Yes, it lives! After a month of relentless searching, I finally found people that were willing to beta read this story. Then I got into the "waah, I have all these TV shows to watch" mode (I am addicted to Smallville among others, though I don't read fanfic about this series) and I basically took some vacation from writing, which is not really good in itself for me since I already spend a lot of time into researching details and rewording everything a million times before I am satisfied with it. Having the views of others is SO great I don't even know how I could have written so much before actually asking for some help. You'd be surprised how many faulty things are in these chapters so far =)

Also, I may take the occasion to give you some facts about the character of Carlos Martínez, played by Tony Russo. This actor originally auditioned for the role of Zorro (as did Britt Lomond, who ended up playing our favorite villain), and even though he lost the role to Guy Williams, the crew liked him a lot and hired him to play Martínez... and in season 2 he played another bad guy named Pedro Avila. Needless to say, he and Guy both knew fencing, and I just adore their sword fights in this TV show, because they are so realistic! No need for computer effects, or to cut scenes or do insane close-ups to hide the fact that actors did not know how to handle these weapons. Same applies for Monastario vs Zorro fights!

Enough blahblahblah now, enjoy chapter 12! Thanks to VH, Icy and Mim for the GREAT insights. Tons of help in putting this one together! Your comments gave me the energy I needed to finally finish this one chapter.

Silence had settled for a moment, as surprise made way for appraisal.

The masked man took a deep breath and slowly brought his hand up to tip the brim of his hat, briefly taking his eyes off the muzzle to silently salute with an ambiguous smile the Señorita standing in front of him. The hand clutching the pistol was steady. A brief look to her side revealed the other hand was holding a short stick, which seemed rather fragile to be a weapon.

Despite the fact that the man she was facing seemed to be twice her size, the frail, young lady in front of Zorro stood still as if she had been carved out of stone, not even blinking at his gesture. Her hollow eyes and thin mouth gave her a severe look, though she could be thought of as pretty if she could bring herself to smile.

After a moment, Zorro cleared his throat, unable to decide what to do. He was a man of action, used to taunts, adrenaline, gloating, sword fights. His enemies were always open books when they came face to face. The Señorita, however, was a puzzle. What were her intentions? Why was her manner so austere and unflinching? Her silence particularly unnerved him. Here they stood without purpose, each passing second an opportunity for something Zorro could not predict. If he could take the advantage of surprise, maybe he could grab the pistol and—

"I would not do that if I were you, Señor," she said softly, taking a short step back to stay out of reach.

Zorro closed his eyes briefly, and then shrugged as if to excuse himself from even thinking about escaping.

"What were you looking for?" she asked bluntly.

"The exit, Señorita. It seems I got lost."

The comment fell on deaf ears, and the young woman stood resolute, waiting for the proper answer.

Zorro wet his lips before speaking. Better go for some sort of half-truth instead of playing useless games.

"Someone I know lost something, he thought it could be here. I'm afraid it isn't. I was really about to go."

"Why didn't he come here himself and ask about it?"

"He's a strange friend."

"I didn't know Señor Zorro had strange friends."

The masked outlaw gave a stubborn frown at the comment. The conversation was really starting to make him feel uncomfortable.

"What are your intentions now that you caught me, Señorita? I find it rather strange that you haven't called for help yet," Zorro said boldly, hoping to stir the situation toward action. Standing still almost made his muscles ache from all the tension. The tall man did not understand why, but he had a very bad feeling about this whole affair, and he already regretted searching the hacienda like a mere thief on such idle reasons.

"If I were you," he continued on the same tone, "I would be careful with that pistol. Someone could get hurt. For all I know, you are the clumsy servant who spilled boiling water on Señora Escudero's hand. "

The Señorita frowned slightly, finally displaying some sort of human reaction. "What? She burned it herself. I... Don't move, Señor Zorro," she focused her gaze on him, menacingly pulling the hammer of her flintlock pistol, probably thinking it was another attempt by Zorro to distract her.

However, she had mistaken the outlaw's reaction. She burned it herself. With a sudden flash, Zorro vividly remembered where he had seen the shawl he had found in Señora Escudero's wooden closet, and he had unconsciously clenched his fists from the sheer surprise of the memory.

The curious woman at the abandoned house. The one with the red, swollen hand, just like Señora Escudero's this morning. She was wearing that shawl. How could it be? These two women could not possibly be the same; Zorro would have recognized the Señora when he saw her with the Comandante as he brought in the bandits, or even when he bumped into her by accident. Yet, that woman's clothes were here, and there was no denying both wounds looked exactly the same.

This memory brought about an even more disturbing thought. The strange woman had recognized him as the fox, even saying it made sense. What had she meant by that?

Now that he was thinking about it, Zorro found it rather strange that she had also mentioned something about a lion watching over a common friend they had. He had not really given more thoughts to her words, tired as he was back then, and more worried about the bandits than their strange conversation. Who was the lion? How could she know about any friend of his since they had never met before?

Zorro's mind was on fire, every odd thing she had said sending his thoughts on a different tangent. Also, the manner in which she led him to the bandits... Zorro did not even question her, and when he spied on these men at their camp, they did look guilty as charged, and he simply assumed it was them.

What if he had been wrong? What if this was some sort of elaborate setup? But then, why go through all this effort to have the wrong men captured?

All of this... made no sense. Too many questions, and none with a clear path to an answer. Perhaps—

"I've heard of your skills, Señor," the Señorita said, but her voice sounded far away. "You bear your name well. Turn around now," she motioned with her pistol.

Perfect. An opportunity to get out of this little mess. Pushing all disturbing thoughts aside, Zorro darted a look around the room before doing as ordered. The balcony was merely a few steps from his position. If he could avoid the bullet from the pistol by acting swiftly, he would stand a chance of escaping without anyone getting hurt.

His back now facing the Señorita, Zorro waited for the next part.

"Now, step forward and—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Zorro suddenly dropped close to the floor, throwing his silky cloak in the air with a grand gesture in the hope of confusing the Señorita. The pistol was fired in almost the same instant, and luckily missed as predicted.

Zorro made a run for the balcony. Within seconds he had opened one of the windowed doors and he was out, frantically searching for a quick way down before the Señorita could reload her weapon. With a faint smile he spotted the ivy growing along the wooden pillars supporting the balcony, and before jumping over the edge, he silently thanked whoever had made every Spanish gardener grow vines around Californian haciendas.

Both hands grabbed the small branches as his body rolled over, but his weight, combined with the speed of his fall, was too much for the plant, and the branches snapped almost instantly. However, they did slow him down enough to prevent serious injury, and Zorro landed with both feet on the ground, before losing his balance shortly after. He lay on his back, glancing upward from whence he had come, as he tried to catch his breath.

The Señorita stood there, looking at him from her perched position. The pistol was still in her hand, but it was pointed down, not at Zorro. Before the masked man could react, she quickly put the short stick she had been holding to her lips, and blew in it.

Zorro felt something sharp sting his upper left arm. His hand instinctively went for it, and he pulled out a tiny, feathered dart. He did not understand what this meant, but he had better made a run for it before—

"Nina! What's going on here?! I heard a shot, where are you?"

Zorro recognized the voice. It was Mateo. He could hear him running towards them just on the other side of the stone wall around the hacienda. Quickly, he jumped to his feet and whistled for Tornado as he ran to the door, hoping to reach it before the young man would.

Mateo opened it first, but he had not expected someone to be right in his face, and the surprise was enough for the outlaw to push him back before he could do something. Tornado was right there, galloping towards them. All Zorro had to do was dash forward, grab the reins, jump on the saddle, and he would be gone.

A solid jerk on his cloak prevented him from doing so.

"Good reflexes, young man," Zorro said with a chuckle, realizing Mateo had grabbed his cape in all the confusion.

"What—what is going on here?" he asked, bewildered.

Zorro looked at him over his shoulder and smiled. "Sorry, I can't stay long enough to chat."

In one swift motion, he untied his cloak and ran away, leaving the puzzled young man behind him. Tornado made a whinnying sound when Zorro mounted up, and within a blink both man and beast were gone.

Still sitting in the cart parked near her hacienda, Imelda stared with a smile at the cloud of dust Zorro had left in his wake. This fox was a cunning one indeed. She wondered what his invading her house meant. For some reason, he must be aware of something dubious about either herself or Mateo. Zorro was not a mere thief, she was sure of that, but she doubted he had found anything useful.

Her gaze shifted to her son, who was walking back to the cart with his prized possession in his hand.

"Mother, I..." he hesitated.

"Mateo, what is the meaning of all this?" she teased him, weaving her fan emphatically towards Zorro's escape route.

"I... don't know."

Some of the servants were now running out and scouting the area around the hacienda, wondering what had happened after hearing the gunshot. Among them was Nina, with the usual impenetrable expression carving her features that everyone found so disturbing. The young woman was quietly walking towards Imelda and Mateo, and greeted them with a curt nod.

"Señora, Señor," she said softly.

"Nina, are you all right? What happened?" Mateo asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice.

Nina barely acknowledged his presence. She was staring at Imelda with a neutral gaze.

"Zorro found the dress and the shawl, Señora. I missed when I fired the pistol, but I got him with a dart," she declared. "I don't know how deep it went though."

"Dear, dear," Imelda shook her head with a smile. "I guess now it's only a matter of time before we find out who Zorro really is."

"Why is that, Mother?" Mateo asked with a frown.

"Well, he's been poisoned, of course. We just have to watch out for the man who will obviously be suffering from the symptoms."

... and this will surely keep the meddlesome curiosity of the fox out of my little business, Imelda thought as her smile faded away.

"Mother, there's a reward for catching him."

Imelda giggled. "Of course you can have it Mateo. I have other, more urgent things to attend to right now."

Antoine and Martínez were breathing heavily. They had dropped all pretenses as their bodies neared exhaustion. The fight had started with both of them wary of each other. The blades clashed and slithered, touched and rang with the continual music of a fierce fight in which two adversaries were assessing each other, backing away, pressing forward, learning the feel of each other's swordplay while never giving the advantage to the other.

Throughout the course of the struggle, Martínez had knocked over the remaining bookshelf onto the floor, and Antoine had thrown the broken drawers, missing his enemy and shattering them on the wall instead. Both men had finally managed to get out of the adobe house, the enclosed space making it difficult for them to properly fence. They were now in the open, staring into each other's eyes like any good fencers did, waiting for the mistake the other one would eventually be making.

"I knew I could count on you, Frenchman," Martínez murmured between gasping breaths and a smirk.

Antoine ignored him and unleashed a low thrust, which Martínez avoided by retreating and moving sideways with a grunt. The dark-haired man stumbled on a pebble and almost lost his balance, and had Antoine been in better shape he would have been able to take advantage of this. However he was too tired, and with a weapon that seemed heavier by the second, he simply stood there, sweating and panting, while his opponent recovered his balance somewhat clumsily.

The young soldier wanted to press the fighting, but he was glad for this short respite. He wiped beads of perspiration from his face with his left hand, lowering his guard slightly for a moment. He immediately regretted doing so when Martínez ferociously lunged forward, darting his steel dangerously close to Antoine's fighting arm, who barely avoided the attack by awkwardly parrying from his disadvantaged posture.

He tried to recover with a riposte but Martínez did not waste another second. Probably sensing his opponent's sudden weakness in the wrist, the man deceived Antoine's feeble attack with a quick circle around the soldier's blade, which was turned aside by the gesture. To Antoine's surprise, his weapon was sent flying in the air, and before he was fully conscious of the situation, the young man was violently thrown on the ground with a kick in the stomach, and he immediately felt the cold pressure of the tip of a sword against his throat. Up above him was the smug smile of his enemy, who had finally won the duel he had been coveting so much.

The door opened slowly, revealing a gray-haired man with a neutral look.

"Yes?" he inquired with a thick accent, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"P...Please... help... Señor!" the native woman stuttered before she dropped to her knees, holding on to her young daughter wrapped in fur blankets. She was a sorry sight, but it seemed that before she could make even more of a fool of herself, Gaspar grabbed her shoulder while gently putting a hand on her forehead.

"You are feverish, Madame. I will go get Docteur Garat right away," he calmly said.

"Señor! I am not here... for..." the woman said as stood up with difficulty. "Our Healer... can't..." she muttered. "Sick... take... her..." She gently pushed her child into Gaspar's arms. The baby started crying as soon as she left her mother's custody, but the latter seemed resolute in leaving her precious package in the care of someone else.

"Madame, you're not—"

Gaspar could not finish his sentence. The stranger collapsed on the ground unconscious. The man stood still for a second, visibly unable to comprehend what had just happened.

"What is going on here?" Jacques came running out of the adobe house, immediately kneeling next to the body.

"She collapsed, Monsieur. High fever, I—"

"Gaspar," Jacques cut him off. "She's dead."

"But... Monsieur. What about this... sick baby?" The servant seemed at a loss, looking up and down in confusion.

Jacques slowly stood up with a frown, and looked around the area, as if he could find an answer to this question in the air around him. After a quick sweep, he sighed heavily.

"I don't know, but her condition may be contagious. I don't want to risk Deiña and Antoine's health. Let's go in town, report this incident. Maybe someone will be able to identify this woman."

Imelda kept to the shadows of the tall rocks nearby, observing in silence. She was angry that Puluy had run away, unable to accept the fact that if her and her baby had been sick for so many months and could not be cured by the Healer, maybe it was a sign. A sign that some things were just not meant to be. The tribe had come to accept their condition and had done everything they could to assist them, but Puluy had been stubborn and had believed another Healer could help her child. At least she had not said anything that could have compromised Imelda's situation.

Still, this was disturbing. It was now time to consult the visions. Maybe they would reveal something different about the destiny of this weak little girl, if indeed that doctor could help her out with his foreign medicine.

With a faint smile, Imelda watched as both men carefully wrapped Puluy's body into a large piece of cloth and put it up in a cart. They quickly rode away, leaving a cloud of dust behind them, Jacques holding the reins, and Gaspar the orphaned child.

For a while they were silent. Martínez knew that Antoine was starting to wonder why he was not making his final move. After all, he had been very adamant in pursuing a duel, he would certainly not let his prey go freely, especially not since Antoine was a soldier of his Majesty's Army. Besides, another 'wanted' poster bearing his name was the last thing Martínez needed at the moment.

"Before you kill me..." Garat muttered.

"... you want to know who's been following you, eh?" the tall man finished the sentence with a grin, happy that the little hint he had dropped during their first encounter had troubled the young boy so much.

"Was it Mateo?"

"The other chico who was driving the cart from Monterey? What a stupid idea!"

"I thought—"

"I don't know his name," Martínez interrupted. "He's a fairly ordinary fellow with an odd smile, you couldn't even spot him in an empty street... and he's very much interested in you."

"What for?" Garat grunted, a spark of anger lighting his eyes.

"I was actually hoping you'd tell me."

Martínez slightly pushed the tip of his sword into the soft skin of Garat's neck, emphasizing his request with a little twist. However, the sharp pain that must have been caused by this gesture did not seem to disturb the soldier, nor did the blood that trickled down into his collar. Instead his gaze shifted to the side, as if he were swimming deep into some troubling thoughts. Martínez let him ponder about his options, hoping he would reveal something about the money he suspected was the whole matter of this strange story.

"I know you're not going to like this, Martínez, but I have absolutely no idea why anyone would be interested in my whereabouts," Garat finally declared.

The swordsman shrugged. Deep down, he had not really expected any revelation from this young man.

"All right, chico. I don't really think this will save you, but I'll let you make your last prayer. You can—"

The soldier did not let him finish his sentence. Martínez realized a fraction of a second too late that when he shrugged a moment ago, he had not kept enough pressure on the sword against Garat soft skin, allowing him to free himself from the threat by hardening the muscles in his neck and swiftly rolling on the side. The sudden move was coupled with a kick to his shinbone, and Martínez lost his balance and dropped his weapon, yelping from the pain. Before he knew it, he was on the ground and the situation was reversed. The sharp end of a blade was now planted firmly against his chest.

"Give me one good reason not to run you through," Garat panted from the burst of effort.

For a moment, Martínez was able to control himself, but after a while it was too much for him and he burst out laughing. The look of utter confusion from the soldier only reinforced his merriment, and he kept on roaring.

"I have to say, chico, you've got spirit in you," Martínez admitted in all honesty, blinking away the tears that had formed at the corner of his eyes. Though he would never say it out loud, the tall man had really enjoyed this duel, even if he had somehow lost it. "You've earned your victory."

"You don't care if you die?" Garat asked, genuinely surprised by the unexpected reaction of someone about to get pierced by a sword.

"I do, but..." the dark man paused, his laughter now reduced to a grin. "You won't kill me, that's why I'm laughing."

"Oh?" Garat said sarcastically, twisting the weapon into the folds of his shirt.

"Look, if you really want to kill me, don't talk, just do it. I already made that mistake, and see where I am now?" Martínez winked, and folded his arms behind his head as if he were relaxing in the most comfortable position.

Garat frowned, and after a moment he cursed under his breath and kicked the ground with visible frustration.

"See? I told you," Martínez gloated. He had intuitively known about this young man's personality, having fought the likes of him before. He had killed people easily in the past, but he knew not everyone was like him. The Frenchman's moral values were all he ever needed to expect a fair duel, and be shielded against any serious injury.

"How is it that you knew about me being followed?"

"I was simply hired to steal your things on your way to Los Angeles. That fight in the tavern was part of that plan." He chuckled at the thought of how good that idea had been. Too bad it hadn't been his. "Your friends were just an unexpected interruption which prevented me from completing that task and getting full payment."

"The watch..." Garat mumbled, his face darkening from some realization.

"A watch? Is it worth a lot of money?" Martínez was now curious, trying to learn as much as he could from the soldier's inadvertent revelation. He hoped that confessing to the small plot would bring forth some clues to the bigger story that seemed to be lurking around Garat.

"Why did you seek me out a second time? You revealed the fact that I was followed. Didn't that change the initial plan?"

"Ha! You're not just good with a sword, chico," Martínez conceded. "I met that fellow again in Los Angeles, he wanted me to follow you while he was busy in town. I don't care why he needs to know where you've been, all I wanted was to duel you, and learn about that load of money he seems to think you're hiding."

"Money? I don't have anything worth stealing!" Garat screamed in anger. The sudden emotional reaction threw Martínez a little bit off. For all he could see, Garat was damn well honest about not knowing anything. Maybe he had been wrong about the money after all.

He shrugged. "Seems we hit a dead end, Frenchman. Care for something to drink? In my pocket there's—"

"Whatever you say," Garat muttered, putting his sword back into its scabbard.

Martínez stood up and dusted his dirty shirt and trousers, feeling disappointed about the outcome, but too tired to feel any anger at his loss. "There's no reason to make that face, you won a duel with Carlos Martínez, not many can claim that."

The man took a deep breath. "It looks like you're letting me go. I'll let you post one of those wanted posters if you want, just let me spend one night in the tavern before you do so... and maybe let me have my chance with this local outlaw called Zorro," he grinned. "He looks like another interesting challenge."

Garat spun on his heels. "Zorro?!"

"Yes. You know him? I heard he's quite the fighter."

"You..." the soldier paused, as if thinking twice about what he was going to say. "You are going to help me catch him."

The face Garat made when he spoke was a rather odd mixture of a smile and a frown. Combined with glinting eyes and slightly flushed cheeks... It worried Martínez more than anything he had ever seen in his life.

Yes, I finally decided to keep Bernardo out of this one. Unfortunately, you will have to wait a little longer before you learn about his fate.

Next: Monastario wakes up in a strange place, Garcia has no idea what to do without his Capitán, and Diego... nah I won't say anything about Diego for now :) Interesting clues are coming in soon!

And.... Please take the time to review!

(begin author rant) Sigh. Please bear with me here. I have to say it once among those thousands of words I posted. It's an author thing...

So many hits and so few that take the time to say something... I don't need reviews, yet I do. See? I don't care if your English sucks (write it in French, Spanish, or Japanese, I understand all of these too), I don't care if you're shy (I don't know you! You're living under a virtual nickname on a website!), I don't care if you don't have time (liar! you do, you spend time on a fanfiction website!), to me there's absolutely no good excuse.... So please take 2 seconds to hit that little "submit review" button, and then blurt out anything that comes to mind in the pop up, good or bad. Tell me you hate me for making you feel guilty, tell me you hate me for being so slow, anything is good! At least I would know I am not writing in the void for barely 6-7 people out there (among the numerous unique visitors I keep getting per chapter) (end author rant) :-) :-)

And just because I feel really nice to Zorro fans (a few I know are truly worth the effort, yes), I also started scanning the original pulp stories by none other than McCulley. You can grab the link off my profile page. Hopefully I will hear some 'thank you' but let's say I will not expect them (so I won't be disappointed). ;-)