“That helps some!” The Wounded Bad Man growled out the words again.
They walked on in silence hour after hour. Presently as they trudged along The Worst Bad Man began lighting matches.
“Nine o'clock,” he announced. “Third drink-time for Robert William Thomas. We'll make a dry camp an' heat some more milk—listen!”
From a draw to the right there came, borne on the night wind, the sound of savage growling and yelping, as of dogs quarreling ever a bone.
“Coyotes,” The Youngest Bad Man elucidated. “They got somethin'.”
“Move along out o' here,” cried The Wounded Bad Man irritably. “I don't want to listen to that. They'll get me soon enough.”
They moved farther up the draw and camped for half an hour. Again The Wounded Bad Man fed the baby, and once more they swung away on their sorry road to New Jerusalem. Toward morning the baby awoke and whimpered, and The Wounded Bad Man, who never once during the long night had relinquished his trust, sought to soothe it with song.=
```Oh, Ella Ree, so kind an” true,
````In th' little churchyard lies.
```Her grave is bright with drops o' dew,