EDITOR’S NOTE
One of Pulp Adventure’s most enduring icon’s is undoubtedly Zorro, the swashbuckling masked hero of Old California. Spanish for “Fox”, the masked avenger first appeared in the serialized novel THE CURSE OF CAPISTRANO, published in five parts throughout 1919 in ALL-STORY WEEKLY. The author, Johnston McCulley, would go on to write sixty-three short stories starring the eponymous character, while alse writing a number of Pulp characters including Black Star, The Bat, and the Spider, a notable recurring Pulp supervillian.
Zorro would quickly find a home on the blossoming silver screen. In 1920, while on their honeymoon, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford chose CAPISTRANO to as the first film to be produced and released by their new studio, United Artists. The film released the very same year under the title THE MARK OF ZORRO. Eventually, over forty Zorro films were produced, fueling the public’s desire for more stories. McCulley was obviosuly up to the task. My personal first introduction to Zorro was through the Disney produced television show, which I watched regularly as a young boy.
Author Kevin Beckett has crafted here a loving homage to Zorro, originally intended for a continued publication of an off-brand Zorro inspired character called The Scarlet Cloak. Unfortnately, the publishing of the NEW ADVENTURES OF THE SCARLET CLOAK fell through, freeing up the story. Here, the character appears re-named as EL DIABLO, a fitting title reminescent of The Fox himself. A recording of the thirty-one minute radio pilot still exists and can be found here: ADVENTURES OF THE SCARLET CLOAK.
DEATH FROM THE STEPPES!: Part 2
Kevin Beckett
IT WAS HOURS later when El Diablo rode back west. The moon was low on the horizon as the black night sky faded to purple in front of him, while a redness as deep as his cloak lurked behind him. He was just north of a canyon river that ran deep and black, its eddies and currents a dull roar that provided the ambience for El Diablo’s thoughts.
He had read the book by the firelight, surrounded by those dead men. The tale that was told weighed heavily on his mind.
It was the tale of a Franciscan friar, one Vasco de Santana, and his journey and travels around the various lands and colonies of the Spanish Empire. Specifically, the very land El Diablo rode his horse through right now. While most accounts were mere details of the domestic life of who he met, what crops they grew, what food they ate, there was an evocative telling of the journey to see a Spanish fort built in a mountain pass where a mine was. A mine that had been founded based on the dreams of an even earlier monk, whose dreams were no mere folly but accurate. The abundance of the San Saba mine was so successful that a fort had been built to connect it. It provided a steady income, but a traveller came at some point. A traveller who served as an agent of the Grim Reaper who left most men dead. Only a sole survivor. One young recruit who was once as strong as an ox came down. A lone survivor who died of a wasting sickness.
The various Spanish nobles might have investigated, but drought and a punishing summer of violence discouraged people from checking on the fort, and soon the location was forbidden, then wilfully forgotten.
However, by Vasco de Santana’s journeys, he had found an old guide “as ancient as Methuselah” among the local peasantry who agreed to take him up long unused mountain passes in hopes of claiming the silver mine for the Church. They had arrived there at night, where the fort stood silent and dark. Vasco reported that nothing but the dead remained, letting Vasco believe God cursed them. he and his guide fled that place, but soon the aged guide fell ill and died. Vasco himself wandered through the desert for unknown days before coming upon civilization. It was the last and final chapter of his book. A warning to the curious that the silver mine was a temptation set out by the Devil. To stay away from the place where the two peaks of the Brother Mountains created a horned shadow that fell upon the site.
It was a strange tale. One El Diablo would have considered only a story that the Gothic novelists’ fevered imaginations, like Lewis and Radcliffe and their ilk, would tell. He had heard tales of secret passages that wove their way through the mountains, and there might have been one still that remained forbidden and forgotten, where a fort stood silent waiting for human eyes to rest upon it again.
El Diablo was so deep in his thoughts that he only released when he heard the sound of horse riders to his right that he was being followed.
He cursed under his breath as he saw the distant shapes become more apparent and more distinct in the darkness just before dawn. The horsemen had matched his speed, but there was one that remained behind him. The others arched around him towards the front. Even in the dark, El Diablo could make out the sound of two dozen men. They remained silent. Warriors focused on doing nefarious deeds, he was sure. He kept his horse at a steady pace, refusing to gallop to escape, knowing that would encourage them when he heard the rider in front of him finally call out in heavily accented Spanish. It was a voice El Diablo was becoming far too familiar with these past few days.
It was the voice of the Cossack leader Konrad.
“Well, we had heard tales that a devil haunted these lands, but we are disappointed that the people here believe it so. What we see here is just some mummer wearing a mask that looks like he lost his way from performing before the Tsar!”
The rest of the men broke in laughter. Harsh, braying laughter caused El Diablo to grimace under the mask. Still, he said nothing.
“We came upon your bloody work in a valley east of here, mummer. We were expecting at least a few men to be riding with you, but then I must compliment you on your skill with a blade if that was all your work. However, you would have to be truly the Devil to defeat all of us here right now.”
There was an expectant pause, then Konrad resumed speaking, sounding more impatient that there had been no reply.
“You have a book that belongs to us. Hand it over now.”
El Diablo remained silent for a moment, then called back in Spanish of his own.
“Why do men such as you need this book?”
“It belongs to us. No more will be said.”
“Is it for the fact that it promises to lead you to a fortune in silver?”
He felt the mood in the air change before Konrad spoke.
“Ah, well, there it is. Yes, we do.”
“You stayed here while the rest of your people took ships back to Russia. For all you talk of freedom among you Cossacks, you are as greedy for riches as the Tsar you serve.”
There was a murmur among the men at that point. El Diablo braced to escape, but Konrad’s words came back, sounding even more irritated.
“So you know who we are? No matter, it is true we want the silver. Better to have it to pay for what we need, a kingdom carved out in our name, than to render to the Tsar. Now, mummer, you have tried my patience enough. Hand the book over now, and we will butcher you quickly. You resist, and we will skin you alive.”
That was his moment. El Diablo kicked his horse and broke into a gallop.
Despite the Cossacks surrounding him in a half-circle due to the canyon river to his left, he could see that they were all wide apart enough that there were several openings that he could plunge his steed through. He expected that’s why they were there to draw him closer. He moved to his right to avoid the onrushing Konrad. The leader rode his horse directly towards El Diablo. His face was a rictus of rage while his sabre whirled around his head, a wordless war cry on his lips.
That warcry inspired the rest of the men to howl, like a pack of horse-riding wolves bearing down on their scarlet-cloaked prey.
El Diablo heard the crack of a shot, then another. He felt rather than listened to a third go by his head. He reached down to pull the rifle tethered to his saddle. He loosened the reins in one hand while the other slid gloved hands around the trigger as one Cossack bore down on him, a wider, heavier cavalry sabre in his hand, ready to swing at El Diablo. The devil-masked avenger balanced the rifle’s stock on the forearm attached to the hand that still held the reins. He pivoted till it aimed at the Cossack and fired. The rider was close enough that the sabre dropped as the Cossack clutched his side and slid off his saddle, causing the horse to rear up, hooves flashing. A high-pitched scream issued forth from that now riderless steed.
El Diablo was nearing the space where he could break free when he saw to his right three more Cossacks, swords shining crimson in the early dawn light, raving ahead to entrap him. The young one, Alexsandr, whose teeth were filed to a point, drew close, grinning. El Diablo only had time to raise the rifle like a rod to parry the young Cossack’s blade that was swung with great force. A blow that struck with such impact shivered up El Diablo’s arm, and the rifle fell from his hand.
He jerked the reins to make his steed veer left towards the river. It gave him enough time to draw his rapier as Aleksandr, emboldened by his disarming, drew close again.
This time, blades clashed, but even amidst the galloping chaos, El Diablo’s swordsmanship was superior to the Cossack that engaged him. The sabre was parried every time Aleksandr struck out, till, in frustration, the Cossack’s arm swung wide to force his way through sheer strength through El Diablo’s weaving blade, he realized too late that was the opening his devil-masked opponent was waiting for. The scarlet cloaked figure lunged and pierced his way through the Cossack’s chest before the speed of his horse ripped him away from combat, leaving the last image of eyes rolling back in the Cossack’s head and slackening jaw displaying the pointed teeth one last time before the Cossack toppled backwards.
El Diablo realized he wasn’t going to escape the horsemen, and there were still more than a score of them.
He realized there was only one last chance to survive this. He had found himself ahead of the horsemen for one moment. He saw he was coming close to the edge of the canyon where the river roared below. He slid his boots out of the stirrups and used his knees to steer his horse ever closer to the edge, then leaned forward to pivot his right leg over the saddle and with one final pat on the horse who served him so well, he leapt away and over the canyon edge, feeling his cloak billow in the winds as he fell towards the river, he braced himself for impact as his reflection in the water shattered into a thousand droplets.
He found himself blind in the watery darkness, feeling terror as his legs kicked out instinctively, and he did not know which direction he swam towards. Was he dooming himself by swimming into the river depths rather than to the surface?
He saw in the dark pale reflections of the faces of his mother and father. His head felt light as he thought of relaxing and letting death take him to reunite him with them, but that thought ended when his parents’ faces dissolved into the image of a sinister figure whose face remained in darkness but whose scar glowed white on his shoulder. It was the man who killed his father. That snapped El Diablo’s mind back to the present and his current conditions. Then, finally, Esmerelda’s face looked at him with knowing sadness, and he knew he must struggle to live.
Lungs bursting, the darkness of his vision turning red, he kicked one last time, and suddenly the dull roar of the river depths erupted into the deafening sound of the river crashing against the rocky banks that encased it. He swam with the current, too weak and stunned other than to keep himself afloat, knowing the river would take him west faster than horseback, but knowing it would take him farther away than home. Still, he let his mind ponder his memories of that story he read in Vasco de Santana’s journal. He did his best to burn every word into his memory. The sun was high in the clear blue sky before he felt strong enough to kick his legs north towards a sandy shore. He used the last of his strength to climb out of the river. Exhausted, every bone in his body feeling like they were wrenched apart before being assembled again, he staggered over to where the canyon wall kept calm in shadow.
He realized that his devil mask had been torn off during his time in the river and hadn’t noticed, as he sometimes felt the mask and his face were the same, but now, under daylight instead of lurking in the night when the moon was full and bright, he realized he was just Bradley Carver again.
That was fine. Carver knew where he had more of them, one he would take for himself to wear again as El Diablo before he confronted the Cossacks.
The other he would keep for their leader, Konrad.
*****
CARVER WAS DRINKING from a flask of water in the shadows of the cave when Sanchez arrived. His friend’s eyes widened when the lantern was lit. Carver knew what he looked like. It was a day and a half’s journey on foot from the river to this cave. He did so in soaking wet clothes under an unforgiving sun before a cold night with only his rapier to protect him from any predators, four-legged or otherwise.
Sanchez’s reaction was how he knew he was in no condition to visit Maria and Don Ramon anytime soon.
“How bad is it out there, Sanchez?”
“Not good, Señor Bradford. Konrad and his men have been in and out of town. They have brought more heads for Don Ramon to reward them. But, they are the heads of Father Javier and his brethren!”
“What?”
“It is true. Konrad said they were giving shelter to people like Tom Smith and were not true Men of God. Don Ramon did nothing!”
“He is too frightened of what they would do. He doesn’t have the men that could fight them, and I suspect Konrad would head straight for Maria to ensure the man’s compliance.”
“So what now? If Don Ramon does not have the men, and you are but one man?”
“No, Sanchez. Bradley Carver may be one man, but El Diablo is more than just a man. Now, was everyone from the abbey murdered?”
“I don’t know if he is dead or alive, but while I saw those heads dumped out by the fountain, I did not see the head of the old brother, the one called Francesco.”
“There. That is what I thought. Francesco would know Latin, correct?”
“Yes”
“Then that is how they are planning on deciphering that book. Most likely, Francesco will be able to give them a clue or two about where in the mountains that fort and mine reside.”
“About that, I have asked around for where one might have seen two mountain peaks that might form a crescent-horned shadow. We can find the correct passageway. It will be difficult, señor.”
“I’d like to think the past few days have been the most difficult.”
“Do you feel ready to make the trip?”
“No, I don’t. But that’s not what’s important here. Get those horses ready. I do not doubt that once Francesco finds out the destination and tells them, he’s done for—poor bastard. However, we will wait for them there. I have a few ideas for waiting for Konrad and his men when they arrive. You have what I requested?”
“Yes, Señor. But what happens if they arrive there before us?”
“Irrelevant, Sancho. When they chose to terrorize this land, they sealed their fates by crossing the protector of Monterry. Me, El Diablo. One way or another, they will all die.”
*****
It was a long and winding journey through the mountains. It had begun by looking for a dead tree that had sprung through the rocks of a trail most knew would wind its way through the range, but turning where no one would have the desire to go. From there, it became even more arduous, but still, the men pursued the signs of a trail that was once well used but had faded to a ghost of one to be sought with an eye for the paths men trod decades, if not centuries, before.
Finally, that came on the crevice that brought them to a small and barren valley when they walked through it.
Even in the middle of the day, the place existed only in shadow, high mountain stone walls, ensuring it remained forever lost from light. Carver and Sanchez picked their way down to the fort. They wore scarves and kerchiefs over their faces at Carver’s direction as they came upon the doors to the fortress that remained there, silent but for the low, eternal moan of the wind.
Carver resisted the urge to knock on the front doors. He told himself it would be foolish, but it was also out of fear that he would hear and answer from within if he knocked.
Instead of using rope, spikes and handholds, he climbed up and over the walls of the fort. He paused up top as he looked down at the courtyard, which confirmed his suspicions, then climbed down to unlock the front doors from the inside to let Sanchez in.
Sanchez’s eyes widened, and he crossed himself as he looked at the skeletons that littered the courtyard and likely the chambers within.
“They do not look like they died in combat, señor Carver! Could the place be truly cursed?”
“Not exactly. Whoever that mysterious traveller was who came here, he did not bring any supernatural curse. He carried within him some plague or pestilence. Perhaps we will never know what it was, but it was fatal for most men here. Most likely, what few warnings people heard from Vasco and any other survivors gradually became the curse. Either way, it did its work. It kept people away from here, memories faded, and soon, only Vasco’s journal was the only record truly of this place and what had happened. However, if no one read it and believed it, then no one would know about the fort that remained here and the silver in the mine it guarded.”
“Till now.”
“Yes, the difference is that the men who seek it right now will find out the hard way that this place may be death for them in a different way. Sanchez, let’s get the mules and start unpacking what we need. Once we get everything ready, take them and head for Monterrey again.”
“But señor, what about you?”
“I’ll be alright. Señor Bradford is still not expected back for another week, so don’t worry about me unless I am not back by then. As for El Diablo? Konrad is going to learn that was no mere mummer in a mask.”
*****
THE COSSACKS, WHO travelled over an ocean to protect the people whose sovereign ruler decided to withdraw from a continent on a whim, made their way through the path.
Konrad remained close to the rear as his horse riders galloped before him. He was deep in his thoughts about the last meeting he had had with Don Ramon. The man, free of his daughter and that annoying American, seemed a much more pragmatic individual. He recommended they seek out the monastery where the old man Francesco was, who could translate the book. When Konrad brought up the desire to keep it secret, the Spanish nobleman merely looked him in the eye and stated it was no concern of his whether those monks could live.
A smile crept upon his lips. For so long, this continent was referred to as the New World. It seemed much like the Old World. Those who had power would kill to keep it and increase it, and those who did not have power? Those were the ones to be killed.
But here, he was free of the Tsar and free of the Host. It was he and his men. Ever since that book had ended up in the colony and the drunken priest told him what it contained, Konrad felt it take up refuge in his mind and heart when he realized the untold riches of the mine could be his, and with it the power to carve out land for himself here with his men.
As his men came up the shadowy valley and began to spread out, Konrad cast his eye upward. He did not like the sun already setting by the time they had arrived, but as he saw the grim and silent fort squatting by the mine, he felt relief. Soon their long quest would come to an end.
He and his men disembarked. He waved several men to go into the darkened mine to see how far they could go. He had secured the tools from Don Ramon for his men to grab some so that they could bring them out and sell them, and if anyone thought to follow them back here, they would find a mighty Cossack Warband waiting for them with a fort as their home.
He felt a swelling of pride; they had been through so much, but now this would be their new home in the New World.
There was a sound of thunder, and horses scattered as he was blown back by the force of an explosion that incinerated four men in front of him.
He crawled up to his feet, ears ringing and eyes blurry as he tried to focus them. Another wave of heat crashed upon him as sheets of flame shot out from the entrance, and his men inside screamed.
Another cannon shot took out three more men who were running towards the fleeing horses. Konrad’s eyes focus in time for the third shot to ring out, killing more of his men. What was once over a score of men had been reduced to less than a handful. He looked up at the fort. Though it was obscured by the smoke emanating from the mine, he still saw it alone and silent, unlike an army operating it, with no explosions but flames rising from within the walls.
The fort that had lasted over a century was burning down. The mine that so many of Konrad’s men and other men had died for was collapsing, sealing it forever.
With the sun gone behind the mountains, the valley would have been in complete darkness, but the flames cast in and the last three men in a hellish glow.
That was when both of the fort’s main doors opened, and the figure of legend that Konrad scoffed at stood in silhouette before stepping out. The flames lit his mask so that it seemed to be the face of the Devil himself, grinning at the fates he visited upon the men, and he would continue to inflict upon the surviving men. The man was the Devil himself. The one the villagers had whistled protected him whenever he and his Cossacks threatened them for their lives. An old wives’ tale, he and his men mocked. Even when they fought the mummer, they thought it was some peasant trying to live up to the legend.
Konrad now knew he was wrong. Konrad now knew he was about to die. El Diablo walked out towards them in a steady stride, rapier bared for their blood.
“My God,” Konrad breathed.
The first man, cast in silhouette in flames, perhaps he thought the scarlet cloaked swordsman they faced was just another man in a devil mask, and that folly cost him his life as El Diablo parried and dodged each strike the Cossack made with his sabre, then with one swift lunge ran the man through.
The two remaining men reached them, then split up, each trying to draw El Diablo’s attention. In response, El Diablo hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, letting the cloak envelop him and his arms.
The two brothers Cossacks nodded at each other, one striking high at the left, the other low at the right.
With blinding speed, El Diablo dove left with his rapier, clashing at the sabre of one. The other let out a brief hoarse laugh of delight as he felt his blade connect with something tangible, except what he struck was the folds of the Scarlet Cloak, which entangled the sabre and seemed to to pull the Cossack towards the man he was trying to kill. Too late when he realized what was happening as the silver blade of El Diablo lashed out once more, and he clutched his throat with blood seeping through his fingers as he fell.
With a roar, the newly dead Cossack’s brother attempted to overpower El Diablo’s rapier with a series of powerful blows. He pushed El Diablo back towards the burning fortress, and the masked figure took three steps back before falling to one knee as the curbed blade of the Cossack sabre struck at where his head would be. El Diablo lunged low and up before standing up again and placed a steady hand on the shoulder of the Cossack as he let the man’s corpse fall, sliding off the blade of the rapier.
El Diablo then looked at Konrad, assumed an en garde position with the rapier tip pointed at Konrad, who realized the human eyes underneath the mask had locked with his own.
Konrad felt the white-hot rage he always felt on the battlefield. He focused it all on this cloaked Devil that offended him so. He drew his sabre, nodded and raised it.
They circled each other in that grey and dark valley, outlined in crimson as the fortress and mine continued to burn. Each looked at the other, not even attempting to feign. There would be no retreat. No surrender.
Gradually, they edged closer and closer to striking range. In battle, Konrad would be laughing and taunting his enemies. He did not do so now.
He lunged, and El Diablo moved to parry, the clash of steel ringing throughout the valley a dozen times before they withdrew and circled each other more. This time, even more slowly. Konrad felt grim satisfaction that at least his swordsmanship could match the one they called El Diablo.
As the shadows grew darker as the sun completely set, he saw El Diablo stumble and seeing his chance, Konrad lunged low. The edge of his sabre was closer to slicing his opponent’s red tunic open before being parried away. Konrad himself had to dodge and feint against two more attempts to stab him with the rapier before he saw his opening and slashed towards El Diablo’s leg. For the first time, his blade struck flesh, and Konrad was delighted to hear the hiss of pain issue from within that accursed devil mask. El Diablo stepped back, and Konrad pressed his advantage, with his blows being parried weakly. He felt the tide turn and laughed. Here he was, the last Cossack in the New World, and here he was thinking he was fighting the Devil when he realized it was just a man. A dangerous and capable man, but still, one would be hurt and killed.
Their swords clashed over a dozen more times, a rapier against a sabre. Konrad smiled as he saw his opening. He lunged forward, and the swordfight was decided then and there, with grim finality by one fatal strike.
*****
THE SUN WAS high in a clear blue sky, and everyone in town did their best to keep cool in the oppressive heat when the rider arrived at Monterry. As he went by, the townspeople turned their heads to look at him in lazy curiosity. He rode on a black stallion, one of the magnificent warhorses that the townspeople last saw being ridden by the cossacks. However, the horse did not gallop or march in precision. It trotted, its head hung low. It carried two large saddlebags on either side, and duelling swarms of flies buzzed at each other. The rider, himself crawling with flies, bobbed and swayed in a way that the townspeople knew all too well. The rider’s head, which rocked from side to side, was wearing a mask whose grin was ironic due to who wore it. The horse trotted over the fountain as villagers parted to give it a way to the place that the townspeople drew their water from. As it leaned its head forward to drink the brackish water, the rider slipped off the saddle and collapsed like a rag doll onto the hard-packed ground. Letting a third swarm of flies rise and join the battle with the flies that crawled around the saddlebags,
People walked over and encircled the figure, whispering to each other. When the rider had fallen, they could see his arms spread wide, revealing the fatal wound in his chest. It was not the wound that was remarked upon. No, it was the mask of lacquered wood that had shattered when the rider fell, and they could see his face. It was the face of the Cossack leader named Konrad, his face still frozen in one of astonishment and fear. The crowd of onlookers looked over at the saddlebags where the flies crawled, and they knew without opening them that the Cossacks would no longer trouble them anymore. They had crossed an ocean to escape the Tsar, but they learned they could not escape justice. They had died at the hands of the one who protected their town and the surrounding lands. It was the legend spoken of in whispers—El Diablo, the man in the Scarlet Cloak. One by one, the crowd began to disperse, men went back to their duties, women went back to their chores, and children ran around grabbing pieces of the lacquered wood mask of the Devil and playacting duels themselves of what they believed had happened the night before. A few old men still argued over who would clean up the mess.
It was just another day in Monterrey, California.
END.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kevin Beckett lives in a Canadian city that is, on some nights, colder than the planet Mars. At various points in life, he has been a radio show host, a nightclub DJ, and a music promoter, and once ran social media & promotion for New Edge Sword & Sorcery Magazine.
His previous works include “AKA The Sinner: Games of Dying Men” and “High Road to Hy-Brasil!” published in Hell Hath No Fury from Pro Se Press, and “The Inn of the Seven Stars” from Water Dragon Press. His story “Shade, Skin, Heart” appears in Swords & Sorcery Magazine. His story “A Song for the Dead” will appear in the upcoming horror anthology Necro Sapiens from Savage Realms Press.
Return Friday, December 5th for daring discovering and breathtaking romance in “The Reunion of Lillian Vance and Emma Harrow as Told Through Vance’s Diary” by Kay Hanifen!
Cliffhanger! Magazine 
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