The Three Godfathers, page 2
“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.”
