“Will you save my baby?” Slowly, searchingly, the wonderful eyes confronted each Bad Man in turn. “I'll save him,” promised The Youngest Bad Man. With all the rashness, the unthinking, unreasoning confidence and generosity of youth, he passed his word. He recked not of the long trail ahead with death for the pacemaker. He only knew that this woman of sorrow had gazed longest upon him, estimating the strength in his lithe, big body, searching for his manhood in the face where sin had not yet laid its devastating hand. So he passed his word, and passing it in all the regal simplicity of the brave, the mother knew that he would keep it. “I'll help,” croaked The Wounded Bad Man humbly. He glanced at The Worst Bad Man, who bowed his head once more over the little hand. “I'll help too.” “I want you--all of you--to be my baby's godfathers. Poor little son! He'll be all alone in this big world when his mamma leaves him, and he's going to miss her so. Aren't you, sweetheart? Nobody to tuck you into bed at night, nobody to teach you your prayers, nobody to kiss the little sore spots when you fall and hurt yourself, nobody to tell your little secrets to----” She closed her eyes. A tear stole through between the long lashes, and The Wounded Bad Man turned away. The Youngest Bad Man went and sat down on the wagon tongue and wept, for he was young. Only The Worst Bad Man stayed, watching, waiting. And presently the mother spoke again. “Are you all here? It's getting dark--and we must be moving on--to the next waterhole. You--Bob Sangster--take baby. You said you'd save him--didn't you? And Bill Kearny--and--Tom--Gibbons--will you be his godfathers--and--help--Bob--Sangster--on the--trail? Will you?. Promise--me--again--and... his name?... Call him Robert--William--Thomas--Sangster... and when he's--a fine--big--brave man--like his--godfathers--you'll tell--him--about his little mother who--wanted to live--for him so.... Lift him up--godfathers--and let me--kiss my--baby.” The Worst Bad Man waited until the last fluttering little sigh was finished before he removed the infant. The Wounded Bad Man closed the mother's eyes and folded her hands across her pulseless breast. The Youngest Bad Man stood, grasping the brake-rod until his knuckles showed white with the strain of the grip. Long he stood there, gazing at that calm, spiritual face with its halo of glistening brown hair, pondering deeply on the mysteries of birth and life and death. To him it all seemed a monstrous thing; and when The Worst Bad Man came to him with a shovel he wept aloud. “Death is a terrible thing, Tom,” he sobbed. “Life's worse,” said The Wounded Bad Man gently. He was seated apart, with the baby in his arms, shielding it from the sun with his broad sombrero. “Death can only get you once, but Life is a ghost dance. I wonder what it has in store for you, kidlets. I wonder.”