Revenge

Co-written by Amy and Rose Schrock

Rated: PG Violence

Warning: Some references to violence and death. May be disturbing for children.

Summery: Some angst for an 18-year-old Carlos Rivera de Vega told in first person perspective. He must deal with the loss of a wife, child, and his own dignity. This is a story that takes place prior to the Ponderosa series. Therefore, if you are not a fan of Carlos you probably want to skip this story. Don’t say I didn’t warn you! J

Disclaimer: The character of Carlos Rivera de Vega does not belong to the author but is a trademark of PAX TV and The Ponderosa. This is a nonprofit fan story written for the enjoyment of Ponderosa fans only.

Throbbing pain cut through the thick darkness of confusion. I gasped in large breaths against the cold stiffness in my throat and firm hands pressed against my arms. I moaned and struggled to relieve my injuries, but was drug forward violently and thrown to a dirt floor. I reached out in the darkness in a useless effort and was struck in the stomach by an unknown silhouette that stood looming over me like a silent death. I laid my head against the cold earth and gave up what little hope I had for survival to my quiet captor.

Suddenly small beams of light fell across the room and I was hauled to my feet by two strong hands. Through the dim firelight I could recognize Chief White Horse standing in front of me, his face black with war paint mingled with dark shadows cast off the walls of the small hut.

"Why did you…?"

A sharp blow cut off my words to my side, causing me to sink to the ground.

"Silence! You have said enough already!"

White Horse’s voice was firm and angry. I watched him, my eyes swelled and bleeding. As he paced the floor I could feel the tension building.

"For many days you stayed with my tribe, persuading us to sign your treaty. Today your Captain Johnson broke his word and rode to kill our women and children. We were not made fools. We killed all at Fort Bradley. Only you are left alive."

I stood, now supported by two warriors, allowing my mind to take in all that he had said. All. The word seemed impossible as I pictured Rebecca looking up at the death that bore down upon her and her child. My child. One that would never be born.

I woke up screaming and was gently pushed back to the ground by a firm hand. I struggled for a moment, thinking my life was about to end, but nothing happened, so I finally gave up all effort of escaping. Fever burned against my head as sweat and blood burned my eyes.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice shaky and slurred.

I hesitated, afraid of being struck again when there was no answer.

"Pedro."

My answer came shortly, making me greatly wish I could see my rescuer…or enemy. I sat for what seemed like hours crying inside but too proud to let any hint of weakness escape me. After awhile, I was helped to a horse and handed a rough canteen of water. My eyes were starting to clear. As small streams of light made their way through the darkness, I could make out a young man in faded cowboy clothing, leading my horse. He had dark skin and the blackest hair I’d ever seen. There was young innocence but also a sense of knowledge in the hazel eyes that studied me.

"How did you find me?" I asked, my earlier fears disappearing.

"You were left by the Indians tied to the ground." With his words, sickness rose in my stomach like a great knot and dizziness raked my body with the thought of the scorching sun and the nearby calls of my fate.

At that moment, I realized just how close I had come and just what the value of life meant to me.

"You saved my life then. I am grateful."

The man seemed to shrug off my thanks by shifting his hat uncomfortably.

"I can ride alone now. Thank you for all your help."

He nodded silently, but I could sense the objection of me riding on alone without the full use of my eyes. I held out my hand to him, which he returned in friendship after a slight hesitation. Turning around, I headed my horse toward the rough path to Fort Bradley.

"Only the ashes remain." My voice sounded hollow and flat as I waded through what was left of my fort. The angry warriors had burned and destroyed everything in sight. A sharp pain attacked my heart as I viewed the dead, mutilated bodies of my old companions. A thick lump formed in my throat but I could not leave until I found her.

But I could not find her. My beloved Rebecca's body was nowhere to be found. Tears poured freely down my face as I dug frantically through the debris crying out her name until my throat became raw with emotion.

"Why? Why did you have to leave me? I wanted us to grow old together! I had so many plans for us and the grand ranch we would have..."

"So your wife was killed also. I thought I recognized the look of despair in your eyes. My face had worn that look many times myself, Amigo."

"And what is that to you?" I mumbled angrily, wiping the tears from my face in shame. I turned around to face Pedro, the man who had just saved my life. By honor I was bound to this man, but right now I was not exactly filled with gratitude.

"Why did you follow me." My accent grew thicker from frustration. "I do not need any more of your help." Bitterness choked my words to a whisper. "You should have let me die."

"No, things cannot be that bad." Pedro’s perfectly white teeth shown through his wide smile.

"You do not know." I retorted hotly in Spanish. "You do not know what I have suffered."

"Well, Amigo." Pedro answered calmly in English, with that annoying grin still pasted on his face. "I have food and gringo whisky. Why don’t you tell me your sad story over our meal and we will compare sadness."

Pedro’s mixture of a Spanish accent with English slang brought a small smile to my face. We sat down on the ground of the old fort and ate hungrily, passing the flask of liquor back and forth.

"My name is Carlos Rivera de Vega." I started slowly, watching Pedro carefully. "My parents are very wealthy ranchers. My sister Isabella and I grew up with everything. I am afraid we were very spoiled. We knew nothing of hardship." I chuckled at the thought of my childhood. "When I became sixteen years old, I told my father that I was leaving the rancho. I wanted to find adventure." My face darkened. "I did not know how cruel the world could be."

"What do you mean?" Pedro inquired quietly after I grew silent.

"The money my father gave me was soon gone. I tried to get a job, but no gringo wanted to hire a Mexican boy. I was forced to go to this fort. The captain of this fort was very hard on me but I did not care. I was miserable but too proud to return home. Then I met Rebecca. We fell in love and married but still I had to stay at the fort. To marry a white woman would have been such a disgrace to my family name. My father would have disowned me." My expression hardened. "None of that matters now because she is dead."

"Well, Carlos," Pedro answered. "My wife is also gone. She was a beautiful Spanish woman of virtue. She died of the cholera shortly after our first anniversary."

"Fate is cruel." I stated in Spanish.

"Will you return home?" Pedro asked, changing the subject.

"I do not think so. First I would like to kill the men responsible for my woman’s death."

"A vendetta will get you nowhere my friend." Wisdom filled the man’s words. "Except perhaps dead." Pedro raised his hand to silence my protest As young as I may be, you are still younger, my amigo. I have lost my family as well as my lover and I do not want the same to happen to you." His voice grew stern. "Go home, Carlos. Go home to your family because you never know what tomorrow may bring."

"After I have my revenge."

"Then I will go with you."

I looked over at him in surprise.

"Why would you put yourself in danger for me?"

"Because I see myself in you."

I leveled the gun at the first Indian I saw. I did not care who it was that I was going to kill, only that he was a member of Chief White Horse’s tribe. As far as I was concerned, they were all murderers to me.

"No! Not yet my Amigo! You do not have a clear shot yet! It could be suicide to shoot now!" Pedro hissed his eyes wide with disbelief.

But I did not listen. Call it stupid, call it whatever you like, but I shot the Indian and smirked in victory as I watched him crumple to the ground. We had come across this Indian by sheer luck and he seemed to be the only one around. I ran over to the now dead Indian and stood over the body like a warrior.

"Carlos, he was not ever armed." Pedro commented softly as he ran his copper hand over the enemy. "There is no honor in this death."

"This was not for honor! It was for revenge!" I snarled angrily in Spanish to express my wrath.

"Carlos," He repeated my name in anguish. "My friend. This was not a warrior. This was a squaw, a woman."

A knot began to form in the pit of my stomach.

"A woman."

"Yes, a woman. And she is expecting. How ironic." Pedro gave his friend a look of gloom. "You have your revenge, Carlos. This was Chief White Horse’s wife."

I wanted to laugh and weep all at the same time from the agony of my sins but I never got the chance. Two Indians came upon us and started firing at us. The first shot took Pedro by surprise and he sat on the ground, looking down in numb shock as crimson blood poured from his chest. I shot the two men down easily, but felt no thrill in the triumph. By the time I reached Pedro’s side, he was sitting in a rushing pool of his own blood.

"Pedro." I cried in my native tongue, the words pouring out in Spanish but useless in the English language. "My true friend."

"Go home, Carlos." Pedro answered me back in Spanish for the first time. "Just go home to your family. That is all you have left."

Pedro took a deep breath and was gone.

For some strange reason I could not shed a tear over the death of my friend. His final words filled me with purpose and determination to make my family proud. I turned toward the west and headed home.

My family’s great rancho filled my view as I crossed over a hillside. My mother was outside with my sister but my father was the first to see me. I watched the proud Mexican patron melt away as he held out his arms for me to come home. I remembered a story from the days of my childhood of a prodigal son and smiled. Sometimes even a proud, arrogant boy like myself can find his way back again. This time I would do everything right. This time I would start acting like a Rivera.