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Bartholomew struggled to move. The sun climbed higher. His injuries throbbed with dull insistence.

Help!” It was faint, barely recognizable as a word.

What? Another dead man?” The words were Spanish. The voice was that of a small child, curious and unafraid.

Por favor, niño, ayúdame,” “Go to the city and bring help.”

Oh, no, I cannot bring anybody here. They will find what I took. Papa will beat me again.”

I promise no one will harm you if you bring help. Please, I may die if you don’t.”

You talk an awful lot for a gringo muerto. I have things to do.”

Bartholomew caught sight of a half-wild rose climber in the chapel garden. White roses.

You -- you know la Señorita Alethia at the Orphanage? She would give you a sweet … if you ... pick the prettiest white rose and take it to her.”

It is a good thing I have my burro, or I would not go. It is a long way. I will be back later. I hope you will be quiet then.”

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