Cabin Fever

He did not wonder at Cash's sudden interest, his abrupt change from

moody aloofness to his old partnership in trouble as well as in good

fortune. He knew that Cash was not fit for the task, however, and he

hurried the coffee to the boiling point that he might the sooner send

Cash back to bed. He gulped down a cup of coffee scalding hot, ate a few

mouthfuls of bacon and bread, and brought a cup back to Cash.

"What d'yuh think about him?" he whispered, setting the coffee down on

a box so that he could take Lovin Child. "Pretty sick kid, don't yuh

think?"

"It's the same cold I got," Cash breathed huskily. "Swallows like it's

his throat, mostly. What you doing for him?"

"Bacon grease and turpentine," Bud answered him despondently. "I'll have

to commence on something else, though--turpentine's played out I used it

most all up on you."

"Coal oil's good. And fry up a mess of onions and make a poultice." He

put up a shaking hand before his mouth and coughed behind it, stifling

the sound all he could.

Lovin Child threw up his hands and whimpered, and Bud went over to him

anxiously. "His little hands are awful hot," he muttered. "He's been

that way all night."

Cash did not answer. There did not seem anything to say that would do

any good. He drank his coffee and eyed the two, lifting his eyebrows now

and then at some new thought.

"Looks like you, Bud," he croaked suddenly. "Eyes, expression,

mouth--you could pass him off as your own kid, if you wanted to."

"I might, at that," Bud whispered absently. "I've been seeing you in

him, though, all along. He lifts his eyebrows same way you do."

"Ain't like me," Cash denied weakly, studying Lovin Child. "Give him

here again, and you go fry them onions. I would--if I had the strength

to get around."

"Well, you ain't got the strength. You go back to bed, and I'll lay him

in with yuh. I guess he'll lay quiet. He likes to be cuddled up close."

In this way was the feud forgotten. Save for the strange habits imposed

by sickness and the care of a baby, they dropped back into their

old routine, their old relationship. They walked over the dead line

heedlessly, forgetting why it came to be there. Cabin fever no longer

tormented them with its magnifying of little things. They had no time

or thought for trifles; a bigger matter than their own petty prejudices

concerned them. They were fighting side by side, with the Old Man of the

Scythe--the Old Man who spares not.

Lovin Child was pulling farther and farther away from them. They

knew it, they felt it in his hot little hands, they read it in his

fever-bright eyes. But never once did they admit it, even to themselves.

They dared not weaken their efforts with any admissions of a possible

defeat. They just watched, and fought the fever as best they could, and

waited, and kept hope alive with fresh efforts.