The First Stages

Then, one night Bud dreamed again of Marie, and awoke with an insistent
craving for the oblivion of drunkenness. He got up and cooked the
breakfast, washed the dishes and swept the cabin, and measured out two
ounces of gold from what they had saved.

"You're keeping tabs on everything, Cash," he said shortly. "Just charge
this up to me. I'm going to town."

Cash looked up at him from under a slanted eye-brow. His lips had a
twist of pained disapproval.

"Yeah. I figured you was about due in town," he said resignedly.

"Aw, lay off that told-you-so stuff," Bud growled. "You never figured
anything of the kind, and you know it." He pulled his heavy sweater down
off a nail and put it on, scowling because the sleeves had to be pulled
in place on his arms.

"Too bad you can't wait a day. I figured we'd have a clean-up to-morrow,
maybe. She's been running pretty heavy---"

"Well, go ahead and clean up, then. You can do it alone. Or wait till I
get back."

Cash laughed, as a retort cutting, and not because he was amused. Bud
swore and went out, slamming the door behind him.

It was exactly five days alter that when he opened it again. Cash was
mixing a batch of sour-dough bread into loaves, and he did not say
anything at all when Bud came in and stood beside the stove, warming his
hands and glowering around the room. He merely looked up, and then went
on with his bread making.