The daylight raid on the Wickenburg National Bank had not been a success. It had been well planned, boldly and cleverly executed, and the four bandits had gathered unto themselves quite a fortune in paper money; the job had been singularly free from fuss and feathers. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, the raid was not a success. The assistant cashier, returning from luncheon, had, from a distance of half a block, observed two strangers in town. Both strangers were mounted and stood on guard in front of the Wickenburg National. In an alley just back of the bank two saddle horses were standing; and as the assistant cashier paused, irresolute, two men came out of the bank, mounted the two horses waiting in the alley, and, followed by the men who had been standing on watch in front of the bank, rode out of Wickenburg in rather a sus- picious hurry. The assistant cashier had an inspiration.
"Thieves! Robbers 1 Stop 'em!" he yelled.
His hue and cry aroused to action an apparently inoffensive and elderly citizen who was taking his siesta in front of The Three Deuces saloon. Now this man in front of The Three Deuces was not the sheriff. He was not even the city marshal. Rather he inclined one to the belief that he might be a minister of the gospel a soultrapper on guard at the portals of The Three Deuces, within which, judging by the subdued rattle of poker chips, ivory balls and an occasional hoarse shout of "Keno!" one could be reasonably certain of a plethora of brands ripe for the burning. The aged citizen asleep in the chair outside was arrayed in somber black, with a turn-down collar and white lawn tie, a "biled" shirt with a ruby stud in it, and patriarchial white whiskers. But his coat, of a clerical cut, effectually concealed two pieces of artillery of a style and caliber popularized by time and tradition in the fair state of Arizona.
The four galloping horsemen were abreast The Three Deuces when the cry of "Robbers!" aroused all Wickenburg. It awoke the man in the chair; and he came to his feet with the suddenness of a ferocious old dog, filled both hands and cut loose at one of the four horsemen. There was a reason for this. The elderly citizen had a deposit of three dollars and seventeen cents in the Wickenburg National. Also he possessed a fair proportion of civic pride, and the horseman upon whom he trained his hardware was carrying a gunny-sack containing a ro rata of the said elderly citi- zen's three-seventeen.
Four Bad Men had ridden into Wickenburg that December afternoon, but only three rode out. One of the three had a bullet hole through his left shoulder. The man who stayed lay, thoroughly and effectually defunct, on top of a bulging gunnysack in front of The Three Deuces. Came presently the paying teller of the Wickenburg National and removed the gunny-sack. Came half an hour later the coroner of Wickenburg and removed the body. As for the elderly citizen of deceptive appearance, he walked uptown to a hardware store, re- plenished his supply of ammunition and returned to The Three Deuces in a highly cheerful frame of mind. Here let us leave him, for with this story he has nothing further to do. From now on our interest must center on The Three Bad Men who rode out of Wickenburg headed for the California line which happens to be the Colorado River.
They made their first halt at Granite Tanks, twenty-five miles from Wickenburg. Here they watered their horses and then pressed onward toward the river. At the river they found a boat, thoughtfully provided for just such an emergency as the present.
Darkness had already settled over the land when The Three Bad Men came to the Colorado River. It would have been wise on their part to have waited until the rising of the moon, but our story does not deal with The Three Wise Men. Within the hour a posse might appear, and, moreover, The Three Bad Men were of that breed that prefers to "take a chance." They rode their jaded horses into the flood until the yellow waters lapped their bellies; then they shot them and shoved the carcasses off into the current.
An hour later The Three Bad Men landed on the California side near Bill Williams Mountain, filled their boat with stones and sank it, and shouldering a supply of food and water sufficient to last them four days, headed up a long box canon that led north to the Colorado Desert. They made fair time after the moon came up. All night long they trudged through the box canon, and at daylight it opened out into the waste.
"Well, boys, I guess we're safe," re- marked The Worst Bad Man, who was the leader of the trio. "It's cooler in the canon, so suppose we camp here. I feel like breakfast and some sleep. How's your shoulder, Bill?"
The Wounded Bad Man shrugged the wounded member disdainfully.
"High up. Missed the bone and don't amount to much, Tom. But I've bled like a stuck pig and it's weakened me a little." "I'll heat some water and wash it up, Bill," said The Youngest Bad Man, much concerned.
They made a very small fire of cat-claw and ironwood, brewed a pot of coffee, breakfasted, washed and dressed The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder and slept until late afternoon. They awoke much re- freshed, ate an early supper and struck out across the desert to the north, where in time they would come to the Santa Fe tracks. There were lonely stations out there in the sands they might be worth investigation. Then on to the new mining camp at Old Woman Mountain a camp which, following the whimsical and fantastic system of desert nomenclature, which seems to trend toward such names as Mecca, Cadiz, Bagdad, Bengal and Siam, had had bestowed upon it the not inappropriate name of New Jerusalem.
For a number of reasons The Three Bad Men preferred to travel by night. Primarily they were prowlers and preferred it. Secondly, although one may encounter tor- rid weather by day on the Colorado Desert even in December, the nights, on the contrary, are bitterly cold and The Three Bad Men had no blankets. Also there was this advantage about traveling at night and sleeping in the shadow of a rock by day: they would not meet other wanderers and there would be no embarrassing questions to answer respecting the hole in The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder.
Consequently The Three Bad Men traveled by night. From Mojave Tanks they swung west to avoid the mining operations there, although more than once they glanced back wistfully at the little cluster of yellow lights shining across the sands. The Wounded Bad Man's shoulder was in a bad way and needed medical attention. Also they needed water; but they were desertbred and could last until they came to Malapai Springs.
So they turned their backs on Mojave Tanks and tramped onward. Now they were in the ghostly moonlight of the open desert, with the outlines of the mountain ranges on each side looming dim and shadowy fifteen or twenty miles away; now they were picking their way carefully through clusters of murderous catclaw, through tangles of mesquit and ironwood. Up dark, lonely arroyos they went; down long alleys between the outstretched arms of the ocatillas with their pendulous, bloodred blossoms, passing dried, withered Joshua trees twisted into fantastic shapes as if their fearful surroundings had caused them to writhe in horror; through solitude and desolation so vast and profound as to inspire one with the thought that the Creator, appalled at the magnitude of this abortion of Nature, had set it apart as an eternal heritage of the damned.
In the forenoon of the fifth day they came to Malapai Springs. Here The Three Bad Men drank deeply, bathed, filled their canteens and stepped blithely out for Terrapin Tanks, the next waterhole a little-known and consequently unfrequented spot where they could rest for a few days before attempting the last desperate leg of their journey to the railroad.
"Don't stint yourself on the water, Bill," The Worst Bad Man advised as they departed from Malapai Springs. "There's always water at Terrapin Tanks."
Nevertheless, with the instinct of the desert-bred, The Worst Bad Man and The Youngest Bad Man were sparing with the water themselves, although careful to conceal this fact from The Wounded Bad Man. The latter's shoulder was swollen and inflamed, and it was a relief to him if the bandages were kept wet.
The Worst Bad Man, who knew the country better than his companions, had timed their arrival at Terrapin Tanks al- most to the hour. The sun was just coming up over the low red hummocks of hematite to the eastward when The Three Bad Men plodded wearily up a long, dry canon, turned a sharp, rocky promontory into an arroyo and paused.
Borne on the slight desert breeze a sound came to them from up the arroyo. It was a mournful, wailing cry and ended in a sob a sound that bespoke pain and fear and misery.
The Three Bad Men looked at one another. Each held up an index finger, en- joining silence. A second, a third time the sound was repeated.
lt's a human voice," announced The Worst Bad Man, "an' there's death in it. Wait here. I'm goin' in to see what's up."
When he had gone The Youngest Bad Man, after the restless and inquisitive manner of youth, climbed a tall rock and gazed up the arroyo.
"I see the top of a covered wagon," he announced.
"Then," said The Wounded Bad Man, "It's a tenderfoot outfit, an' that's a woman cryin'. No desert rat'd come here with a wagon. Fools drive in where burros fear to tread, Bob. They're tenderfeet."
"That's right," agreed The Youngest Bad Man. "Some nester come in over the trail from Imperial Valley and bound for New Jerusalem, I'll bet a new hat."
"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 re- turning. 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 fine 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," con- tinued 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."
