Cabin Fever - Page 72/118

The bacon came from the oven juicy-crisp and curled at the edges and

delicately browned. The cakes came out of the baking pan brown and thick

and light. Cash sat down at his end of the table, pulled his own can of

sugar and his own cup of syrup and his own square of butter toward him;

poured his coffee, that he had made in a small lard pail, and began to

eat his breakfast exactly as though he was alone in that cabin.

A great resentment filled Bud's soul to bursting, The old hound! Bud

believed now that Cash was capable of leaving that frying pan dirty for

the rest of the day! A man like that would do anything! If it wasn't for

that claim, he'd walk off and forget to come back.

Thinking of that seemed to crystallize into definite purpose what

had been muddling his mind with vague impulses to let his mood find

expression. He would go to Alpine that day. He would hunt up Frank and

see if he couldn't jar him into showing that he had a mind of his own.

Twice since that first unexpected spree, he had spent a good deal of

time and gold dust and consumed a good deal of bad whisky and beer, in

testing the inherent obligingness of Frank. The last attempt had been

the cause of the final break between him and Cash. Cash had reminded Bud

harshly that they would need that gold to develop their quartz claim,

and he had further stated that he wanted no "truck" with a gambler and

a drunkard, and that Bud had better straighten up if he wanted to keep

friends with Cash.

Bud had retorted that Cash might as well remember that Bud had a half

interest in the two claims, and that he would certainly stay with it.

Meantime, he would tell the world he was his own boss, and Cash needn't

think for a minute that Bud was going to ask permission for what he did

or did not do. Cash needn't have any truck with him, either. It suited

Bud very well to keep on his own side of the cabin, and he'd thank Cash

to mind his own business and not step over the dead line.

Cash had laughed disagreeably and asked Bud what he was going to

do--draw a chalk mark, maybe?

Bud, half drunk and unable to use ordinary good sense, had said yes, by

thunder, he'd draw a chalk line if he wanted to, and if he did, Cash had

better not step over it either, unless he wanted to be kicked back.

Wherefore the broad, black line down the middle of the floor to where

the table stood. Obviously, he could not well divide the stove and the

teakettle and the frying pan and coffeepot. The line stopped abruptly

with a big blob of lampblack mixed with coal oil, just where necessity

compelled them both to use the same floor space.