“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.”