THE daylight raid on the Wickenburg 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 Wickenburg 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 fine 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:
<i>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,