“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!