Cash Gets A Shock

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.