Young Zorro Read Free Page A

racing stock, not broken-down wagon pullers.” He mounted and pointed to Bernardo. “Even an idiot Indian like this should know better.”
    The leader raised his quirt to lash Bernardo. Before he could bring it down, Bernardo ducked under his horse’s belly and tapped its far-side jaw so it leaped sideways. One of the dandies howled with pain as a heavy hoof stamped on his fancy boot. At the same moment, Diego leaped at the leader, now hanging halfway out of the saddle. Though he was stockier and years older than Diego, the wiry boy jerked him downinto the dust and pounded on him like a cat. No one could dare to whip Bernardo in front of Diego!
    One of the leader’s gang raised his own quirt, butt first, to club Diego. Bernardo toppled him into the dust as well. In the white cloud, boots clattered and bits of gravel flew. Another gang member saw his chance when Diego was on top of Moncada, pinning him: the sharp toe of a boot caught Diego in the ribs and rolled him to the side.
    Diego breathed heavily, wincing in pain as Moncada stumbled to his feet.
    â€œYou insolent half-breed!” Moncada shouted, reaching clumsily for the sword hilt at his saddlebow.
    But a voice, sounding as deep and powerful as the archangel Gabriel’s, stopped him. “Señor Moncada! Take care for your immortal soul!”
    The voice didn’t come from the heavens, but from behind a fig tree in the plaza. Fray Feliipe Mendoza, leader of the mission friars, stepped out into the sunlight. “I think you have embarrassed yourself quite enough, young Moncada. You will have the sin of pride to confess before Sunday’s mass. In another moment you might have burdened yourself with heavier sins. Give thanks, young Moncada, and go your way in peace.”
    Moncada seethed with frustration. He was about to say something to maintain his puffed-up dignity, but the padre was not in an indulgent mood. “Keep your tongue still, boy,” he said quietly.
    â€œAnd you,” he said, pulling Diego and Bernardo to their feet with two powerful hands. “Fighting in the street like stray dogs. Shame!”
    Mendoza turned to the others. “You’ve raised enough dust to make my teeth grit. Walk these horses out of the plaza and get back to your mothers. Tell them to wipe your noses. Go.”
    Moncada mounted and spurred his horse viciously. It leaped once, making some of his gang fall back, but he jerked the reins hard. The quivering horse stopped against the iron bit with a moan, its eyes crazy. Pulling his reins cruelly tight, Moncada rode away. The rest of them walked their horses away from the plaza, eager to be out of sight. The boy whose foot had been stepped on clung to his saddle for support, limping painfully.
    Mendoza frowned and clucked his tongue at Diego and Bernardo, still holding them by the scruffs of their shirts. He let them go, pushing them toward the shade of the tavern’s patio. He looked back after the retreating dandies and shook his head. “Young toughs. Proud Spanish blood.” He laughed once. “They wouldn’t havelasted long out here in the early days, back when your father was making this place safe, Diego.” He almost growled, then brightened.
    â€œHave you had enough excitement, then? Come, hijos , sit with me in the shade. The day grows warm, and we’ve had enough exercise. I’m working on a plate of beans and chiles that is much too big for me. Come help.”
    The padre sat down with a sigh. Only rarely did they remember that he was an old man, past sixty. Priests and monks might grow fat in Spain. But out here the padres taught their neophytes to ride and rope and brand, tan hides, plough, and build. The sun had burned Mendoza almost as brown as his robe. His fringe of white hair partly covered a missing ear from the battle in which Diego’s mother led her people in an uprising against the Spanish. The padre was no soft psalm singer but was as