There is a scene in the Disney show where Capitán Monastario failed to fulfil his duties and didn't prevent Martinéz from killing the unnamed local admirer of the attractive dancing girl. This is a story of what could have happened if the commandante had more occasions to do the right thing and this time – though reluctantly – he did it.

Set after the episode "Garcia's Secret Mission", but not before "Double Trouble for Zorro".

Today is the 60th anniversary of Capitán Monastario's last appearance in the Disney show – the episode "The Fall of Monastario" was aired on the 2nd of January 1958. The most memorable Zorro's adversary - so splendidly played by Britt Lomond - appeared in 13 episodes of the show and now still lives in many fanfiction stories.

I am doing it for fun and I own none of the characters appearing in the Disney show.

The lost child

The new day began in Los Angeles. The sun was shining brightly and the autumn chill didn't pierce the air yet. However, despite the friendly aura, the commandante of the pueblo, Capitán Enrique Sanchéz Monastario, woke up in the foul mood. The merry sun rays sneaking through the shutters didn't disperse the frown on his face. He was testy even before he managed to get out of bed and he suspected that once he leaves his quarters, his humor would only worsen.

As usual, he was right.

To begin with, as soon as he exited the cuartel, he was startled by the sight of his lancers bustling around the yards in nothing more than their underwear: long johns and shirts.

"Sergeant Garcia!" the commandante asked with a growl rising in his throat. "What is the meaning of this? A deliberate mutiny? Or are you simply trying to ridicule me in the eyes of the pueblo?"

"It is washing day, Capitán," replied the sergeant with a smile, not confused with the state of his outfit – or rather lack of it. "Our uniforms are being washed."

"So?... Why aren't you wearing the spare ones?"

"But we do not have the spare ones, mi Capitán!" exclaimed Garcia. "Don't you remember? They got destroyed after we fell to the pitch lake when we were chasing…"

"Enough," cut him off the commandante. He remembered well in which circumstances they destroyed their uniforms. And he was angry enough without recalling certain impudent bandit in a black mask.

It would take a few weeks before the new uniforms he ordered would be ready. Apparently, until this time, he would have to choose between the dirty and smelly lancers or lancers in their underwear. Both cases would severely undermine his authority at the pueblo… wait. Full of bad premonitions, he turned to the sergeant and growled again:

"Garcia, do not tell me you put in front of the cuartel the guards in their underwear. Because if you did, I will be the laughing stock of this pueblo until the end of the world."

"Oh no, mi Capitán!" called Garcia. "I didn't put the guards at all."

"Fine," sighed Monastario with relief but then froze. A cuartel without guards?... And if they got attacked? The enemy would surprise them! But, then, if they got attacked, how would they fight off without uniforms?

"Ouch, I hope that your uniforms would dry quickly," he muttered. "In the afternoon I want to see all of you properly dressed, or…"

The commandante didn't finish the sentence, not being able to find a credible threat. After all, he couldn't have had all the lancers transferred into the Mojave desert. So, he only let his words menacingly hang in the air and decided to go back to his office.

Yet when he turned, his eyes fell on his carriage standing near the stables. The commandante grimaced painfully – the big 'Z' marring the black, shiny and initially perfectly smooth door was still visible, in spite of Garcia's miserable attempts to cover it with paint or to scratch out with a wire brush.

The inside of the carriage was in even worse condition. Since Zorro forced Corporal Sanchéz to drive the buckets with pitch in them, it was all stained and stinky. The seats and cushions from soft leather and French silk were even more difficult to restore to their previous splendid condition.

The commandante sighed and sheltered himself in his office, yet he found no peace even there. On his desk, he noticed the bill for the new uniforms and the estimated cost of repair of his carriage…

He couldn't afford it.

Perhaps a new tax, to cover for the losses, he thought without enthusiasm. If he announced a new special tax for Los Angeles, the three times cursed Fox would certainly come out with new, even more nasty prank…

Disheartened, Monastario sat back on the bed, hiding his face in the hands.

I have had enough of this, he muttered. Suddenly, he missed his youthful careless days, when he had no bandits to chase, no bills to pay, no stupid soldiers and quarrelsome rancheros to deal with. In his youthful days, in such beautiful weather, he wouldn't sit and worry, only sneak out for a ride, or even better – for a long hunt… He would spend long hours enjoying the excursion, ready to face each adventure… and finally, he would return with some nice trophy, like a lynx, or wolf perhaps…

Here in California, he could easily meet a panther. Or even a bear.

And why wouldn't I do just that? he asked himself, struck by the sudden idea and smiled. A panther fur would make very nice carpet under his bed.

"Sergeant Garcia!" he shouted to the yard.

Until the big soldier managed to reach his superior's office, Monastario already had changed his uniform for some casual jacket and now was quickly packing a saddle bag.

"You want to loan me your uniform, Commandante?" asked Garcia, his voice trembling with emotion. "Gracias, but I am not sure whether it will fit. I am a bit wider around the waste."

The commandante measured him with a cold glance.

"If you even touch my uniform, I will cut off your hands," he stated matter-of-factly. "Now, I am taking two or three days off. You will remain in charge of the cuartel."

"Three days off?..." repeated the sergeant surprised and he beamed: "but that's a wonderful idea, Commandante! Can the soldiers also take a few days off?"

"No," replied Monastario. "Don't you remember that all leaves are cancelled until you capture Zorro?"

"Yes, but you just said that…" started hopefully the sergeant, yet his voice trailed off, as he realized that the commandante was not listening to him.

Monastario was so enthusiastic about his idea that he decided to set off quickly before something would force him to change his mind and stay. He didn't take many provisions, only concentrated on preparing the weapons.

"Where are you going, Commandante? To visit someone?" asked anxiously Garcia, seeing how Monastario gathered a rifle, pistols and hunting knife.

"No. Into the mountains. I am going to hunt."

The sergeant's face fell down. It wasn't his idea of the best use of the free time. He followed Monastario to the yard, watching how the commandante fastened the bags and the blanket to the saddle of his horse.

"Capitán, today the weather is lovely, but the natives say we are in for a quick cooling. It may also rain. Perhaps you should take something warmer? A coat?" he observed, but Monastario only shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not afraid of the cold."

He mounted his horse and pulled the reins, heading the animal toward the gate. Already in the saddle, he leaned over to Garcia and ordered:

"Now, Sergeant, in my absence try to keep this place in order. I do not have much hope for your performance, but I also do not expect any special troubles in the meantime."

"Of course, Commandante. Everything will be just as you left it when you return," nodded the big sergeant.

Monastario ran a dubious glance over the cuartel's yard, watching the… significantly underdressed soldiers bustling around.

"That's what I am afraid of," he muttered.

"Any special tasks, mi Capitán?" asked hopefully Garcia, eager to prove his efficiency.

"If you find the way to do something about my carriage…" sighed Monastario, but waved his hand, resigned. "Never mind that. And… oh, yes. Capture Zorro, but do not hang him until I return," he added lightly.

"Of course, mi Capitán," nodded again Garcia, until the meaning of the commandante's words reached him and he froze, stupefied. "Capture Zorro?... But..." he stuttered, yet Monastario was already outside the gate.

Leaving the plaza, the commandante passed by a group of rancheros that stood on the street chatting and laughing loudly.

"Capitán!" called to him Alejandro de la Vega. "Is it true what people say about your soldiers… outfit?" The older don was laughing so heartily that he had to wipe the merry tears from his eyes.

"I have no idea," Monastario shrugged obliviously his shoulders. "You must ask Sergeant Garcia, he is in command of the cuartel now. I am on a leave."

Having said this, with a light heart and smile on his face, the commandante left the pueblo.

During the first hours of his leave, the commandante fully enjoyed his excursion. The sun was warm, the air brisk, the east wind carried the smell of herbs from the meadows…

His only regret was that he met no bear or panther. The only animals that crossed his way were rabbits and a few foxes. Rabbits were too miserable prey, not worth the mess with the skinning. As for the foxes, he didn't want to spoil his humor by chasing them. There was only one Fox the commandante would like to hunt for, but he was not an easy prey.

When the commandante's empty stomach suggested him that a baked rabbit would do nice as dinner, as if in spite he couldn't find them anymore. He had to content himself with a dried beef he took from the cuartel. Yet, the modest meal didn't spoil his humor. He also hoped that in the mountains he may find the trails of the prey worth his efforts.

After the noon, however, the sun hid behind the clouds, the air turned cold and the wind became chilling.

Once he reached the mountains, the cover of the clouds thickened rapidly and the cold gusts of wind became more and more unpleasant. Somehow, Monastario expected this excursion to be more… exciting. Though he still tried to pretend he enjoyed it, after few hours of the ride he had to admit that he was tired, uncomfortable and cold.

It was warmer, when I was younger, nagged silently the commandante, rubbing his shoulders to warm himself. Now he regretted that he didn't take that coat with him.

However, he was already too far from Los Angeles to return to the cuartel before the night fell. Because of the clouds, the dusk was falling rapidly on the rocky paths and he had to find a suitable place to sleep.

Once he finally got off the horseback, in front of the small, but merry fire, the commandante regained a bit of his adventurous spirit from the morning. After all, it was good to be free from all the concerns for a while! Deep inside, Monastario had a feeling that his career was nearing a very dangerous moment. His conflict with the haciendados was growing. The infamous Fox, who started from mere defending Los Angeles from the commandante's ideas, recently came to the offensive. The destroyed uniforms were nothing, just like this mocking flag on the cuartel, but who could know what would happen in the future?

Monastario sighed, trying to push these unsettling thoughts aside. After all, he was on a leave now, and he was going to enjoy it, no matter the Fox and no matter the weather!

If only he took the second blanket… Now he had to choose, whether to use his only one as the sheet or as the cover, whereas both would be nice on that cold night.

The commandante awoke early when the sky barely started to grey. He was chilled to the bone and very uncomfortable.

When I was younger, I was never so sore after sleeping outside, he thought pitifully.

However, he bravely chewed the second part of his beef and quickly packed the little camp, having decided not to give up and continue his hunting. After all, how could he return to the cuartel empty handed?

Once he mounted the horse, the small, but chilling rain started to fall. Monastario, cursing silently, finally considered himself beaten. An adventure was one thing, a risky ride on the slippery, wet stones was something entirely different.

Besides, the rain soaked through his clothes, stealing the remains of warmth from his body. The commandante once again recalled with regret the coat he didn't take from the cuartel and wrapped himself in the blanket.

With a disappointed sigh, he turned his horse back to the plain land.

Heading to the pueblo, he chose the road through the wood, with remains of the fading hope that perhaps he would still shoot something – preferably the panther – that he could present as a trophy of this otherwise misfortunate adventure.

When he indeed heard some rustle of the bushes by the road, his heart jumped with joy and he quickly reached for the rifle. Luckily, it took him a while to unwrap the cloth protecting it from the dampness.

Luckily, because… when he already raised the weapon to aim, the bushes coughed and sneezed.

"Who's there?" asked sharply the commandante, but heard nothing but scared silence in reply. The bushes ceased moving.

Cautiously, he moved his horse nearer and parted the branches with a rifle.

At first, he saw something white – or rather something very dirty that used to be white earlier.

Then he saw a little, even more muddy face and a pair of scared eyes.

"And who are you?..." asked Monastario surprised, but the child just kept staring at him like a frightened squirrel.

No, not at him. The commandante realized that he was still keeping his rifle and the child was staring at the end of the barrel, hanging no more than a few inches from his face. He quickly lowered the weapon.

"Don't be scared, I won't hurt you," he said calmingly. "I am a soldier."

"You aren't. Soldiers wear uniforms," replied a faint, but surprisingly resolute voice.

Monastario made a sound that was something between a snort and a chuckle. Garcia should have heard it. Even the dirty kid living in the middle of the wilderness knew that the soldiers wear uniforms!

Suddenly he frowned. They indeed were in the middle of the wilderness; what was this little one doing here alone? The commandante has never heard about anyone living in this wood. Probably, this child belonged to the family of some vagabonds, or Gypsies… Never mind. It was cold and Monastario wanted to get back to the cuartel.

"Go home and do not prowl around in the bushes. I almost shot you," he said sharply and headed his horse onto the trail again, immediately forgetting the child.

"I got lost!" called pitiful voice behind him.

The commandante stopped and turned back. The child left its hiding in the bushes and stepped into the road. Now it was pitifully looking behind him, the desperation fighting with fear on the little, dirty face. Monastario looked at the kid more precisely. It was a boy, at the age somewhere between five and ten – the commandante was not an expert in such matters. His face and hands were covered in scratches and simple clothes covered in mud and definitely too thin for today's weather.

"Where are you from? How did you get here?" Monastario asked, but the kid only stared at him. "Who are your parents?" he tried again.

"Mamá and papá."

"Now, that's a surprise!" gnarled Monastario, rolling his eyes. He hated talking with children. Noisy little creatures that spoke nonsense and expected the rest of the world to be interested in them… Perhaps it was also why he hated dealing with haciendados as well. There were significant similarities.

"What does your father do?" he asked impatiently.

"He is a miller," replied the boy. He must have been proud of his father, as he raised his head and for a moment his faint voice became a bit stronger.

A miller! There is indeed a horde of brats running around the mill all the time! recalled Monastario. No wonder they lost one!

Well, after his return he would learn the miller to better guard his progeny. Now, however, he knew at least that the boy was from Los Angeles. He had to take him there. The commandante sighed reluctantly – no doubt that kid had lice – but he had no choice. Once he already found this little misery, he had to deliver him into the hands of his careless parents.

"I will take you home," he said, leaning from the horseback to lift the boy onto the saddle.

When he touched the little arm he was appalled realizing how cold he was. Even if Monastario himself was chilled to the bone, the boy's skin felt like ice under his touch.

Alarmed, the commandante dismounted and looked at the child from the closer distance. Only now did he notice that the child's face was literally blue from cold and that he was barely standing on his feet. When he grasped his shoulders, the kid slumped on his hands like a rag doll.

"You spent the night in this wood," realized Monastario.

The boy nodded. "It was cold. And I am hungry," he whispered. It was obvious that the desperate plea for help and conversation with the commandante took the remains of the child's strength. Now he was wavering on his feet. If Monastario didn't keep him, he would fall on the muddy road.

"You should be lucky you survived at all," muttered Monastario, reaching for the blanket that covered his shoulders. He grimaced, noticing that the wool was already soaked with rain. The idea of covering the chilled boy in this wet, cold rag seemed simply cruel.

Muttering silent curses under his nose, the commandante took off his jacket and wrapped it around the child. He was rewarded for this gesture by the sudden gust of wind that penetrated through the thin fabric of his shirt, soaking it with rain.

Cursing a bit louder, he raised the boy onto the horseback.

"I have nothing to eat," he said, "but on my horse we should be in Los Angeles in two hours."

The boy didn't reply. His eyes were closed and his head fell limply on his breast.

"No, wake up!" exclaimed the commandante slightly panicked, as he wasn't sure whether the boy was falling asleep or fainting. Certainly, the child was exhausted, perhaps even beyond its limits. Perhaps it was too late for him. However, if the commandante was to take this little one to Los Angeles, he preferred to carry an alive child than a corpse.

"Wake up," repeated Monastario, shaking the child. The boy groggily opened his eyes, but soon closed them again.

The commandante desperately searched his memories for an idea of a successful way to make the boy obey him, but he found none. He had little experience with children – usually, the parents quickly pulled them out of his way. Forced to rely on his instinct and not sure whether any threat would make an impression on such exhausted boy, Monastario decided on bribery.

"If you don't fall asleep, I will give you something."

That approach was surprisingly successful, as the boy immediately opened his eyes.

"Your sword?" he asked hopefully.

Monastario snorted. This brat had a good taste.

"It is a rapier and it is worth more than ten such lads like you. However," he added gentler, "I can give you my hunting knife. It is also from Spanish steel," he said, presenting the weapon in the ornate sheath.

The boy's eyes twinkled and the little hand reached for the knife. Monastario quickly tucked the knife back behind his belt.

"Only if you do not fall asleep till Los Angeles," he said and climbed onto the saddle.

He urged his horse forward, forcing the animal to ride as quickly as possible, trying to keep together the reins, the child and blanket protecting them from the cold rain.

It is all the fault of Zorro, he thought angrily. After all, if the bandit hadn't tricked the lancers into the tar pits, their uniforms wouldn't have been destroyed and the commandante wouldn't have gotten so angry yesterday morning. The misfortunate idea of hunting in the mountains wouldn't have fallen to his mind and he would never have come across this dirty little thing. He wouldn't be so cold and uncomfortable now, only sitting in his warm office over some good dinner, with a glass of wine in his hand.

But… if I hadn't ridden through this wood today, that kid would probably die, he realized with sudden discomfort. Not that it would matter much, but… Ah, anyway!...

He concentrated on the ride and limited his considerations to cursing and envisioning what he would do to the child's neglectful parents after his return.

The commandante rode hard, forcing his horse to the extreme effort. Once he already took up the rescue mission, he wanted to be successful. A few times he stopped to check on the boy. The child sat curled and slumped onto the saddle with half-closed eyes, but each time Monastario unwrapped him from the covers, he raised his head saying quickly, even if in very faint voice:

"I am not sleeping!"

"Very well," replied the commandante. He didn't like children, but this one seemed to be quite tolerable.

Monastario approached Los Angeles from the side of the river, where the mill was situated. However, when he neared to the town, for a moment he forgot about the boy, as he saw an unusual gathering at the outskirts – lancers, rancheros with their men, even a lot of natives were hovering around, shouting something… smaller groups of men were setting off, another was returning…

The city was attacked in my absence! he realized in horror. We lost the cuartel and the soldiers escaped!...

Feeling his heart raising to his throat he spurred his horse, forcing the very tired animal to the one more effort.

"Garcia!" he yelled, having spotted the big form of his sergeant. "What happened?"

The big lancer looked indeed as if after the lost battle. Even if he was wearing the uniform again, it was wet and muddy and Garcia's face was greyish from fatigue. He passed a fleeting glance over the commandante, but was too distracted to pay closer attention. Besides, the capitán sheltered both himself and his cargo from wind and rain with a blanket, so that the child looked rather like a bundle of rags., That's why the sergeant didn't notice the boy only observed absently:

"Commandante, you returned? Did you shoot something? The weather was not good for hunting." Then he pointed at the men gathered around and explained: "We are searching for Carlito. He got lost yesterday. There is no trail of him and it is getting colder…" the sergeant shook his head and his usually serene face clouded with regret, "even if he survived the first night, he won't make it through the second. If we do not find him till nightfall…" Garcia choked back the remains of the sentence and finished with a sigh: "That's why everyone helps."

"All this for one missing brat?" Monastario looked around in disbelief. He could understand such commotion if it was a governor's son missing, but to make so much turmoil around some miller's boy!... Heavens, even most of the haciendados were present! And these men, that yesterday laughed him off so haughtily, now were beleaguered, tired and soaked with rain, shivering in the cold wind despite their long coats… But perhaps they were searching for some other boy?

"I found some child in the wood," he said, unwrapping the blanket and raising the boy, like a kitten, to present him to the sergeant. "Is it this one you are looking for?"

"Carlito!" gasped Garcia. His tired face beamed with a smile of relief. "He is alive!"

People who heard him ceased moving, turning to the commandante. For a moment, everything around froze in silence.

"So, if that's the one, would someone take it from me, or not?" asked Monastario with irritation. "I thought you wanted to find him."

"Carlito!" shouted some man running toward them. The commandante knew what the miller looked like and frowned, surprised what one night of worry could do to a man. Even if on his way to Los Angeles he decided to immediately arrest the miller for lack of parental supervision, now he decided to postpone it for a while. He only pushed the boy, still wrapped in his jacket, into the miller's hands with angry reproach:

"You should guard him better."

"Gracias, Commandante," stuttered the miller clutching the child to his breast. By his side appeared some woman, with the face red and swollen from tears. Still sobbing, she looked as if she wanted to kiss Monastario's hand.

"Better take your brat home and give him something to eat," snorted the commandante. However, his words were lost in the wave of cheers and merry shouts around them.

Monastario found no satisfaction in the joyous commotion around him. He was cold, tired and hungry and had no intention of making the whole pueblo happy. On the contrary, he would be much better after causing someone to feel as miserable as he was. He looked toward the miller, reconsidering whether he shouldn't arrest him after all when he noticed that the boy wriggled to free from his father's grasp and called something to Monastario.

Relieved that the boy wasn't totally exhausted and curious what he wanted, the commandante leaned toward him to hear it. Did he want to thank him as well?

"I didn't fall asleep," announced triumphantly the boy. "Not even for a second. Now give me my knife."

"Shhh, Carlito… be quiet," whispered the scared miller, who must have felt that his freedom hung by the very thin thread of Monastario's humor.

However, to the surprise of everyone around and his own, Monastario burst out with laughter. No, he didn't like children, but this one had spirit! He reached for his knife and handed it into little hands outstretched in his direction.

"Here, you earned it," he said to the boy.

As people around him silenced again, looking at him suspiciously, Monastario shrugged his shoulders and withdrew his horse out the crowd. The whole Los Angeles could stay here and prattle if they wanted; he intended to get home finally, change into something dry and…

"…the boy is fine. Frozen, but alive."

"Saints be praised!"

Monastario flinched, having heard this small exchange near him. He didn't have to turn to the owners of the familiar voices to recognize them – Alejandro de la Vega and his son. Well, well, even Diego de la Vega left his books and took part in the search! Still, the commandante had no wish to speak with either of them. Since that turmoil around Alejandro's attack at the cuartel, and all that happened after that, his conversations with the de la Vegas were limited to the short exchange of better or worse masked mockeries, if not insults. Especially this young one had a terribly sharp tongue. Monastario grimaced recalling the sneering expression of Diego de la Vega when he witnessed an inglorious return of the commandante and his lancers after the bath in the tar pits. And today he also looked miserable; in a wet shirt and soaked blanket wrapped around his shoulders, as if he was one of these vagabond natives…

Monastario was so tired and hungry that – even if he admitted it very reluctantly – he had no will to face the de la Vegas at the moment. He tried to pass by them discreetly, hoping that they wouldn't notice him.

"Commandante!"

Monastario sighed heavily and – trying to keep fierce expression on his face – turned back. He felt slightly better seeing that even Diego de la Vega – usually bearing with spotless elegance – now was as tired and dirty as everyone around. Perhaps even worse than the others, as unlike the men around them, who were wrapped in the dark coats, he was only in a tan suit. Diego de la Vega never wore coats or capes, no matter the weather.

"Yes?"

"The Providence must have guarded this boy and let you find him. We have been searching for him since yesterday. I feared already that it is too late to find him alive."

The kind words didn't disperse Monastario's frown. He didn't wish to be treated so… patronizingly! Besides, it was terribly irritating to see this joy on the faces all around him. Both de la Vegas, father and son, looked so wrenched that they definitely had a sleepless night behind them, but now they literally beamed with joy and relief.

"The Providence should rather put some reason into the heads of this boy's parents," he snorted. "I took him here, once I found him, but most probably I spoiled my hunt for nothing. The brat chilled to the bone. Surely he will fall for pneumonia and die anyway."

He prepared for indignant protests of both de la Vegas, but to his surprise, they only exchanged worried glances.

"He is right," muttered Alejandro.

"I will better fetch the doctor right now," sighed Diego de la Vega. Then he turned to Monastario and offered: "I have a free place in my carriage, I can drive you to the pueblo. You too look tired."

Monastario snorted. He would sooner crawl to the pueblo than ride into this funny little gig, like a señorita!

"No, gracias," he replied scornfully. "I am fine." It would sound mightier if his teeth didn't chatter.

Diego de la Vega looked at him with a merry grin. "If I said that you did a good thing saving this boy, Commandante, you would probably feel offended, so… eh… I will say nothing."

"And keep it that way as long as possible, Señor, then there indeed would be something to thank the Providence for," snarled angrily Monastario, but Diego de la Vega, instead of getting offended, only burst out in a loud, contagious laughter.