Young Zorro (9 page)

T
HE FIESTA WAS OVER
for this year. There were dozens of stories to last until the next fiesta. They would circulate up and down the coast with travelers on the Camino Real and on the coastal boats. In San Diego and Acapulco and Panama, they would tell about the grizzly bear that had visited the ball at the Honorio hacienda and danced its way into the night.

The vaqueros had almost recovered from the sleepless nights of dancing and singing, too much wine and food, the easy life. They would grumble about returning to hard riding, but it was really what they did well, what they loved. Once a year they were obliged to stop riding for a few days and teach the townsfolk how to celebrate properly. Then it was time to mount up again.

Other ranchos would begin tanning and making tallow later, when the official Spanish trade boats came up the coast. The de la Vega rancho had its secret agreement with Captain Carter and the
Two Brothers
. Don Alejandro began the work immediately.

Butchers and tanners from the mission, the pueblo, and other ranchos moved into tents and de la Vega barns. Firewood was cut, hearths were set up, and the great cauldrons stood ready. New tanning pits were dug and lined. The big two-wheeled carts were repaired for the heavy hauling to come. The vaqueros began to single out the cattle.

It was a big, ugly business. No one could enjoy it. The best they could do was to be skillful and quick.

Diego and Bernardo walked beside Scar, watching one of the first cattle go through the process. A bull was cut from the herd and driven into a chute of woven saplings and branches. Alone in the chute, it was killed with one hard blow from an ax. It was dragged a few paces, and the skinning began. A pair of tanners working with short, quick strokes took the whole hide in one ragged piece, up to the ears and down to the ankles. Other tanners laid it hair-side down on smooth logs and scraped the fat and flesh into big tubs. The scraped hides were slid into the tanning pits, flooded
dark brown with preserving oak bark.

The boys stepped back as the grisly carcass was swung up to the branch of a tree for butchering. With the first cut, the guts came tumbling out. Women picked through them briefly for a few delicacies—parts of the stomachs made tripe for
menudo
soup; the kidneys and sweetbreads went for other dishes. Creamy slabs of fat went into tubs. The rest went into barrels to be hauled off to one of the
arroyos de la muerte
, the ravines of death where bears, wolves, coyotes, wild boar, and scavengers prospered on the leavings.

Diego gagged a bit. The smell was awful.

“The smell of death,” Scar said. “The smell of every butchery and battlefield. We are brothers of the cattle. The smell is the same.”

Diego shook his head, both disgusted and fascinated by the intricate, intensely colorful insides of the bull.

Bernardo drew his hand across his throat: This big process, all death.

Scar nodded. “Cattle die; the pueblo lives. The cattle live a few easy years, grazing and resting, and they come to this. We accept their death, use their bodies, and make our living from them. It's too easy to think of this sentimentally, as if it were a wicked thing.”

“What's the way to think about it?” Diego asked.

“Gratefully,” Scar said simply. He motioned toward a cart filling up with barrels of guts and bones. “That's a trip we all make. All of us, to the
arroyo de la muerte
. We have longer than the cattle do. We can be grateful for that. And we can be grateful for the cattle's help.”

The butchers worked the big carcasses quickly, separating the cuts of beef with long, curved knives as sharp as razors. The big roasts and joints of beef had their fat trimmed into the tubs and were dropped into tight barrels of scalding, strong brine. The barrels would be sold to ships as “salt horse,” beef preserved in strong brine that would keep for years.

Other butchers at tables cut beef into thin strips, casting them into barrels of water, wine, and spices. When the strips had marinated in their flavorings, women would hang them on racks over smoky fires to dry as jerky. Some would be eaten in the saddle or on the trail. Some would be beaten and ground by Estafina into rich, spicy winter dishes. Some of the jerky would be sold in cloth bags to ships.

Carts returning from the
arroyo de la muerte
brought more firewood. Scar and the boys followed the fat tubs to the long line of fires under iron cauldrons. The smell here was meaty and rich.

“They look like hell's demons,” Diego said.

Working in the smoke near the flames, smut-soiled neophytes from the mission swung long-handled pitchforks to drop fat, meat, and big bones into the boiling water. Several times an hour, the cauldron was skimmed for fat, which was ladled into a copper cooling vat. Thick and whitish-gray, this tallow was poured into hide leather bags, each weighing half as much as a man.

Hides and tallow, the riches of the pueblo. The
Two Brothers
would trade them somewhere on the rim of the Pacific Ocean for gold and trade goods. The hides would be used for leather goods, belting for the new steam engines, shoes, harness, and saddles. The tallow would be turned into candles to light homes and burn on church altars.

When they saddled up, Diego looked back and said, “We need all those skills to make the pueblo work. Butchers, tanners, herders, candlemakers, barrel makers…”

Scar nodded. “Cattle and skills are being stolen. If too many are taken, the pueblo will shrivel up like an unwatered vine. Someone's greed could kill us.”

 

Diego fell behind Bernardo as they rode along a narrow ravine trail. Scar had sent them to tell Juan Three-fingers and his crew that more cattle were
needed at the rancho's hide and tallow works.

They broke out of the trees into a meadow. A dozen crows and a few vultures flew up. Diego's blood chilled for a moment, remembering Señor Porcana's body. They reined in their ponies and explored the steep sides of the ravine.

This time it was only a dead cow. “Saints and cats and little kittens,” Diego said, “I couldn't have taken another murder.”

Bernardo signed to Diego: I was afraid of the same thing.

The cow had fallen over an embankment above the ravine. The tumble through trees had broken its neck. They had watched many skinnings by now. It was a chore, but it had to be done.

Diego stepped across the body to attach his reata. “It's a Moncada cow,” he called to Bernardo. “Here's the poppy brand. Why did Moncada make his mark so complicated? It looks more like a wrought-iron fence than a cattle brand.”

Bernardo flounced his fingers under his chin, like a ruffled shirt collar. It was one of their signs for “overdressed” or “showy.”

“Don Moncada is showy, that's for sure. He dresses like a peacock.”

Bernardo held up two fingers.

“Yes, Rafael Moncada is a dandy, too. When he comes back from Barcelona, he'll be unbearable. A new outfit every day.” Diego laughed. “He might even come back wearing dresses.”

He remounted and backed his pony. The cow slid out of the trees. At the edge of the meadow, they tied off their horses, unsaddled them, and took off their shirts for the messy work. Range law was clear: the branded cow was Moncado property. They would skin the cow and send the hide to the Moncada rancho. The meat was of no importance out here.

They pulled the knives from their boots and began. Diego started with a necklace cut around the neck. From that, he ran a long cut along the belly. Bernardo cut around the ankles, then up the legs toward the belly cut. They worked under the sun in the friendly silence of brothers.

They rolled the carcass one way, separating the hide from the cow's left side down to the backbone. Then they rolled it the other way to slice away the right side.

Bernardo rattled the back of his knife against his spur, calling attention to something. Diego looked back from his work on the forward part. “What?”

He pointed with his knife point to the scarred flesh
under the brand.

“Yes, that's the trouble with a big, showy brand. A lot of scarring.”

Bernardo pulled Diego closer: Look!

He flipped the hide down and lifted it up. Again: down and up. He pointed at the center of the scarring.

It took a full minute for Diego to see it. “Yes! The fresh scars are only for part of the brand! Some of this brand was made last year or the year before. Some was made just this spring.”

Bernardo flipped the hide down again, and they looked at the brand. Diego ran his knife point along two lines within the complicated symbol. He looked under the hide again. No fresh scars appeared for those two lines. They met at a sharp angle to make the big de la Vega
V
.

Bernardo held two fingers up in a
V
.

“St. Bernard's bees!” Diego said softly. This was awful. Here was evidence of deception and a huge theft. Or was it?

“Is this what I think it is?” Diego asked Bernardo.

Bernardo shrugged and beckoned with two fingers: I don't know; tell me what you think it is.

“Moncada has had his men changing brands. They've re-branded de la Vega
V
's as Moncada poppy
brands. Maybe hundreds of them. The hundreds we're missing!”

Bernardo traced another possible path in the complicated brand: a
G
and a cross.

“They could have changed the mission's brand, too! There's Mission San Gabriel's
G
and the cross!”

Bernardo stamped his boot: Why didn't we think of this before?

“We didn't think of it because no one in the pueblo ever needed to steal cattle! Indians from the hills might slaughter one or two head for food, but they always left the hides, the valuable parts. The
apartado
has always separated the herds fairly.”

Bernardo poked at the brand angrily.

“True, the
apartado
separated them by brands. They used the brands!”

Bernardo's face was dark with anger.

“Why would Moncada need to change the brands? He's a wealthy hidalgo. Why does he need more?”

They stared at the hide, as if it would speak to them. In a way it did. Diego shot up and walked around the carcass in a circle. “It begins to come together, Bernardo. You were getting the bearskin ready, and I was playing tricks with Rafael. He was so angry that I think he said something he shouldn't have. He said
‘The Moncadas will rule their own kingdom without half-breed peasants like you in their way!' His father shut him up, stopped him immediately. I think the Moncadas are planning their own kingdom.”

Bernardo shook his head: That's crazy!

“Yes, it's almost more than I can possibly believe. But what else is there? Could Don Moncada be stealing the pueblo's men for this kingdom? Is he financing a Moncada kingdom with stolen cattle? Is he that vicious? That ambitious?”

The boys looked at the bloody carcass of the cow at their feet. Both of them wished they'd never seen it. This darkness came too close to their lives.

T
HEY STOOD IN THE
stable yard without speaking. Don Alejandro was calm and thoughtful. Scar showed his smoldering anger. Bernardo was even more withdrawn than usual. Diego had done his talking and, for once, had nothing more to say.

The fresh, bloody hide hung over a fence rail before them. It was the evidence of a crime committed by an
Angeleño
, one of their own. A man they trusted and respected had cheated the pueblo. The loss of the cattle was bearable, no more than an annoyance. But the loss of trust was staggering. They could no longer do business in an easy, careless way. Because of Moncada, life in Pueblo de los Angeles would be tighter and more suspicious. This was the real damage.

Don Alejandro shook his head. “We know the truth
for ourselves now. Officially, legally, we know nothing. This one hide? Moncada can deny he had anything to do with it. He can blame it on anyone, even on us. And who will skin out all the Moncada cattle and examine all the brands? Impossible.”

“
Papá,
here is the question Bernardo and I have been asking ourselves: Why has Moncada tried to increase his herds like this? Remember you said that perhaps the skilled men were being kidnapped because someone wanted to start a colony? We think Moncada is trying to finance his own kingdom with cattle—our cattle, mission cattle, everyone else's cattle. And he is stealing our men to make his kingdom run.”

“That's a long stretch of logic, Diego. How do you connect the two?”

“At the ball Rafael Moncada told me that the Moncadas would soon rule their own lands.”

“Rafael's a boy, a foolish boy.”

“Even so, when he said it his father almost leaped to shut him up.”

The don considered this for a time. “You may have struck on the truth, boys. Moncada may well be the mind and will behind this evil. But to stop him, I must have something more substantial. I must bring evidence to the
ayuntamiento
, the council of hidalgos. They
will not want to believe that one of their own is this treacherous. Rafael's bragging isn't enough to prove the case. I don't think the hidalgos would accept that Don Miguel Moncada was involved in kidnapping and murder.”

“Then let's bring him to justice for stealing cattle and see what he says!” Diego said.

Don Alejandro held up his hand. “We may be able to discourage him from changing brands. Letting him know we suspect something is enough to do that. But to punish him? Spanish courts are no nearer than Mexico City. You know we can't trust the
comandante's
frail ethics. We've seen how Moncada manipulates him. He uses what few soldiers the pueblo has like Moncada's personal troops. No, Moncada won't be punished for the brands.”

“But where's the justice in that?”

Don Alejandro's laugh was short and bitter. “Justice, caballeros, is not a fixed star. It wanders and changes. Remember this, Diego: Nothing is as important or as elusive as justice. It is a rare thing, even in the courts of law. Seize it where you can, when you can. In Spain or even France, the courts might be reliable. In Pueblo de los Angeles, we have a handful of drunken troopers and a corrupt
comandante
, while the official packet carrying
mail hasn't arrived for months. Today justice escapes us.”

The don turned away from the hide. “There is something you boys don't know yet. Estafina's husband, Montez, is missing. I sent him to the pueblo for a load of tanbark. We found the wagon empty, but he never came back. He's our best tanner, a fine leather worker. Estafina will be crushed.”

Diego was stunned by the news. Montez! He was a man as familiar and kind as the warmth of Estafina's kitchen. How could anyone take Montez away?

Bernardo was not stunned. He was coldly, dangerously angry. The thought of Montez kidnapped echoed the pain of his mother taken from him.

Don Alejandro continued, “I agree with you. I think Moncada is behind this. I'd like to hoist him on my sword point within the hour. Would that bring Montez and our men back? No. This thing is a giant knot of evil. We must patiently undo its strands, one by one.”

He spun back and struck the hide with his riding quirt as if he were striking Moncada. “And this thing, this shameful thing…keep it in our storeroom until we have solid evidence to go with it.”

Scar nodded and spat in the dust of the stable yard.

“Now,
hijos
, grieved or not, we still have the business
of a rancho to do. Do me the kindness to ride to San Pedro and ask if there is any word of the
Two Brothers
. We will unravel this mystery, but we must also think about sending our hides and tallow to sea.”

 

The boys saddled two good mares for the ride to San Pedro. They led them out into the stable yard, ready to mount up. Regina called to them from the walled herb garden.

They found her with Stands Stooped, talking as two old friends might talk in White Owl's village. Both were squatting on their heels, backs against the stucco wall. It was a little strange that one wore deerskin leggings and the other wore a silk dress pulled up around her knees. Regina led two separate lives—she was both Gabrieleño and hidalgo. Sometimes they overlapped.

“Our brother Stands Stooped has a message from Trout Spot,” she said.

Stands Stooped nodded as Diego and Bernardo squatted beside them. “You asked the
tomyaar
to track any clues to this slavery mystery,” he said. “We've heard nothing unusual from our brothers in the mountains, and nothing from our brothers along the routes north and south. But there are some strange signs from our coast brothers. The fishing people have seen boats
coming and going from the first big Channel Island in the north, the one you call Santa Cruz. They are seen only at night, putting off from the mainland beach and not from San Pedro Harbor. Very secret. White sailors have set up a camp on the other side of the island. There is a big ship anchored out there in the channel between the islands. They will not allow the fishing people anywhere near their camp. For me, anything white sailors do is suspicious. But Trout Spot and White Owl are wiser than I am, and they are suspicious too.”

He stopped, picked up a handful of dirt, and cast it down, as if to say, “There it is.”

All four of them nodded. Regina clasped Stands Stooped by the arm. “Good information, brother,” she said.

“We will find out more about this,” Diego said in the Shoshone tongue. “Give our thanks to Trout Spot for his vigilance. He is a wise friend.”

“Your evil is our evil,” Stands Stooped said simply. He stirred to rise and go, but Regina put her hand on his shoulder.

“Stay and eat with us, brother. You have a long journey.”

Diego said, “With apologies, we won't eat with you.
Papá
has asked us to ride to San Pedro for news of the
ship
Two Brothers
. Now that I've heard this message, I'm thinking that friends in San Pedro may know something about these secret boat trips. Will you tell
Papá
that we'll be back as soon as we can?”

She looked at them for a long moment. She was troubled by what might harm her boys.

Stands Stooped said softly, “They're boys. But they're men, too. They have brave blood, Toypurnia, and they'll be strong.”

Regina nodded, her mouth set. “Take care, my young
Californios
, and
vayan con Dios
.”

 

Trinidad ran along the dock, happy to see them. “I didn't see you at all during the fiesta,” she chirped. “The fishing has been great this week! You should have been here! Why the sad faces? What are you up to down here? It's too late for day fishing, but we might catch some sprats along the beach with a net. I'll get the net, but those boots and spurs—”

“Trinidad!” Diego stopped her. “We can't fish. There are serious things going on.”

“So that's why you two are looking so downcast. Old Bernie here looks like a flounder.” She punched his shoulder, trying to cheer him up.

“Listen for a moment, at least! Is Stackpole here?
Can we all talk together?”

“He's in the shack making dinner. Have you eaten? Fish and rice, plenty for all of us. You like fish and rice?” She was a fountain of words, constantly bubbling.

At the table Stackpole laid tin plates and dished out food.

Diego was distracted. He couldn't even think of eating. “Something that could be very bad is happening out on the islands,” he began.

“Diego and Bernie are long faced about something,” Trinidad crowed. “Faces as sour as lemons. No time for fishing, no time for—”

Stackpole leaned across the little table. “Trinidad, if you don't close your mouth, I am going to hit you with this frying pan.”

“No need to be prickly about it. All you had to do was ask.” She sulked.

“Quiet!” Stackpole said. “That's an order! Diego, tell me what's happening.”

Diego paused, wondering if Trinidad would say anything more, but she looked up at the ceiling as if she wasn't concerned with words. He began, “You know that dozens of skilled men have disappeared from the pueblo. Captain Carter lost his barrel maker too.”
Stackpole nodded. “Our friend Montez, our best tanner, has disappeared as well. Don Alejandro believes someone is kidnapping skilled men to set up a new colony.”

“Maybe,” Stackpole said, and he rolled the idea around in his mind.

“The pueblo's potter, Señor Porcana, was kidnapped and then killed trying to escape. We found his body.”

Trinidad wasn't gazing at the ceiling now. She chewed her fish with all her attention focused on Diego.

“We heard from…someone, a truthful person”—Diego didn't want to mention El Chollo's name—“that outside riders killed Porcana. The same riders must have kidnapped the others. Tough men paid by someone to grab them and take them away.”

Stackpole shook his head, putting the frying pan aside. “This is more serious than I thought. This must be a slaving gang. I hadn't heard of any blackbirders on this coast but—”

Bernardo tapped the table, looked at Diego, and nodded toward the pueblo.

“Yes!” Diego turned to Stackpole. “Did you just use the word ‘blackbirders'?”

Stackpole nodded. “The worst kind of men. That's
what they call men who ship black slaves from Africa to the Caribbean and then up to the States. A vile trade. The ships are packed so tightly that they lose a third, sometimes half, of the slaves coming across.”

“We got into a scrape with a bunch of sailors in the pueblo before the fiesta,” Diego said excitedly. “They said they were blackbirders and had shipped black men between Africa and Jamaica. They were a rough bunch.”

“They would be. You'd never get your soul clean if you ever shipped with blackbirders.”

Diego thought a moment. “This makes more and more sense. Tough foreign vaqueros. Blackbirders in the pueblo. We got word through our Gabrieleño friends that the fishing Indians have seen boats putting off the beach at night. They head for Santa Cruz. Someone has a big ship anchored on the far side of the island, off a camp of some sort. They don't allow anyone near it.”

Stackpole nodded. “That would be about right. They'd need riders ashore to capture slaves. And they'd have a camp to gather a full load before they shoved off for…wherever they were going. I'll tell you this, though: once they shove off, you'd never see your friends again. Ever. They'd be taken to someplace so far away they couldn't return. Slavers don't accept the
possibility of return. It's a long way from the southern States to Africa. No one goes back.”

“How could we find out about this camp?” Diego asked.

Stackpole looked at a chart pinned to the wall of the shack. “Just sailing up to it would do more harm than good. You might get them jumpy enough to leave immediately.”

“I don't see a problem,” Trinidad said around a mouthful of fish and rice.

Diego erupted, “No problem? What are you talking about? This is—”

“It's easy,” she said. “Look!” She jumped up and pointed to the east coast of the big island on the chart. “I've landed here a hundred times. I could do it in the dark. We land here, climb over the ridge, and come down behind the camp as quiet as mice. We'd see everything. Where's the problem?”

“That's ridiculous!” Diego said. “They'd see you coming a mile away!”

Stackpole traced the island shoreline on the chart with his finger. “She may be right,” he said.

“Ha! Ha, Mr. Fancy Hidalgo Vaquero!” she crowed.

“But she's right about another thing. You'd be forced to do it at night. You wouldn't want one of their look
outs on the point here seeing you coming.” He pointed to the tip of Santa Cruz.

“When could we do it?” Diego asked.

“Tonight,” Trinidad said. “Why not tonight? The breeze is right. It's running right up the channel, which is rare enough. We've still got a few hours before sunset. We could make it there tonight.”

“You'd catch the tide,” Stackpole said. He took down an almanac and leafed to a page. “You'd have a quarter moon rising two hours after sundown. Enough to see by, but it would be hard to spot a little boat at a distance. I hate to say it, but tonight might be best.”

Diego looked at Bernardo. They nodded at each other.

“I'm going with you,” Stackpole said.

Diego shook his head. “No,
Capitán
. With respect, you should stay behind to tell someone we went. If we don't come back tomorrow, someone should come for us.”

Stackpole nodded. “No one can get you there better than Trinidad. She knows the currents and the rocks better than anyone”—the girl grinned with pride—“and she can handle that little boat better than anyone.”