Title: The Three Godfathers
Author: Kyne, Peter B. (Peter Bernard)
Language: English
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THE THREE GODFATHERS

By Peter B. Kyne

Illustrated By Dean Cornwell

Cosmopolitan Book Corporation, New York

1913


_Is the story of The Three Bad Men---not The Three Wise Men “What’s a
godfather, Bill?” The Youngest Bad Man inquired. “What job does he hold
down?”_

_“You’re an awful ignorant young man, Bob,” replied The Wounded Bad Man
reproachfully. “A godfather is a sort of reserve parent who promises to
renounce the devil with all his works an’ pomps.”_

_The Youngest Bad Man smiled wanly. “Well, Bill, all I got to say is that
us three’re a lovely bunch o’ godfathers.”_


[Illustration: 0001]

[Illustration: 0008]

[Illustration: 0009]



THE THREE GODFATHERS


THE daylight raid on the Wicken-burg National Bank had not been a
success. It had been well planned, boldly and cleverly executed, and
the four bandits had gathered unto themselves quite a fortune in
paper money; the job had been singularly free from fuss and feathers.
Nevertheless, as has already been stated, the raid was not a success.
The assistant cashier, returning from luncheon, had, from a distance
of half a block, observed two strangers in town. Both strangers were
mounted and stood on guard in front of the Wickenburg National. In an
alley just back of the bank two saddle horses were standing; and as
the assistant cashier paused, irresolute, two men came out of the bank,
mounted the two horses waiting in the alley, and, followed by the
men who had been standing on watch in front of the bank, rode out of
Wickenburg in rather a suspicious hurry. The assistant cashier had an
inspiration.

“Thieves! Robbers! Stop ‘em!” he yelled.

His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly
citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon.
Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was
not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that
he might be a minister of the gospel--a soul-trapper on guard at the
portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle
of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of “Keno!”
 one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the
burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in
somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a “biled”
 shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his
coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery
of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair
state of Arizona.

The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry
of “Robbers!” aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and
he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled
both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a
reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and
seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair
proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his
hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a pro rata of the said
elderly citizen’s three-seventeen.

Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but
only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left
shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on
top of a bulging gunny-sack in front of The Three Deuces. Came
presently the paying teller of the Wicken-burg National and removed
the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and
removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he
walked uptown to a hardware store, replenished his supply of ammunition
and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind.
Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do.
From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out
of Wickenburg headed for the California line--which happens to be the
Colorado River.

They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from
Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward
toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided
for just such an emergency as the present.

Darkness had already settled over the land when The Three Bad Men came
to the Colorado River. It would have been wise on their part to have
waited until the rising of the moon, but our story does not deal with
The Three Wise Men. Within the hour a posse might appear, and, moreover,
The Three Bad Men were of that breed that prefers to “take a chance.”
 They rode their jaded horses into the flood until the yellow waters
lapped their bellies; then they shot them and shoved the carcasses off
into the current.

An hour later The Three Bad Men landed on the California side near
Bill Williams Mountain, filled their boat with stones and sank it, and
shouldering a supply of food and water sufficient to last them four
days, headed up a long box canon that led north to the Colorado Desert.
They made fair time after the moon came up. All night long they trudged
through the box canon, and at daylight it opened out into the waste.

“Well, boys, I guess we’re safe.” remarked The Worst Bad Man, who was
the leader of the trio. “It’s cooler in the canon, so suppose we camp
here. I feel like breakfast and some sleep. How’s your shoulder, Bill?”

The Wounded Bad Man shrugged the wounded member disdainfully.

“High up. Missed the bone and don’t amount to much, Tom. But I’ve bled
like a stuck pig and it’s weakened me a little.”

“I’ll heat some water and wash it up, Bill,” said The Youngest Bad Man,
much concerned.

They made a very small fire of cat-claw and ironwood, brewed a pot of
coffee, breakfasted, washed and dressed The Wounded Bad Man’s shoulder
and slept until late afternoon. They awoke much refreshed, ate an early
supper and struck out across the desert to the north, where in time they
would come to the Santa Fe tracks. There were lonely stations out there
in the sands--they might be worth investigation. Then on to the new
mining camp at Old Woman Mountain--a camp which, following the whimsical
and fantastic system of desert nomenclature, which seems to trend toward
such names as Mecca, Cadiz. Bagdad, Bengal and Siam, had had bestowed
upon it the not inappropriate name of New Jerusalem.

For a number of reasons The Three Bad Men preferred to travel by night.
Primarily they were prowlers and preferred it. Secondly, although one
may encounter torrid weather by day on the Colorado Desert even in
December, the nights, on the contrary, are bitterly cold--and The Three
Bad Men had no blankets. Also there was this advantage about traveling
at night and sleeping in the shadow of a rock by day: they would not
meet other wanderers and there would he no embarrassing questions to
answer respecting the hole in The Wounded Bad Man’s shoulder.

Consequently The Three Bad Men traveled by night. From Mojave Tanks
they swung west to avoid the mining operations there, although more than
once they glanced back wistfully at the little cluster of yellow lights
shining across the sands. The Wounded Bad Man’s shoulder was in a bad
way and needed medical attention. Also they needed water; but they were
desert-bred and could last until they came to Malapai Springs.

So they turned their backs on Mojave Tanks and tramped onward. Now they
were in the ghostly moonlight of the open desert, with the outlines
of the mountain ranges on each side looming dim and shadowy fifteen or
twenty miles away; now they were picking their way carefully through
clusters of murderous catclaw, through tangles of mesquit and ironwood.
Up dark, lonely arroyos they went; down long alleys between the
outstretched arms of the ocatillas with their pendulous, blood-red
blossoms, passing dried, withered Joshua trees twisted into fantastic
shapes as if their fearful surroundings had caused them to writhe in
horror; through solitude and desolation so vast and profound as to
inspire one with the thought that the Creator, appalled at the magnitude
of this abortion of Nature, had set it apart as an eternal heritage of
the damned.

In the forenoon of the fifth day they came to Malapai Springs. Here The
Three Bad Men drank deeply, bathed, filled their canteens and stepped
blithely out for Terrapin Tanks, the next water-hole--a little-known
and consequently unfrequented spot--where they could rest for a few
days before attempting the last desperate leg of their journey to the
railroad.

“Don’t stint yourself on the water. Bill,” The Worst Bad Man advised as
they departed from Malapai Springs. “There’s always water at Terrapin
Tanks.” Nevertheless, with the instinct of the desert-bred, The Worst
Bad Man and The Youngest Bad Man were sparing with the water themselves,
although careful to conceal this fact from The Wounded Bad Man. The
latter’s shoulder was swollen and inflamed, and it was a relief to him
if the bandages were kept wet.

The Worst Bad Man, who knew the country better than his companions, had
timed their arrival at Terrapin Tanks almost to the hour. The sun was
just coming up over the low red hummocks of hematite to the eastward
when The Three Bad Men plodded wearily up a long, dry canon, turned a
sharp, rocky promontory into an arroyo--and paused.

Borne on the slight desert breeze a sound came to them from up the
arroyo. It was a mournful, wailing cry and ended in a sob--a sound that
bespoke pain and fear and misery.

The Three Bad Men looked at one another. Each held up an index finger,
enjoining silence. A second, a third time the sound was repeated.

“It’s a human voice,” announced The Worst Bad Man, “an’ there’s death in
it. Wait here. I’m goin’ in to see what’s up.”

When he had gone The Youngest Bad Man, after the restless and
inquisitive manner of youth, climbed a tall rock and gazed up the
arroyo.

“I see the top of a covered wagon,” he announced.

“Then,” said The Wounded Bad Man, “It’s a tenderfoot outfit, an’ that’s
a woman cryin’. No desert rat’d come here with a wagon. Fools drive in
where burros fear to tread. Bob. They’re tenderfeet.”

“That’s right,” agreed The Youngest Bad Man. “Some nester come in over
the trail from Imperial Valley and bound for New Jerusalem, I’ll bet a
new hat.”

“Whoever’s doin’ that whimperin’ is sure bound for New Jerusalem,” The
Wounded Bad Man replied with a grim attempt at humor. “An’ if I don’t
let a doctor look at this shoulder o’ mine before long I’ll head that
way myself.”

The Worst Bad Man was gone about ten minutes. Presently the others
saw him returning. On his hard, sunscorched face deep concern showed
plainly, and as he trotted down the arroyo he scratched his unkempt head
as if in search of an idea of sufficient magnitude to cope with a grave
situation. When he reached his comrades he sat down on a chunk of black
lava and fanned himself with his hat.

“There’s a line old state of affairs at the Tanks,” he said huskily.

“They ain’t dry, are they?” Fright showed in the wide blue eyes of The
Youngest Bad Man. The Wounded Bad Man sat down very suddenly and gulped.
The Worst Bad Man replied to the question.

“Worse’n that.”

The Wounded Bad Man sighed. “It can’t be,” he said.

“There’s a wagon at the Tanks,” continued The Worst Bad Man, “but no
horses. It’s a tenderfoot outfit--a man an’ his woman--an’ they come in
from Salton, via Canon Springs and Boulder, headed for New Jerusalem.
Some o’ their kin has started a boardin’ tent in the new camp an’ these
two misfortunates were aimin’ to go in with the rush an’ clean up a
stake. They make Terrapin Tanks all right, but the water’s a little low
an’ the man ain’t got sense enough to dig out the sand an’ let the water
run in. He’s one of these nervous city fellers, I guess, and it just
naturally hurts him to set down an’ wait till that sump-hole fills up.
Besides, he don’t take kindly to usin’ a shovel, so he sticks in a shot
o’ dynamite to clean out th’ tanks an’ start the water runnin’----”

The Wounded Bad Man sprang to his feet, cursing horribly.

“The damned, crazy fool!” he raved. “I’ll kill him, I will. I’ll kill
him just as sure as I’m thirsty.”

The Worst Bad Man paid no attention to the other’s outburst.

“So he stuck in his stick o’ dynamite an’ it’s only a fool’s luck he
didn’t blow himself up doin’ it. I wisht he had; but he didn’t. He just
put Terrapin Tanks out o’ business forever--cracked the granite floor o’
that sump-hole an’ busted down the sides, an’ the water’s run out
into the sand an’ the tanks run dry. They’ll stay dry. We can have
cloudbursts in this country from now until I get religion, but them
tanks’ll never hold another drop o’ water. That fool tenderfoot’s dead,
I guess; but he’s goin’ to keep right on killin’ people just the same.
Men’ll keep comin’ here, bankin’ on water--an’ in five years there’ll be
a dozen skeletons round that busted tank.”

“But all that ain’t what’s bitin’ me half as hard as what he went an’
done next. He went an’ let his stock nose round an’ lick up that alkali
slop below the Tanks, an’ drove ‘em _loco_. They took off up the canon,
huntin’ water, with Mr. Man after ‘em. That was four days ago an’ he
ain’t come back yet; so we don’t need to waste no time speculatin’ on
his case an’ feelin’ sorry for him. It wouldn’t ‘a been so bad, but he
went an’ left his woman alone at th’ Tanks. She had a little water left,
so she wasn’t so bad off until yesterday, when it give out. It’s been
pretty hard on her all alone there--an’ she’s a nice little woman too.
About twenty, I guess, an’ heaps too good for the cuss she married. But
still that ain’t the worst--not by a long shot. She’s goin’ to have a
papoose.”

“_What!_”

“The Youngest Bad Man and The Wounded Bad Man voiced the horrified
exclamation in unison; then The Wounded Bad Man sank back against a
rock.

“Yes,” The Worst Bad Man affirmed huskily, “there’s a baby due right
soon, I reckon. She’s in a pretty bad fix. I was never married, boys,
an’ I don’t know what to do for her--an’ she’s cryin’, an’ prayin’, and
askin’ for help, an’--I--don’t know----”

The Worst Bad Man choked and hid his hard face in his hands. He shook
like a hooked fish. Silence, while The Worst Bad Man fought for control
of himself.

“I’m a tough old bird,” he said presently--“I’m an awful tough old bird;
but I can’t go back there alone. You’ve got to come with me, lads. We
got to do someth’n’ for her.”

He turned hopefully to The Wounded Bad Man.

“Bill,” he said pleadingly, “you ought to know somethin’ about such
cases. You do, don’t you Bill? Wasn’t you married to a half-breed girl
down on the Rio Colorado somewheres, an’ didn’t she have kids for you?”

The Wounded Bad Man was on the defensive instantly.

“Yes, that’s true,” he admitted with some, show of reluctance, “but
then, Tom, you know as well as me that Injuns is different. They ain’t
_human_, an’ this here’s a white woman----”

“That’s right.” The Youngest Bad Man out of the wisdom of his twenty-two
summers hastened to Bill’s assistance. “An’ child-bearin’ with a white
woman means doctors an’ nurses an’ feather beds an’ what-all.”

The Wounded Bad Man flashed the youth a grateful glance.

“You bet that’s right, Bob. An’ besides, when that woman o’ mine had
them two twins I was doin’ a five year stretch in Yuma--so you can see
I don’t know nothin’ about it. All I know is what I’ve heard. She didn’t
even call a neighbor’s woman--just brings them twins into the world one
day, an’ gets out an’ hustles a livin’ for ‘em the next.”

“Well,” retorted the bedeviled Worst Bad Man, “I wasn’t tryin’ to pass
the buck. Just a-ruminatin’ around for information.” He rose wearily.
“Come on,” he growled, and led the way.

The Three Bad Men walked up the draw to Terrapin Tanks. In reverential
awe they stood beside the covered wagon, parted the side curtains and
looked in.

On a straw tick, covered with blankets, lay a woman. She was young, with
great brown eyes alight with fever and with the luster of approaching
motherhood. A long braid of brown hair lay across her white breast; she
moaned in her pain and terror and wretchedness.

The Wounded Bad Man found a tin cup and gave her generously of his all
too scant supply of water. The Youngest Bad Man got a clean towel out
of the tail-box, wet it and washed her burning face and hands. The Worst
Bad Man, whose courage, for all his deviltry, had its limitations, went
and sat down on the tongue of the wagon and tried to think. But scourged
with the horror of this most terrible of human travail, he fled up the
arroyo out of hearing. On the top of one of the little black volcanic
hills, from which eminence he could look down on the wagon, he stood,
active, alert, like a mountain sheep on guard, and beckoned to his
friends to join him. The Youngest Bad Man obeyed his frantic signals,
but The Wounded Bad Man stayed at the wagon.

“You’ve got to be easy on me, son, at a time like this,” said The Worst
Bad Man humbly. “I’m an awful tough old bird, but I can’t stand that. It
ain’t no place for the likes o’ me. What’s to be done?”

“Nothin’ much, I guess.” The Youngest Bad Man threw out his hands in
desperation. “Bill says she ain’t got a chance.”

He took his canteen in both hands and shook it gently; seeing which The
Worst Bad Man did the same with his.

“How much has Bill got left?” he asked anxiously.

“Nary drop. He’s been right feverish along o’ that hole in his wing, an’
hittin’ his canteen heavy, expectin’ to find water in the Tanks.”

“Well, we got about two gallons left,” announced The Worst Bad Man
philosophically, “but I see us cuttin’ niggerhead cactus before we hit
another tank. Once in San Berdoo I heard a sky-pilot preachin’, an’
he ‘lowed that the way o’ the transgressor’s bound to be hard; but I’m
dogged if I looked for anythin’ half as hard as this. Bill’s callin’
you, son. Better lope back to the wagon. I’ll--I--guess I’ll wait here.”

He waited half an hour, watching with anxious and paternal eyes the
activities of his fellows at the wagon. Once the sounds of woe drifted
up to him and he moved farther up the canon. Here he waited, and
presently The Wounded Bad Man joined him.

“What luck, Bill?” he demanded.

“A boy,” responded The Wounded Bad Man. “Come on down an’ look at him,
Tom. He’s worth it. He’s man size.”

“How about that misfortunate girl?”

“She ain’t a-goin’ to last long, Tom. She’s a-goin’ fast, an’ she wants
to see you--all of us--together. She’s quiet now.”

Thus reassured, The Worst Bad Man returned with The Wounded Bad Man to
the Tanks. With uncovered head he approached the wagon, dreading to
gaze upon that tragic face, drawn with agony. But lo! as he parted the
curtains he gazed upon the miracle of motherhood. Gone were the lines of
suffering; the girl’s face was transfigured with the light of that joy
and peace and pride that God gives to new-made mothers, and for the
first time in all his hard life The Worst Bad Man was permitted to
glimpse something of the glory of his Creator.

The babe, wrapped in a coarse crash towel, lay in the hollow of the
little mother’s arm, its red, puckered little face rested on her snowy
bosom, the while she gazed downward at her treasure. It came to The
Worst Bad Man very suddenly that once upon a time a woman had gazed
upon him with that same look of yearning and joy ineffable; and with
the thought he reached for the mother’s left hand and carried it to
his cracked and blistered lips. He spoke no word, but as he bowed his
reckless head reverently over that fevered hand he seemed to cry aloud:

“Here is my wasted and worthless life. I offer it in exchange for
yours.”

The girl mother’s calm, benevolent eyes beamed their gratitude. She
understood, and like a true mother she accepted his tribute--only the
sacrifice could not be for her.

“What is your name?” she asked wearily.

“Tom Gibbons.”

“And yours?” turning to The Wounded Bad Man.

“Bill Kearny.”

She glanced inquiringly at The Youngest Bad Man.

“Bob Sangster,” he replied.

“Will you save my baby?” Slowly, searchingly, the wonderful eyes
confronted each Bad Man in turn.

“I’ll save him,” promised The Youngest Bad Man. With all the rashness,
the unthinking, unreasoning confidence and generosity of youth, he
passed his word. He recked not of the long trail ahead with death for
the pacemaker. He only knew that this woman of sorrow had gazed longest
upon him, estimating the strength in his lithe, big body, searching for
his manhood in the face where sin had not yet laid its devastating hand.
So he passed his word, and passing it in all the regal simplicity of the
brave, the mother knew that he would keep it.

“I’ll help,” croaked The Wounded Bad Man humbly. He glanced at The Worst
Bad Man, who bowed his head once more over the little hand.

“I’ll help too.”

“I want you--all of you--to be my baby’s godfathers. Poor little son!
He’ll be all alone in this big world when his mamma leaves him, and he’s
going to miss her so. Aren’t you, sweetheart? Nobody to tuck you into
bed at night, nobody to teach you your prayers, nobody to kiss the
little sore spots when you fall and hurt yourself, nobody to tell your
little secrets to----”

She closed her eyes. A tear stole through between the long lashes, and
The Wounded Bad Man turned away. The Youngest Bad Man went and sat down
on the wagon tongue and wept, for he was young. Only The Worst Bad Man
stayed, watching, waiting. And presently the mother spoke again.

“Are you all here? It’s getting dark--and we must be moving on--to
the next waterhole. You--Bob Sangster--take baby. You said you’d save
him--didn’t you? And Bill Kearny--and--Tom--Gibbons--will you be his
godfathers--and--help--Bob--Sangster--on the--trail? Will you?.
Promise--me--again--and... his name?... Call him
Robert--William--Thomas--Sangster... and when he’s--a fine--big--brave
man--like his--godfathers--you’ll tell--him--about his little mother
who--wanted to live--for him so.... Lift him up--godfathers--and let
me--kiss my--baby.”

The Worst Bad Man waited until the last fluttering little sigh was
finished before he removed the infant. The Wounded Bad Man closed the
mother’s eyes and folded her hands across her pulseless breast. The
Youngest Bad Man stood, grasping the brake-rod until his knuckles showed
white with the strain of the grip. Long he stood there, gazing at that
calm, spiritual face with its halo of glistening brown hair, pondering
deeply on the mysteries of birth and life and death. To him it all
seemed a monstrous thing; and when The Worst Bad Man came to him with a
shovel he wept aloud.

“Death is a terrible thing, Tom,” he sobbed.

“Life’s worse,” said The Wounded Bad Man gently. He was seated apart,
with the baby in his arms, shielding it from the sun with his broad
sombrero. “Death can only get you once, but Life is a ghost dance. I
wonder what it has in store for you, kidlets. I wonder.”

The Youngest Bad Man departed down the arroyo with the shovel and The
Worst Bad Man, discovering a hammer and nails in the toolbox under the
scat, removed the side boards and some strips from the wagon bed and
fell briskly to work. When The Wounded Bad Man had satisfied himself
that The Youngest Bad Man was nor within hearing, he spoke:

“I say, Tom. Did you notice her when she asked us to save the baby? She
picked on Bob. Seems as if she knew.”

“I noticed. I guess she knew. They say angels always does know. It’s
forty-five miles to New Jerusalem, Bill, and you can’t make it, and
I’m--I’m too old for a long stretch without water.”

“That’s why I said I’d help.”

“Same here.”

“We’ve got to do the first two heats, Tom. We’ve got to save young Bob’s
strength for the final dash. I’ll carry the baby an’ you carry the grub
an’ things tonight, an’ tomorrow night----”

“I’ll carry everything tomorrow night; after that it’ll be up to Bob.
He’s young and hard and game. He ought to make it.”

Late in the afternoon, with clumsy tenderness they buried the martyred
mother there by the Terrapin Tanks, built a cairn over the grave and
crowned it with a cross. Then they returned to the dismantled wagon to
hold a consultation.

The Wounded Bad Man was the first to broach the subject closest to the
hearts of all three.

With characteristic directness he shot his query at them. All his wicked
life he had been facing desperate issues; long since he had learned to
face them unblinkingly.

“Robert William Thomas’s got to have a bath, ain’t he?”

The Youngest Bad Man took hold of the brake rod again and steadied
himself. The Worst Bad Man looked at the wounded godfather in vague
surprise.

“I never figgered on that at all,” he said simply. “I was thinkin’ about
how we’re to feed him. I’m for tubbin’ him all right, but----”

He held up the two canteens. His pause was eloquent.

“But he’s such a little feller it won’t take much,” protested The
Wounded Bad Man. “He’ll fit nice in a dishpan.”

“I wish he was old enough to stagger along a few days without bathin’,”
 mourned The Youngest Bad Man. “Maybe he can. I don’t know a thing about
infants; but if he must be bathed, why I guess we’d better----”

“I ‘lowed to ask his mother a few questions regardin’ his up-keep and
what-all,” interrupted The Wounded Bad Man apologetically, “but I clean
forgot.”

The Worst Bad Man wagged his head as if to convey the impression that
this was a pardonable oversight indeed. He was thinking.

“It stands to reason,” he announced presently, “that this infant’s
mother naturally made some provision for his reception into camp. It’s
my opinion that gettin’ a bath is the least o’ the troubles confrontin’
our godson. He’s just naturally got to eat, an’ wear somethin’ better’n
a towel that’ll plum scratch the hide off’n him. There ought to be
somethin’ for Robert boy in that tail-box.”

So they searched the tailbox and discovered many things--condensed
milk, a carton of soda crackers, a quart bottle of olive oil, a feeding
bottle, two “bluffers” with real ivory rings, and an assortment of baby
clothes, many of them hemstitched and worked through long months of
loving anticipation. The silence was pregnant of tears as The Worst Bad
Man held up a wee woolen undershirt and two little stockings that might
have been cut from the index fingers of a pair of woolen mittens. The
trio surveyed them wonderingly before returning to the search of the
tailbox.

“Ah, here we are, Tom, all fine and dandy,” announced The Wounded
Bad Man, fishing up a book from the recesses of the tailbox. “‘Doctor
Meecham on Carin’ for the Baby.’ Let’s see what the doc has to say about
it.”

“Here’s another,” said The Worst Bad Man, picking up another book
and skimming through the first few pages, “but it don’t say nothin’
about----It’s a Bible!”

He tossed it from him contemptuously, and The Youngest Bad Man, still
under the spell of his youth and its resultant curiosity, retrieved the
Bible. The Worst Bad Man, in the mean time, peered over the shoulder of
The Wounded Bad Man.

“Turn to the part on bathin’ the baby, Bill,” he commanded.

“Hum! Ah-hem! Let me see. All right, Tom.”

“Bathin’ the Baby--Too much care cannot be exercised in performin’ this
most important part of the baby’s toilette----”

“What in blazes is a toilette?” demanded The Worst Bad Man. The Wounded

Ban Man thereupon looked into the tailbox as if in search of it.

“I guess our baby ain’t got no toilette in his war bags,” he replied
sadly. “A toilette,” he continued, “is a little green tin bathtub about
as long as my arm. Cost about _dos pesos_ in any hardware store.”

“You--Bob. You hear that?” admonished The Worst Bad Man. “When you get
to New Jerusalem, you send out to Dan-by first-off an’ round up the best
toilette money can buy. Remember that, Bob. Crack right along. Bill.
What does the doc say next?”

“The First Bath--The first bath should not be administered until the
baby is at least three days old----”

“Bill,” said The Worst Bad Man, looking solemnly at his companion, “if I
had a sick tomcat I wouldn’t send for Doc Meecham. Three days without a
bath! That’s all right when the boy’s a grown-up an’ ain’t supposed to
bathe between waterholes when he’s in the desert, or every Saturday
night when he’s in town, but with new babies I’ll lay you my silver
spurs tis different. The doc’s wrong, Bill. But come again.”

Thus encouraged, The Wounded Bad Man read;

“Immediately after birth the nurse should rub the entire body with
olive oil, or, if that is not available, with some clean, pure grease or
lard.”

The Wounded Bad Man closed the book, but kept his finger in to mark the
place.

“It don’t sound regular, Tom, I’ll admit; but there’s a bottle of olive
oil in the tailbox, so it looks like Robert William Thomas was due for a
greasin’ up in accordance with the doctor’s orders.”

The Worst Bad Man pondered. “Well, I ain’t convinced nohow,” he said
presently. “This godson o’ ours is startin’ life slippery enough with us
for his godfathers.” He pondered a moment or two longer. “Still, it we
follow the book it may save Robert from chafin’ an’ gettin’ saddle galls
on him. Hand over the ile, Bob, an’ we’ll slick the young feller up
a mite. It’s just the tenderness o’ hell we don’t have to use
axle-grease!”

The Wounded Bad Man held the naked babe in his lap, across which he had
spread the towel, and The Worst Bad Man applied the oil.

“Roll him over, Bill.”

The Wounded Bad Man rolled him over, and in a few minutes the task was
completed. Dressing the infant, however, was infinitely more laborious.
The godfathers, knowing something of the biting chill of the desert
nights, were grateful for the profusion of woolen clothing and delicate
woolen baby blankets which their search of the tailbox had netted, and
when in due course The Youngest Bad Man had succeeded in dressing the
infant after a nondescript fashion of his own, The Worst Bad Man corked
the olive oil bottle, wiped his hands on his trousers, and beamed with
the consciousness of a duty well performed.

Next, The Wounded Bad Man ran his horny thumb down the index of Doctor
Meecham on Caring for the Baby, until he came to the chapter entitled:
“Feeding the Baby.” This chapter he real aloud.

“This is comfortin’,” he remarked, turning down the leaf to mark the
page. “Doctor Meecham says that there’s times when a baby won’t thrive
on nothin’ else but condensed milk. We got plenty o’ that.”

“Yes, an’ we can maul up some o’ them sody crackers an’ make some pap
for him,” replied The Worst Bad Man; “an’ in a pinch we can bile him a
pot o’ gruel.”

“We’ll need water for that, Tom,” The Wounded Bad Man reminded him; “an’
we’ll need water to dilute this here condensed milk an’ warm it up
for the feedin’ bottle. I ‘low some of the godfathers’s goin’ to suck
niggerhead cactus enough to do ‘em quite a spell before they hit New
Jerusalem.”

“That’s right,” The Worst Bad Man replied gravely; “Robert William
Thomas’s got to have the water, an’ Jerusalem’s the nearest camp, an’
it’s about forty-five mile as the crow flies. Malapa; Springs is back
there thirty-odd mile, though----”

“There ain’t no women at Malapai Springs,” retorted The Wounded Bad Man
pointedly, “and we can’t fool no time in the desert with this infant.
It’s up to us to hike--an’ hike lively--to New Jerusalem. We’ve got six
cans o’ condensed milk, an’ we can’t get morn’t three shots o’ milk
from each can. It’s going to spoil quick after it’s opened. Besides, if
we----”

The Youngest Bad Man had just been the recipient of a serious thought.
He hastened to get it off his mind. Boylike he interrupted and rose to a
question of information.

“What’s a godfather, Bill? What job does he hold down?”

“You’re an awful ignorant young man, Bob,” replied The Wounded Bad
Man reproachfully. “You been raised out in the woods somewheres? A
godfather, Bob, is a sort of reserve parent. When a kid is baptized
there’s a godfather an’ a godmother present, an’ for an’ on behalf o’
the kid they promise the preacher, just the same as the kid would if he
could only talk, to renounce the devil with all his works an’ pomps----”

“What’s his works and pumps?” demanded The Youngest Bad Man.

“Well--robbin’ banks an’ shootin’ up deputy sheriffs, et cetry, et
cetry.”

The Youngest Bad Man smiled wanly. “Well, Bill, all I got to say is
that us three’re a lovely bunch o’ godfathers. Best thing we can do is to
shunt the job to a godmother.”

“But there ain’t no godmother,” said The Worst Bad Man sadly. “It’s up
to us. She”--he jerked an oily thumb toward the little mound of sand and
rock--“she said somethin’ about teachin’ him his prayers an’ bringin’
h’m up a big, brave, strong man--like--like his godfathers.”

“Well, that’s part of the job, too,” The Wounded Bad Man informed them.
“I went to a Sunday-school when I was a kid, an’ I know what I’m
talkin’ about. A godfather’s got to keep his eye peeled an’ see that his
godchild gets a reeligious education.”

“Then,” said The Youngest Bad Man, “I reckon we’d better tote along this
here Bible. I just come across somethin’ interestin’. It’s about Jesus
Christ ridin’ into Jerusalem. Listen:”

And The Youngest Bad Man proceeded to read from the Gospel according to
St. Matthew:

“And when they drew nigh unto Jerusalem, and were come to Bethphage,
unto the Mount of Olives, then sent Jesus two disciples, Saying unto
them, Go into the village over against you, and straightway ye shall
find an ass tied, and a colt with her: loose them, and bring them unto
me. And if any man say ought unto you, ye shall say, The Lord hath need of
them; and straightway he will send them.”

“Rot!” snapped The Worst Bad Man. “I don’t believe a word of it. You try
swipin’ a man’s jacks, with or without a colt, in this country, an’ see
what happens if you say the Lord hath need of them. The Lord won’t save
you nohow. But cut out this religious talk, Bob, an’ rustle up some
sagebrush for a fire. We’ll heat some of this airtight milk and feed our
godson before we leave.”

The fire was lit forthwith, and the condensed milk prepared according to
the instructions laid down by Doctor Meecham. The Worst Bad Man poured
the water, while the other two godfathers guarded jealously every drop.
He heated the mixture to the proper temperature, warmed the feeding
bottle in it and then filled the bottle. The Wounded Bad Man sat
with the baby in his lap and pressed the feeding bottle to the little
stranger’s lips.

It was an anxious moment to the three godfathers. Would he or would he
not “take hold?” He did, promptly, with a gusto that brought a howl of
delight from The Worst Bad Man.

“I sure do admire to see the way that young feller adapts himself to
conditions.” said The Wounded Bad Man proudly.

“Hops right to it, like a drunkard to a Fourth of July barbecue,” said
The Youngest Bad Man. “He’ll do.” There was all the pride of fatherhood
in the boy’s tones. “Game little pup, ain’t he?”

“His poor little ma was game,” remarked The Worst Bad Man “He comes by
it natural. I wonder what kind of a coyote his old man was. It’d sure
be a sin if this boy grew up to be as big a fool as his father. I’d turn
over in my grave.”

“Well, that’s up to the last of the godfathers,” said The Wounded Bad
Man. “Mind you learn him hoss-sense, Bob. Don’t let him grow up to wear
eyeglasses before he’s twenty-one years old, an’ make him say ‘sir’ when
he speaks to you. Teach him hoss-sense and respect, Bob. Them’s the two
great requirements to a man’s education.”

“The way he’s downin’ his provender,” The Worst Bad Man remarked, “he’ll
be full up in five minutes and want to go to sleep. It’s too hot to
resk him out just now, an’ Doc Meecham says he’s go to be fed every four
hours. We’ll set up the drinks to Robert agin at four o’clock, an’ then
we’ll git out o’ this hole a-flyin’. Pendin’ our departure, Bob, my son,
you pull off to one side an’ study all that Doctor Meecham has to say
about carin’ for the baby.

“Knowledge ain’t so awful heavy, my son, when you carry it in your
head, an’ this Doc Meecham book weighs more’n two pounds. Bill’ll take a
little sleep, an’ I’ll keep the flies off’n him an’ the infant.”

*****

It was almost sun-down when the three godfathers left Terrapin Tanks
with their godson and struck off through the low black hills toward
the northeast. A cold night wind was springing up, and to the thirsty
godfathers, not one of whom had tasted water since sun-up that morning,
the cool breeze was refreshing.

Up the wild, lonely draws they trudged, the sleeping infant, wrapped in
a double blanket, reposing in the hollow of The Wounded Bad Man’s
sound arm. The man’s face was drawn and very haggard, and he staggered
slightly from weakness once or twice in spots where the trail was rough.
The Youngest Bad Man, following at his heels, was quick to notice this.

“Here, I ain’t carryin’ an ounce o’ weight,” he expostulated. “Bill’s
carryin’ th’ water an’ the airtight milk an’ the feedin’ bottle an’ the
camp kettle and our grub, an’ you’re carryin’ the baby an’ a bundle of
extra clothes. Lemme spell you a few miles, Bill. You’re in bad shape
with that sore shoulder, an’ you’re goin’ to wear yourself out too
soon.”

The Wounded Bad Man shook his head. “I’ll carry him as far as I can
while I got the strength to do it. I ain’t carryin’ more’n fifteen
pounds, but it’ll be enough for you before you get to New Jerusalem.”

“Why, ain’t you comin’ with us?” demanded The Youngest Bad Man.

“No,” The Wounded Bad Man retorted firmly, “I ain’t.”

The Worst Bad Man turned in the trail, unscrewed the cap of the canteen
and held the canteen toward the Wounded Bad Man.

“I think we can spare just one mouthful, Bill,” he said kindly. “You
bein’ hit through the shoulder that-a-way, naturally we don’t hold you
so rigid to the rule.”

The Wounded Bad Man had been nuzzling the baby’s forehead with the tip
of his great sunburnt nose. Now he raised his head quickly and his face
was terrible to behold.

“I’ve done a heap o’ ornery things in my day,” he growled, “but I ain’t
stealin’ the water that belongs to my godson. Don’t you insult me no
more, Tom Gibbons.”

“That reminds me,” remarked The Worst Bad Man affably, “you’re carryin’
some extra weight.”

He reached forward, unbuckled The Wounded Bad Man’s belt, with its forty
rounds of pistol cartridge and the heavy revolver, and tossed it into
the greasewood.

“That helps some!” The Wounded Bad Man growled out the words again.

They walked on in silence hour after hour. Presently as they trudged
along The Worst Bad Man began lighting matches.

“Nine o’clock,” he announced. “Third drink-time for Robert William
Thomas. We’ll make a dry camp an’ heat some more milk--listen!”

From a draw to the right there came, borne on the night wind, the sound
of savage growling and yelping, as of dogs quarreling ever a bone.

“Coyotes,” The Youngest Bad Man elucidated. “They got somethin’.”

“Move along out o’ here,” cried The Wounded Bad Man irritably. “I don’t
want to listen to that. They’ll get me soon enough.”

They moved farther up the draw and camped for half an hour. Again The
Wounded Bad Man fed the baby, and once more they swung away on
their sorry road to New Jerusalem. Toward morning the baby awoke and
whimpered, and The Wounded Bad Man, who never once during the long night
had relinquished his trust, sought to soothe it with song.

               Oh, Ella Ree, so kind an” true,

                   In th’ little churchyard lies.

               Her grave is bright with drops o’ dew,

                   But brighter were her eyes.

               Then carry me back to Tennessee,

                   There let me----

It was a melody of his childhood. His mother had sung it to him in the
old lost days of his youth and innocence, and the plaintive ballad came
cracked and quavering through lips swollen with suffering. It was a
mournful song, but it seemed appropriate, for The Wounded Bad Man was
thinking of the little mother away off there in the silence at Terrapin
Tanks. Whether from this or physical inability to proceed farther, his
voice broke in the second line of the chorus.

“Dog my cats,” he gasped feebly, “I can’t sing a lick no more!”

“I’ll sing for him,” volunteered The Youngest Bad Man; “I’l give him ‘The
Yeller Rose o’ Texas’.”

They made fifteen miles that first night, and at sun-up they emerged
from the black volcanic hills out on to a great, white, shimmering, dry
salt lake. A mile away a little cabin, dazzling white in the glint of
the rising sun, flared against the horizon, and far to the northeast the
Witch of Old Woman Mountain sat watching them.

“Over there on the southeast spur of Old Woman you’ll find New
Jerusalem, Bob,” The Worst Bad Man explained. “That mountain with
the rocky crest that looks like a witch in profile--that’s Old Woman
Mountain. Watch the Witch, Bob, an’ you’ll get there.”

The Youngest Bad Man nodded. “We can’t carry the baby in this heat,” he
reminded them. “Hand him over, Bill, and I’ll just buck-jump along to
that little cabin an’ hole up with him till you an’ Tom catch up.”

“I’ll carry him,” The Wounded Bad Man retorted doggedly.

“You’ll not.” The Youngest Bad Man was aroused. “You’re dyin’ on your
feet, Bill Kearny, an’ I ain’t goin’ to see you stand by an’ fall with
my godson an’ hurt him maybe. Come across with him.”

Reluctantly The Wounded Bad Man surrendered the child to The Youngest
Bad Man. The latter was drawn and weary himself, but he had what neither
of his comrades possessed--he had glorious Youth. He would still be
on his feet and traveling with his godson when the coyotes would be
quarreling over the others. He trotted off now, in a hurry to reach the
lone cabin before the heat became too oppressive.

The Worst Bad Man looked after him enviously. “What a man!” he muttered.
“Lean an’ long an’ tough. If we strike some niggerhead cactus he’ll get
through. He can last two days more.”

“But I don’t see no niggerhead cactus,” complained The Wounded Bad Man.
“It’s ten miles across this salt lake, an’----”

He swayed and fell on his hands and knees. The Worst Bad Man helped him
up. They stood for a moment, leaning against each other, resting; then
plodded weakly on. The Worst Bad Man was the first to speak. His tongue
was dry and swollen but he could still speak plainly.

“D’ye remember, Bill, that yarn that Bob read us outen that Bible last
night--about Christ ridin’ into Jerusalem an’ Him send-in’ two men over
to the nearest camp for a jinny with a colt? It kinder set me thinkin’,
an’ I been wonderin’ all night. Bill, do you believe in God?”

“I dunno,” The Wounded Bad Man replied thickly. “I usen’t to, but I
dunno now’. I seen things yesterday--in that woman’s eyes when she
talked about the baby not havin’ anybody to teach him his prayers an’
him growin’ up a fine, good man. I been wonderin’, too, Tom. You
don’t suppose, Tom, that the Bible’s wrong and that Christ sent three
disciples instead o’ two?”

“Why?”

“Because,”--The Wounded Bad Man paused and looked at his companion
very impressively--“I kinder feel like me an’ you an’ Bob was
disciples--since I seen that girl an’ held that little mite of a kid
in my arms. I been figgerin’ it out, Tom, an’ I allow that Bob ought to
make Jerusalem with Robert William Thomas some time Christmas mornin’.
The thought’s comforted me a heap. Somehow I sorter got the notion
that there can’t no hard luck come to a Christmas baby, an’ Christ just
naturally can’t go back on us if we play the game fair by that kid.”

The Worst Bad Man nodded grave approval to these sentiments. The Wounded
Bad man continued:

“It sorter sets my mind back thirty-five years. My folks used to take me
to church when I was a kid. I wasn’t a churchgoer by nature, but there
was one picture on the wall of that church of a naked baby lyin’ in
his mother’s lap, an’ when the sun’d come streamin’ in through them
stained-glass windows it used to light up their faces kinder beautiful.
An’ yesterday mornin’ when the sun”--here The Wounded Had Man stumbled
and fell once more. He picked himself up and continued wearily--“and
when the sun come streakin’ over the Terrapin Tanks an’ shone into that
wagon, I swear to God, Tom, it was the same two faces!”

The Worst Bad Man made no reply. Privately he was of the opinion
that his companion was delirious. The latter’s next remark, however,
precluded this idea.

“We ain’t done right by young Bob Sang-ster,” he complained. “We’re a
pair o’ hard old skunks, Tom, an’ we’ve kinder influenced that boy.
He ain’t bad. There ain’t nothin’ naturally crooked in Bob. He’s
just young, an’ thinks he’s havin’ adventures an’ makin’ a big man of
himself. That job at Wickenburg was the first trick he ever turned.
Before you boys leave me I’m goin’ to talk to Bob. I’m going to talk
while I got my voice, because by noon my tongue’ll be out of kilter----”

“I’ll talk to him too,” assented The Worst Bad Man eagerly. “I was
thinkin’ the same thoughts as you, Bill. The last o’ the godfathers
can’t be no crook. Bill. He’s got to do his duty by the infant.”

An hour later they arrived at the white cabin on the dry salt lake. It
was not the kind of house one sees in cities, for it was built entirely
of blocks of rock salt, of such crystal clearness that as the two
godfathers approached they could discern the vague outlines of Boh
Sangster sitting inside with the baby. The roof of the house was of
canvas, sun-baked, rotten and filled with holes. Evidently the strange
habitation had been the abode of some desert visionary, who planned to
file on the salt lake and sell his concession to the Salt Trust.

The Youngest Bad Man gave the baby into the keeping of The Wounded
Bad Man once more, while he and The Worst Bad Man busied themselves
spreading the double blanket over the ruined canvas roofing to keep
out the sun. Next they prepared some condensed milk and set the feeding
bottle out in the hot salt gravel until it should be heated to the
right temperature. And while they waited, sitting there in silence, The
Wounded Bad Man leaned back against the salt wall and closed his tired
eyes. The Worst Bad Man stooped and took the baby from him; yet he did
not seem to be aware of this action. This was a bad sign. The Youngest
Bad Man shook his head dubiously.

Presently The Wounded Bad Man spoke. His speech was very thick and
labored, like that of a paralyzed man.

“Bob,” he said, “I had somethin’ to say to you, but I’m too weak to
preach now. Tom’ll tell you. Got that Bible yet?”

“Yes, Bill, I got it.”

“All right, Bob. I’m just goin’ to find out if there’s a God, and if
there is I guess he’ll give me a square deal. I’m goin’ to give Him
three chances to prove He’s on the job, an’ I got to win two heats out
o’ three before I’ll believe. Open that Bible, Bob, an’ read me the very
first thing you see.”

The Youngest Bad Man opened the Bible and read from the Gospel according
to St. Matthew:

“And Jesus called a little child unto Him, and set him in the midst of
them, “And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and
become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of
heaven.

“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same
is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

“And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.”

The Youngest Bad Man closed the book.

“Open it again,” The Wounded Bad Man commanded.

The Youngest Bad Man opened it at random and read from the Gospel
according to St. Luke:

“And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If
thou be Christ, save thyself and us.

“But the other answering rebuked him, saying, “Dost not thou fear God,
seeing thou art in the same condemnation?

“And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but
this man hath done nothing amiss.

“And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy
kingdom.

“And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be
with me in paradise.”

“That’ll do, Bob,” murmured The Wounded Bad Man. “I call upon you an’
Tom to witness that I receive that woman’s baby--in God’s name. If
I whimper for water don’t give it to me. There’s blood poison in my
shoulder an’ arm an’ I’m goin’ crazy. I’m burnin’ up--but it’s comin’
to me. Lord, it’s comin’ to me. I don’t complain none, Lord, an’ I thank
Thee for bringin’ me this far--with the little chap--for Thy sake, Lord.
Our Father, who art--who art--who art--who art--in Heaven, blessed--I
can’t remember, Bob. It’s a long time.... I’ll try another--”

“He’s off at last,” muttered The Worst Bad Man. “It’s the blood poison.
He’s been dyin’ since we left Malapai Springs. Listen at him, Bob. What
kind o’ stuff is he talkin’?--listen!”

They bent over The Wounded Bad Man and listened intently, for it seemed
to them he was wandering far afield in his delirium. He was. Bill
Kearny’s body was dying, but his soul was wandering adown the wild and
checkered path of his career to its dim and distant starting point.

                   “Now I lay me down to sleep,

                   I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

                   If I should die before I wake,

                   I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

“God bless my father and mother and my little sister--and make me a good
boy. Amen!”

The Worst Bad Man’s face twitched a little “Good Jesus Christ!” he
murmured. The words were not a blasphemy. They fell from his blackened
lips like a benediction--in his fierce eyes a soft and human light was
beaming. “Jesus Christ _is_ good. He’s slippin’ it easy to old Bill.
He’s made him a child again.”

Throughout the long, stifling day they sat and watched him, and when he
became delirious The Youngest Bad Man took the baby in hand, in case The
Wounded Bad Man should suddenly become violent. Late in the afternoon
when the baby had been fed and wrapped again in the blanket, preparatory
to taking the trail once more, the dying godfather rolled over and
opened his eyes. They bent to hear his last message. It was almost
unintelligible.

“It’s a Christmas baby--it belongs--in Jerus--alem.
Stick it out to--finish--good--boys--don’t
let--my--godson--die--between--two--thieves-----”

They pressed his hand. The Worst Bad Man had the pack ready and slipped
it over his weary shoulders. He reached for the baby.

“Gimme the kid,” he cried thickly. “I got ten miles left in me yet. I’ll
see you across the dry lake.”

The Youngest Bad Man understood now. He handed over the baby, and
together the two godfathers passed out of the shack into the great salt
desert... And some time during the night the angels came and led Bill
Kearny into paradise.

After leaving the cabin The Worst Bad Man, realizing that the next
ten miles of their journey across the salt lake offered free, smooth
footing, resolved to make the pace while the “going” was good. They were
no longer hampered by being forced to suit their gait to that of Bill
Kearny, and The Worst Bad Man was resolved to see his godson safe across
the dry lake before surrendering.

He swayed considerably as he walked, but The Youngest Bad Man strode
beside him, with a hand on his arm, and helped to hold him steady. And
as they proceeded The Worst Bad Man talked to Bob Sangster.

It was a short sermon, evolved, in terse, eloquent sentences, from out
the bitterness of The Worst Bad Man’s dark past and still darker future.

“Bill Kearny never went back on a pal, son, an’ when I quit you I want
you to say, ‘Well, Tom Gibbons, he never went back on a pal nuther.’
An’ when you come to cash in, you want to have our godson say, ‘An’ Bob
Sangster, too--he never went back on a pal.’ Cut out the crooked work,
son. Nobody has anythin’ on you yet--start straight an’ raise this boy
straight, an’ if ever you spot him showin’ signs o’ breakin’ away from
the reservation, just you remind him that a woman an’ two men died to
make a man outer him. That’s all. I ain’t goin’ to try to talk no more.”

At midnight The Worst Bad Man was very weak. He swayed and staggered and
stopped every few hundred yards to rest, but he would not give up the
baby.

“I’ll last till sun-up,” he told himself; “I got to. I ain’t the
quittin’ kind.”

About two o’clock in the morning the moon came out; from somewhere in
the distance a coyote gave tongue, and The Worst Bad Man shivered a
little. At three o’clock they came out of the dry salt lake into the
sands again, and The Youngest Bad Man held out his arms for the baby.

“He needs grub mighty bad,” was what The Worst Bad Man tried to say, but
the words came only as an unintelligible mumble. There had been no sage
on the dry lake and they had been unable to make a fire. For two hours
the baby had been whimpering with hunger and cold. The Worst Bad Man
slipped out of his pack, gathered some dry sagebrush and lit a roaring
fire, while his youthful companion ministered to the baby. And when Bob
Sang-ster had finished The Worst Bad Man smoothed a two-foot area in
the sand, and by the light of the campfire he wrote with his finger the
words that he could not speak:

“You carry baby. I’m good two three miles more with pack. I leave you
twelve miles from New Jerusalem. Don’t lay up today keep moving put baby
half rations savvy.”

The Youngest Bad Man nodded. When dawn began to show in the east they
resumed the journey. After the first mile, The Worst Bad Man gave signs
that the end was coming very soon. He fell more frequently, barking his
hands and knees, filling his mouth and eyes with sand, tearing his
flesh in the catclaws. Weary, monotonous gasps came from his constricted
throat, but still he staggered along, although his strength had been
gone for hours. He was traveling on his nerve now.

Slowly the dawnlight crept over the desert, softening with its magic
beauty the harsh empire of death. The Worst Bad Man saw the rosy glow
lighting up the saturnine face of the witch of Old Woman Mountain, and
was content. He had promised himself to last till dawn. He had kept his
word.

He sank to his knees in the sand. Bob, Sangster stooped and lifted him
to his feet. He staggered along a few yards and fell again, and when
Bob Sangster would fain have lifted him once more, The Worst Bad Man
motioned him back with an imperious wave of his hand, for he did not
want the boy to waste his strength. He tried to protest verbally, but a
horrible sound was all that came from his swollen mouth.

The Youngest Bad Man tarried for a moment, irresolute, standing over
him. The Worst Bad Man deliberately removed his hat and handed it to the
young godfather, who took it, fitted a branch of sagebrush with three
forks at one end into the crown of the wide-brimmed hat, and thus
constructed a sort of crude parasol wherewith to keep the sun from the
baby. The Worst Bad Man nodded his approbation, and Bob Sangster lowered
the baby until its soft little face brushed the bloody bristles on
The Worst Bad Man’s cheek; a handclasp--and the last of the godfathers
turned his young face toward New Jerusalem and departed into the eye of
the coming day.

The Worst Bad Man watched him until he disappeared into the neutrals of
the desert before he turned his head to glance back, along the trail by
which they had come. Away off to the southwest, forty miles away, the
Cathedral Peaks lifted their castellated spires, and the gaze of the
stricken godfather went no farther. The Cathedral Peaks--how like
a church they seemed, standing there in the solitude, sublime,
indestructible, eternal, gazing down the centuries. The Worst Bad Man
was moved to solemn thought--he who had so little time for thought now.
His mind harkened back to the scene in the salt house on the dry lake,
to Bill Kearny’s challenge to the Omnipotent, to the answers that came
to that anguished soul crying in the wilderness of doubt and unbelief;
and suddenly a great desire came over The Worst Bad Man. He, too, wanted
to know. He, too, would ask a sign. And if there was a God----

He stretched forth his arms toward the Cathedral Peaks. “Lord, give me a
sign,” he gobbled; “let me have The Light”; and, as if in answer to
his cry, the sun burst over the crest of the Panimints, a long shaft
of light shot across the desert and painted, in colors designed by the
Master Artist, the distant spires of the Cathedral Peaks. They flamed in
crimson, in gold, in flashes of silver light, fading away into turquoise
and deep maroon, and in that light The Worst Bad Man read the answer to
his riddle.

“Lord, I believe.” The horrid gobbling broke the silence once more.
“Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”

And then the desert madness smote his brain, and with the sudden,
terrible strength of the maniac he scrambled to his feet and started
across the waste toward the peaks. Over the long trail to the Great
Divide he ran, with arms outstretched; and as he ran the Peaks flamed
and flickered in heliograph flashes. Perhaps they carried a message,
a message that only The Worst Bad Man could understand--the message of
hope eternal sounding down the ages:

“Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.”

Presently The Worst Bad Man fell. It was the end. He had kept the faith.

*****

But Bob Sangster could not wait and watch and speculate. Time pressed;
at Terrapin Tanks he had passed his word, and he must be moving on if he
would save his godson. He had one can of condensed milk and half a quart
of water left. It behooved him to hurry.

When the sun was an hour high and the desolate landscape lay baking and
shimmering round him, he crept into the meager shadow of a palo-verde
tree, undressed the infant, rubbed him with the last of the olive oil
and threw the bottle away. Then with new, fresh garments carried from
Terrapin Tanks he dressed the baby. He wet his bandana handkerchief and
washed the little red face. He was preparing for the final dash.

He abandoned the supply of mesquit-bean bread and jerked beef, the
Bible, and Doctor Meecham’s invaluable work on Caring for the Baby.
He considered a moment, and decided to abandon also the heavy woolen
blanket in which they had been carrying the baby. It mea’nt six pounds
less weight, and unless they made New Jerusalem before sundown Robert
William Thomas would not need it. With or without blankets, they would
both sleep cold under the stars tonight, for Bob Sang-ster was once more
confronted by the primal necessity of his calling. He had to “take a
chance.”

He was about to discard his six-shooter and belt, but a stealthy crackle
in the sagebrush caused him to reconsider. He watched the spot whence
the sounds came and presently he made out the form of a coyote. The
brute was sitting on his hunkers, his red tongue lolling out of the
corner of his mouth, his glance fixed in lazy appraisal upon the last of
the godfathers and the bundle that he carried.

The boldness of the beast was an insult in itself. It drove Bob Sangster
wild with anger. With marvelous brute intelligence the coyote had sensed
the weakness of the man, and patiently he had set himself the task of
shadowing him to the finish. He sat there now--waiting. In his contempt
for the hereditary enemy the gray skulker did not even trouble to
conceal his intentions.

“So you’re hangin’ round for the pickin’s already,” snarled Bob
Sangster, and fired. The coyote turned a somersault and crawled away
through the sage, dragging its hindlegs after it, and two more coyotes
sprang up at the sound of the shot and scurried out of range.

“You think I’ll drop this boy, don’t you?” raved the godfather, blazing
away at the fleeing enemy long after it was out of range. He seized
Robert William Thomas and, holding his hat parasol over the child,
hurried along toward the mouth of a draw. He was getting in among the
low, black, volcanic hills and lava beds again, and the reflected heat
was terrible. Cautiously he made his way along the shady side of the
canon, and for an hour he progressed thus until the sun, having risen
higher, sought him out.

Horned toads and lizards scuttled out of his path in fright, chuckwallas
blinked their eyes at him, a desert terrapin waddled leisurely by, and
once, gazing back over the trail, he saw that the coyotes had recovered
from their fright and were following him again. He commenced to see
mirages--wonderfully beautiful little lakes, fringed with palms and
bright-green rushes. Distinctly he heard the pleasant murmur of water
tumbling over rocks. He was tempted to pause and search for this purling
brook, but his common-sense warned that it was all a delusion of the
heat and his own imagination. He knew that the sun was getting him fast,
that he was drying up.

“Cactus,” he kept repeating to himself, as if in that one word he
held the open sesame of life; “just one niggerhead cactus.” But the
niggerhead cactus, with its scanty supply of vegetable juices, did not
grow in the country through which he was traveling, and as the slow
miles slipped behind him and his eager glance revealed the entire
absence of the shrub that meant life to him and Robert William Thomas,
the terrible uselessness of his struggle, the horrible forlornness of
his forlorn hope, became more and more apparent. The baby was whimpering
continually now, and faint blue rings had appeared under the little
sufferer’s eyes. He was sick and tired and hot and itchy, and despite
the fact that the godfathers had done their best, Bob Sangster knew that
the child could not last a day longer without proper attention. It was
a miracle that he had survived thus far--a miracle only accounted for
by reason of the fact that he was a healthy, hearty twelve-pounder at
birth. The last of the godfathers tried vainly to soothe him with the
oft-successful Yeller Rose o’ Texas, but he was beyond singing now, and
in the knowledge that both were going swiftly he mingled his tears with
those of his godson. Yet they were manly tears, and no taint of selfpity
brought them forth. Only it broke Bob Sangster’s heart to think of his
helpless godson and of the gray scavengers skulking behind.

Suddenly the godfather thrilled with a great feeling of relief and joy.
He had come to an Indian water sign; he read it at a glance. Five little
rock monuments in a circle, with a sixth standing off to the right
about thirty feet from the others. In that direction the water lay, and
bearing due southwest Bob Sangster saw a draw opening up. The journey
would take him a mile or two out of his way, but what mattered a mile or
ten miles, provided he found water? The prospect gave him renewed hope
and strength. He forged steadily ahead and when the canon narrowed he
knew he was coming to a “tank.” Up the wash he ran and sank, sobbing, on
the edge of the water-hole. It was quite dry.

It was a long time before he could gather his courage together and
depart down the canon again. He had traveled two miles for nothing! He
wept anew at the thought, marveling the while that there should be so
much moisture still in his wretched body.

At the mouth of the canon he halted and prepared the last of his
condensed milk and water for the baby. When he proffered it, however,
the child screamed and refused the horrid draught, and as he lay on the
man’s knees with his little mouth open Bob Sangster dropped in the last
dregs of his canteen.

“You need water, too, son,” he mumbled sadly. “This sweet dope is
killin’ you.”

He replaced the feeding bottle in his pocket, paused long enough to
kill another coyote that had ventured too close, and resumed his journey
toward New Jerusalem. He had left the dry tank at noon. At one o’clock
he was two miles nearer New Jerusalem; at three o’clock he was within
five miles of the camp and had fallen for the first time. But even as he
fell he had thrust out his left hand, thus fending his weight from
the baby, and the child had not been injured. So the godfather merely
covered the child’s tender head with Tom Gibbons’ old hat, and together
they lay for a while prone in the sand. The man was not yet done, but he
was exhausted and half blind and very weak. He was striving to get his
courage in hand once more, and he needed a rest so badly. So he lay
there, trying to think, until presently the whimpering of the infant
aroused him, and he sat up suddenly.

Seated in a circle, of which Bob Sangster and the baby formed the axis,
were half a dozen coyotes. They were closer now--too close for comfort
and, cowardly as he knew them to be, there were enough of them present
to fan their courage to the point where a single rush would end it. He
fired at them and they scampered away unharmed.

“I can’t shoot any more,” the man wailed. “I’m goin’ blind. Come, son,
we must move on or they’ll get us to-night.”

He picked the child up and plodded on, and once more the coyotes fell
into line behind him. The godfather began to feel afraid of them. He was
obsessed with a horrible fear that they might sneak up and snap at him
from behind, or rush him en masse and tear the baby out of his arms. He
kept glancing back and firing at them. But all of his shots went wild
and gradually the tracing brutes grew bolder. Whenever he sat down for a
few minutes to rest they surrounded him, and it seemed to the godfather
that each time they edged in closer. He decided to save his cartridges
until the final rush.

He tottered along until four o’clock before he fell again. This time he
twisted in time to land on his back, with the baby uppermost, and as he
lay there, stunned and shaken, the godfather was almost proud of himself
for his forethought. He closed his eyes to rid his vision of the myriads
of red, yellow and blue spots that came dancing out of the sand and
shooting into the air like skyrockets. The spots still persisted,
however--for the skyrockets were in his brain, and as he lay there it
came to him that this was to be the end after all. He was too weak to
carry the baby further. Sooner or later he would fall upon it and kill
it, so why struggle further----

The baby was leaving him! He could feel it being slowly dragged from his
protecting arm, and with a moan that was intended for a shriek he sat
up and reached for his gun. So close to him was the coyote, dragging
gingerly at the infant’s clothing, that the godfather dared not fire. He
merely threw up his arms to frighten the beast away, and reluctantly it
trotted back and rejoined its companions of the slavering, red-tongued
circle.

The godfather knelt in the sands beside the baby and searched for
the marks of teeth, but found none. The horror of their situation was
brought forcefully home to him now. He had hoped before, but hope was
vanished. New Jerusalem could not be more than three miles away, but
it might as well be three hundred, for Bob Sangster could never make
it with the baby. He thought no longer of life. He wanted to cheat the
coyotes, and in his agony he forgot that he was a Bad Man and cried
aloud to a Supreme Being of whom he knew nothing.

“O God, save me, save me! Not for myself, but for this poor little baby.
I’m old and tough, Lord, but save the baby. You were a baby yourself
once, Lord, if the Bible don’t lie. Now save my baby. Don’t go back on
me, Lord. Help me, help me to keep my word to raise him right----”

He clasped the child in his arms and kissed it passionately for the
first time since his assumption of the duties of a godfather And then,
because he was a fighter and could not quit while there was life within
him, he reeled onward with dogged persistence. He fixed his fading
glance on some unimportant landmark ana nerved himself to last until he
should reach it. Queer thoughts kept obtruding themselves upon him. Once
he thought a chuckwalla addressed him, saying: “Hello, Bob Sang-ster,
what are you runnin’ away from? You can’t dodge them coyotes. They’re
goin’ to get that infant, sure. Better chuck ‘em the kid an’ see if you
can’t make it alone to New Jerusalem. That baby’s weight is killin’ you,
boy. After all, what is he to you? He’s only a three-day-old baby. Why
don’t, you drop him an’ beat it in to New Jerusalem? You can make it
without the baby.”

He had cursed the chuckwalla and stamped it into the earth for the
insult. But a moment later a horned toad advised him to drink the milk
that still remained in the feeding bottle. “Of course it’s none o’ my
business,” remarked the horned toad, “but if the baby won’t drink it,
you should. It’s foolish to let it go to waste. It’s only a couple of
mouthfuls, but it’ll give you strength to make that black lava point a
mile ahead.”

“Horned Toad,” replied the godfather, “you’re a sensible little critter
an’ I’ll take your advice. It ain’t manly to do it, but nothin’ matters
any more.”

He drank the milk that the baby had refused, tossed the bottle aside and
nerved himself to last until he should reach the black lava point. That
was to be the last goal. If he fell before he reached it he resolved to
climb into a palo-verde tree, wedge himself and the baby in between the
limbs, kill the baby and himself, and thus dying have the laugh on the
coyotes.

He fell. For the third time the child escaped being crushed. The
palo-verde tree was only fifty yards away, the black lava point
seventy-five yards, but when the godfather could scramble to his feet
again he made for the palo-verde tree. Here, to his disgust, he found
himself too weak to climb the tree. So he leaned against it and wept,
dry-eyed, with rage and horror and disappointment. The horned toad had
followed and now offered more advice.

“Sangster, you’re a chump. Why climb the tree? The buzzards will get
you, so what’s the difference?”

“I’ll make the lava point,” replied the godfather. “They can’t come at
me in back there, an’ I can keep ‘em away for a while anyhow.”

He lurched away. Foot by foot he approached the black lava point. He
resolved to round it; there was shade on the other side. Staggering,
reeling, muttering incoherently, he rounded the lava rock and collided
with something soft and hairy. He leaned against it for a moment,
resting, while something soft and warm and animallike nuzzled him and
nickered softly in the joy of the meeting. When Bob Sangster opened his
eyes he found himself leaning against a trembling old white burro with a
pack on his back.

“Water,” thought the godfather, “water. There ought to be a canvas
waterbag,” and he went clawing along the burro’s side, feeling for the
waterbag but unable to find it. The little animal was standing patiently
in the shadow of the rock, and Bob Sangster stood off and looked at him.
The burro’s eyes were red and dust-rimmed; evidently he had traveled
far. His legs trembled, his tongue, dry and black, protruded from his
mouth. The burro, too, was dying of thirst.

“You poor devil,” mused Bob Sangster. He gazed at the pitiable little
animal, the while his memory strove to recall some other incident in
which a burro had figured. There had been some talk of burros recently
with Bill Kearny and Tom Gibbons. What was it? Well, never mind. It
didn’t make any difference. This burro was dying and useless; there was no
water bag----

_And when they drew nigh unto Jerusalem... then sent Jesus two
disciples, saying unto them, Go into the village over against you, and
straightway ye shall find an ass tied...._

The words of the Gospel according to St. Matthew flamed in letters of
fire across the failing vision of the last godfather. He remembered now.
He had read a chapter from the Bible to Bill Kearny and Tom Gibbons back
there at Terrapin Tanks--and it was all about Christ riding into
Jerusalem on an ass. Here, in the shadow of this black lava, he had
found a burro waiting!

Bill Kearny had asked for a sign----

The last of the godfathers thought of his frenzied prayer of an hour
before. He had asked for help. Could it be possible that here stood the
answer?

“There’s a chance,” he mumbled. “This critter has stampeded from some
prospector’s pack outfit He’s been lookin’ for water, and the Lord sent
him our way, sonny. He’s sure sent him.”

With his free hand the godfather clawed desperately at the diamond
hitch, swept the load from the packsaddle, ripped it apart and found--a
can of tomatoes. He slashed the can open, drank some himself and gave
the balance to the burro. Then, lifting his godson into the packsaddle,
he lashed him in securely; after which he took his open pocket knife in
hand and prodded the jaded burro until it consented to move away across
the desert at a crawling, shuffling gait. Bob Sangster walked beside
the burro, one hand busy with the point of the knife, the other clinging
desperately to the rear cross of the packsaddle. His strength had, in a
measure, returned after drinking the canned tomatoes, and he fancied that
the burro too seemed rejuvenated. Bob Sangster wished he had another can
of tomatoes to offer the little beast, for the lives of himself and
his godson depended on the burro. He leaned heavily against the animal,
which half led, half dragged him along. Thus an hour passed.

They were ascending the upraise that led to the crest of the southeast
spur of Old Woman Mountain now, and through the sunset haze the witch’s
demoniac face leered down at them from the heights above. Slowly,
haltingly, they progressed up the slope. The burro was almost spent, and
time and again he balked and groaned a feeble protest He welcomed the
occasions when the godfather’s weak clasp of the packsaddle was broken
and he fell headlong to earth. But if he fell, the godfather rose again,
moaning, praying, raving, and still the awful cavalcade pressed on.

The shadows grew’ long. The sun disappeared and evening settled over the
desert, but still the sorry pilgrimage continued up the slope. Now they
were half a mile from it, a quarter, two hundred yards, a hundred from
the summit--the burro grunted, shivered and lay down. In the gathering
gloom Bob Sangster felt for the ropes which bound the baby to the pack,
cut them and stood clear of the dying beast.

“You’ve pulled me up the slope in the heat, old fellow,” he tried to
say with lips that were split and parched and cut and bleeding. “I never
could have made it. New Jerusalem can’t be far away now. I’ll get there.
But----”

He pressed the muzzle of his gun into the suffering animal’s ear and
pulled. “I owed you that kindness,” he mumbled, and passed on to the
crest of the slope.

At the summit he paused, swaying gently with his precious burden, and
gazed down the other side of the spur. In a hollow a few hundred yards
below him, the lights of New Jerusalem gleamed brightly through the
gathering gloom of that lonely Christmas Eve, and the godfather recalled
the words of Bill Kearny.

“It’s a Christmas baby. God won’t go back on it.”

Bob Sangster’s tongue hung from his mouth, long and black and withered,
like the tongue of a dead beef, as he stood there on the outskirts of
New Jerusalem and thought of many things. Bill Kearny had been right. It
was a Christmas baby. It would pull through all right. He drew the baby
to him until their faces were very close, so close that a little hand
crept up and closed tightly over the godfather’s nose.

This was to be their last supreme moment together, for after tonight
some woman must enter into Robert William Thomas’ life and Bob Sangster
could only be a partner in his godson’s love. He recalled that the baby’s
mother had told The Worst Bad Man they had “kin” in New Jerusalem, and
Bob Sangster wondered if she had intended that he should turn the baby
over to them. The thought appalled him, and his hot tears fell fast on
the little white face as he staggered down the grade into New Jerusalem.

“I won’t give you up,” he gibbered, “I won’t. You’re mine. Your mother
give you to me to raise like a man, an’ I’m a-goin’ to do it. You’re
my kid an’ you’re named after us three. No, no, I won’t. I’ve died ten
thousand deaths for you--I’ll work an’ I’ll hire a woman----”

Fifteen minutes later a battered, bleeding, raving wreck of a man, who
hugged a bundle to his great breast, reeled into New Jerusalem and
paused in front of a hurdy-gurdy. From within came the plaintive notes
of a melodeon, and a woman--a Mary Magdalen--was singing:

_Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lilt up your gates and sing,_

_Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna to your King!_

Bob Sangster made his uncertain way to the woman at the melodeon and
held a bundle toward her.

“What’s this?” she demanded. The last of the godfathers gobbled and
mumbled, but the words refused to come. How could the woman know what
he was trying to say?

She unwrapped the bundle and gazed down at Robert William Thomas
Sangster.

Who knows? Perhaps in that moment the woman, too, like The Three Bad
Men, beheld The King!





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Three Godfathers" ***

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