Cabin Fever

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.