The Mysterious Don Miguel - Duel Valentino Vargas

None of the others in the room had heard this whispered conversation of the two men against the wall. They were watching for the deadlock to be broken, and wondering whether a quick thrust by this Don Nameless would end the duel when the break finally came. And now the duelists sprang apart and were back in the bright circle of light at the end of the table. But Pedro Pico suddenly threw up his left arm and lowered the point of his blade.

"Enough, señor!" he cried. "The right of this affair is with you. I am lost if I continue."

It was the speech of a craven. Expressions of disgust came from those in the room, caballeros and common folk alike. Pedro Pico, his head hanging as though in shame, walked slowly back toward his table.

Men drew aside to let him pass, as though touch with him might contaminate them. Pedro Pico was hoping that he could gather the money from the table and depart, and get away without being set upon and beaten.

Some men did start toward him angrily and threateningly, rumblings of rage coming from their throats as they thought of the money of which they had been robbed. But Don Nameless lifted a hand and called a halt.

"Allow the rogue to depart and take his stench with him," he ordered. "You knew that he was a professional gambler, hence played with him at your own peril. It is enough that he is now unmasked, and must leave San Diego de Alcála forever."

But Valentino Vargas sprang off the stool upon which he dropped in consternation at Pedro Pico's show of cowardice. That bogus struggle against the wall had misled him. He thought this Don Nameless a man of little strength, since even Pedro Pico had held the hilt of his blade locked for so long. Here was a chance, he thought, to avenge his friend and also acquire a reputation for himself.

Valentino Vargas was a heavy man, with a florid face and a huge black mustache, strong in his shoulders and arms. Beside this Don Nameless, who was small and agile, he looked like a human mountain.

"So you quit him, Pedro Pico?" he cried. "'Tis a pity. But I'll take up your quarrel. I am not craven. This pretty fellow who wears a mask – the shape of his body distresses me. I'll carve it more to my liking."

"I have no quarrel with you, fellow," Don Nameless said.

"Ha! No doubt you prefer not to have one, nevertheless one is now on your hands," Valentino Vargas replied. "Face a real man for once, señor! On guard!"

"As you will," Don Nameless replied. "Some men go about the earth seeking trouble."

Those in the room promptly forgot Pedro Pico now. They turned to watch this fresh quarrel, which gave promise of being something better than the last. The gambler quickly gathered up his property and crept around the walls and into the patio, to go to his own quarters in the inn.

Valentino Vargas strutted out into the light space at the end of the table. He whipped out his blade and ponderously set himself for combat. Don Nameless darted forward immediately, and they engaged.

Valentino Vargas was a much better swordsman than Pedro Pico by far, having more skill and also weight and strength. It occurred to those who watched that Don Nameless estimated him correctly as such, and was not rash in his attack.

But, having felt out his man, Don Nameless suddenly began to force the fighting, as though eager to finish it and be gone from the scene. The blades crashed and rang. The duelists swerved and danced, advanced and retreated, now out in the streak of bright light, and now back in the flickering shadows near the adobe wall.

"Fight, rogue!" Don Nameless taunted, as he pressed his adversary cruelly. "I had no quarrel with you ... you brought this upon yourself, rogue ... I could slay you easily ... but perhaps I'lI spare your life."

He spoke all this haltingly, as they fought, He punctuated his phrases with swift and violent attacks. Valentino Vargas began tiring from the speed of the bout. This small and agile man was all around him, like a dozen adversaries. There was a strong rally on the part of Valentino Vargas for a moment, a retreat on the part of Don Nameless and an equally swift recovery.

Then something happened so swiftly that the caballeros watching were unable to tell afterward just how it had occurred. But the blade of Valentino Vargas was torn from his hand and whipped in a flashing arc through the air, to fall and clatter on the hard-beaten earth of the floor.

Don Nameless lunged, and the point of his blade darted forward like the tongue of a snake. Then he bounced backward like a rubber ball, and Valentino Vargas reeled against the wall, holding his left hand to his left cheek, from which blood was streaming.

The watchers marveled that Don Nameless had not slain, a thing he could have done easily. But he only gave a swift glance at the others in the room, as though to see whether they would make a move against him. None did, so he darted to the table, and grasped his purse and stowed it away.

He laughed a little, returned his blade to its scabbard, and retreated swiftly along the wall through the shadows, as those in the room surged toward him.

At the door he lifted a hand in salute.

"Señores, á Dios!" he cried.

Through the open door he hurried, to be swallowed by the moon-drenched night. The others in the place rushed out after him, except a few who remained with the wounded man. They heard the rapid drumfire of a horse's hoofs as Don Nameless swiftly rode away. Back to their ears on the night breeze came a taunting laugh.

Inside the inn, some men gathered around the wounded Valentino Vargas, who was cursing both Don Nameless and his wound. The young caballeros stood aloof and laughed at the man. The fat landlord came hurrying in with a basin filled with heated and scented water, and some soft cloths, and bathed Valentino Vargas' left cheek, where the tip of Don Nameless sword had cut deeply enough to make a wound which surely would leave a scar.

One of the caballeros gave a cry of surprise and darted forward, and bent over to look.

His exclamation brought the others to his side.

"Dios!" he cried. "We have been blind! Look at this fellow's wound. Do you not see, and understand? It is in the form of a ragged letter Z, is it not? 'Tis the mark of Zorro! This Don Nameless, as he called himself – he was Señor Zorro! We have seen a master of fence at work – and have seen him leave his mark behind!"

[...]

In Pedro Pico’s room at the inn, as dawn was breaking, the gambler sat on the side of his couch, while Valentino Vargas strode back and forth before him.

"I cannot understand it," Vargas was saying. "You say he spoke of Don Miguel?"

"He intimated he was Don Miguel's trusted man, and said there was to be a meeting – "

"You have said that before. He exposes you, fights with you, makes it easy for you to get out of the town – "

"Which I must do at once, before they have a mind to set upon me," Pedro Pico said, betraying nervousness.

"Then when I pick a fight with him, he makes this mark of Zorro on my cheek. Why did he not mention Don Miguel to me?"

"Perhaps you had angered him," Pedro Pico said. "And it is possible he did not have a chance, for you were fighting fiercely. He may have thought I would pass the word to you. Or, he may not have known you are in this affair."


- The Mysterious Don Miguel, Chapters 2 and 3