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,