us. Here was a swashbuckler type if he ever saw one. There was a sword buckled at the waist, and what might be a whip as well. Boots and pants, gloves and shirt, they were all black, as was the long cape which fell from his shoulders. A hat of the same hue, like the type preferred by the Mexican bravoes, adorned his head, and a mask covered his face. Belasco got the quick impression of a moustache over a frowning mouth before his attention was completely drawn to the eyes that stared at him so steadily. They were unnerving with their intensity, as though this figure was looking at nothing in the world but him and stripping away any conceits he might strive to erect in order to hide his naked soul.
Dressed only in a nightgown, he found that 'naked' part a bit more literal than he preferred.
"What's the meaning of this?" Belasco swallowed against his fear, trying to think of what might be going on. Could this be a joke by one of his performers? "Who the devil are you?"
"Funny you should ask," the intruder remarked back in a voice that was low yet remained expressive. "But you are right in one thing."
There was a rush of cloth, and then the flustered showman found himself slammed back down onto his bed and the tip of a gleaming poignard was pressed against his neck.
"I am a devil," his attacker smiled wickedly. "One that you brought up out of Mexico. And I have come to discuss the nature of our bargain, David Belasco."
"B-bargain?" he gasped hurriedly, almost afraid to draw breath. There was certainly no chance of raising a shout now. Dammit, he should have made a commotion before the knife came out! "What do you mean? I don't understand!"
"Shhh, softly now!" The phantom laid a finger to his lips. "We don't want any of your merry men being roused from sleep, now, do we?" He then grabbed Belasco's collar and yanked the frightened man upright once more. "As I said, you have roused the attentions of the abyss with your actions, Señor. And I fear that as punishment, it will cost you a soul."
Perspiring heavily, the normally quick-witted entertainer found himself unable to do anything more than gasp out feeble breaths. This was all nonsense, what could it possibly…?
Wait. Of course. That's it.
His heart was still racing, but David now regarded this almost supernatural figure with a more canny look than before.
"Who are you, then?"
And a predator's smile leered down at him.
"Zorro."
It took a second for this foreign word to register in his brain. But as soon as he made the translation, more came with it. Like a door had been opened, dredging up memories and stories far older than himself. Belasco's mouth fell open.
"The Fox," he breathed.
A resident of California in his youth and beyond, of course he had heard the name. From long before the time when it had been inducted into the United States, that beautiful land had been the home of a figure steeped in myth and legend. Whenever men sought to use power to exploit or abuse the innocent, it was said a mysterious avenger on a black stallion would emerge. Able to appear and disappear at will, he commanded arcane powers which he used only in the pursuit of justice, and his skills with the blade had earned him the respect of all who lived in the territory. More fox than man, he outwitted the clumsy soldiers who obeyed only the veneer of authority their leaders wrapped themselves in, and lost no opportunity to bring those proud and vicious men to their knees. There were countless tales of his heroics as he rode across the dry hills, rescuing entire communities and lone prisoners from their woes, be it drought or flood, famine or bandits. His was a name that carried an undercurrent of reverence when it was spoken, in recognition of the valorous spirit who sought to undo the mistakes which man's folly had wrought.
Staring down at Belasco from less than a few feet of distance was a legend come to life.
Zorro.
The implications left him more certain than ever of why this person was here. He now felt himself on somewhat more secure mental footing, regardless of the childish awe his upbringing engendered in him.
It would appear his dealings with unscrupulous men had attracted the attention of a most troublesome opponent.
As he reached this conclusion, Zorro abruptly dragged him out of bed.
"Up we go, now. It's time we were off."
"Where to?" David managed to ask as the outlaw spun him around and proceeded to march him to the door. The knife was still prominently displayed near his throat. He heard the sound of the covered lamp being blown out, and then they were back in darkness.
"To the source of your current troubles," his captor hissed. At a prick of the knife, David unlocked the door and stepped cautiously out into the hall. Belasco kept his hands raised and glanced casually back. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific there, my friend."
"No, I do not believe I do," that dangerous voice came over his shoulder. "But it will enlighten you to know that if you do not take me where I wish to be, then your night shall be much more painful than you ever anticipated when you tucked yourself into bed this evening."
It was well known David absolutely hated to be threatened, and normally he found a way to make the one doing so regret his behavior. But that was a tactic employed against mortal men. And while not of any particular religious persuasion, he retained a certain deep respect for folklore and superstition that almost bordered on faith in and of itself. Actor's habit, some might say. In this instance, however, the knowledge of whom he might be dealing with here served to start him moving along the car's length more even than the length of steel being used to goad his steps.
The wooden floorboards were cold under his bare feet. He was reminded of a role as Ebenezer Scrooge which required him to wear a similar flimsy get-up. It remained dark in this passage, but long experience navigating his way around kept him from stumbling against anything. Belasco led them briefly outside and onto the next passenger car. As with his own, there appeared to be no one awake at this hour. He couldn't tell if this was good fortune or bad.
Speaking of which, it certainly couldn't hurt to make one thing clear.
"I'm not entirely certain what is going on," David whispered once more, "but I can assure you that I am more than able to barter for my well-being. How much should we start our discussion off on, hmmm?"
No response came back.
"Shall we say…" he hazarded, "…five thousand dollars?"
A hand gripped his shoulder roughly. "Remember pain, Belasco."
"Seven thousand, then."
We are not having this discussion. Lead on."
"Surely there must be something of mine that might interest you, my dear Zorro?"
There came a chuckle then as they found themselves back outside briefly. "Actually, there is. I intend to deprive you of more this night than just a fat commission. But for that you will simply have to be patient. Now, how much longer?"
"Just a little ways, good man, a little ways." Now fully awake, the cunning playwright felt reasonably assured of a chance to beat this trap he was in. "I wonder if we might keep discussing our options as we go?"
"There is no more time. We are here."
Belasco paused. "I beg your pardon?"
"Yes," Zorro muttered, so close it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "When you brought Sanchez out of the snake pit, you only moved him between two cars. I was watching, and could see that much. Counting backwards from your own, that means he must be somewhere among the compartments of the one we are now in. My only concern is which. There are eight total. Kindly lead me to the right one."
At the mention of snakes, David felt a leaden weight form in his stomach. How? How could this man possibly know about his smuggling method! Was there a traitor in his family? Or had someone simply worked it out? If that was the case, why had this Zorro not gone to the Mexican authorities and warned them beforehand of what was happening? He could not think of any valid arguments against it at this time.
But none of that mattered. Because right at this moment, they had come before the door in question.
"Open it," the black-clad menace demanded quietly.
Seeing no other way to delay, Belasco complied.
As soon as the door slid open, a firm shove put him inside the room and down on his knees.
"What the…?"
There was the snap of a match, and then the narrow cabin was filled with a guttering, hissing luminescence. Shadows leapt along the walls cast by the occupants. Turning, David saw Zorro was now holding a sparkler candle. The outlaw's attention was off him, those menacing eyes instead turned upon the face of the frightened youth now sitting up in bed. In the glow of his party favor, it was easy to recognize Pietro Sanchez.
"God's blood, who are…?"
One gloved hand slapped out across his face, silencing his cries. Before anyone could react, Zorro pounced. He grabbed one of Pietro's hands, twisted it behind his back and forced him face down onto the pillow, smothering his yowls. A few seconds later he had expertly looped a leather cord around the boy's wrists.
Belasco made to sit up then and immediately found the dagger being leveled at him once more, a clear warning. Slowly, so as not to appear dangerous, he scooted into a corner farthest from the door, keeping his hands raised.
Zorro nodded approvingly and proceeded with his business. Once his target's hands were bound together, he dragged him upright, gasping and teary-eyed, and produced a hank of cloth which he then stuffed into Sanchez's mouth and began to tie behind his head.
In order to pull this off, he placed the dagger between his teeth to prevent any slips of the blade.
Upon seeing that, David gave a sharp cough.
Instantly a giant arm snaked out from beneath the bed and seized Zorro by the ankle. It gave a mighty yank, and the outlaw tumbled backward, slamming against the wall with a crash. The dagger clattered across the floor. Pietro lost his balance and fell atop Belasco, his cries stopped by the gag.
Hernando emerged from beneath the cot, furious eyes leveled upon their assailant and keeping tight hold of his ankle. While he was busy still extricating himself from his hiding place, Zorro pulled back his free leg and kicked him soundly in the face. The powerhouse made no reaction to this, not by word or deed. As the masked fighter drew back for another blow, Hernando came to his knees swifter than might be expected and lunged forth, catching Zorro by the front of his shirt. He then dragged them both upright.
"Open the window!" the colossus snarled over his shoulder.
Belasco did so, shoving the thrashing Mexican off him and scrambling to throw open the glass. A commotion could be heard over the sounds of the struggle. Shouts from the next compartment were coming up. "Hernando!" they called. "Are you all right?"
Quickly Belasco sprang across the length of the room and slammed the door, locking it securely. Moments later there was the sound of someone trying to open it. "Hernando! What's going on?"
Zorro tore and fought against that iron hold. Held off the floor by one leg and his shirt like this, he couldn't come to an advantageous position for grappling. The giant seem unfazed by any blow he landed. Clearly this person knew something about wrestling, for he maneuvered his body to prevent Zorro from reaching either his groin or his eyes and ears. The truly vulnerable spots were well protected, then.
Hernando carried him over to the open window. Desperately Zorro's mind sought for a way out of this. There was no room to draw his sword, and it wouldn't have made a difference if he could, not in these tight quarters. His dagger was gone, where he couldn't see. Any of his other tools would be either ineffective or too dangerous for all concerned. In just a few moments he would be flung out of a speeding train, most likely to his severe injury or even death. Held in this awkward position, his desperate gaze raked around the room, searching for something useful.
His eye was drawn to the glowing sparkler candle still rolling on the floor.
Zorro's hand snatched up the burning brand. The circus strongman stopped before the open portal and prepared to heave his burden through it. Before he could, the valiant desperado unhooked the whip from his belt. Holding it still rolled up, he used the extended reach this provided him and, jerking upwards, looping the cords around Hernando's head like a cowboy lassoing a heifer. Taken by surprise, the bald brute hesitated just as he was about to pitch him forward.
As he did, the hero yanked on his improvised collar, bringing himself closer to the face of his opponent, and jammed the sparkler up Hernando's cavernous nose.
The man's eyes flew wide, and he roared loud enough to drown out the sounds of the people outside. His grip loosened on instinct, and Zorro tore free. It only took a second for his opponent to dislodge the searing obstruction in his airways, but in that time, he had taken advantage of the distraction. Gripping the coiled whip with both hands now, the black crow jumped a little off his feet and then came back down, lifting his legs high to either side and pulling with all his strength. This combined with the weight of his own not insubstantial frame brought Hernando's head pitching down to slam against the open edge of the window.
Dazed, the great ox slumped against the bed. The Fox moved fast. Retrieving his lash, he saw Belasco picking up the knife where it had fallen. No time to find out if he knew how to use it or not. Instead Zorro sidestepped the question by grabbing the still-bound Pietro and dragging him upright, holding him between them like a shield. The boy squealed through his gag when he saw the blade being pointed at him, and Belasco froze.
Zorro advanced, pushing his prisoner ahead of him. The older man gave way before them, his face worked in a murderous scowl. Continued cries at his back demanded if the occupants were in need of assistance.
Of a sudden the masked fighter gave a jerk forward on his hostage. Immediately David whipped the knife away to avoid harming Pietro. Before he could realize it was just a feint, Zorro kicked out and knocked the weapon from his hand. He then planted his shoulder against the teen's back and charged forward with a mighty cry. They collided with Belasco, and all three crashed into the door, splintering the wood and knocking it from its hinges so that they pitched into the crowded corridor, to the astonishment of the roused entertainers on the other side.
Leaping backwards off this dog-pile, Zorro plunged a hand into the pouch on his belt and came up with a small tube of metal. Depressing one end, he heard the snap indicating a reaction and then tossed the canister back out into the hallway before ducking down and covering his eyes.
A wise precaution, as moments later the whole car was lit up with light so bright anyone looking at it from outside would have thought there was a tiny sun contained inside.
As the magnesium bomb subsided, one could hear the frantic wails of people temporarily blinded by the chemical reaction. Looking up, Zorro saw no one on their feet through the door. He then leapt to his feet and tore out into the hallway.
Several people in their bedtime attire, both men and women, were leaning against walls or sitting in the corridor, rubbing their eyes and calling for help. They would probably be seeing spots for quite a while, but no permanent damage should be done. He went out of his way to keep from harming people more than necessary. And in this case, that seemed to be enough.
Pietro Sanchez was twitching and looking around from his place still atop a mound of people. Apparently he had still been facedown when the flash went off, for when Zorro grabbed his shirt and yanked him upright, his wild eyes looked right at his attacker, and he began screaming through his gag.
"MOVE!" Zorro roared in his loudest voice.
He shoved the fugitive roughly, who spun and staggered across the crowded corridor in bare feet, stepping on limbs and flinching when their owners yowled furiously at him. His captor followed close behind as they moved down the length of the train, picking his steps with care and keeping one hand pressed against the boy's back, urging him to greater speeds. Chancing a glance behind, he saw Belasco shaking his head and peering about as he groped for leverage to rise. By the way he looked, it would seem he too had avoided the effects of the bomb, probably from having Sanchez lying on top of him.
The two men locked eyes for the space of a heartbeat, and in that moment both recognized the hard gaze of an enemy.
Fortunately this interlude allowed Zorro to see movement down the way, and the flash of bright steel.
"DOWN!" he yelled, and shoved Pietro so that he went sprawling forward. The man in black collapsed as well, just before a knife flew down the corridor and whistled overhead.
Another followed soon afterwards, but by this point Zorro had already ducked into a seated booth that took up one side of this end of the car. The blade embedded in the floor a scant second after he vacated that spot. Out of the attacker's sightline, he considered his options.
Having somewhat recovered from this treatment, Pietro Sanchez wiggled about from his position until he could see what was happening behind him.
To his surprise, he recognized the man coming down the hallway, stepping grimly past those people who were only now starting to recover their sight. It was one of the attendants who had been there when he was brought out of the snake. Only now, he had a brace of daggers tucked into a bandolier strapped across his chest. With short black hair that stuck up wildly from his head, fierce eyes and narrow scarred cheeks, he made for a much more formidable figure than the one Pietro recalled.
"Ari!" Belasco gasped as his partner strode by. "Careful who you hit! We can't have him getting hurt now!"
Dressed in a nightshirt and tight performer's pants with knives thrust into his boots, Ahriman the knife-thrower shot a look down at his boss and nodded. "Don't worry," and his menacing gaze returned to the stretch of lane up ahead. "I only hit what I aim for."
Hidden behind the doorframe, Zorro popped his head out briefly and them immediately tucked it back in. The breeze of a passing knife let him know just who he was dealing with here. The knife-juggler he had seen performing last night. Thought he had recognized the face when they were smuggling Pietro between the trains. At least my memory hasn't failed me, he considered languidly.
Just then another dagger thudded into the wooden frame near his head, and a second impacted with the floor right beside him. The man was coming closer, judging by the angles. As if to affirm this, suddenly a sharpened blade actually entered the sitting compartment he was hiding in and lodged into the leather couch's cushion. Good thing he had been farther back from the door than that, or he might have been hit.
"Well, at least I can take one thing out of this." So saying, Zorro quickly reached out and plucked the knife free just before another one landed close to the same spot. It wasn't the fine Spanish steel he had left back in Pietro's cabin, but something was better than nothing. Nice of his opponent to at least arm him. Who said courtesy was dead?
Any humor at his situation quickly evaporated when another knife skimmed close to the brim of his hat. It appeared as if the acrobat had taken up a position down the hall and was attempting to keep him pinned down now. Good. That at least gives me some time to think about things. He could be waiting for that gorilla Hernando to rouse himself and join the fray, a prospect Zorro was not looking forward to. Or there might be other more dangerous people on their way at this very moment. Up to this point nobody had broken out any firearms, for which he was glad. No reason to assume any of these circus freaks were that heavily armed. Of course, that could change depending on how you looked at it. One really should beware of shooting oneself in the foot…
The sound of wood being pierced let him know that thoughtful deliberation was getting him nowhere. There were several projectiles close at hand, he realized, courtesy of Knives over there. But engaging in a knife-throwing war with that character didn't suit his sense of aesthetics. With the corridor crowded back that way, someone might be seriously hurt were he to misjudge his aim. Well, you could always wait for the man to run out of throwing implements, right? And how long would that take, I wonder?
Time was running out. He quickly consulted a golden pocket-watch for confirmation. It wouldn't be much longer. They would both have to be off the train by the time it happened, or things would undoubtedly get messy. Nothing he couldn't handle, really; but still, messy didn't exactly go towards inspiring legends of his cleverness. And there was a certain family tradition to uphold in that regard. Got to give the people what they've come to expect, after all.
Zorro sighed. Very well, then. He hadn't wanted to use another of the tricks from his arsenal quite so soon, but right now he couldn't afford to be pinned down like this. So decided, he reached into his pouch and withdrew several small clay smoke bombs. Based on the Robert Yale formula from his father's time, they should provide sufficient cover and camouflage for him to make a suitable escape. Knives wouldn't risk throwing recklessly through smoke, he might wind up hitting Pietro. Now that that's been decided…
An unusual sound, like something rolling across the floor, reached his ears then.
Turning his head, the savvy swashbuckler was shocked to see two smoke bombs skitter right by this spot.
Well, that's ironic.
"LOOK OUT!" someone cried, and then the devices went off, followed by his hideout and the cabin being filled with an obscuring gray cloud.
"David, what the hell's happening?" one of his actresses screamed at him, coughing and rubbing at her eyes.
"Everyone, listen to me!" he yelled back in an attempt to be heard over the din. "Please stay calm, there's no need to get upset!"
And just like that everyone started gabbling at once.
"Who's shooting? Are we being robbed?"
"For mercy's sake, just give them what they want! It's not worth getting gunned down over!"
"Oh God!" another querulous voice could be heard. "It's Comanche, I know it! They'll kill us all, they're ruthless, I tell you!"
"Abner, you idiot, the Comanche haven't looted in twenty years! It's obviously the Hopi, they're still upset about their chief being sent to Alcatraz! I saw them bring him in across the Bay, a more vicious-looking scoundrel you've never…!"
"QUIET!"
Hernando's bellow cut through the commotion without any dissent. In its wake, a number of sheepish-looking actors and carnival-folk stood about looking frazzled and half-awake in their nightclothes.
In the resulting silence, David took his little mob of unhappy people firmly in hand. "It seems someone has snuck aboard the train. Hernando and I will take care of it, you can be certain. Go back to your rooms now. Lock the doors and don't let anyone in if you don't recognize them. We'll inform you the moment this has been resolved. In the meantime, look after one another. Take care of each other. We're all family, and now's the time to show it."
The respect they all held for him chose to manifest at that moment. With mumbled apologies and the grace of trained performers, they all filed out of the cabin or returned to their rooms as requested. Assistance was offered to the ones who had sustained bumps or scrapes in the confusion, as well as those still looking a little woozy from that blast of light.
Under normal circumstances, Belasco would have been gratified to see them all so courteous to one another. But right now, he was preoccupied with something a little removed from fatherly concerns.
When the smoke had cleared, Pietro Sanchez was missing. Ari had gone charging into the cloud cover before anyone could stop him, and he too was not in evidence at the time. Most disturbing of all, their unexpected rider had also not chosen to stick around following that disturbance. When they moved to investigate the cubbyhole Zorro had stashed himself in, the only thing they found were a few knives in the upholstery and a broken window.
Standing outside that nook, Belasco stared out the shattered pane and then turned a look of cold fury on his hulking helper.
"Don't let him off this train," he declared softly.
Nursing the lump on his forehead, Hernando responded with a teeth-baring grimace and turned to head into the next car.
Zorro hunched down against the force of the wind blowing against his body. He backtracked down roof of the cars, keeping low and making his progress carefully so as not to lose his footing. His predecessors had a few particular tales that involved them doing something precisely like this. They never mentioned the way every bump in the tracks made you feel like you were about to be bucked off your feet, or how the cape almost turned into a living thing from the rushing gale and tried to wrap itself around your legs at every turn, hindering your movements. It was tempting to simply hoist the wrap off his shoulders and let it go soaring away like a great black flag. Tempting, but then, despite being almost solely used for theatrical effect, it did have its advantages in a fight when used properly. And he had been trained not to give up on any advantages life presented you with.
The adrenaline high he had been running on since tackling the muscle man seemed to be wearing off. It wasn't the first time he had come close to dying, and it hopefully wouldn't be the last. No sense thinking about it now. What mattered was that there was an unexpected snag in his plans.
He had been closest, and so he heard when somebody came into the car back there and apparently hussled Sanchez out. Most likely it was the same person who threw the smoke bombs, since they had come from that direction. Now, granted, it was possible that this was just another one of Belasco's crew trying to keep any of the honest members from learning what was going on. Zorro had come to suspect that this little human smuggling operation was kept to only a small circle of people. The rest of the group was probably in the dark about their leader's side business. That made for a larger share of the profits, and less risk of a careless word being let slip to the wrong ears.
But something didn't feel quite right. It was entirely possible that a new player was trying to deal in on this game. A lot of money was at stake, after all. A bounty hunter might have sniffed things out and snuck on board somehow. Perhaps one of the actors had gotten wise to their company's illegal activities and was looking to cash in on it. Or it was just an internal dispute amongst the conspirators.
Either way, it didn't bode well for his own concerns. And maybe not for Pietro's either. Whoever had him now might not take as great a concern in seeing him come out of this alive as Zorro. And that meant every second he wasn't under the Fox's care his life was possibly in danger. Whatever happened after this fiasco was over, he was determined that the boy would survive to stand trial for his actions.
So if some third party felt it was their business to get involved here, they were about to find themselves another target of the Fox.
Thus resolved, he made his way along the galloping back of this iron horse.
To be continued…