“Whoever's doin' that whimperin' is sure bound for New Jerusalem,” The Wounded Bad Man replied with a grim attempt at humor. “An' if I don't let a doctor look at this shoulder o' mine before long I'll head that way myself.”
The Worst Bad Man was gone about ten minutes. Presently the others saw him returning. On his hard, sunscorched face deep concern showed plainly, and as he trotted down the arroyo he scratched his unkempt head as if in search of an idea of sufficient magnitude to cope with a grave situation. When he reached his comrades he sat down on a chunk of black lava and fanned himself with his hat.
“There's a line old state of affairs at the Tanks,” he said huskily.
“They ain't dry, are they?” Fright showed in the wide blue eyes of The Youngest Bad Man. The Wounded Bad Man sat down very suddenly and gulped. The Worst Bad Man replied to the question.
“Worse'n that.”
The Wounded Bad Man sighed. “It can't be,” he said.
“There's a wagon at the Tanks,” continued The Worst Bad Man, “but no horses. It's a tenderfoot outfit—a man an' his woman—an' they come in from Salton, via Canon Springs and Boulder, headed for New Jerusalem. Some o' their kin has started a boardin' tent in the new camp an' these two misfortunates were aimin' to go in with the rush an' clean up a stake. They make Terrapin Tanks all right, but the water's a little low an' the man ain't got sense enough to dig out the sand an' let the water run in. He's one of these nervous city fellers, I guess, and it just naturally hurts him to set down an' wait till that sump-hole fills up. Besides, he don't take kindly to usin' a shovel, so he sticks in a shot o' dynamite to clean out th' tanks an' start the water runnin'——”
The Wounded Bad Man sprang to his feet, cursing horribly.
“The damned, crazy fool!” he raved. “I'll kill him, I will. I'll kill him just as sure as I'm thirsty.”
The Worst Bad Man paid no attention to the other's outburst.