FRIENDS AT LAST
Jo Ann started climbing the steep bank, Florence following as closely as
possible. After they had struggled upward a short distance, Jo Ann caught
sight of a faintly marked trail which showed signs of having been used
recently.
“Here’s the way they went!” she exclaimed. “We’re on the right track at
last.”
“I believe you’re right, because it seems to be winding up toward that
smoke,” Florence agreed.
Just as she had finished speaking the moaning sounded again, more clearly
than ever.
“Let’s hurry!” cried Jo Ann.
After starting up the faintly marked path, the girls were able to make
much better time. Without wasting a moment in conversation they hurried
on as fast as they could go. A few minutes later at a turn in the path
they came in sight of a crude shelter of boughs thrown up in a hurried
fashion against the steep face of rock.
Simultaneously the piteous wailing of several voices burst upon their
ears with such heart-rending sadness that involuntarily both girls were
filled with sympathy.
The next moment, through an open space in the shelter, Jo Ann saw the
white-clad figure of a boy stretched out on the floor. Huddled around him
were two women and several little girls, their heads bowed and their
faces almost concealed by their black _rebosas_.
Catching Florence by the hand, Jo Ann quickly led her to the entrance of
the shack. As they stepped inside, the mourners raised startled eyes.
Immediately the two girls recognized the two women as the mother and
grandmother they had seen in the cave. Swiftly then Jo Ann’s eyes flew to
the still, white-clad figure lying on a mat on the ground.
“He’s dead!” flashed through her mind as she dropped on her knees and
placed a comforting hand on the mother’s shoulder.
Before she could think of a single Spanish word of sympathy, the poor
mother began wailing, “_A Dios!_ My son—my Pepito! He is dead!”
Over and over she intoned this lament, along with the groaning of the
grandmother and the little girls.
“How could that boy have died so suddenly?” Jo Ann thought. “He looked
frail and undernourished, but——”
Her train of thought was broken by hearing Florence begin questioning the
mother. She listened intently to see if she could discover what they were
saying. She could catch only a few words now and then, but she understood
the mother to say that the boy had died that morning. He and the other
boy had gone higher up on the mountain the night before to help the
father to gather the wood and start the fire for making the charcoal. The
boy had taken sick suddenly—the father had brought him down and he had
died soon afterwards.
Before the mother had finished speaking, Jo Ann saw Florence kneel down
beside the still figure of the boy and feel first his pulse then touch
his forehead and cheek.
“How strange!” Jo Ann thought. “He’s dead—why is she doing that?”
The next moment Florence exclaimed, “Jo, find me a piece of glass this
instant! Hurry!”
“Why on earth does she want a piece of glass?” Jo Ann thought, but
without stopping to question she began looking about the scantily
furnished hut.
“There’s no sign of any kind of glass here. Won’t this do instead?” she
asked a moment later as she handed her a small glazed pottery mug.
“It’ll have to do. Break it—I want only a small piece.”
“Why do——” Jo Ann checked the question at the end of her tongue and
quickly broke the mug against the stone _metate_, then handed her one of
the pieces.
Wide eyed, she watched Florence place the piece of pottery, glazed side
down, over the boy’s mouth. After a short interval she saw her take it up
and examine it.
“Look here, Jo! There’s a tiny speck of moisture on this! Don’t you see
it?” Florence exclaimed excitedly.
“Yes, but——”
“That means he’s not dead! There’s a fighting chance for him yet.” She
turned and repeated this to the mother.
“Let’s try artificial respiration,” Jo Ann put in excitedly. “I know how!
I can help you.”
Florence nodded assent as she began lifting the thin little arms up and
down, being careful to press them against his sides each time. While she
was doing this, the mother and grandmother were mumbling their prayers,
the tears rolling down their cheeks.
After Florence had worked for several minutes, she heard sudden footsteps
back of her, then a deep voice demanding, “What are you doing? My son is
dead. Why are you disturbing him?”
She turned about quickly and saw a dark, grimy, bearded man and behind
him the blue-eyed boy. With a gesture to Jo Ann to continue the
artificial respiration, Florence rose and began explaining why she
thought the boy was alive. She picked up the piece of pottery, saying,
“Look! I’ll show you.”
Just as she was placing it over the boy’s mouth, she noticed a tiny
flickering of his eyelids. “See!” she cried triumphantly, pointing to his
eyelids. “He _is_ alive!”
A look of mingled joy and awe came over the man’s face. “_Madre de Dios!_
My son lives!” he cried. “You are an angel of mercy. You have brought him
back to life!”
“_Sí, Papá!_ They have performed a miracle!” the mother agreed, smiling
through her tears.
Florence placed her hand over his heart, then she looked up at the
parents, saying, “His heart very bad. It is necessary that you take him
down from here immediately. It is too high up here.”
“_Si—sí_, señorita. Whatever you say I will do,” the father said.
Florence and Jo Ann lifted the boy gently and placed him, head lowered
slightly, over his father’s shoulder.
As he began to shift the child into a more upright position, Florence
spoke up quickly, “No, no—you carry him like this, and the blood will run
to his head—then he will get better more quickly.”
“_Bien_,” the father assented, and started down the path at the easy
rhythmical pace of the peon, Florence and Jo Ann following closely.
When they had gone a short distance, the mother caught up with them. “I
come with my Pepito,” she said.
“Florence, what made you think that boy might not be dead?” Jo Ann asked
a moment later.
“Daddy has told me of several cases like that one. Some people, he said,
could not stand the high altitude. That boy was frail and undernourished
to begin with, and I figured that the hard work and the high altitude
combined were too much for him.”
“How did you happen to think of putting that piece of pottery over his
mouth?”
“Well, there’s a law in this country that requires a corpse to be buried
within a few hours after death. Daddy told me that several times he has
used a piece of glass in this way to prove to the officials that a
patient was not really dead.”
“It’s a blessing you knew about that. I’ve never seen people more
helpless in my life than those poor peons.”
“Daddy says most peons know nothing of modern medicine and are ignorant
of some of the simplest remedies.”
By this time they had reached a cool, shady spot beside a spring, and
Florence called to the father to stop. “Put him down here.”
No sooner had he laid the boy on the ground than she and Jo Ann began
bathing his face with their dampened handkerchiefs.
“One minute, señorita. I bring you water,” spoke up the father. He lined
the deep crown of his hat with large green leaves and filled it with
water, then brought it over to the girls.
Florence dipped her hands into the water and let it drip gently on the
boy’s face and neck.
As soon as the cold water touched his face the boy’s eyelids fluttered
open.
Florence turned to the father. “Bring me more water—I want to give him a
drink.”
With a nod of assent, the man stooped down, broke off a large leaf from
an elephant’s-ear plant near by and folded it into a cup which he quickly
filled with water.
Florence then lifted the boy’s head slightly and held it while Jo Ann
held the improvised cup to his lips. After she had laid him down again,
his eyes opened wider, and he stared blankly at the girls for a moment.
Then his gaze fell upon his mother, and he murmured faintly,
“_Mi—Ma-má!_”
With a cry of joy, she exclaimed. “Ah, my Pepito. You have come back to
me!”
“It is necessary that we be very careful,” Florence cautioned the
parents. “The boy must not talk yet. After he rests longer, then he can
talk.”
“_Bien!_ Just as you say.” The tears began to flow down the father’s
cheeks again as he added in a choked voice, “If it had not been for you,
señoritas, my Pepito would have been buried. Carlitos and I were digging
his grave when you came.”
A shudder of horror swept over both girls as they realized how narrow had
been the escape from such a tragedy.
“You must not take your little boy back up on the mountain,” Florence
went on. “He will be sick again, if you do.”
“Ask him to move his family down to the cave,” spoke up Jo Ann eagerly.
The thought darted through her mind, “I could find out about the
blue-eyed boy, then.”
“Good idea!” Florence replied, then translated her suggestion to the
father.
He hesitated a moment then began haltingly, “But my charcoal——”
The mother broke in rapidly, “You can come Up here and make your
charcoal. We will stay at the cave.”
“But—who——” A strange expression of fear passed over his face as he
glanced at the girls, then at his wife.
She stepped over hastily to his side and began talking to him in a low
tone.
Surprised at these strange actions, the girls looked questioningly at
each other.
As Florence turned to see how the boy was faring, she overheard the
mother say, “It will be all right, _Papá_. These are our friends.”