The Three Godfathers

by Peter B. Kyne

The last of the godfathers thought of his frenzied prayer of an hour before. He had asked for help. Could it be possible that here stood the answer?

“There's a chance,” he mumbled. “This critter has stampeded from some prospector's pack outfit He's been lookin' for water, and the Lord sent him our way, sonny. He's sure sent him.”

With his free hand the godfather clawed desperately at the diamond hitch, swept the load from the packsaddle, ripped it apart and found—a can of tomatoes. He slashed the can open, drank some himself and gave the balance to the burro. Then, lifting his godson into the packsaddle, he lashed him in securely; after which he took his open pocket knife in hand and prodded the jaded burro until it consented to move away across the desert at a crawling, shuffling gait. Bob Sangster walked beside the burro, one hand busy with the point of the knife, the other clinging desperately to the rear cross of the packsaddle. His strength had, in a measure, returned after drinking the canned tomatoes, and he fancied that the burro too seemed rejuvenated. Bob Sangster wished he had another can of tomatoes to offer the little beast, for the lives of himself and his godson depended on the burro. He leaned heavily against the animal, which half led, half dragged him along. Thus an hour passed.

They were ascending the upraise that led to the crest of the southeast spur of Old Woman Mountain now, and through the sunset haze the witch's demoniac face leered down at them from the heights above. Slowly, haltingly, they progressed up the slope. The burro was almost spent, and time and again he balked and groaned a feeble protest He welcomed the occasions when the godfather's weak clasp of the packsaddle was broken and he fell headlong to earth. But if he fell, the godfather rose again, moaning, praying, raving, and still the awful cavalcade pressed on.

The shadows grew' long. The sun disappeared and evening settled over the desert, but still the sorry pilgrimage continued up the slope. Now they were half a mile from it, a quarter, two hundred yards, a hundred from the summit—the burro grunted, shivered and lay down. In the gathering gloom Bob Sangster felt for the ropes which bound the baby to the pack, cut them and stood clear of the dying beast.

“You've pulled me up the slope in the heat, old fellow,” he tried to say with lips that were split and parched and cut and bleeding. “I never could have made it. New Jerusalem can't be far away now. I'll get there. But——”

He pressed the muzzle of his gun into the suffering animal's ear and pulled. “I owed you that kindness,” he mumbled, and passed on to the crest of the slope.

At the summit he paused, swaying gently with his precious burden, and gazed down the other side of the spur. In a hollow a few hundred yards below him, the lights of New Jerusalem gleamed brightly through the gathering gloom of that lonely Christmas Eve, and the godfather recalled the words of Bill Kearny.

“It's a Christmas baby. God won't go back on it.”

Bob Sangster's tongue hung from his mouth, long and black and withered, like the tongue of a dead beef, as he stood there on the outskirts of New Jerusalem and thought of many things. Bill Kearny had been right. It was a Christmas baby. It would pull through all right. He drew the baby to him until their faces were very close, so close that a little hand crept up and closed tightly over the godfather's nose.