Fortunately for all concerned, it was a good-natured child; so long as its stomach was full it was contented.  It slept a good deal, and what time it was awake it sucked its fist and suffered itself to be variously entertained by the men.  There were, of course, a number of fellows who could see no humor at all in El Demonio’s plight, nor any reason for adding to his embarrassments.  These came to his aid in numerous ways.

It was an idle day; there was nothing to do except play with the baby; before night came the child had established itself as a general favorite.  Even Branch himself had become interested in it.

“Say, I’ve learned a lot about kids from this one,” he confided to O’Reilly at dinner-time.  “I always thought young babies were just damp, sour-smelling little animals, but this one has character.  She knows me already, and I’m getting so I can pick her up without feeling that I’m going to puncture her.  She’s full of dimples, too.  Got ’em everywhere.  What do you think we’d better name her?”

“She probably has a name.  Do you expect to keep her permanently?”

Branch considered.  “I wouldn’t have thought of such a thing yesterday, but how are we going to get rid of her?  That’s the question.  We can’t just leave her with the first family we come to.  These country people have more kids than they know what to do with.”

“Thinking about taking her on the march with us?” O’Reilly looked up, much amused.

“I don’t see why it couldn’t be done.  The men wouldn’t mind and she’d make a dandy mascot.”

O’Reilly shook his head.  “This isn’t a baseball team.  What about the baby’s mother?”

“Bullets!  Fine mother she was, to desert her child.  I’ll bet she’s glad to get rid of it.  People like that don’t have any more affection than—­cattle.  They don’t deserve to have children.  What’s more, they don’t know how to care for them.  I’d like to raise this kid according to my own ideas.”  Branch’s face lightened suddenly.  “Say!  I’ve just thought of a name for her!”

“What?”

“Bullets!”

“Are you swearing or naming her?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good name?  It’s new, and it means something.  Raid, battle, rain of bullets!  See?  Bullets Branch—­that doesn’t sound bad.”

With deliberate malice O’Reilly said, gravely:  “Of course, if you adopt her, you can name her what you choose—­but she’s a mighty brown baby!  I have my suspicions that—­she’s a mulatto.”  Branch was shocked, indignant.  “That child’s as white as you are,” he sputtered.  Then noting the twinkle in O’Reilly’s eyes he turned away, muttering angrily.

Strangely enough, Leslie’s fantastic suggestion found echo in more than one quarter, and many of his camp-mates began to argue that El Demonio’s baby would certainly bring the troop good luck, if it could keep her.  Adoption of some sort was gravely discussed that evening around more than one camp-fire.