The Youngest Bad Man departed down the arroyo with the shovel and The Worst Bad Man, discovering a hammer and nails in the toolbox under the scat, removed the side boards and some strips from the wagon bed and fell briskly to work. When The Wounded Bad Man had satisfied himself that The Youngest Bad Man was nor within hearing, he spoke: “I say, Tom. Did you notice her when she asked us to save the baby? She picked on Bob. Seems as if she knew.” “I noticed. I guess she knew. They say angels always does know. It's forty-five miles to New Jerusalem, Bill, and you can't make it, and I'm--I'm too old for a long stretch without water.” “That's why I said I'd help.” “Same here.” “We've got to do the first two heats, Tom. We've got to save young Bob's strength for the final dash. I'll carry the baby an' you carry the grub an' things tonight, an' tomorrow night----” “I'll carry everything tomorrow night; after that it'll be up to Bob. He's young and hard and game. He ought to make it.” Late in the afternoon, with clumsy tenderness they buried the martyred mother there by the Terrapin Tanks, built a cairn over the grave and crowned it with a cross. Then they returned to the dismantled wagon to hold a consultation. The Wounded Bad Man was the first to broach the subject closest to the hearts of all three. With characteristic directness he shot his query at them. All his wicked life he had been facing desperate issues; long since he had learned to face them unblinkingly. “Robert William Thomas's got to have a bath, ain't he?” The Youngest Bad Man took hold of the brake rod again and steadied himself. The Worst Bad Man looked at the wounded godfather in vague surprise. “I never figgered on that at all,” he said simply. “I was thinkin' about how we're to feed him. I'm for tubbin' him all right, but----” He held up the two canteens. His pause was eloquent. “But he's such a little feller it won't take much,” protested The Wounded Bad Man. “He'll fit nice in a dishpan.” “I wish he was old enough to stagger along a few days without bathin',” mourned The Youngest Bad Man. “Maybe he can. I don't know a thing about infants; but if he must be bathed, why I guess we'd better----” “I 'lowed to ask his mother a few questions regardin' his up-keep and what-all,” interrupted The Wounded Bad Man apologetically, “but I clean forgot.” The Worst Bad Man wagged his head as if to convey the impression that this was a pardonable oversight indeed. He was thinking. “It stands to reason,” he announced presently, “that this infant's mother naturally made some provision for his reception into camp. It's my opinion that gettin' a bath is the least o' the troubles confrontin' our godson. He's just naturally got to eat, an' wear somethin' better'n a towel that'll plum scratch the hide off'n him. There ought to be somethin' for Robert boy in that tail-box.”