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: <i>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----</i> 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'.”