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, lift 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!