With a terrified gasp, Ferroq realized what she had done and tossed his hands before him to catch the bottle. It sank into his grasp—
And a crippling explosion of pain rang out from between his legs. His red face miraculously turning ash-white, he doubled over, the bottle dropping from his insensate fingers.
Elena caught the falling bottle with the grace of a trained dancer. Darting behind him as if it were all part of a carefully choreographed dance, she watched him cringe with pain—and stuffed the nitro-filled bottle down the back of his pants.
Flashing a triumphant grin, Elena hissed, “Drinks are on me.”
Stepping back for leverage, she kicked Ferroq out the cargo door.
Colonel Beauregard gawked in disbelief as the screeching form of Armand’s bald, black-suited, dark-mustached servant whipped from the madly advancing train and barreled right at him. Ferroq’s blistered and burned body couldn’t have seemed more like that of a devil wrenched from hell. The way he flew was just like the way Lucifer’s winged lackeys soared in the colonel’s darkest dreams.
Somehow, he knew. Though he couldn’t see the bottle of nitro tucked in Ferroq’s waistband, Beauregard was altogether certain that his time was at hand.
Um…Lord, is this your way of sayin’ we got it wrong?
Ferroq struck the colonel—and the stagecoach and all that surrounded it exploded in a fiery burst of wood sharps, super-hot metal, shattered wheels and twisted axles. The force of the explosion rocked the train, nearly driving three boxcars from the track.
Before they had settled, a still-twitching severed arm sporting a mangled crescent blade smacked against a steel track divider a hundred yards off, jostling it forward. The tracks shifted, sending the train veering to a new and very deadly rendezvous.
Within the rear car, Elena grasped a handrail, steadying herself as she felt the train change directions. All around her, like trees caught in a strong wind, the suspended bottles of nitro perilously swayed.
Governor Riley stood glistening in the early morning sun on the creaking wood planks of the stationary caboose platform. The official state flag of California proudly waved high over the heads of the spectators who’d come to Bear Point to witness history in the making. The Statehood Ceremony would soon be under way…
“Is my cravat straight?” asked Governor Riley, his back to the crowd as he fiddled with the black silk at his throat.
The young well-dressed congressman standing beside him stroked his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He was a tall sprout, an absolute stick of a man, but a serene intelligence burned in his eyes. He nodded politely.
The governor sighed with relief. “Well, that’s good. I swear, son, you’re possibly the first man I’ve met in politics I trust not to tell a lie.”
The congressman opened his mouth to reply—then stepped back, moving out of the way as the governor’s aide and several other functionaries rushed in to swamp the man with last minute concerns.
Riley hardly needed them. As he gazed out at the huge crowd that had gathered for the statehood celebration, his memory was rocked by the violence that erupted on Election Day. He shook his head, cursing himself for thinking like a frightened old woman.
If Mary were here, she’d laugh in your face, he chided himself, picturing his wife rolling her eyes at his skittishness. But she was resting in their compartment of the train that sat idling on the tracks.
Dozens of guards had been stationed at all points around the proceedings and multiple escape routes had been designated in the event of a disturbance.
There was nothing to worry about.
The governor held out his hands to the crowd—and the people of California fell into a reverent hush.
“My fellow Californians,” cried the governor, his eyes brimmed with pleasure, “we have gathered here at historic Bear Point to make official our entrance into the United States of America…”
The people cheered, their faces beaming with pride, their eyes wild with joy. Their day had finally come. Peasants filled with excitement cried out, their voices joined by those of wealthy dons, Chinese immigrants, Native Americans, and free Africans.
“Libertad!” they cried. “Viva California! Viva America!”
As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, guards kept a watchful eye on the horizon. Though they performed their jobs with the diligence of trained soldiers, every one of them harbored a similar thought in the backs of their heads:
How could anything possibly go wrong on a day like today?
On a sandy hilltop high above the tracks, Joaquin brought Tornado to a halt. Together they watched the spiraling plumes of smoke coiling high from the obscenity that was Armand’s train of death. He felt his heart hammering and his mouth tighten in determination.
Fear nearly caused him to bolt out of the saddle as he whipped his gaze around to see that the statehood celebration—already well under way—was seated on the same track as Armand’s train.
He saw it clearly for one horrifying moment. The blinding whoosh of the flaming supernova sweeping high into the sky as the trains collided, claiming the lives of his parents and countless other innocents.
I have to warn them. No, wait, there isn’t any time—I have to stop this!
Desperately scouring the landscape, Joaquin gasped as he took in the only means available to prevent the tragedy he’d foreseen—if only he could reach it in time.
Spurring Tornado ahead, horse and rider bulleted into the horizon.
Zorro staggered to his feet at the lumber car, the glowing furnace of the engine now in sight.
If we can stop the train—
A high deadly whistling stirred in his ear, the harbinger of a streaking silver blade behind him. Zorro spun, leaping back as Armand came at him in a rush, his sabre snapping wildly ahead, his bold, well-rehearsed moves desperately discarded as he charged with nothing but hatred in his heart.
The tip of Armand’s blade was like an enraged serpent—its bite eager to bring death.
Zorro’s back smacked against a rail.
He had nowhere to go!
Governor Riley slammed his fist into his open hand. “Until this day, history has cast the common man—and woman—as nothing more than servants of their government. With the ratification of this document before our honored congressman from Washington, the government will now be made to serve the people!”
Wild applause rang from the people huddled beneath their new state flag as the governor leaned in to sign the state ratification document. His pen had barely scratched the parchment before him when a sudden shaking began, a rumbling frenzy of vibrations quickly rising from the tracks shaking the entire stage.
Clinging to the podium, Riley whirled to face a guard standing beside the train. “What’s going on?”
The guard shook his head and signaled several of his junior officers to investigate. But it wasn’t necessary. The guards and the common people who had come here to see the dream they had long been chasing finally become reality peered ahead to witness an out-of-control train racing right for them.
“Oh my God,” whispered the governor.
The train sped on as Armand’s blade grazed just over Zorro’s head. Ducking and weaving, Zorro positioned himself to land a savage blow with his open palm to the underside of the overconfident count’s jaw. Armand snapped back, arms splayed, defenseless at last.
You really need to work on your left, my friend…
Grabbing Armand’s head, Zorro smashed it against the smokestack, then hurled the moaning count against the guardrail. With a sharp clatter, Armand’s sword tumbled from his weakened fingers and bounded off the train, snapping in two as it struck the dusty reaches and was whisked under the train’s grinding wheels.
Zorro thought he heard screams in the far distance—and his moment of distraction cost him. The count rallied—driving his skull against Zorro’s. The masked man stumbled back into the locomotive, his hands driving up just in time to close over Armand’s throat
as the madman leaped at him. They held each other in a chokehold, faces inches apart, eyes glaring utter hatred.
In that moment, Zorro knew that the interests of justice and vengeance were one. Because whatever the count could not control, he would destroy.
Including Elena.
A panic had broken out at Bear Point. There wasn’t a chance in hell of getting the governor’s train moving in time to avoid a collision. Even if there had been a way of driving it far enough along the tracks to clear this makeshift station and perhaps spare the lives of the spectators, the blur racing toward them from less than a mile away would catch up in a heartbeat. There were switching stations, but none that could be reached in the splintering seconds remaining.
The people ran in all directions, many falling and crying out as others trampled them.
“Get those people out of here safely!” hollered the governor to his men. Then he turned to the boxcar where his wife was resting. “Evacuate the train! Do it now!”
Mary, he thought madly. Please, not her—
Then he could contain his terror no longer. “Mary!” he screamed, crying her name again and again until his throat was raw.
But death thundered down the tracks, unmindful of his pleas.
Upon the hillside, Joaquin reared Tornado to a halt in front of a small maintenance shack, beside which jutted another track divider. Leaping from the saddle, Joaquin landed in the sand and raced for the steel lever.
He yanked at the rusted machinery with all his might—but it wasn’t enough.
The cool steel was locked in place.
Onboard the charging locomotive, Armand accepted a rain of blows from his opponent, allowing the masked man to exhaust himself. He stared into Zorro’s fiery eyes and thought, We are two men touched by destiny. I see that now. Without worthy opposition, what good is a conqueror’s victory, yes? To die well is the best you can hope for, de la Vega.
Smiling as one of Zorro’s strikes went wild, Armand raged against him, his fists smacking satisfyingly against his enemy’s face.
Hope all you want. I will see you die like a dog.
Armand’s focus was as sharp and precise as the edge of a sword. Only Zorro’s gaze fell upon the long gleaming expanse of the governor’s stationary train—and the crush of frightened, fleeing peasants up ahead.
Joaquin’s brain was fit to burst—and so were his straining muscles. No matter how hard he gripped the track divider, no matter how hard he hauled at the burning steel lever, it stubbornly refused to budge. His hands suddenly slick with sweat, Joaquin wailed as he pulled one last time—and was sent sprawling back into the desert’s dust, his grip lost.
No! I won’t let it end like this!
Frantically casting his gaze over the shed, he seized a hammer from it, scrambled back to the lever, and raised the hammer high in a furious two-fisted clench. Steel rang out on steel, an angry clang that echoed for miles. Joaquin’s muscles were raw, agony coursing up his limbs as he struck again and again—
Until, with a horrible crackling, the hammer’s wooden handle splintered and broke off. Joaquin stood over the track divider, his body quaking, his mind refusing to believe he was out of options. Whirling at the sound of Armand’s monstrous creation barreling toward the governor’s train, Joaquin shuddered helplessly, his gaze fixed on the hundreds of innocents scrambling for cover. But there was nowhere to hide, and only a few frightful yards separating the trains.
Only a miracle could save them now.
With a bold whinny, Tornado reared up on his hind hooves—and kicked at the divider. His front hooves drove the divider forward, the tracks switching just in time. A hailstorm of sparks skidded into the air as Armand’s train veered off, lurching precariously to one side, before thrusting ahead and beyond the terrified crowd.
Eyes wide open, Joaquin yelped with delight. He sprang up onto the stallion, wrapping his arms around Tornado’s huge chuffing head, tears of relief streaming down his face.
The train rocketed ahead, a primordial fury bellowing with rage, trembling in anticipation of delivering its fiery song of death. At its head, Armand desperately grasped at a knife he had slipped into his boot. It was the same blade he had pressed against McGivens’s tongue the night before, threatening to silence him forever…the same blade wielded by his ancestor against the heretic prophet whose words may well have damned them all. Fingers closing over the hilt, which bore the mark of Aragon—the serpent coiling over the globe—he yanked it out and thrust it at Zorro’s face.
The masked man reared back, one arm sweeping up to smack the blade aside. Grinning, eyes blazing like those of El Diablo himself, Armand flung himself at Zorro, knocking the off-balance man back, driving the blade at his enemy’s heart. The tip jabbed down and down, raking Zorro’s shirt, pressing against his flesh and drawing forth stinging drops of blood as it broke the skin, and would soon cleave deeper, plunging toward the only conclusion this fight could really have—
Heels clacked at Armand’s back, and a pale hand thrust into his line of sight, gripping his wrist and wrenching his blade arm back. He rocked on his heels, his face whipping over his shoulder.
Who would DARE—
His world became dark as a heavy hunk of wood smacked hard against his skull, sending him staggering away from Zorro. Startled, disoriented, the wind bashing him about his face, he realized that his foot had just closed over nothing.
As he toppled over the front of the locomotive, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Elena’s grim smile. Then he heard a churning roar, the deadly clatter of wheels streaking and sparking on the rails, as his head struck something more…and he knew nothing at all.
On the train, Elena’s hands closed over her husband’s arm and she helped him to his feet. Together, they looked ahead—and gasped at the sight of a wall of steel rocketing toward them. A dead-end depot.
“End of the line,” whispered Elena.
“Joaquin?”
“He’s safe.”
Nodding sharply, Zorro stepped from her, uncoiling his whip. A look sparked between them. Do you trust me?
With all my heart.
As a water tower raced into reach, Zorro cracked the whip, coiling it around the tower’s heavy lower supports. Sweeping a very obliging Elena into his arms, he leaped into the air—
And the couple swung to safety as the train bulleted ahead at breakneck speed toward its brutal end.
On that train, pressed with his back against the iron teeth of the cow catcher, Armand shuddered, his eyes flying open wide.
This can’t be happening, not to me, NOT TO ME—
He barely had time to scream before the train smashed head-on into the dead-end depot, the hatred that was his inner fire lost and extinguished for good. He died in the conflagration that erupted as the boxcars exploded one by one. Blinding light flashed against the desert basin, a firestorm gripping the sands in angry, godlike fists. Roiling clouds of steel and smoke flattened down upon the horizon, shaking the earth, pulverizing all they encountered in a fit of rolling thunder.
Silence swept eerily over the frightened spectators of the statehood ceremony—until they realized they were safely out of harm’s way. Trembling men and woman gazed at each other, realizing with sudden shock that they were safe. Cries of joy split the sky—and a lone whistling gust of wind cut low, striking the state ratification document from the caboose landing.
The parchment glided through the air, skipping like a stone upon the ground, only to stop against a pair of weather-beaten black boots. Zorro snatched up the document, pausing a moment to regale it with a reverent look before handing it back to Governor Riley.
Then Zorro cast out his gloved hand with a proud flourish. “Your people are waiting, Governor.”
Moments later, at the rear platform of the California governor’s train, Bennett Riley scrawled his name on the most important document he’d ever beheld in his life—whipping the pen with a dramatic flair meant to make even Zorro proud.
And
it did. The masked man laughed with joy as the governor slid the paper across to the young bearded congressman, who stamped it with a congressional seal.
“Welcome to the union, Governor,” said the congressman, his voice deep, rumbling and impressive, like the engine of a powerful locomotive.
The people exploded with cheers as the American flag was hoisted high beside the flag of California. The celebration that would begin here would last an eternity in the hearts of all that cherished freedom.
The smiling congressman strolled over to Zorro. In his booming voice, he said, “It would appear a grave disaster’s been narrowly avoided.”
Zorro nodded. “America has many enemies. We’re a young country, and we’ll make mistakes…”
With joy in his eyes, he surveyed the crowd. Elena’s loving face shone brightly among the people, her arms wrapped tightly about Joaquin. Flocks of people crowded on the pair, welcoming them back to their good graces, including the elderly, pinched-face Señora Rodriguez—who broke down and cried with gratitude, sobbing into the bosom of one of her acolytes as her trembling hand sought that of Elena de la Vega. The startled Elena took it gently, hardly prepared for the crush of former friends who now sought her forgiveness. Yes, many had made mistakes…
“But they’ll be our mistakes,” declared the man behind the mask, the keeper of the legend, in words of strength for his people—and words of apology to the woman who had stolen his heart for all eternity. “And we’ll be stronger for them.”
Elena’s luminous smile widened—and Alejandro’s heart soared. She forgave him.
He could feel it.
The congressman shook his head with wonder at the day’s events. “I assume you’re to thank for our good fortune?” he asked kindly.
Zorro removed his black hat with humility. “Not me…”
The Legend of Zorro Page 29
