The neighing of the black horse reverberated in the night as the dark figure of a caped rider moved rapidly through the streets of rough cobblestone. The clattering of the horse’s hooves prompted a symphony of dog barks from the sleepy casonas and quiet tenement buildings. Tired dwellers of the village of Santa Helena opened up their windows and hanged oil lamps from their balconies, in an attempt to see the source of the commotion.
The masked vigilante darted first through the narrow, meandering alley, quickly like the wind. Then, after the time it takes to pray a Holy Mary, there came a whole platoon of Royal Riders cramming themselves through the narrow path in a thunderstorm of horse hooves and angry cries of “¡Atrápalo! ¡Rápido!” These cries were followed by the rattling of pistols and carbines, and by the snapping of leather whips.
The rider was moving up hill, turning the sharp curves of the village like a snake that changes its shape with its environment. Halfway through the top of the hill, his hat flew away, and his face was revealed: he was wearing a black domino mask made of wrapped cotton fabric. Two openings revealed his dark eyes which, despite the danger, showed not a glimpse of fear.
The path uphill took him to a plateau overlooking the harbor. There, an old church extended upwards in a sharp spire topped by a cross. A plaza surrounded the church, boasting benches and gardens, trees, and bushes with flowers, all shrouded by the darkness of the night. The Vigilante stopped his horse, looked up, and, in a reverence, made the gesture of the cross on his forehead. Then, upon hearing the roar of the Royal Guard in the distance, he said:
“Lord, may you forgive us, mere mortals, for the bloodshed about to happen around your house.”
He then rode towards the cliff side and stopped near a pair of olive trees. His figure became illuminated by the moon that slowly dawned in the horizon, throwing silvery sparks against the surface of the ocean. He looked at the dark plaza and waited. The noise of the guards became louder, and, soon, their agitated and furious silhouettes materialized among the trees and behind the church.
The Vigilante maintained a firm, haughty posture on top of his horse. He did not move, nor did he show any kind of hesitation while the thirty-or-so riders of the Royal Guard whirled around him, shouting, clucking at their horses, unsheathing their swords, and pointing the barrels of their revolvers at him.
When, at last, the circle of riders formed around the Vigilante, and his defeat became clear, the roar of horse hooves stopped, and the cries of soldiers quieted away. Then, from among the guard emerged a rider with European features, long black hair, mean eyes, aquiline nose, and a Van Dyke beard. He was riding a large, beige Andalusian horse, and was wearing a full dress uniform with golden epaulettes and a shako in his head.
He glanced meanly at the Vigilante and said:
“Well, well… The Fox of Hispania is trapped like a flea-infested animal. All because of a woman…”
“You can never trap me.” He said. “I serve no man. I bow to no one.”
“Your resistance is futile. The King has ordered your execution. I shall take you to my father’s hands, and he will put you on the block. When your head rolls down the plaza, I will make sure Mercedes looks at it. She ought to. That is how my future wife will know that she belongs to me, and any feelings that she had towards you were a terrible illusion.”
The officer was trying to provoke the Vigilante, but it did not work. The man did not flinch, nor did he show any kind of insecurity. He simply smiled, and said:
“It is easy to be brave while surrounded by the cavalry. But, against me, in a fair fight, you would never stand a chance. You may trap my body, but my spirit will live on. Mercedes will always know that I have always been a bigger man than you. She will wait for me, until we meet again on the other side. She will never belong to such a pathetic little thing.”
These words flew like arrows from the Vigilante’s mouth, piercing through the Officer’s chest and churning in it a smoldering rage. Behind the curvy mustache and goatee, the Officer’s cheeks became red, and his eyes widened up, humiliated.
“Sir…” Asked a nearby sergeant to the Officer. “Do you have any orders?”
The Officer was grasping the reins of his horse with a clenched fist.
“Hold.” He gnarled. “Do not touch him! He is mine.”
And so, the Officer dismounted, cracked his neck, and gave away his pistol to the sergeant. Upon seeing this, the Vigilante did the same, only, with far greater grace and agility, as his black cape opened up like the wings of an owl, and his eyes blazed like embers.
The circle of riders widened, giving more space for the duel that was about to commence. The two enemies approached each other with the sharp, bloodthirsty pace of predators. They each unsheathed their sabers and promptly assumed the posture of a duel, holding the blade vertically in front of their bodies, with the tip pointed upwards.
“I will destroy you entirely.” The Officer said. “Not only your body, but your spirit. I will have my revenge. You defiled my fiancée. You broke into her room tonight, and did the unspeakable to her. How dare you say that she loves you?”
“She was sold to you by her father, the Colonel, like a slave, in exchange for power and money. Her heart, however, chose me. I have known her for many years, long before you were even born. I love her. And, I did not break into her room: she received me willingly. Now, I shall kill you to free her from the fate of being married to such a pathetic, petty, cruel thing.”
Even before the Vigilante finished his sentence, the Officer gnarled and cried an angry scream, and swung his blade up and down towards his enemy. The Vigilante was skilled and nimble, and, for every blow of the Officer’s sword he had an appropriate response: either a quick, agile dodge, or a sparring of his blade. A duel ensued. Sparks flew away from the sharp edges as they clanged and clashed loudly. Flashes of the moonlight reflected from their blades, creating white, ghastly flairs between the two.
Their fight was equal in skill, and, for some time, every swing of one’s sword was met by the edge of the other’s, and every thrusting motion was either dodged by the other’s quick motion, or deflected by the other’s blade. The Officer’s shako fell off during the chaos of the fight, and was crushed by the Vigilante’s boots. A cloud of dust was forming between them as they scratched their feet against the dirt floor, and moved rapidly forming what looked like a whirlwind around them.
At one point, the Vigilante seemed to be gaining an advantage. He swung his sword too close to the Officer’s face, glazing his skin, ripping off his fancy garments, and provoking fear in the Officer’s eyes. Then, the riders stepped forward, closing up the circle and getting ready to intervene. Upon recovering his stance, the Officer cried, “Stand back! Do not interfere! This is an order!” While gasping and panting, with a drop of blood sliding from his cheek like a tear.
Their battle kept going until they were at the very edge of the cliff. The clacking of swords became louder, and, as they quickly glanced sideways, they saw the steep rocky cliff by their feet, and the roaring ocean, with its dark, foamy waves, carving sharp, pointy stones below. Cutting was not the only goal now. Each one was trying to make the other fall. Their movements were brutal and fierce. The Vigilante was tired, and his arm was getting sore. The Officer, meanwhile, was barely holding up his stance, and was throwing hesitant looks towards the surrounding guards, wondering if it was already time to request their help.
The Vigilante noticed this, and feared that his enemy would fold and succumb to his cowardice. He had to end it quickly, before the Officer could call for help. As such, he used a trick, turning rapidly, in such a way that his long, black cape opened up like a blanket and blocked the Officer’s view for a second. The Officer’s sword pierced the cape, but found no bone nor flesh. Meanwhile, the Vigilante threw a powerful leg sweep against his enemy. The young man lost his balance and fell, hitting his face and arms on the rocky floor while his sword escaped his hand and dove into the dark cliff below.
The Officer clumsily climbed back up, and, as the Vigilante returned to his proper posture, throwing his cape back to its place, the Officer opened his mouth to scream for help. But, moments before he could, the Vigilante’s strong hand grasped his throat and prevented any word from being uttered.
The riders stepped forward, hesitantly, and unsheathed their swords, ready to intervene. But, they did not act. They were waiting for orders from the Officer that, now, choked against the Vigilante’s grasp.
The Vigilante’s fury was unmatched as he remembered his beloved, her fear of being trapped in a loveless marriage with an abusive, aggressive, pitiful man. The Vigilante’s anger fueled the muscles of his arm and hand, further increasing the power of his grasp. He remembered the woman’s beautiful eyes, her long, wavy, black hair, and her dark, beautiful eyes when she laid by his side, in bed, underneath a window, dreaming to escape one day and run away forever so they could live in peace.
“You never deserved her!” He shouted to the desperate, dying creature in his grasp. “She loathes you, and, if you killed me, she would have hated you forever. But, you will not kill me tonight. You will die, and I will die with you!”
The Officer was already swollen and purple because of the suffocating grasp. When he heard these last words, he widened his eyes and knew, with certainty, that he was dead. And so, the Vigilante jumped out of the cliff, and carried the Officer with him.
Upon seeing the two duelists vanishing at the edge, the guards charged towards them. When they arrived, however, they looked down the cliff and found no one. The ocean below was dark and turbulent. The waves were moving rapidly, crashing against the land, spraying upwards, and returning to the depths.
Days later, the body of the Officer was found. He was half-rotten, half-eaten by sea creatures, and even the strongest men would barf upon gazing such a deformed, wretched creature. The body of the Vigilante, however, was never found. Not his cape, nor his mask—nothing ever washed ashore.
His black horse was taken to the Colonel’s stables to be trained and prepared for the royal cavalry. But, one night, a sneaky, shady figure broke into the palace, found its way into the stables, and released the horse to its freedom. No other horse was freed ever again.
One week later, Mercedez, the daughter of the Colonel, who was once promised to the Officer of the Cavalry, disappeared. No one ever knew where she went, or what happened to her.
All they knew was what was told by a poor stable boy who was roaming the bailey in the middle of the night after a long day’s work. He said that he saw a black figure, as fast as a demon and quiet as an owl, climbing the outer wall of the palace, opening up Mercedez’ window, and sneaking into her room. Moments later, the figure came out with the woman in its arms, and, according to the boy, it opened up large, black wings and flew away, vanishing against the black, starlit sky.