Don Francsico (October 1, 1970) Page 4 Continuing...

No? No. I have one somewhere around here.  How about a yaqui?"

I wasn't sure what that meant so he demonstrated by jerking his hands up and down.
           
"Yes, I have a yaqui.”

"Well then, all we need are some laminas."

Again I was unfamiliar with that term.  I didn't have to wait for an answer however. He ran off with my lantern stopping every few seconds to look at assorted pieces of rusty sheet metal and tin that lay strewn along all sides of his house.  I ran after him to try to help, but I could hardly keep up.  He pointed to two fairly long sheets of metal and told me to drag them out in front.  I obeyed.  In the meantime, he found two shorter pieces and he carried them to the designated point of rendezvous.  Pat and Pico watched the scenario unfolding in fascination. He disappeared but returned shortly with a shovel in his hands.

Don Francisco certainly was no youngster.  His face even in the gentle yellow light of the lantern gave him the appearance of a patriarch of no less than seventy years old. On reconsideration, his milky blue eyes were not blue at all but only the distortion of the yellow light on the cataracts of the old man's eyes.  Yet his lean body, all hundred lbs., responded to the task with the agility and quickness of an athlete in perfect condition. 

He looked up at me again his eyes sparkling and said: “Vamanos!” He pointed to the laminas which were not heavy but very clumsy with sharp jagged edges. I thought maybe before we started out on our venture that we should enlist some more support.

"Don Francisco, why don't we ask the people in the trailer over there for help? Maybe they can assist us? Are they friends of yours?" He picked up one of the long laminas and raced off in the opposite direction from which I had indicated. I grabbed the other long lamina and the two short ones and Pat grabbed the remaining shovel. Off we went. He shouted over his shoulder as we passed the trailer: "No one is here now. These people are Americans too who live in San Diego.  I let them stay here on my land. They pay me a small fee for leaving their trailer here."

We charged ahead at a fairly fast clip. Don Francisco was out in front.  The sharp jagged edges of the metal gnawed away at my fingers leaving them sore and exposed.  They weren't heavy but they were terribly awkward to carry.  Don Francisco paused to rest.  Thank God.  When I caught up with him I said: " Don Francisco, I don't think the car is in this direction.”