Bud started a fire in the fireplace and heaped the dry limbs high. Cash
fried his bacon, made his tea, and set the table for his midday meal.
Bud waited for the baby to wake, looking at his watch every minute or
two, and making frequent cautious trips to the bunk, peeking and peering
to see if the child was all right. It seemed unnatural that it should
sleep so long in the daytime. No telling what that squaw had done to it;
she might have doped it or something. He thought the kid's face looked
red, as if it had fever, and he reached down and touched anxiously the
hand that was uncovered. The hand was warm--too warm, in Bud's opinion.
It would be just his luck if the kid got sick, he'd have to pack it
clear in to Alpine in his arms. Fifteen miles of that did not appeal
to Bud, whose arms ached after the two-mile trip with that solid little
body lying at ease in the cradle they made.
His back to that end of the room, Cash sat stiff-necked and stubbornly
speechless, and ate and drank as though he were alone in the cabin.
Whenever Bud's mind left Lovin Child long enough to think about it, he
watched Cash furtively for some sign of yielding, some softening of that
grim grudge. It seemed to him as though Cash was not human, or he would
show some signs of life when a live baby was brought to camp and laid
down right under his nose.
Cash finished and began washing his dishes, keeping his back turned
toward Bud and Bud's new possession, and trying to make it appear that
he did so unconsciously. He did not fool Bud for a minute. Bud knew that
Cash was nearly bursting with curiosity, and he had occasional fleeting
impulses to provoke Cash to speech of some sort. Perhaps Cash knew
what was in Bud's mind. At any rate he left the cabin and went out and
chopped wood for an hour, furiously raining chips into the snow.
When he went in with his arms piled full of cut wood, Bud had the baby
sitting on one corner of the table, and was feeding it bread and
gravy as the nearest approach to baby food he could think of. During
occasional interludes in the steady procession of bits of bread from the
plate to the baby's mouth, Lovin Child would suck a bacon rind which
he held firmly grasped in a greasy little fist. Now and then Bud would
reach into his hip pocket, pull out his handkerchief as a make-shift
napkin, and would carefully wipe the border of gravy from the baby's
mouth, and stuff the handkerchief back into his pocket again.
Both seemed abominably happy and self-satisfied. Lovin Child kicked
his heels against the rough table frame and gurgled unintelligible
conversation whenever he was able to articulate sounds. Bud replied
with a rambling monologue that implied a perfect understanding of Lovin
Child's talk--and incidentally doled out information for Cash's benefit.