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?”