The Wounded Bad Man rolled him over, and in a few minutes the task was completed. Dressing the infant, however, was infinitely more laborious. The godfathers, knowing something of the biting chill of the desert nights, were grateful for the profusion of woolen clothing and delicate woolen baby blankets which their search of the tailbox had netted, and when in due course The Youngest Bad Man had succeeded in dressing the infant after a nondescript fashion of his own, The Worst Bad Man corked the olive oil bottle, wiped his hands on his trousers, and beamed with the consciousness of a duty well performed.
Next, The Wounded Bad Man ran his horny thumb down the index of Doctor Meecham on Caring for the Baby, until he came to the chapter entitled: “Feeding the Baby.” This chapter he real aloud.
“This is comfortin',” he remarked, turning down the leaf to mark the page. “Doctor Meecham says that there's times when a baby won't thrive on nothin' else but condensed milk. We got plenty o' that.”
“Yes, an' we can maul up some o' them sody crackers an' make some pap for him,” replied The Worst Bad Man; “an' in a pinch we can bile him a pot o' gruel.”
“We'll need water for that, Tom,” The Wounded Bad Man reminded him; “an' we'll need water to dilute this here condensed milk an' warm it up for the feedin' bottle. I 'low some of the godfathers's goin' to suck niggerhead cactus enough to do 'em quite a spell before they hit New Jerusalem.”
“That's right,” The Worst Bad Man replied gravely; “Robert William Thomas's got to have the water, an' Jerusalem's the nearest camp, an' it's about forty-five mile as the crow flies. Malapa; Springs is back there thirty-odd mile, though——”
“There ain't no women at Malapai Springs,” retorted The Wounded Bad Man pointedly, “and we can't fool no time in the desert with this infant. It's up to us to hike—an' hike lively—to New Jerusalem. We've got six cans o' condensed milk, an' we can't get morn't three shots o' milk from each can. It's going to spoil quick after it's opened. Besides, if we——”
The Youngest Bad Man had just been the recipient of a serious thought. He hastened to get it off his mind. Boylike he interrupted and rose to a question of information.
“What's a godfather, Bill? What job does he hold down?”
“You're an awful ignorant young man, Bob,” replied The Wounded Bad Man reproachfully. “You been raised out in the woods somewheres? A godfather, Bob, is a sort of reserve parent. When a kid is baptized there's a godfather an' a godmother present, an' for an' on behalf o' the kid they promise the preacher, just the same as the kid would if he could only talk, to renounce the devil with all his works an' pomps——”