“Here, I ain't carryin' an ounce o' weight,” he expostulated. “Bill's carryin' th' water an' the airtight milk an' the feedin' bottle an' the camp kettle and our grub, an' you're carryin' the baby an' a bundle of extra clothes. Lemme spell you a few miles, Bill. You're in bad shape with that sore shoulder, an' you're goin' to wear yourself out too soon.”
The Wounded Bad Man shook his head. “I'll carry him as far as I can while I got the strength to do it. I ain't carryin' more'n fifteen pounds, but it'll be enough for you before you get to New Jerusalem.”
“Why, ain't you comin' with us?” demanded The Youngest Bad Man.
“No,” The Wounded Bad Man retorted firmly, “I ain't.”
The Worst Bad Man turned in the trail, unscrewed the cap of the canteen and held the canteen toward the Wounded Bad Man.
“I think we can spare just one mouthful, Bill,” he said kindly. “You bein' hit through the shoulder that-a-way, naturally we don't hold you so rigid to the rule.”
The Wounded Bad Man had been nuzzling the baby's forehead with the tip of his great sunburnt nose. Now he raised his head quickly and his face was terrible to behold.
“I've done a heap o' ornery things in my day,” he growled, “but I ain't stealin' the water that belongs to my godson. Don't you insult me no more, Tom Gibbons.”
“That reminds me,” remarked The Worst Bad Man affably, “you're carryin' some extra weight.”
He reached forward, unbuckled The Wounded Bad Man's belt, with its forty rounds of pistol cartridge and the heavy revolver, and tossed it into the greasewood.