At last, a Mexican girl was found in a wood-chopper's camp, and was brought to me. She was quite young and very ignorant and stupid, and spoke nothing but a sort of Mexican "lingo," and did not understand a word of English. But I felt that my life was saved; and Bowen fixed up a place on the couch for her to sleep, and Jack went over to the unoccupied room on the other side of the cabin and took possession of the absent doctor's bed.
I begged Jack to hunt up a Spanish dictionary, and fortunately one was found at the sutler's store, which, doubtless the sutler or his predecessor had brought into the country years before.
The girl did not know anything. I do not think she had ever been inside a casa before. She had washed herself in mountain streams, and did not know what basins and sponges were for. So it was of no use to point to the objects I wanted.
I propped myself up in bed and studied the dictionary, and, having some idea of the pronunciation of Latin languages, I essayed to call for warm water and various other necessary articles needed around a sick bed. Sometimes I succeeded in getting an idea through her impervious brain, but more often she would stand dazed and immovable and I would let the dictionary drop from my tired hands and fall back upon the pillow in a sweat of exhaustion. Then Bowen would be called in, and with the help of some perfunctory language and gestures on his part, this silent creature of the mountains would seem to wake up and try to understand.
And so I worried through those dreadful days—and the nights! Ah! we had better not describe them. The poor wild thing slept the sleep of death and could not hear my loudest calls nor desperate shouts.
So Jack attached a cord to her pillow, and I would tug and tug at that and pull the pillow from under her head. It was of no avail. She slept peacefully on, and it seemed to me, as I lay there staring at her, that not even Gabriel's trump would ever arouse her.
In desperation I would creep out of bed and wait upon myself and then confess to Jack and the Doctor next day.
Well, we had to let the creature go, for she was of no use, and the Spanish dictionary was laid aside.
I struggled along, fighting against odds; how I ever got well at all is a wonder, when I think of all the sanitary precautions taken now-a-days with young mothers and babies. The Doctor was ordered away and another one came. I had no advice or help from any one. Calomel or quinine are the only medicines I remember taking myself or giving to my child.
But to go back a little. The seventh day after the birth of the baby, a delegation of several squaws, wives of chiefs, came to pay me a formal visit. They brought me some finely woven baskets, and a beautiful pappoose-basket or cradle, such as they carry their own babies in. This was made of the lightest wood, and covered with the finest skin of fawn, tanned with birch bark by their own hands, and embroidered in blue beads; it was their best work. I admired it, and tried to express to them my thanks. These squaws took my baby (he was lying beside me on the bed), then, cooing and chuckling, they looked about the room, until they found a small pillow, which they laid into the basket-cradle, then put my baby in, drew the flaps together, and laced him into it; then stood it up, and laid it down, and laughed again in their gentle manner, and finally soothed him to sleep. I was quite touched by the friendliness of it all. They laid the cradle on the table and departed. Jack went out to bring Major Worth in, to see the pretty sight, and as the two entered the room, Jack pointed to the pappoose-basket.