He took his canteen in both hands and shook it gently; seeing which The Worst Bad Man did the same with his.
“How much has Bill got left?” he asked anxiously.
“Nary drop. He's been right feverish along o' that hole in his wing, an' hittin' his canteen heavy, expectin' to find water in the Tanks.”
“Well, we got about two gallons left,” announced The Worst Bad Man philosophically, “but I see us cuttin' niggerhead cactus before we hit another tank. Once in San Berdoo I heard a sky-pilot preachin', an' he 'lowed that the way o' the transgressor's bound to be hard; but I'm dogged if I looked for anythin' half as hard as this. Bill's callin' you, son. Better lope back to the wagon. I'll—I—guess I'll wait here.”
He waited half an hour, watching with anxious and paternal eyes the activities of his fellows at the wagon. Once the sounds of woe drifted up to him and he moved farther up the canon. Here he waited, and presently The Wounded Bad Man joined him.
“What luck, Bill?” he demanded.
“A boy,” responded The Wounded Bad Man. “Come on down an' look at him, Tom. He's worth it. He's man size.”
“How about that misfortunate girl?”
“She ain't a-goin' to last long, Tom. She's a-goin' fast, an' she wants to see you—all of us—together. She's quiet now.”
Thus reassured, The Worst Bad Man returned with The Wounded Bad Man to the Tanks. With uncovered head he approached the wagon, dreading to gaze upon that tragic face, drawn with agony. But lo! as he parted the curtains he gazed upon the miracle of motherhood. Gone were the lines of suffering; the girl's face was transfigured with the light of that joy and peace and pride that God gives to new-made mothers, and for the first time in all his hard life The Worst Bad Man was permitted to glimpse something of the glory of his Creator.