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.”