It was exactly five days alter that when he opened it again. Cash was
mixing a batch of sour-dough bread into loaves, and he did not say
anything at all when Bud came in and stood beside the stove, warming his
hands and glowering around the room. He merely looked up, and then went
on with his bread making.
Bud was not a pretty sight. Four days and nights of trying to see how
much whisky he could drink, and how long he could play poker without
going to sleep or going broke, had left their mark on his face and
his trembling hands. His eyes were puffy and red, and his cheeks were
mottled, and his lips were fevered and had lost any sign of a humorous
quirk at the corners. He looked ugly; as if he would like nothing better
than an excuse to quarrel with Cash--since Cash was the only person at
hand to quarrel with.
But Cash had not knocked around the world for nothing. He had seen men
in that mood before, and he had no hankering for trouble which is vastly
easier to start than it is to stop. He paid no attention to Bud. He
made his loaves, tucked them into the pan and greased the top with bacon
grease saved in a tomato can for such use. He set the pan on a shelf
behind the stove, covered it with a clean flour sack, opened the stove
door, and slid in two sticks.
"She's getting cold," he observed casually. "It'll be winter now before
we know it."
Bud grunted, pulled an empty box toward him by the simple expedient of
hooking his toes behind the corner, and sat down. He set his elbows on
his thighs and buried his face in his hands. His hat dropped off
his head and lay crown down beside him. He made a pathetic figure of
miserable manhood, of strength mistreated. His fine, brown hair fell
in heavy locks down over his fingers that rested on his forehead. Five
minutes so, and he lifted his head and glanced around him apathetically.
"Gee-man-ee, I've got a headache!" he muttered, dropping his forehead
into his spread palms again.
Cash hesitated, derision hiding in the back of his eyes. Then he pushed
the dented coffeepot forward on the stove.
"Try a cup of coffee straight," he said unemotionally, "and then lay
down. You'll sleep it off in a few hours."
Bud did not look up, or make any move to show that he heard. But
presently he rose and went heavily over to his bunk. "I don't want any
darn coffee," he growled, and sprawled himself stomach down on the bed,
with his face turned from the light.
Cash eyed him coldly, with the corner of his upper lip lifted a little.
Whatever weaknesses he possessed, drinking and gambling had no place in
the list. Nor had he any patience with those faults in others. Had Bud
walked down drunk to Cash's camp, that evening when they first met, he
might have received a little food doled out to him grudgingly, but
he assuredly would not have slept in Cash's bed that night. That he
tolerated drunkenness in Bud now would have been rather surprising to
any one who knew Cash well. Perhaps he had a vague understanding of the
deeps through which Bud was struggling, and so was constrained to hide
his disapproval, hoping that the moral let-down was merely a temporary
one.