Free The Maldonado Miracle by Theodore Taylor

worked.
    In the past year, there had been moments when he was ready to join his fellow townsmen in a mass evacuation. But then he'd take a walk around the seven foiling blocks and decide not to leave. It was the only town he'd ever known.
    A few minutes after one, Olcott saw headlights coming toward him and recognized Father Lebeon's dusty half-ton truck from the mission, hay bales stacked in the back.
    In the lot next door, Jose Maldonado Alvarez pulled Sanchez deeper into the shadows by a pile of broken machinery crates. He was waiting for the station to close so that he could get water. The headlights had startled him.
    Four hundred feet away, Olcott said, "You're up a little late, Father Lebeon."
    The powerfully built priest slid out of the cab and yawned. "People who need last rites don't pick the time." Although clean-shaven, his beard was so blue-black that by last morning mass he appeared grizzly. This time of night, he always had a stubble.
    Born in Marseilles, a French seaport, Lebeon tended to be a practical priest rather than one concerned with holy niceties. He'd been assigned to San Ramon after serving the Indians at Mescalaro, New Mexico, and he spoke fluent Spanish as well as French and English. Much to the amusement of the seven Franciscan brothers at the mission, Lebeon had constructed a chinning bar in the barn, and for a time before his fortieth birthday had punched a heavy bag to take out frustrations. His chief regret was that he had not lived in 1794, when the mission was founded. He preferred a rough life.
    "I didn't think you'd be open, Frank," he said. "I need a quart of oil for the tractor. Brother Carlos made me promise I'd get it."
    "Shouldn't be open, Padre." Olcott went to the oil rack. "Haven't had a paying customer since ten o'clock"
    Jose watched them in the dim lights by the pumps. He could hear the murmur of English and for a moment thought about going up and asking the priest for help. But even at this distance, he looked so tough. There was no telling what he might do. It was better to hide and wait for his father.
    "Maybe I'm your last sale for tonight," Lebeon said, looking up the deserted highway.
    More and more, this village reminded him of the Latin wording on the sundial of that mission in San Gabriel:
Horae omnes vulnerant ultima necat.
It meant, "Every hour wounds, the last one kills." The hours were ticking off.
    Olcott snorted. "That damnable freeway." It was odd how they always got back to the same subject. He glanced off toward the wide white paths of concrete that swept by the village, speared now and then by car or truck lights.
    "It's progress, Frank."
    "Wish you'd talk turkey with God to slow it down," Olcott replied sourly.
    Lebeon smiled. "Put the oil on the bill, will you?"
    "Why not? I do it for everyone else."
    The priest climbed back into the truck. The engine turned over, and the pickup crunched over the gravel apron, as Olcott began padlocking the pumps.
    A car coming from the other direction caught Jose in a circle of strong light, and he jumped behind the pile of packing cases, losing his footing and falling backward. He yelled as a long splinter pierced his thin jacket and entered the flesh of his left shoulder.
    Olcott heard the yelp and turned, peering toward the vacant lot.
    The pain was fierce. Jose reached up to his shoulder and found that the spike of wood had driven through. He realized that he was impaled on the packing-case slat. He tried to lift himself with his right hand but almost passed out. One end of the board was still attached to the case, on an angle to the earth.
    There was nothing to do but call for help. He took a deep breath. "
Ayuda! Ayuda!
" he shouted. Sanchez, standing protectively over him, began to bark loudly.
    Olcott got his flashlight and headed in the direction of the barking, wondering what kind of nonsense was going on next door. The beam of his flashlight finally picked up the boy and dog by the splintered crating, left over