Cabin Fever - Page 95/118

He was tempted to call Cash's attention to his handiwork, but Cash was

too sick to be disturbed, even if the atmosphere between them had been

clear enough for easy converse. So he stifled the impulse and addressed

himself to Lovin Child, which did just as well.

Things went better after that. Bud could tie the baby in the chair, give

him a tin cup and a spoon and a bacon rind, and go out to the woodpile

feeling reasonably certain that the house would not be set afire during

his absence. He could cook a meal in peace, without fear of stepping on

the baby. And Cash could lie as close as he liked to the edge of the bed

without running the risk of having his eyes jabbed with Lovin Child's

finger, or something slapped unexpectedly in his face.

He needed protection from slight discomforts while he lay there eaten

with fever, hovering so close to pneumonia that Bud believed he really

had it and watched over him nights as well as daytimes. The care he

gave Cash was not, perhaps, such as the medical profession would have

endorsed, but it was faithful and it made for comfort and so aided

Nature more than it hindered.

Fair weather came, and days of melting snow. But they served only to

increase Bud's activities at the woodpile and in hunting small game

close by, while Lovin Child took his nap and Cash was drowsing.

Sometimes he would bundle the baby in an extra sweater and take him

outside and let him wallow in the snow while Bud cut wood and piled it

on the sheltered side of the cabin wall, a reserve supply to draw on in

an emergency.

It may have been the wet snow--more likely it was the cabin air filled

with germs of cold. Whatever it was, Lovin Child caught cold and coughed

croupy all one night, and fretted and would not sleep. Bud anointed him

as he had anointed Cash, and rocked him in front of the fire, and met

the morning hollow-eyed and haggard. A great fear tore at his heart.

Cash read it in his eyes, in the tones of his voice when he crooned

soothing fragments of old range songs to the baby, and at daylight

Cash managed to dress himself and help; though what assistance he could

possibly give was not all clear to him, until he saw Bud's glance rove

anxiously toward the cook-stove.

"Hand the kid over here," Cash said huskily. "I can hold him while you

get yourself some breakfast."

Bud looked at him stupidly, hesitated, looked down at the flushed little

face, and carefully laid him in Cash's outstretched arms. He got up

stiffly--he had been sitting there a long time, while the baby slept

uneasily--and went on his tiptoes to make a fire in the stove.