Chapter 111: [No one knows more about plague than me]

The soldier wanted to persuade them again: "Many elderly people are already seriously ill or even dead."

"You are questioning the most outstanding shaman!" Grind Bone said angrily, and then emphasized again, "No one knows the plague better than me. My father is a survivor of the plague, and I have studied medicine for fifty-three years."

He picked up the mask and stuffed it into the soldier's hand: "Put away your rudeness, young man, and this so-called mask!"

"...Failure to follow my advice will be the tribe's biggest mistake. You will surely pay a heavier price before you can understand the shamanic wisdom passed down from ancient times."

As he spoke, Mogu sighed deeply, his expression was melancholy and complicated. It was obvious that he really believed what he said.

The soldier finally said nothing and left the room.

Soon, most people in Sleeping Bear City, including the prisoners, put on masks.

Only a few people insisted on not wearing them, and they all believed in a similar idea - masks covering the face would make the plague more terrible.

Traditionally, Indians generally like to apply various pigments on their faces to express meanings such as victory, funeral, and prayer.

The reason why Indians were once considered red people was because they often applied red paint on their bodies, which led white people to mistakenly believe that they were born with red skin.

Since it is a pattern painted on the face, it must be visible to the public.

Wearing a mask covers the pattern, which is equivalent to making the pattern invalid. Therefore, in order to maintain the pattern on their faces and to express some kind of resistance or individuality, these people insist on refusing to wear masks.

What happened next was not unexpected. Stricter isolation and disinfection, as well as the popularization of masks, made the spread of the plague even more ineffective, and the number of new infections dropped rapidly.

Those who insist on not wearing masks have become a group that is relatively susceptible to infection.

Most of the new infections later came from those who did not wear masks.

"Zhan Gang, what is the current production of pistols?" Ma Shao asked while sitting in the chief's hall and writing at his desk.

"It is basically unaffected by the plague." Zhan Tang reported, "We can now produce 800 revolvers per month. Before March, we will definitely be able to produce 1,500 to complete the order from Santa Fe."

"Well done." Ma Shao nodded.

Apache Arsenal has basically gotten rid of the impact of the plague, not because the epidemic has passed, but mainly due to the characteristics of the distributed assembly line.

Referring to the distributed assembly line of the military production model of East Asian island countries in later generations, it is originally dispersed and does not require the concentration of a large number of personnel. It can still produce even in a state of national isolation.

The only trouble is to find replacements for the infected workers, which is not difficult to solve. There are more than twenty infected workers in total, and it is not a difficult task. It is easy to find people to replace them.

Ma Shao had previously thought that the distributed assembly line was only a temporary measure, but now that he has discovered that it has performed well during the epidemic, he can't help but re-examine the significance of this production model.

In some areas, this model may be able to exist for a long time, at least as a supplement to centralized assembly lines.

Zhan Gang asked, "Captain, after the production of 1,500 pistols is completed, should the arsenal continue to maintain production?"

"Of course," Ma Shao replied, "With the performance and price of the Browning 1845, we can sell at least 10,000 in the next two years."

"If the war is more intense than I expect, thirty-four thousand is possible."

After a pause, he continued, "Even if we don't raise the price and sell it at $25, we'll make $15 per stick. If we sell 10,000 sticks, we'll make $150,000 in net profit, and 30,000 sticks, we'll make $450,000."

"So we have to not only maintain production, but also increase production. This is also about training workers and getting more Apaches into industrial production."

At this moment, Shaman Graystone came to the chief's hall. Graystone was the first person to recover, had antibodies, and was also a shaman doctor, so he was now the main person in charge of epidemic prevention work.

"Great Chief, Grind Bone has been infected." Graystone said.

Ma Shao was startled, then raised his head and asked, "When did it happen?"

Graystone's expression was both sympathetic and somewhat ironic: "He was infected at least three days ago, but he delayed coming to the hospital until today to save face. Now he is almost dying."

Zhan Tang said disdainfully: "Is this old worm finally going to die? I remember the last time I saw him, he was still claiming that no one knew more about plague than him!"

Gray Stone nodded: "I'm afraid so. Mogu is nearly sixty years old and smokes and drinks. This time he is seriously ill, and he probably won't survive."

Ma Shao thought for a moment, then stood up and said, "I'll go see him."

Then he followed Huishi to the ward and saw Mo Gu lying on the bed, coughing and gasping in pain.

"Cough - cough cough cough!" At this moment, Mogu was coughing so hard that his whole body was shaking, sweat was dripping down his forehead, his eyes were unfocused, and his gray hair was so dry that it seemed as if it had exploded.

"Grind the bones." Ma Shao took a few steps closer.

Mo Gu tried hard to calm his coughing and wheezing. His eyes regained some focus as he looked at Ma Shao: "Grand...Grand Chief...I..."

When he spoke, his tone was fluctuating, his eyes were earnest, and his trembling voice sounded almost like crying.

When a man is about to die, his words are good. At this moment, Ma Shao also felt a little sympathy for this senior termite.

However, Mo Gu's next words made his sympathy disappear in an instant.

I only heard Mo Gu say with difficulty: "I... I got the plague not because of my poor medical skills, but because of God's will. Yes, good people don't live long!"

Ma Shao: "…"

"I advise you... repent as soon as possible and don't let Apache fall any further." Mo Gu's body twitched and he exerted all his strength.

Ma Shao still didn't say anything.

Gone was in a trance, looking up at the roof: "The Great Spirit is calling me, I am going to heaven. I have one more request, Chief... please do not cremate my body... but bury it on a mountain with three peaks in the south. I dreamed that this is my final resting place."

"I understand." Ma Shao replied calmly.

Hearing these words, a look of relief emerged on Mogu's face. He gradually lay down, closed his eyes, and accepted the call of the great spirit.

After a while, he was silent.

Ma Shao asked: "Is he dead?"

Gray Stone went forward to check and nodded: "Dead, no heartbeat or breathing."

He said hesitantly: "Great Chief, do we really want to bury the bones in the south?"

"Of course, it was cremated directly, just like all the corpses in the plague." Ma Shao has been promoting cremation for a long time, let alone during the current epidemic.

In fact, what he wanted to promote most was a default donation system, in which the body would be donated unless the deceased or his family explicitly objected, similar to the organ donation system implemented in Spain in later generations.

However, there is no organ transplant technology at present, and Indians are not capable of conducting anatomical research, so cremation is the only option for the time being.

"Remember to burn it cleanly." Ma Shao said again.

A notice for all the fans of this novel, I apologize for the lack of chapter updates, a few days ago I started with the procedures to enter the university and I do not have enough time, but I will strive to continue uploading chapters, there will be 15 per week. I would appreciate it if you were free members of my patreon, I would like to grow my community.