When he had done everything he could do that would add to the
baby's comfort, he folded the little garments and laid them on a
box ready for morning. Then, moving carefully, he crawled into
the bed made warm by the little body. Lovin Child, half wakened
by the movement, gave a little throaty chuckle, murmured "M'ee,"
and threw one fat arm over Bud's neck and left it there.
"Gawd," Bud whispered in a swift passion of longing, "I wish
you was my own kid!" He snuggled Lovin Child close in his arms
and held him there, and stared dim-eyed at the flickering shadows
on the wall. What he thought, what visions filled his vigil, who
can say?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE ANTIDOTE
Three days it stormed with never a break, stormed so that the
men dreaded the carrying of water from the spring that became
ice-rimmed but never froze over; that clogged with sodden masses
of snow half melted and sent faint wisps of steam up into the
chill air. Cutting wood was an ordeal, every armload an
achievement. Cash did not even attempt to visit his trap line,
but sat before the fire smoking or staring into the flames, or
pottered about the little domestic duties that could not half
fill the days.
With melted snow water, a bar of yellow soap, and one leg of an
old pair of drawers, he scrubbed on his knees the floor on his
side of the dead line, and tried not to notice Lovin Child.
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