“And so I got me a boat and came down the coast and built this poor house. And here I live alone and am happy. There are times when I carry fish to the stronghold of the pirates, and trade them for some other things—”
“Ha!” Zorro cried. “The stronghold of the pirates? Where is that?”
“Less than ten miles down the coast, señor, in a little bay. There are huts, and women and children, and every now and then the pirate ship puts in after a raid. They are safe there, señor, though they are within eight miles of the presidio of San Diego de Alcála.”
“By the saints!” Zorro swore. “And how does it come that you did not rob me of my sword and the few things of value upon me, and toss me into the sea?”
The native looked at him frankly. “Pardon, señor,” he said, “but I never would do such a thing as that. For I knew you instantly, señor. You are Señor Zorro, who rode up and down El Camino Real and avenged the wrongs of the natives and frailes. You once punished a soldier who beat my father. If it is necessary, señor, I am ready to die that you may live.”
“And now—”
“Now,” the native interrupted, “it would be best for the señor to sit and rest, while I prepare some hot food. Then whatever he commands shall be done.”
“There was a pirate ship in the offing, and another,” Zorro insinuated.
“Sí, señor! The pirate ship ran from the other, going out to sea. But a short time ago I saw her pass, going toward the bay where the pirates have their headquarters. And the other ship passed but a short time ago, pursuing.”
“By the saints!” Zorro cried. “I would go to this pirates’ den of which you speak, and as speedily as possible.”