“Nothin' much, I guess.” The Youngest Bad Man threw out his hands in desperation. “Bill says she ain't got a chance.” He took his canteen in both hands and shook it gently; seeing which The Worst Bad Man did the same with his. “How much has Bill got left?” he asked anxiously. “Nary drop. He's been right feverish along o' that hole in his wing, an' hittin' his canteen heavy, expectin' to find water in the Tanks.” “Well, we got about two gallons left,” announced The Worst Bad Man philosophically, “but I see us cuttin' niggerhead cactus before we hit another tank. Once in San Berdoo I heard a sky-pilot preachin', an' he 'lowed that the way o' the transgressor's bound to be hard; but I'm dogged if I looked for anythin' half as hard as this. Bill's callin' you, son. Better lope back to the wagon. I'll--I--guess I'll wait here.” He waited half an hour, watching with anxious and paternal eyes the activities of his fellows at the wagon. Once the sounds of woe drifted up to him and he moved farther up the canon. Here he waited, and presently The Wounded Bad Man joined him. “What luck, Bill?” he demanded. “A boy,” responded The Wounded Bad Man. “Come on down an' look at him, Tom. He's worth it. He's man size.” “How about that misfortunate girl?” “She ain't a-goin' to last long, Tom. She's a-goin' fast, an' she wants to see you--all of us--together. She's quiet now.” Thus reassured, The Worst Bad Man returned with The Wounded Bad Man to the Tanks. With uncovered head he approached the wagon, dreading to gaze upon that tragic face, drawn with agony. But lo! as he parted the curtains he gazed upon the miracle of motherhood. Gone were the lines of suffering; the girl's face was transfigured with the light of that joy and peace and pride that God gives to new-made mothers, and for the first time in all his hard life The Worst Bad Man was permitted to glimpse something of the glory of his Creator. The babe, wrapped in a coarse crash towel, lay in the hollow of the little mother's arm, its red, puckered little face rested on her snowy bosom, the while she gazed downward at her treasure. It came to The Worst Bad Man very suddenly that once upon a time a woman had gazed upon him with that same look of yearning and joy ineffable; and with the thought he reached for the mother's left hand and carried it to his cracked and blistered lips. He spoke no word, but as he bowed his reckless head reverently over that fevered hand he seemed to cry aloud: “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.