“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.