It happened that Cash was just returning to the cabin from the Blind
Ledge claim. He met Bud almost at the doorstep, just as Bud was fumbling
with the latch, trying to open the door without moving Lovin Child in
his arms. Cash may or may not have been astonished. Certainly he did
not betray by more than one quick glance that he was interested in Bud's
return or in the mysterious burden he bore. He stepped ahead of Bud and
opened the door without a word, as if he always did it just in that way,
and went inside.
Bud followed him in silence, stepped across the black line to his own
side of the room and laid Lovin Child carefully down so as not to waken
him. He unbuttoned the coat he had wrapped around him, pulled off the
concealing red cap and stared down at the pale gold, silky hair and the
adorable curve of the soft cheek and the lips with the dimples tricked
in at the corners; the lashes lying like the delicate strokes of an
artist's pencil under the closed eyes. For at least five minutes he
stood without moving, his whole face softened into a boyish wistfulness.
By the stove Cash stood and stared from Bud to the sleeping baby,
his bushy eyebrows lifted, his gray eyes a study of incredulous
bewilderment.
Then Bud drew a long breath and seemed about to move away from the bank,
and Cash turned abruptly to the stove and lifted a rusty lid and peered
into the cold firebox, frowning as though he was expecting to see fire
and warmth where only a sprinkle of warm ashes remained. Stubbornness
held him mute and outwardly indifferent. He whittled shavings and
started a fire in the cook stove, filled the teakettle and set it on
to boil, got out the side of bacon and cut three slices, and never once
looked toward the bunk. Bud might have brought home a winged angel, or
a rainbow, or a casket of jewels, and Cash would not have permitted
himself to show any human interest.
But when Bud went teetering from the cabin on his toes to bring in
some pine cones they had saved for quick kindling, Cash craned his neck
toward the little bundle on the bunk. He saw a fat, warm little hand
stir with some baby dream. He listened and heard soft breathing that
stopped just short of being an infantile snore. He made an errand to his
own bunk and from there inspected the mystery at closer range. He saw
a nose and a little, knobby chin and a bit of pinkish forehead with the
pale yellow of hair above. He leaned and cocked his head to one aide to
see more--but at that moment he heard Bud stamping off the snow from
his feet on the doorstep, and he took two long, noiseless strides to the
dish cupboard and was fumbling there with his back to the bunk when Bud
came tiptoeing in.