Part 2
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.”