Seated in a circle, of which Bob Sangster and the baby formed the axis, were half a dozen coyotes. They were closer now—too close for comfort and, cowardly as he knew them to be, there were enough of them present to fan their courage to the point where a single rush would end it. He fired at them and they scampered away unharmed.
“I can't shoot any more,” the man wailed. “I'm goin' blind. Come, son, we must move on or they'll get us to-night.”
He picked the child up and plodded on, and once more the coyotes fell into line behind him. The godfather began to feel afraid of them. He was obsessed with a horrible fear that they might sneak up and snap at him from behind, or rush him en masse and tear the baby out of his arms. He kept glancing back and firing at them. But all of his shots went wild and gradually the tracing brutes grew bolder. Whenever he sat down for a few minutes to rest they surrounded him, and it seemed to the godfather that each time they edged in closer. He decided to save his cartridges until the final rush.
He tottered along until four o'clock before he fell again. This time he twisted in time to land on his back, with the baby uppermost, and as he lay there, stunned and shaken, the godfather was almost proud of himself for his forethought. He closed his eyes to rid his vision of the myriads of red, yellow and blue spots that came dancing out of the sand and shooting into the air like skyrockets. The spots still persisted, however—for the skyrockets were in his brain, and as he lay there it came to him that this was to be the end after all. He was too weak to carry the baby further. Sooner or later he would fall upon it and kill it, so why struggle further——
The baby was leaving him! He could feel it being slowly dragged from his protecting arm, and with a moan that was intended for a shriek he sat up and reached for his gun. So close to him was the coyote, dragging gingerly at the infant's clothing, that the godfather dared not fire. He merely threw up his arms to frighten the beast away, and reluctantly it trotted back and rejoined its companions of the slavering, red-tongued circle.
The godfather knelt in the sands beside the baby and searched for the marks of teeth, but found none. The horror of their situation was brought forcefully home to him now. He had hoped before, but hope was vanished. New Jerusalem could not be more than three miles away, but it might as well be three hundred, for Bob Sangster could never make it with the baby. He thought no longer of life. He wanted to cheat the coyotes, and in his agony he forgot that he was a Bad Man and cried aloud to a Supreme Being of whom he knew nothing.
“O God, save me, save me! Not for myself, but for this poor little baby. I'm old and tough, Lord, but save the baby. You were a baby yourself once, Lord, if the Bible don't lie. Now save my baby. Don't go back on me, Lord. Help me, help me to keep my word to raise him right——”
He clasped the child in his arms and kissed it passionately for the first time since his assumption of the duties of a godfather And then, because he was a fighter and could not quit while there was life within him, he reeled onward with dogged persistence. He fixed his fading glance on some unimportant landmark ana nerved himself to last until he should reach it. Queer thoughts kept obtruding themselves upon him. Once he thought a chuckwalla addressed him, saying: “Hello, Bob Sang-ster, what are you runnin' away from? You can't dodge them coyotes. They're goin' to get that infant, sure. Better chuck 'em the kid an' see if you can't make it alone to New Jerusalem. That baby's weight is killin' you, boy. After all, what is he to you? He's only a three-day-old baby. Why don't, you drop him an' beat it in to New Jerusalem? You can make it without the baby.”
He had cursed the chuckwalla and stamped it into the earth for the insult. But a moment later a horned toad advised him to drink the milk that still remained in the feeding bottle. “Of course it's none o' my business,” remarked the horned toad, “but if the baby won't drink it, you should. It's foolish to let it go to waste. It's only a couple of mouthfuls, but it'll give you strength to make that black lava point a mile ahead.”
“Horned Toad,” replied the godfather, “you're a sensible little critter an' I'll take your advice. It ain't manly to do it, but nothin' matters any more.”