He drank the milk that the baby had refused, tossed the bottle aside and nerved himself to last until he should reach the black lava point. That was to be the last goal. If he fell before he reached it he resolved to climb into a palo-verde tree, wedge himself and the baby in between the limbs, kill the baby and himself, and thus dying have the laugh on the coyotes.
He fell. For the third time the child escaped being crushed. The palo-verde tree was only fifty yards away, the black lava point seventy-five yards, but when the godfather could scramble to his feet again he made for the palo-verde tree. Here, to his disgust, he found himself too weak to climb the tree. So he leaned against it and wept, dry-eyed, with rage and horror and disappointment. The horned toad had followed and now offered more advice.
“Sangster, you're a chump. Why climb the tree? The buzzards will get you, so what's the difference?”
“I'll make the lava point,” replied the godfather. “They can't come at me in back there, an' I can keep 'em away for a while anyhow.”
He lurched away. Foot by foot he approached the black lava point. He resolved to round it; there was shade on the other side. Staggering, reeling, muttering incoherently, he rounded the lava rock and collided with something soft and hairy. He leaned against it for a moment, resting, while something soft and warm and animallike nuzzled him and nickered softly in the joy of the meeting. When Bob Sangster opened his eyes he found himself leaning against a trembling old white burro with a pack on his back.
“Water,” thought the godfather, “water. There ought to be a canvas waterbag,” and he went clawing along the burro's side, feeling for the waterbag but unable to find it. The little animal was standing patiently in the shadow of the rock, and Bob Sangster stood off and looked at him. The burro's eyes were red and dust-rimmed; evidently he had traveled far. His legs trembled, his tongue, dry and black, protruded from his mouth. The burro, too, was dying of thirst.
“You poor devil,” mused Bob Sangster. He gazed at the pitiable little animal, the while his memory strove to recall some other incident in which a burro had figured. There had been some talk of burros recently with Bill Kearny and Tom Gibbons. What was it? Well, never mind. It didn't make any difference. This burro was dying and useless; there was no water bag——
And when they drew nigh unto Jerusalem... then sent Jesus two disciples, saying unto them, Go into the village over against you, and straightway ye shall find an ass tied....
The words of the Gospel according to St. Matthew flamed in letters of fire across the failing vision of the last godfather. He remembered now. He had read a chapter from the Bible to Bill Kearny and Tom Gibbons back there at Terrapin Tanks—and it was all about Christ riding into Jerusalem on an ass. Here, in the shadow of this black lava, he had found a burro waiting!
Bill Kearny had asked for a sign——