Cash Gets A Shock

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.

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.