CHAPTER VIII

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.”