He uttered a cry on recognizing Don Blas Salazar, the capataz of the Estancia de San Julian. He bent over him, raised him softly in his arms, and deposited him gently in the road, with his back leaning against a rock.
"Poor capataz! So brave and kind! But if I am not mistaken, I can feel a little warmth. ¡Viva Dios! I should be glad if he was not dead."
The bombero then opened his clothes, and saw three insignificant wounds on his chest; he hastened to bandage them carefully, and found that the flesh was scarcely cut. Pedrito rubbed his hands with a satisfied air, until he discovered on the skull a fourth wound, on which the hair had clotted and stopped the flow of blood. He washed the wound, cut away the hair round it with his knife, saturated a handkerchief with water, and bound it tightly over the wound. The capataz gave a faint sigh, and moved slightly.
"¡Caray!" Pedrito exclaimed in delight, "He is saved; wounds on the skull, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a week."
By degrees the wounded man seemed to return to life, and at length opened his eyes, which gazed absently around.
"Ah, my good fellow, do you feel better? caray, do you know that you have had a narrow escape?"
The capataz gave a gentle nod.
"Wait a minute," Pedrito continued; and he thrust into his mouth the neck of the bota of aguardiente, which the bomberos always carry on their saddlebow. Don Blas made a grimace, but soon resigning himself, he drank the liquor his physician forced down his throat; in a few minutes, his eyes sparkled with their accustomed brilliancy, and a slight flush tinged his cheeks.
"Thanks," he said, thrusting away the bota with his hand.
"You speak, therefore you are alive, capataz. Can you talk?"