Bud started a fire in the fireplace and heaped the dry limbs
high. Cash fried his bacon, made his tea, and set the table for
his midday meal. Bud waited for the baby to wake, looking at his
watch every minute or two, and making frequent cautious trips to
the bunk, peeking and peering to see if the child was all right.
It seemed unnatural that it should sleep so long in the daytime.
No telling what that squaw had done to it; she might have doped
it or something. He thought the kid's face looked red, as if it
had fever, and he reached down and touched anxiously the hand
that was uncovered. The hand was warm--too warm, in Bud's
opinion. It would be just his luck if the kid got sick, he'd have
to pack it clear in to Alpine in his arms. Fifteen miles of that
did not appeal to Bud, whose arms ached after the two-mile trip
with that solid little body lying at ease in the cradle they
made.
His back to that end of the room, Cash sat stiff-necked and
stubbornly speechless, and ate and drank as though he were alone
in the cabin. Whenever Bud's mind left Lovin Child long enough to
think about it, he watched Cash furtively for some sign of
yielding, some softening of that grim grudge. It seemed to him as
though Cash was not human, or he would show some signs of life
when a live baby was brought to camp and laid down right under
his nose.
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