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Cabin Fever

by B. M. Bower · English · Gutenberg #1204 · 323,323 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Cabin Fever

Author: B. M. Bower


        
Release date: February 1, 1998 [eBook #1204]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1204

Credits: Produced by Anthony Matonak, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CABIN FEVER ***

CABIN FEVER


By B. M. Bower




CONTENTS

     CHAPTER

     I     THE FEVER MANIFESTS ITSELF
     II    TWO MAKE A QUARREL
     III   TEN DOLLARS AND A JOB FOR BUD
     IV    HEAD SOUTH AND KEEP GOING
     V     BUD CANNOT PERFORM MIRACLES
     VI    BUD TAKES TO THE HILLS
     VII   INTO THE DESERT
     VIII  MANY BARREN MONTHS AND MILES
     IX    THE BITE OF MEMORY
     X     EMOTIONS ARE TRICKY THINGS
     XI    THE FIRST STAGES
     XII   MARIE TAKES A DESPERATE CHANCE
     XIII  CABIN FEVER IN ITS WORST FORM
     XIV   CASH GETS A SHOCK
     XV    AND BUD NEVER GUESSED
     XVI   THE ANTIDOTE
     XVII  LOVIN CHILD WRIGGLES IN
     XVIII THEY HAVE THEIR TROUBLES
     XIX   BUD FACES FACTS
     XX    LOVIN CHILD STRIKES IT RICH
     XXI   MARIE'S SIDE OF IT
     XXII  THE CURE COMPLETE




CABIN FEVER



CHAPTER ONE. THE FEVER MANIFESTS ITSELF

There is a certain malady of the mind induced by too much of one thing.
Just as the body fed too long upon meat becomes a prey to that horrid
disease called scurvy, so the mind fed too long upon monotony succumbs
to the insidious mental ailment which the West calls “cabin fever.”
 True, it parades under different names, according to circumstances and
caste. You may be afflicted in a palace and call it ennui, and it may
drive you to commit peccadillos and indiscretions of various sorts. You
may be attacked in a middle-class apartment house, and call it various
names, and it may drive you to cafe life and affinities and alimony. You
may have it wherever you are shunted into a backwater of life, and lose
the sense of being borne along in the full current of progress. Be sure
that it will make you abnormally sensitive to little things; irritable
where once you were amiable; glum where once you went whistling about
your work and your play. It is the crystallizer of character, the acid
test of friendship, the final seal set upon enmity. It will betray your
little, hidden weaknesses, cut and polish your undiscovered virtues,
reveal you in all your glory or your vileness to your companions in
exile--if so be you have any.

If you would test the soul of a friend, take him into the wilderness
and rub elbows with him for five months! One of three things will surely
happen: You will hate each other afterward with that enlightened hatred
which is seasoned with contempt; you will emerge with the contempt
tinged with a pitying toleration, or you will be close, unquestioning
friends to the last six feet of earth--and beyond. All these things will
cabin fever do, and more. It has committed murder, many's the time. It
has driven men crazy. It has warped and distorted character out of all
semblance to its former self. It has sweetened love and killed love.
There is an antidote--but I am going to let you find the antidote
somewhere in the story.

Bud Moore, ex-cow-puncher and now owner of an auto stage that did not
run in the winter, was touched with cabin fever and did not know what
ailed him. His stage line ran from San Jose up through Los Gatos and
over the Bear Creek road across the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains
and down to the State Park, which is locally called Big Basin. For
something over fifty miles of wonderful scenic travel he charged six
dollars, and usually his big car was loaded to the running boards. Bud
was a good driver, and he had a friendly pair of eyes--dark blue and
with a humorous little twinkle deep down in them somewhere--and a human
little smiley quirk at the corners of his lips. He did not know it, but
these things helped to fill his car.

Until gasoline married into the skylark family, Bud did well enough to
keep him contented out of a stock saddle. (You may not know it, but
it is harder for an old cow-puncher to find content, now that the free
range is gone into history, than it is for a labor agitator to be happy
in a municipal boarding house.)

Bud did well enough, which was very well indeed. Before the second
season closed with the first fall rains, he had paid for his big car
and got the insurance policy transferred to his name. He walked up
First Street with his hat pushed back and a cigarette dangling from the
quirkiest corner of his mouth, and his hands in his pockets. The glow of
prosperity warmed his manner toward the world. He had a little money in
the bank, he had his big car, he had the good will of a smiling world.
He could not walk half a block in any one of three or four towns but he
was hailed with a “Hello, Bud!” in a welcoming tone. More people knew
him than Bud remembered well enough to call by name--which is the final
proof of popularity the world over.

In that glowing mood he had met and married a girl who went into Big
Basin with her mother and camped for three weeks. The girl had taken
frequent trips to Boulder Creek, and twice had gone on to San Jose, and
she had made it a point to ride with the driver because she was crazy
about cars. So she said. Marie had all the effect of being a pretty
girl. She habitually wore white middies with blue collar and tie, which
went well with her clear, pink skin and her hair that just escaped being
red. She knew how to tilt her “beach” hat at the most provocative angle,
and she knew just when to let Bud catch a slow, sidelong glance--of the
kind that is supposed to set a man's heart to syncopatic behavior. She
did not do it too often. She did not powder too much, and she had the
latest slang at her pink tongue's tip and was yet moderate in her use of
it.

Bud did not notice Marie much on the first trip. She was demure, and Bud
had a girl in San Jose who had brought him to that interesting stage
of dalliance where he wondered if he dared kiss her good night the
next time he called. He was preoccupiedly reviewing the
she-said-and-then-I-said, and trying to make up his mind whether he
should kiss her and take a chance on her displeasure, or whether he had
better wait. To him Marie appeared hazily as another camper who helped
fill the car--and his pocket--and was not at all hard to look at. It
was not until the third trip that Bud thought her beautiful, and was
secretly glad that he had not kissed that San Jose girl.

You know how these romances develop. Every summer is saturated with them
the world over. But Bud happened to be a simple-souled fellow, and there
was something about Marie--He didn't know what it was. Men never do
know, until it is all over. He only knew that the drive through the
shady stretches of woodland grew suddenly to seem like little journeys
into paradise. Sentiment lurked behind every great, mossy tree bole. New
beauties unfolded in the winding drive up over the mountain crests. Bud
was terribly in love with the world in those days.

There were the evenings he spent in the Basin, sitting beside Marie
in the huge campfire circle, made wonderful by the shadowy giants,
the redwoods; talking foolishness in undertones while the crowd sang
snatches of songs which no one knew from beginning to end, and that went
very lumpy in the verses and very much out of harmony in the choruses.
Sometimes they would stroll down toward that sweeter music the creek
made, and stand beside one of the enormous trees and watch the glow of
the fire, and the silhouettes of the people gathered around it.

In a week they were surreptitiously holding hands. In two weeks they
could scarcely endure the partings when Bud must start back to San Jose,
and were taxing their ingenuity to invent new reasons why Marie must go
along. In three weeks they were married, and Marie's mother--a shrewd,
shrewish widow--was trying to decide whether she should wash her hands
of Marie, or whether it might be well to accept the situation and hope
that Bud would prove himself a rising young man.

But that was a year in the past. Bud had cabin fever now and did not
know what ailed him, though cause might have been summed up in two meaty
phrases: too much idleness, and too much mother-in-law. Also, not enough
comfort and not enough love.

In the kitchen of the little green cottage on North Sixth Street where
Bud had built the home nest with much nearly-Mission furniture and a
piano, Bud was frying his own hotcakes for his ten o'clock breakfast,
and was scowling over the task. He did not mind the hour so much, but he
did mortally hate to cook his own breakfast--or any other meal, for that
matter. In the next room a rocking chair was rocking with a rhythmic
squeak, and a baby was squalling with that sustained volume of sound
which never fails to fill the adult listener with amazement. It affected
Bud unpleasantly, just as the incessant bawling of a band of weaning
calves used to do. He could not bear the thought of young things going
hungry.

“For the love of Mike, Marie! Why don't you feed that kid, or do
something to shut him up?” he exploded suddenly, dribbling pancake
batter over the untidy range.

The squeak, squawk of the rocker ceased abruptly. “'Cause it isn't time
yet to feed him--that's why. What's burning out there? I'll bet you've
got the stove all over dough again--” The chair resumed its squeaking,
the baby continued uninterrupted its wah-h-hah! wah-h-hah, as though it
was a phonograph that had been wound up with that record on, and no one
around to stop it

Bud turned his hotcakes with a vicious flop that spattered more batter
on the stove. He had been a father only a month or so, but that was
long enough to learn many things about babies which he had never known
before. He knew, for instance, that the baby wanted its bottle, and that
Marie was going to make him wait till feeding time by the clock.

“By heck, I wonder what would happen if that darn clock was to stop!” he
exclaimed savagely, when his nerves would bear no more. “You'd let the
kid starve to death before you'd let your own brains tell you what
to do! Husky youngster like that--feeding 'im four ounces every four
days--or some simp rule like that--” He lifted the cakes on to a plate
that held two messy-looking fried eggs whose yolks had broken, set the
plate on the cluttered table and slid petulantly into a chair and began
to eat. The squeaking chair and the crying baby continued to torment
him. Furthermore, the cakes were doughy in the middle.

“For gosh sake, Marie, give that kid his bottle!” Bud exploded again.
“Use the brains God gave yuh--such as they are! By heck, I'll stick
that darn book in the stove. Ain't yuh got any feelings at all? Why, I
wouldn't let a dog go hungry like that! Don't yuh reckon the kid knows
when he's hungry? Why, good Lord! I'll take and feed him myself, if you
don't. I'll burn that book--so help me!”

“Yes, you will--not!” Marie's voice rose shrewishly, riding the high
waves of the baby's incessant outcry against the restrictions upon
appetite imposed by enlightened motherhood. “You do, and see what'll
happen! You'd have him howling with colic, that's what you'd do.”

“Well, I'll tell the world he wouldn't holler for grub! You'd go by the
book if it told yuh to stand 'im on his head in the ice chest! By heck,
between a woman and a hen turkey, give me the turkey when it comes to
sense. They do take care of their young ones--”

“Aw, forget that! When it comes to sense---”

Oh, well, why go into details? You all know how these domestic storms
arise, and how love washes overboard when the matrimonial ship begins to
wallow in the seas of recrimination.

Bud lost his temper and said a good many things should not have said.
Marie flung back angry retorts and reminded Bud of all his sins and
slights and shortcomings, and told him many of mamma's pessimistic
prophecies concerning him, most of which seemed likely to be fulfilled.
Bud fought back, telling Marie how much of a snap she had had since she
married him, and how he must have looked like ready money to her, and
added that now, by heck, he even had to do his own cooking, as well as
listen to her whining and nagging, and that there wasn't clean corner in
the house, and she'd rather let her own baby go hungry than break a simp
rule in a darn book got up by a bunch of boobs that didn't know anything
about kids. Surely to goodness, he finished his heated paragraph, it
wouldn't break any woman's back to pour a little warm water on a little
malted milk, and shake it up.

He told Marie other things, and in return, Marie informed him that he
was just a big-mouthed, lazy brute, and she could curse the day she ever
met him. That was going pretty far. Bud reminded her that she had not
done any cursing at the time, being in his opinion too busy roping him
in to support her.

By that time he had gulped down his coffee, and was into his coat,
and looking for his hat. Marie, crying and scolding and rocking the
vociferous infant, interrupted herself to tell him that she wanted a
ten-cent roll of cotton from the drug store, and added that she hoped
she would not have to wait until next Christmas for it, either. Which
bit of sarcasm so inflamed Bud's rage that he swore every step of the
way to Santa Clara Avenue, and only stopped then because he happened to
meet a friend who was going down town, and they walked together.

At the drug store on the corner of Second Street Bud stopped and bought
the cotton, feeling remorseful for some of the things he had said to
Marie, but not enough so to send him back home to tell her he was sorry.
He went on, and met another friend before he had taken twenty steps.
This friend was thinking of buying a certain second-hand automobile that
was offered at a very low price, and he wanted Bud to go with him and
look her over. Bud went, glad of the excuse to kill the rest of the
forenoon.

They took the car out and drove to Schutzen Park and back. Bud opined
that she didn't bark to suit him, and she had a knock in her cylinders
that shouted of carbon. They ran her into the garage shop and went deep
into her vitals, and because she jerked when Bud threw her into second,
Bud suspected that her bevel gears had lost a tooth or two, and was
eager to find out for sure.

Bill looked at his watch and suggested that they eat first before they
got all over grease by monkeying with the rear end. So they went to the
nearest restaurant and had smothered beefsteak and mashed potato and
coffee and pie, and while they ate they talked of gears and carburetors
and transmission and ignition troubles, all of which alleviated
temporarily Bud's case of cabin fever and caused him to forget that he
was married and had quarreled with his wife and had heard a good many
unkind things which his mother-in-law had said about him.

By the time they were back in the garage and had the grease cleaned out
of the rear gears so that they could see whether they were really burred
or broken, as Bud had suspected, the twinkle was back in his eyes, and
the smiley quirk stayed at the corners of his mouth, and when he was not
talking mechanics with Bill he was whistling. He found much lost motion
and four broken teeth, and he was grease to his eyebrows--in other
words, he was happy.

When he and Bill finally shed their borrowed overalls and caps, the
garage lights were on, and the lot behind the shop was dusky. Bud sat
down on the running board and began to figure what the actual cost
of the bargain would be when Bill had put it into good mechanical
condition. New bearings, new bevel gear, new brake, lining, rebored
cylinders--they totalled a sum that made Bill gasp.

By the time Bud had proved each item an absolute necessity, and had
reached the final ejaculation: “Aw, forget it, Bill, and buy yuh a
Ford!” it was so late that he knew Marie must have given up looking
for him home to supper. She would have taken it for granted that he had
eaten down town. So, not to disappoint her, Bud did eat down town. Then
Bill wanted him to go to a movie, and after a praiseworthy hesitation
Bud yielded to temptation and went. No use going home now, just when
Marie would be rocking the kid to sleep and wouldn't let him speak above
a whisper, he told his conscience. Might as well wait till they settled
down for the night.



CHAPTER TWO. TWO MAKE A QUARREL

At nine o'clock Bud went home. He was feeling very well satisfied with
himself for some reason which he did not try to analyze, but which
was undoubtedly his sense of having saved Bill from throwing away six
hundred dollars on a bum car; and the weight in his coat pocket of a
box of chocolates that he had bought for Marie. Poor girl, it was kinda
tough on her, all right, being tied to the house now with the kid. Next
spring when he started his run to Big Basin again, he would get a little
camp in there by the Inn, and take her along with him when the travel
wasn't too heavy. She could stay at either end of the run, just as she
took a notion. Wouldn't hurt the kid a bit--he'd be bigger then, and the
outdoors would make him grow like a pig. Thinking of these things, Bud
walked briskly, whistling as he neared the little green house, so that
Marie would know who it was, and would not be afraid when he stepped up
on the front porch.

He stopped whistling rather abruptly when he reached the house, for it
was dark. He tried the door and found it locked. The key was not in the
letter box where they always kept it for the convenience of the first
one who returned, so Bud went around to the back and climbed through the
pantry window. He fell over a chair, bumped into the table, and damned
a few things. The electric light was hung in the center of the room by
a cord that kept him groping and clutching in the dark before he finally
touched the elusive bulb with his fingers and switched on the light.

The table was set for a meal--but whether it was dinner or supper Bud
could not determine. He went into the little sleeping room and turned on
the light there, looked around the empty room, grunted, and tiptoed into
the bedroom. (In the last month he had learned to enter on his toes,
lest he waken the baby.) He might have saved himself the bother, for the
baby was not there in its new gocart. The gocart was not there, Marie
was not there--one after another these facts impressed themselves upon
Bud's mind, even before he found the letter propped against the clock
in the orthodox manner of announcing unexpected departures. Bud read the
letter, crumpled it in his fist, and threw it toward the little heating
stove. “If that's the way yuh feel about it, I'll tell the world you can
go and be darned!” he snorted, and tried to let that end the matter so
far as he was concerned. But he could not shake off the sense of having
been badly used. He did not stop to consider that while he was working
off his anger, that day, Marie had been rocking back and forth, crying
and magnifying the quarrel as she dwelt upon it, and putting a new and
sinister meaning into Bud's ill-considered utterances. By the time Bud
was thinking only of the bargain car's hidden faults, Marie had reached
the white heat of resentment that demanded vigorous action. Marie was
packing a suitcase and meditating upon the scorching letter she meant to
write.

Judging from the effect which the letter had upon Bud, it must have
been a masterpiece of its kind. He threw the box of chocolates into the
wood-box, crawled out of the window by which he had entered, and went
down town to a hotel. If the house wasn't good enough for Marie, let her
go. He could go just as fast and as far as she could. And if she thought
he was going to hot-foot it over to her mother's and whine around and
beg her to come home, she had another think coming.

He wouldn't go near the darn place again, except to get his clothes.
He'd bust up the joint, by thunder. He'd sell off the furniture and turn
the house over to the agent again, and Marie could whistle for a home.
She had been darn glad to get into that house, he remembered, and away
from that old cat of a mother. Let her stay there now till she was darn
good and sick of it. He'd just keep her guessing for awhile; a week or
so would do her good. Well, he wouldn't sell the furniture--he'd just
move it into another house, and give her a darn good scare. He'd get a
better one, that had a porcelain bathtub instead of a zinc one, and a
better porch, where the kid could be out in the sun. Yes, sir, he'd just
do that little thing, and lay low and see what Marie did about that.
Keep her guessing--that was the play to make.

Unfortunately for his domestic happiness, Bud failed to take into
account two very important factors in the quarrel. The first and most
important one was Marie's mother, who, having been a widow for fifteen
years and therefore having acquired a habit of managing affairs that
even remotely concerned her, assumed that Marie's affairs must be
managed also. The other factor was Marie's craving to be coaxed back to
smiles by the man who drove her to tears. Marie wanted Bud to come and
say he was sorry, and had been a brute and so forth. She wanted to hear
him tell how empty the house had seemed when he returned and found her
gone. She wanted him to be good and scared with that letter. She stayed
awake until after midnight, listening for his anxious footsteps; after
midnight she stayed awake to cry over the inhuman way he was treating
her, and to wish she was dead, and so forth; also because the baby
woke and wanted his bottle, and she was teaching him to sleep all night
without it, and because the baby had a temper just like his father.

His father's temper would have yielded a point or two, the next day, had
it been given the least encouragement. For instance, he might have gone
over to see Marie before he moved the furniture out of the house, had
he not discovered an express wagon standing in front of the door when
he went home about noon to see if Marie had come back. Before he had
recovered to the point of profane speech, the express man appeared,
coming out of the house, bent nearly double under the weight of Marie's
trunk. Behind him in the doorway Bud got a glimpse of Marie's mother.

That settled it. Bud turned around and hurried to the nearest drayage
company, and ordered a domestic wrecking crew to the scene; in other
words, a packer and two draymen and a dray. He'd show 'em. Marie and her
mother couldn't put anything over on him--he'd stand over that furniture
with a sheriff first.

He went back and found Marie's mother still there, packing dishes and
doilies and the like. They had a terrible row, and all the nearest
neighbors inclined ears to doors ajar--getting an earful, as Bud
contemptuously put it. He finally led Marie's mother to the front door
and set her firmly outside. Told her that Marie had come to him with
no more than the clothes she had, and that his money had bought every
teaspoon and every towel and every stick of furniture in the darned
place, and he'd be everlastingly thus-and-so if they were going to
strong-arm the stuff off him now. If Marie was too good to live with
him, why, his stuff was too good for her to have.

Oh, yes, the neighbors certainly got an earful, as the town gossips
proved when the divorce suit seeped into the papers. Bud refused to
answer the proceedings, and was therefore ordered to pay twice as much
alimony as he could afford to pay; more, in fact, than all his domestic
expense had amounted to in the fourteen months that he had been married.
Also Marie was awarded the custody of the child and, because Marie's
mother had represented Bud to be a violent man who was a menace to her
daughter's safety--and proved it by the neighbors who had seen and heard
so much--Bud was served with a legal paper that wordily enjoined him
from annoying Marie with his presence.

That unnecessary insult snapped the last thread of Bud's regret for what
had happened. He sold the furniture and the automobile, took the money
to the judge that had tried the case, told the judge a few wholesome
truths, and laid the pile of money on the desk.

“That cleans me out, Judge,” he said stolidly. “I wasn't such a bad
husband, at that. I got sore--but I'll bet you get sore yourself and
tell your wife what-for, now and then. I didn't get a square deal, but
that's all right. I'm giving a better deal than I got. Now you can keep
that money and pay it out to Marie as she needs it, for herself and the
kid. But for the Lord's sake, Judge, don't let that wildcat of a mother
of hers get her fingers into the pile! She framed this deal, thinking
she'd get a haul outa me this way. I'm asking you to block that little
game. I've held out ten dollars, to eat on till I strike something. I'm
clean; they've licked the platter and broke the dish. So don't never ask
me to dig up any more, because I won't--not for you nor no other darn
man. Get that.”

This, you must know, was not in the courtroom, so Bud was not fined for
contempt. The judge was a married man himself, and he may have had a
sympathetic understanding of Bud's position. At any rate he listened
unofficially, and helped Bud out with the legal part of it, so that Bud
walked out of the judge's office financially free, even though he had
a suspicion that his freedom would not bear the test of prosperity,
and that Marie's mother would let him alone only so long as he and
prosperity were strangers.



CHAPTER THREE. TEN DOLLARS AND A JOB FOR BUD

To withhold for his own start in life only one ten-dollar bill from
fifteen hundred dollars was spectacular enough to soothe even so bruised
an ego as Bud Moore carried into the judge's office. There is an
anger which carries a person to the extreme of self-sacrifice, in the
subconscious hope of exciting pity for one so hardly used. Bud was
boiling with such an anger, and it demanded that he should all but give
Marie the shirt off his back, since she had demanded so much--and for so
slight a cause.

Bud could not see for the life of him why Marie should have quit for
that little ruction. It was not their first quarrel, nor their worst;
certainly he had not expected it to be their last. Why, he asked the
high heavens, had she told him to bring home a roll of cotton, if she
was going to leave him? Why had she turned her back on that little home,
that had seemed to mean as much to her as it had to him?

Being kin to primitive man, Bud could only bellow rage when he should
have analyzed calmly the situation. He should have seen that Marie too
had cabin fever, induced by changing too suddenly from carefree girlhood
to the ills and irks of wifehood and motherhood. He should have known
that she had been for two months wholly dedicated to the small physical
wants of their baby, and that if his nerves were fraying with watching
that incessant servitude, her own must be close to the snapping point;
had snapped, when dusk did not bring him home repentant.

But he did not know, and so he blamed Marie bitterly for the wreck of
their home, and he flung down all his worldly goods before her, and
marched off feeling self-consciously proud of his martyrdom. It soothed
him paradoxically to tell himself that he was “cleaned”; that Marie had
ruined him absolutely, and that he was just ten dollars and a decent
suit or two of clothes better off than a tramp. He was tempted to go
back and send the ten dollars after the rest of the fifteen hundred, but
good sense prevailed. He would have to borrow money for his next meal,
if he did that, and Bud was touchy about such things.

He kept the ten dollars therefore, and went down to the garage where he
felt most at home, and stood there with his hands in his pockets and the
corners of his mouth tipped downward--normally they had a way of tipping
upward, as though he was secretly amused at something--and his eyes
sullen, though they carried tiny lines at the corners to show how they
used to twinkle. He took the ten-dollar bank note from his pocket,
straightened out the wrinkles and looked at it disdainfully. As plainly
as though he spoke, his face told what he was thinking about it: that
this was what a woman had brought him to! He crumpled it up and made a
gesture as though he would throw it into the street, and a man behind
him laughed abruptly. Bud scowled and turned toward him a belligerent
glance, and the man stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun.

“If you've got money to throw to the birds, brother, I guess I won't
make the proposition I was going to make. Thought I could talk business
to you, maybe--but I guess I better tie a can to that idea.”

Bud grunted and put the ten dollars in his pocket.

“What idea's that?”

“Oh, driving a car I'm taking south. Sprained my shoulder, and don't
feel like tackling it myself. They tell me in here that you aren't doing
anything now--” He made the pause that asks for an answer.

“They told you right. I've done it.”

The man's eyebrows lifted, but since Bud did not explain, he went on
with his own explanation.

“You don't remember me, but I rode into Big Basin with you last summer.
I know you can drive, and it doesn't matter a lot whether it's asphalt
or cow trail you drive over.”

Bud was in too sour a mood to respond to the flattery. He did not even
grunt.

“Could you take a car south for me? There'll be night driving, and bad
roads, maybe--”

“If you know what you say you know about my driving, what's the
idea--asking me if I can?”

“Well, put it another way. Will you?”

“You're on. Where's the car? Here?” Bud sent a seeking look into the
depths of the garage. He knew every car in there. “What is there in it
for me?” he added perfunctorily, because he would have gone just for
sake of getting a free ride rather than stay in San Jose over night.

“There's good money in it, if you can drive with your mouth shut. This
isn't any booster parade. Fact is--let's walk to the depot, while I
tell you.” He stepped out of the doorway, and Bud gloomily followed him.
“Little trouble with my wife,” the man explained apologetically. “Having
me shadowed, and all that sort of thing. And I've got business south and
want to be left alone to do it. Darn these women!” he exploded suddenly.

Bud mentally said amen, but kept his mouth shut upon his sympathy with
the sentiment.

“Foster's my name. Now here's a key to the garage at this address.” He
handed Bud a padlock key and an address scribbled on a card. “That's my
place in Oakland, out by Lake Merritt. You go there to-night, get the
car, and have it down at the Broadway Wharf to meet the 11:30 boat--the
one the theater crowd uses. Have plenty of gas and oil; there won't be
any stops after we start. Park out pretty well near the shore end as
close as you can get to that ten-foot gum sign, and be ready to go when
I climb in. I may have a friend with me. You know Oakland?”

“Fair to middling. I can get around by myself.”

“Well, that's all right. I've got to go back to the city--catching the
next train. You better take the two-fifty to Oakland. Here's money for
whatever expense there is. And say! put these number plates in your
pocket, and take off the ones on the car. I bought these of a fellow
that had a smash--they'll do for the trip. Put them on, will you? She's
wise to the car number, of course. Put the plates you take off under
the seat cushion; don't leave 'em. Be just as careful as if it was a
life-and-death matter, will you? I've got a big deal on, down there, and
I don't want her spilling the beans just to satisfy a grudge--which she
would do in a minute. So don't fail to be at the ferry, parked so you
can slide out easy. Get down there by that big gum sign. I'll find you,
all right.”

“I'll be there.” Bud thrust the key and another ten dollars into his
pocket and turned away.

“And don't say anything--”

“Do I look like an open-faced guy?”

The man laughed. “Not much, or I wouldn't have picked you for the
trip.” He hurried down to the depot platform, for his train was already
whistling, farther down the yards.

Bud looked after him, the corners of his mouth taking their normal,
upward tilt. It began to look as though luck had not altogether deserted
him, in spite of the recent blow it had given. He slid the wrapped
number plates into the inside pocket of his overcoat, pushed his hands
deep into his pockets, and walked up to the cheap hotel which had been
his bleak substitute for a home during his trouble. He packed everything
he owned--a big suitcase held it all by squeezing--paid his bill at the
office, accepted a poor cigar, and in return said, yes, he was going to
strike out and look for work; and took the train for Oakland.

A street car landed him within two blocks of the address on the tag, and
Bud walked through thickening fog and dusk to the place. Foster had a
good-looking house, he observed. Set back on the middle of two lots, it
was, with a cement drive sloping up from the street to the garage backed
against the alley. Under cover of lighting a cigarette, he inspected the
place before he ventured farther. The blinds were drawn down--at least
upon the side next the drive. On the other he thought he caught a gleam
of light at the rear; rather, the beam that came from a gleam of light
in Foster's dining room or kitchen shining on the next house. But he was
not certain of it, and the absolute quiet reassured him so that he went
up the drive, keeping on the grass border until he reached the garage.
This, he told himself, was just like a woman--raising the deuce around
so that a man had to sneak into his own place to get his own car out of
his own garage. If Foster was up against the kind of deal Bud had been
up against, he sure had Bud's sympathy, and he sure would get the best
help Bud was capable of giving him.

The key fitted the lock, and Bud went in, set down his suitcase, and
closed the door after him. It was dark as a pocket in there, save where
a square of grayness betrayed a window. Bud felt his way to the side
of the car, groped to the robe rail, found a heavy, fringed robe, and
curtained the window until he could see no thread of light anywhere;
after which he ventured to use his flashlight until he had found the
switch and turned on the light.

There was a little side door at the back, and it was fastened on the
inside with a stout hook. Bud thought for a minute, took a long chance,
and let himself out into the yard, closing the door after him. He walked
around the garage to the front and satisfied himself that the light
inside did not show. Then he went around the back of the house and found
that he had not been mistaken about the light. The house was certainly
occupied, and like the neighboring houses seemed concerned only with the
dinner hour of the inmates. He went back, hooked the little door on the
inside, and began a careful inspection of the car he was to drive.

It was a big, late-modeled touring car, of the kind that sells for
nearly five thousand dollars. Bud's eyes lightened with satisfaction
when he looked at it. There would be pleasure as well as profit in
driving this old girl to Los Angeles, he told himself. It fairly made
his mouth water to look at her standing there. He got in and slid behind
the wheel and fingered the gear lever, and tested the clutch and the
foot brake--not because he doubted them, but because he had a hankering
to feel their smoothness of operation. Bud loved a good car just as he
had loved a good horse in the years behind him. Just as he used to walk
around a good horse and pat its sleek shoulder and feel the hard muscles
of its trim legs, so now he made love to this big car. Let that old hen
of Foster's crab the trip south? He should sa-a-ay not!

There did not seem to be a thing that he could do to her, but
nevertheless he got down and, gave all the grease cups a turn, removed
the number plates and put them under the rear seat cushion, inspected
the gas tank and the oil gauge and the fanbelt and the radiator, turned
back the trip-mileage to zero--professional driving had made Bud careful
as a taxi driver about recording the mileage of a trip--looked at the
clock set in the instrument board, and pondered.

What if the old lady took a notion to drive somewhere? She would miss
the car and raise a hullabaloo, and maybe crab the whole thing in the
start. In that case, Bud decided that the best way would be to let her
go. He could pile on to the empty trunk rack behind, and manage somehow
to get off with the car when she stopped. Still, there was not much
chance of her going out in the fog--and now that he listened, he heard
the drip of rain. No, there was not much chance. Foster had not seemed
to think there was any chance of the car being in use, and Foster ought
to know. He would wait until about ten-thirty, to play safe, and then
go.

Rain spelled skid chains to Bud. He looked in the tool box, found a set,
and put them on. Then, because he was not going to take any chances, he
put another set, that he found hanging up, on the front wheels. After
that he turned out the light, took down the robe and wrapped himself in
it, and laid himself down on the rear seat to wait for ten-thirty.

He dozed, and the next he knew there was a fumbling at the door in
front, and the muttering of a voice. Bud slid noiselessly out of the
car and under it, head to the rear where he could crawl out quickly. The
voice sounded like a man, and presently the door opened and Bud was sure
of it. He caught a querulous sentence or two.

“Door left unlocked--the ignorant hound--Good thing I don't trust
him too far--” Some one came fumbling in and switched on the light.
“Careless hound--told him to be careful--never even put the robe on the
rail where it belongs--and then they howl about the way they're treated!
Want more wages--don't earn what they do get--”

Bud, twisting his head, saw a pair of slippered feet beside the running
board. The owner of the slippers was folding the robe and laying it over
the rail, and grumbling to himself all the while. “Have to come out in
the rain--daren't trust him an inch--just like him to go off and leave
the door unlocked--” With a last grunt or two the mumbling ceased. The
light was switched off, and Bud heard the doors pulled shut, and the
rattle of the padlock and chain. He waited another minute and crawled
out.

“Might have told me there was a father-in-law in the outfit,” he
grumbled to himself. “Big a butt-in as Marie's mother, at that. Huh.
Never saw my suit case, never noticed the different numbers, never got
next to the chains--huh! Regular old he-hen, and I sure don't blame
Foster for wanting to tie a can to the bunch.”

Very cautiously he turned his flashlight on the face of the automobile
clock. The hour hand stood a little past ten, and Bud decided he had
better go. He would have to fill the gas tank, and get more oil, and he
wanted to test the air in his tires. No stops after they started, said
Foster; Bud had set his heart on showing Foster something in the way of
getting a car over the road.

Father-in-law would holler if he heard the car, but Bud did not intend
that father-in-law should hear it. He would much rather run the gauntlet
of that driveway then wait in the dark any longer. He remembered
the slope down to the street, and grinned contentedly. He would give
father-in-law a chance to throw a fit, next morning.

He set his suit case in the tonneau, went out of the little door, edged
around to the front and very, very cautiously he unlocked the big doors
and set them open. He went in and felt the front wheels, judged that
they were set straight, felt around the interior until his fingers
touched a block of wood and stepped off the approximate length of the
car in front of the garage, allowing for the swing of the doors, and
placed the block there. Then he went back, eased off the emergency
brake, grabbed a good handhold and strained forward.

The chains hindered, but the floor sloped to the front a trifle, which
helped. In a moment he had the satisfaction of feeling the big car give,
then roll slowly ahead. The front wheels dipped down over the threshold,
and Bud stepped upon the running board, took the wheel, and by instinct
more than by sight guided her through the doorway without a scratch.
She rolled forward like a black shadow until a wheel jarred against the
block, whereupon he set the emergency brake and got off, breathing free
once more. He picked up the block and carried it back, quietly closed
the big doors and locked them, taking time to do it silently. Then, in
a glow of satisfaction with his work, he climbed slowly into the car,
settled down luxuriously in the driver's seat, eased off the brake, and
with a little lurch of his body forward started the car rolling down the
driveway.

There was a risk, of course, in coasting out on to the street with
no lights, but he took it cheerfully, planning to dodge if he saw the
lights of another car coming. It pleased him to remember that the street
inclined toward the bay. He rolled past the house without a betraying
sound, dipped over the curb to the asphalt, swung the car townward, and
coasted nearly half a block with the ignition switch on before he pushed
up the throttle, let in his clutch, and got the answering chug-chug of
the engine. With the lights on full he went purring down the street in
the misty fog, pleased with himself and his mission.



CHAPTER FOUR. HEAD SOUTH AND KEEP GOING

At a lunch wagon down near the water front, Bud stopped and bought two
“hot dog” sandwiches and a mug of hot coffee boiled with milk in it
and sweetened with three cubes of sugar. “O-oh, boy!” he ejaculated
gleefully when he set his teeth into biscuit and hot hamburger. Leaning
back luxuriously in the big car, he ate and drank until he could eat and
drink no more. Then, with a bag of bananas on the seat beside him, he
drove on down to the mole, searching through the drizzle for the big
gum sign which Foster had named. Just even with the coughing engine of
a waiting through train he saw it, and backed in against the curb,
pointing the car's radiator toward the mainland. He had still half an
hour to wait, and he buttoned on the curtains of the car, since a wind
from across the bay was sending the drizzle slantwise; moreover it
occurred to him that Foster would not object to the concealment while
they were passing through Oakland. Then he listlessly ate a banana while
he waited.

The hoarse siren of a ferryboat bellowed through the murk. Bud started
the engine, throttled it down to his liking, and left it to warm up for
the flight. He ate another banana, thinking lazily that he wished he
owned this car. For the first time in many a day his mind was not filled
and boiling over with his trouble. Marie and all the bitterness she had
come to mean to him receded into the misty background of his mind and
hovered there, an indistinct memory of something painful in his life.

A street car slipped past, bobbing down the track like a duck sailing
over ripples. A local train clanged down to the depot and stood jangling
its bell while it disgorged passengers for the last boat to the City
whose wall of stars was hidden behind the drizzle and the clinging fog.
People came straggling down the sidewalk--not many, for few had business
with the front end of the waiting trains. Bud pushed the throttle up a
little. His fingers dropped down to the gear lever, his foot snuggled
against the clutch pedal.

Feet came hurrying. Two voices mumbled together. “Here he is,” said one.
“That's the number I gave him.” Bud felt some one step hurriedly upon
the running board. The tonneau door was yanked open. A man puffed
audibly behind him. “Yuh ready?” Foster's voice hissed in Bud's ear.

“R'aring to go.” Bud heard the second man get in and shut the door, and
he jerked the gear lever into low. His foot came gently back with the
clutch, and the car slid out and away.

Foster settled back on the cushions with a sigh. The other man was
fumbling the side curtains, swearing under his breath when his fingers
bungled the fastenings.

“Everything all ready?” Foster's voice was strident with anxiety.

“Sure thing.”

“Well, head south--any road you know best. And keep going, till I tell
you to stop. How's the oil and gas?”

“Full up. Gas enough for three hundred miles. Extra gallon of oil in the
car. What d'yah want--the speed limit through town?”

“Nah. Side streets, if you know any. They might get quick action and
telephone ahead.”

“Leave it to me, brother.”

Bud did not know for sure, never having been pursued; but it seemed to
him that a straightaway course down a main street where other cars were
scudding homeward would be the safest route, because the simplest. He
did not want any side streets in his, he decided--and maybe run into a
mess of street-improvement litter, and have to back trail around it.
He held the car to a hurry-home pace that was well within the law, and
worked into the direct route to Hayward. He sensed that either Foster or
his friend turned frequently to look back through the square celluloid
window, but he did not pay much attention to them, for the streets were
greasy with wet, and not all drivers would equip with four skid chains.
Keeping sharp lookout for skidding cars and unexpected pedestrians and
street-car crossings and the like fully occupied Bud.

For all that, an occasional mutter came unheeded to his ears, the closed
curtains preserving articulate sounds like room walls.

“He's all right,” he heard Foster whisper once. “Better than if he was
in on it.” He did not know that Foster was speaking of him.

“--if he gets next,” the friend mumbled.

“Ah, quit your worrying,” Foster grunted. “The trick's turned; that's
something.”

Bud was under the impression that they were talking about father-in-law,
who had called Foster a careless hound; but whether they were or not
concerned him so little that his own thoughts never flagged in their
shuttle-weaving through his mind. The mechanics of handling the big car
and getting the best speed out of her with the least effort and risk,
the tearing away of the last link of his past happiness and his grief;
the feeling that this night was the real parting between him and Marie,
the real stepping out into the future; the future itself, blank beyond
the end of this trip, these were quite enough to hold Bud oblivious to
the conversation of strangers.

At dawn they neared a little village. Through this particular county the
road was unpaved and muddy, and the car was a sight to behold. The only
clean spot was on the windshield, where Bud had reached around once or
twice with a handful of waste and cleaned a place to see through. It was
raining soddenly, steadily, as though it always had rained and always
would rain.

Bud turned his face slightly to one side. “How about stopping; I'll have
to feed her some oil--and it wouldn't hurt to fill the gas tank again.
These heavy roads eat up a lot of extra power. What's her average
mileage on a gallon, Foster?”

“How the deuce should I know?” Foster snapped, just coming out of a
doze.

“You ought to know, with your own car--and gas costing what it does.”

“Oh!--ah--what was it you asked?” Foster yawned aloud. “I musta been
asleep.”

“I guess you musta been, all right,” Bud grunted. “Do you want breakfast
here, or don't you? I've got to stop for gas and oil; that's what I was
asking?”

The two consulted together, and finally told Bud to stop at the first
garage and get his oil and gas. After that he could drive to a drug
store and buy a couple of thermos bottles, and after that he could go to
the nearest restaurant and get the bottles filled with black coffee, and
have lunch put up for six people. Foster and his friend would remain in
the car.

Bud did these things, revising the plan to the extent of eating his own
breakfast at the counter in the restaurant while the lunch was being
prepared in the kitchen.

From where he sat he could look across at the muddy car standing before
a closed millinery-and-drygoods store. It surely did not look much like
the immaculate machine he had gloated over the evening before, but it
was a powerful, big brute of a car and looked its class in every line.
Bud was proud to drive a car like that. The curtains were buttoned down
tight, and he thought amusedly of the two men huddled inside, shivering
and hungry, yet refusing to come in and get warmed up with a decent
breakfast. Foster, he thought, must certainly be scared of his wife, if
he daren't show himself in this little rube town. For the first time Bud
had a vagrant suspicion that Foster had not told quite all there was to
tell about this trip. Bud wondered now if Foster was not going to meet
a “Jane” somewhere in the South. That terrifying Mann Act would account
for his caution much better than would the business deal of which Foster
had hinted.

Of course, Bud told himself while the waiter refilled his coffee cup, it
was none of his business what Foster had up his sleeve. He wanted to get
somewhere quickly and quietly, and Bud was getting him there. That was
all he need to consider. Warmed and once more filled with a sense of
well-being, Bud made himself a cigarette before the lunch was ready,
and with his arms full of food he went out and across the street. Just
before he reached the car one of the thermos bottles started to slide
down under his elbow. Bud attempted to grip it against his ribs, but the
thing had developed a slipperiness that threatened the whole load, so he
stopped to rearrange his packages, and got an irritated sentence or two
from his passengers.

“Giving yourself away like that! Why couldn't you fake up a mileage?
Everybody lies or guesses about the gas--”

“Aw, what's the difference? The simp ain't next to anything. He thinks I
own it.”

“Well, don't make the mistake of thinking he's a sheep. Once he--”

Bud suddenly remembered that he wanted something more from the
restaurant, and returned forth-with, slipping thermos bottle and all. He
bought two packages of chewing gum to while away the time when he could
not handily smoke, and when he returned to the car he went muttering
disapproving remarks about the rain and the mud and the bottles. He
poked his head under the front curtain and into a glum silence. The two
men leaned back into the two corners of the wide seat, with their heads
drawn down into their coat collars and their hands thrust under the
robe. Foster reached forward and took a thermos bottle, his partner
seized another.

“Say, you might get us a bottle of good whisky, too,” said Foster,
holding out a small gold piece between his gloved thumb and finger. “Be
quick about it though--we want to be traveling. Lord, it's cold!”

Bud went into a saloon a few doors up the street, and was back presently
with the bottle and the change. There being nothing more to detain them
there, he kicked some of the mud off his feet, scraped off the rest
on the edge of the running board and climbed in, fastening the curtain
against the storm. “Lovely weather,” he grunted sarcastically. “Straight
on to Bakersfield, huh?”

There was a minute of silence save for the gurgling of liquid running
out of a bottle into an eager mouth. Bud laid an arm along the back of
his seat and waited, his head turned toward them. “Where are you fellows
going, anyway?” he asked impatiently.

“Los An--” the stranger gurgled, still drinking.

“Yuma!” snapped Foster. “You shut up, Mert. I'm running this.”

“Better--”

“Yuma. You hit the shortest trail for Yuma, Bud. I'm running this.”

Foster seemed distinctly out of humor. He told Mert again to shut up,
and Mert did so grumblingly, but somewhat diverted and consoled, Bud
fancied, by the sandwiches and coffee--and the whisky too, he guessed.
For presently there was an odor from the uncorked bottle in the car.

Bud started and drove steadily on through the rain that never ceased.
The big car warmed his heart with its perfect performance, its smooth,
effortless speed, its ease of handling. He had driven too long and too
constantly to tire easily, and he was almost tempted to settle down to
sheer enjoyment in driving such a car. Last night he had enjoyed it, but
last night was not to-day.

He wished he had not overheard so much, or else had overheard more. He
was inclined to regret his retreat from the acrimonious voices as being
premature. Just why was he a simp, for instance? Was it because he
thought Foster owned the car? Bud wondered whether father-in-law had not
bought it, after all. Now that he began thinking from a different angle,
he remembered that father-in-law had behaved very much like the proud
possessor of a new car. It really did not look plausible that he would
come out in the drizzle to see if Foster's car was safely locked in for
the night. There had been, too, a fussy fastidiousness in the way the
robe had been folded and hung over the rail. No man would do that for
some other man's property, unless he was paid for it.

Wherefore, Bud finally concluded that Foster was not above helping
himself to family property. On the whole, Bud did not greatly disapprove
of that; he was too actively resentful of his own mother-in-law. He was
not sure but he might have done something of the sort himself, if his
mother-in-law had possessed a six-thousand-dollar car. Still, such a
car generally means a good deal to the owner, and he did not wonder that
Foster was nervous about it.

But in the back of his mind there lurked a faint dissatisfaction with
this easy explanation. It occurred to him that if there was going to
be any trouble about the car, he might be involved beyond the point of
comfort. After all, he did not know Foster, and he had no more reason
for believing Foster's story than he had for doubting. For all he knew,
it might not be a wife that Foster was so afraid of.

Bud was not stupid. He was merely concerned chiefly with his own
affairs--a common enough failing, surely. But now that he had thought
himself into a mental eddy where his own affairs offered no new impulse
toward emotion, he turned over and over in his mind the mysterious trip
he was taking. It had come to seem just a little too mysterious to suit
him, and when Bud Moore was not suited he was apt to do something about
it.

What he did in this case was to stop in Bakersfield at a garage that had
a combination drugstore and news-stand next door. He explained shortly
to his companions that he had to stop and buy a road map and that he
wouldn't be long, and crawled out into the rain. At the open doorway
of the garage he turned and looked at the car. No, it certainly did not
look in the least like the machine he had driven down to the Oakland
mole--except, of course, that it was big and of the same make. It might
have been empty, too, for all the sign it gave of being occupied. Foster
and Mert evidently had no intention whatever of showing themselves.

Bud went into the drugstore, remained there for five minutes perhaps,
and emerged with a morning paper which he rolled up and put into his
pocket. He had glanced through its feature news, and had read hastily
one front-page article that had nothing whatever to do with the war, but
told about the daring robbery of a jewelry store in San Francisco the
night before.

The safe, it seemed, had been opened almost in plain sight of the street
crowds, with the lights full on in the store. A clever arrangement of
two movable mirrors had served to shield the thief--or thieves. For no
longer than two or three minutes, it seemed, the lights had been off,
and it was thought that the raiders had used the interval of darkness to
move the mirrors into position. Which went far toward proving that the
crime had been carefully planned in advance. Furthermore, the article
stated with some assurance that trusted employees were involved.

Bud also had glanced at the news items of less importance, and had been
startled enough--yet not so much surprised as he would have been a few
hours earlier--to read, under the caption: DARING THIEF STEALS COSTLY
CAR, to learn that a certain rich man of Oakland had lost his new
automobile. The address of the bereaved man had been given, and Bud's
heart had given a flop when he read it. The details of the theft had not
been told, but Bud never noticed their absence. His memory supplied all
that for him with sufficient vividness.

He rolled a cigarette, lighted it, and with the paper stuffed carelessly
into his pocket he went to the car, climbed in, and drove on to
the south, just as matter-of-factly as though he had not just then
discovered that he, Bud Moore, had stolen a six-thousand-dollar
automobile the night before.



CHAPTER FIVE. BUD CANNOT PERFORM MIRACLES

They went on and on, through the rain and the wind, sometimes through
the mud as well, where the roads were not paved. Foster had almost
pounced upon the newspaper when he discovered it in Bud's pocket as he
climbed in, and Bud knew that the two read that feature article avidly.
But if they had any comments to make, they saved them for future
privacy. Beyond a few muttered sentences they were silent.

Bud did not care whether they talked or not. They might have talked
themselves hoarse, when it came to that, without changing his opinions
or his attitude toward them. He had started out the most unsuspecting
of men, and now he was making up for it by suspecting Foster and Mert of
being robbers and hypocrites and potential murderers. He could readily
imagine them shooting him in the back of the head while he drove, if
that would suit their purpose, or if they thought that he suspected
them.

He kept reviewing his performance in that garage. Had he really intended
to steal the car, he would not have had the nerve to take the chances
he had taken. He shivered when he recalled how he had slid under the car
when the owner came in. What if the man had seen him or heard him? He
would be in jail now, instead of splashing along the highway many miles
to the south. For that matter, he was likely to land in jail, anyway,
before he was done with Foster, unless he did some pretty close
figuring. Wherefore he drove with one part of his brain, and with
the other he figured upon how he was going to get out of the mess
himself--and land Foster and Mert deep in the middle of it. For such was
his vengeful desire.

After an hour or so, when his stomach began to hint that it was eating
time for healthy men, he slowed down and turned his head toward the
tonneau. There they were, hunched down under the robe, their heads drawn
into their collars like two turtles half asleep on a mud bank.

“Say, how about some lunch?” he demanded. “Maybe you fellows can get
along on whisky and sandwiches, but I'm doing the work; and if you
notice, I've been doing it for about twelve hours now without any
let-up. There's a town ahead here a ways--”

“Drive around it, then,” growled Foster, lifting his chin to stare ahead
through the fogged windshield. “We've got hot coffee here, and there's
plenty to eat. Enough for two meals. How far have we come since we
started?”

“Far enough to be called crazy if we go much farther without a square
meal,” Bud snapped. Then he glanced at the rumpled newspaper and added
carelessly, “Anything new in the paper?”

“No!” Mert spoke up sharply. “Go on. You're doing all right so
far--don't spoil it by laying down on your job!”

“Sure, go on!” Foster urged. “We'll stop when we get away from this darn
burg, and you can rest your legs a little while we eat.”

Bud went on, straight through the middle of the town without stopping.
They scurried down a long, dismal lane toward a low-lying range of hills
pertly wooded with bald patches of barren earth and rock. Beyond were
mountains which Bud guessed was the Tehachapi range. Beyond them, he
believed he would find desert and desertion. He had never been over this
road before, so he could no more than guess. He knew that the ridge road
led to Los Angeles, and he did not want anything of that road. Too many
travelers. He swung into a decent-looking road that branched off to the
left, wondering where it led, but not greatly caring. He kept that road
until they had climbed over a ridge or two and were in the mountains.
Soaked wilderness lay all about them, green in places where grass would
grow, brushy in places, barren and scarred with outcropping ledges,
pencilled with wire fences drawn up over high knolls.

In a sequestered spot where the road hugged close the concave outline of
a bushy bluff, Bud slowed and turned out behind a fringe of bushes, and
stopped.

“This is safe enough,” he announced, “and my muscles are kinda crampy.
I'll tell the world that's been quite some spell of straight driving.”

Mert grunted, but Foster was inclined to cheerfulness. “You're some
driver, Bud. I've got to hand it to you.”

Bud grinned. “All right, I'll take it--half of it, anyway, if you don't
mind. You must remember I don't know you fellows. Most generally I
collect half in advance, on a long trip like this.” Foster's eyes
opened, but he reached obediently inside his coat. Mert growled
inaudible comments upon Bud's nerve.

“Oh, we can't kick, Mert,” Foster smoothed him down diplomatically.
“He's delivered the goods, so far. And he certainly does know how to put
a car over the road. He don't know us, remember!”

Mert grunted again and subsided. Foster extracted a bank note from his
bill-folder, which Bud observed had a prosperous plumpness, and held it
out to Bud.

“I guess fifty dollars won't hurt your feelings, will it, brother?
That's more than you'd charge for twice the trip, but we appreciate a
tight mouth, and the hurry-up trip you've made of it, and all that It's
special work, and we're willing to pay a special price. See?”

“Sure. But I only want half, right now. Maybe,” he added with the
lurking twinkle in his eyes, “I won't suit yuh quite so well the rest
of the way. I'll have to go b'-guess and b'-gosh from here on. I've got
some change left from what I bought for yuh this morning too. Wait till
I check up.”

Very precisely he did so, and accepted enough from Foster to make up
the amount to twenty-five dollars. He was tempted to take more. For
one minute he even contemplated holding the two up and taking enough to
salve his hurt pride and his endangered reputation. But he did not do
anything of the sort, of course; let's believe he was too honest to do
it even in revenge for the scurvy trick they had played him.

He ate a generous lunch of sandwiches and dill pickles and a wedge of
tasteless cocoanut cake, and drank half a pint or so of the hot, black
coffee, and felt more cheerful.

“Want to get down and stretch your legs? I've got to take a look at the
tires, anyway. Thought she was riding like one was kinda flat, the last
few miles.”

They climbed out stiffly into the rain, stood around the car and stared
at it and at Bud testing his tires, and walked off down the road for a
little distance where they stood talking earnestly together. From the
corner of his eye Bud caught Mert tilting his head that way, and smiled
to himself. Of course they were talking about him! Any fool would know
that much. Also they were discussing the best means of getting rid of
him, or of saddling upon him the crime of stealing the car, or some
other angle at which he touched their problem.

Under cover of testing the rear wheel farthest from them, he peeked into
the tonneau and took a good look at the small traveling bag they had
kept on the seat between them all the way. He wished he dared--But they
were coming back, as if they would not trust him too long alone with
that bag. He bent again to the tire, and when they climbed back into
the curtained car he was getting the pump tubing out to pump up that
particular tire a few pounds.

They did not pay much attention to him. They seemed preoccupied and not
too friendly with each other, Bud thought. Their general air of gloom
he could of course lay to the weather and the fact that they had been
traveling for about fourteen hours without any rest; but there was
something more than that in the atmosphere. He thought they had
disagreed, and that he was the subject of their disagreement.

He screwed down the valve cap, coiled the pump tube and stowed it away
in the tool box, opened the gas tank, and looked in--and right there he
did something else; something that would have spelled disaster if either
of them had seen him do it. He spilled a handful of little round white
objects like marbles into the tank before he screwed on the cap, and
from his pocket he pulled a little paper box, crushed it in his hand,
and threw it as far as he could into the bushes. Then, whistling just
above his breath, which was a habit with Bud when his work was going
along pleasantly, he scraped the mud off his feet, climbed in, and drove
on down the road.

The big car picked up speed on the down grade, racing along as though
the short rest had given it a fresh enthusiasm for the long road that
wound in and out and up and down and seemed to have no end. As though he
joyed in putting her over the miles, Bud drove. Came a hill, he sent her
up it with a devil-may-care confidence, swinging around curves with a
squall of the powerful horn that made cattle feeding half a mile away on
the slopes lift their startled heads and look.

“How much longer are you good for, Bud?” Foster leaned forward to ask,
his tone flattering with the praise that was in it.

“Me? As long as this old boat will travel,” Bud flung back gleefully,
giving her a little more speed as they rocked over a culvert and sped
away to the next hill. He chuckled, but Foster had settled back again
satisfied, and did not notice.

Halfway up the next hill the car slowed suddenly, gave a snort, gasped
twice as Bud retarded the spark to help her out, and, died. She was
a heavy car to hold on that stiff grade, and in spite of the full
emergency brake helped out with the service brake, she inched backward
until the rear wheels came full against a hump across the road and held.

Bud did not say anything; your efficient chauffeur reserves his
eloquence for something more complex than a dead engine. He took down
the curtain on that side, leaned out into the rain and inspected the
road behind him, shifted into reverse, and backed to the bottom.

“What's wrong?” Foster leaned forward to ask senselessly.

“When I hit level ground, I'm going to find out,” Bud retorted, still
watching the road and steering with one hand. “Does the old girl ever
cut up with you on hills?”

“Why--no. She never has,” Foster answered dubiously.

“Reason I asked, she didn't just choke down from the pull. She went and
died on me.”

“That's funny,” Foster observed weakly.

On the level Bud went into neutral and pressed the self-starter with
a pessimistic deliberation. He got three chugs and a backfire into the
carburetor, and after that silence. He tried it again, coaxing her with
the spark and throttle. The engine gave a snort, hesitated and then,
quite suddenly, began to throb with docile regularity that seemed to
belie any previous intention of “cutting up.”

Bud fed her the gas and took a run at the hill. She went up like a
thoroughbred and died at the top, just when the road had dipped into the
descent. Bud sent her down hill on compression, but at the bottom she
refused to find her voice again when he turned on the switch and pressed
the accelerator. She simply rolled down to the first incline and stopped
there like a balky mule.

“Thunder!” said Bud, and looked around at Foster. “Do you reckon the old
boat is jinxed, just because I said I could drive her as far as she'd
go? The old rip ain't shot a cylinder since we hit the top of the hill.”

“Maybe the mixture--”

“Yeah,” Bud interrupted with a secret grin, “I've been wondering about
that, and the needle valve, and the feed pipe, and a few other little
things. Well, we'll have a look.”

Forthwith he climbed out into the drizzle and began a conscientious
search for the trouble. He inspected the needle valve with much care,
and had Foster on the front seat trying to start her afterwards. He
looked for short circuit. He changed the carburetor adjustment, and
Foster got a weary chug-chug that ceased almost as soon as it had begun.
He looked all the spark plugs over, he went after the vacuum feed and
found that working perfectly. He stood back, finally, with his hands on
his hips, and stared at the engine and shook his head slowly twice.

Foster, in the driver's seat, swore and tried again to start it. “Maybe
if you cranked it,” he suggested tentatively.

“What for? The starter turns her over all right. Spark's all right too,
strong and hot. However--” With a sigh of resignation Bud got out what
tools he wanted and went to work. Foster got out and stood around,
offering suggestions that were too obvious to be of much use, but which
Bud made it a point to follow as far as was practicable.

Foster said it must be the carburetor, and Bud went relentlessly after
the carburetor. He impressed Foster with the fact that he knew cars, and
when he told Foster to get in and try her again, Foster did so with the
air of having seen the end of the trouble. At first it did seem so, for
the engine started at once and worked smoothly until Bud had gathered
his wrenches off the running board and was climbing it, when it slowed
down and stopped, in spite of Foster's frantic efforts to keep it alive
with spark and throttle.

“Good Glory!” cried Bud, looking reproachfully in at Foster. “What'd yuh
want to stop her for?”

“I didn't!” Foster's consternation was ample proof of his innocence.
“What the devil ails the thing?”

“You tell me, and I'll fix it,” Bud retorted savagely. Then he smoothed
his manner and went back to the carburetor. “Acts like the gas kept
choking off,” he said, “but it ain't that. She's O.K. I know, 'cause
I've tested it clean back to tank. There's nothing the matter with the
feed--she's getting gas same as she has all along. I can take off the
mag. and see if anything's wrong there; but I'm pretty sure there ain't.
Couldn't any water or mud get in--not with that oil pan perfect. She
looks dry as a bone, and clean. Try her again, Foster; wait till I set
the spark about right. Now, you leave it there, and give her the gas
kinda gradual, and catch her when she talks. We'll see--”

They saw that she was not going to “talk” at all. Bud swore a little and
got out more tools and went after the magneto with grim determination.
Again Foster climbed out and stood in the drizzle and watched him. Mert
crawled over into the front seat where he could view the proceedings
through the windshield. Bud glanced up and saw him there, and grinned
maliciously. “Your friend seems to love wet weather same as a cat does,”
 he observed to Foster. “He'll be terrible happy if you're stalled here
till you get a tow in somewhere.”

“It's your business to see that we aren't stalled,” Mert snapped at him
viciously. “You've got to make the thing go. You've got to!”

“Well, I ain't the Almighty,” Bud retorted acidly. “I can't perform
miracles while yuh wait.”

“Starting a cranky car doesn't take a miracle,” whined Mert. “Anybody
that knows cars--”

“She's no business to be a cranky car,” Foster interposed pacifically.
“Why, she's practically new!” He stepped over a puddle and stood beside
Bud, peering down at the silent engine. “Have you looked at the intake
valve?” he asked pathetically.

“Why, sure. It's all right. Everything's all right, as far as I can find
out.” Bud looked Foster straight in the eye--and if his own were a bit
anxious, that was to be expected.

“Everything's all right,” he added measuredly. “Only, she won't go.” He
waited, watching Foster's face.

Foster chewed a corner of his lip worriedly. “Well, what do you make of
it?” His tone was helpless.

Bud threw out his two hands expressively, and shook his head. He let
down the hood, climbed in, slid into the driver's seat, and went through
the operation of starting. Only, he didn't start. The self-starter
hummed as it spun the flywheel, but nothing whatever was elicited save a
profane phrase from Foster and a growl from Mert. Bud sat back flaccid,
his whole body owning defeat.

“Well, that means a tow in to the nearest shop,” he stated, after a
minute of dismal silence. “She's dead as a doornail.”

Mert sat back in his corner of the seat, muttering into his collar.
Foster looked at him, looked at Bud, looked at the car and at the
surrounding hills. He seemed terribly depressed and at the same
time determined to make the best of things. Bud could almost pity
him--almost.

“Do you know how far it is back to that town we passed?” he asked Bud
spiritlessly after a while. Bud looked at the speedometer, made a mental
calculation and told him it was fifteen miles. Towns, it seemed, were
rather far apart in this section of the country.

“Well, let's see the road map. How far is it to the next one?”

“Search me. They didn't have any road maps back there. Darned hick
burg.”

Foster studied awhile. “Well, let's see if we can push her off the
middle of the road--and then I guess we'll have to let you walk back and
get help. Eh, Mert? There's nothing else we can do--”

“What yuh going to tell 'em?” Mert demanded suspiciously.

Bud permitted a surprised glance to slant back at Mert. “Why, whatever
you fellows fake up for me to tell,” he said naively. “I know the truth
ain't popular on this trip, so get together and dope out something. And
hand me over my suit case, will yuh? I want some dry socks to put on
when I get there.”

Foster very obligingly tilted the suit case over into the front seat.
After that he and Mert, as by a common thought impelled, climbed out
and went over to a bushy live oak to confer in privacy. Mert carried the
leather bag with him.

By the time they had finished and were coming back, Bud had gone through
his belongings and had taken out a few letters that might prove awkward
if found there later, two pairs of socks and his razor and toothbrush.
He was folding the socks to stow away in his pocket when they got in.

“You can say that we're from Los Angeles, and on our way home,” Foster
told him curtly. It was evident to Bud that the two had not quite agreed
upon some subject they had discussed. “That's all right. I'm Foster, and
he's named Brown--if any one gets too curious.”

“Fine. Fine because it's so simple. I'll eat another sandwich, if you
don't mind, before I go. I'll tell a heartless world that fifteen miles
is some little stroll--for a guy that hates walkin'.”

“You're paid for it,” Mert growled at him rudely.

“Sure, I'm paid for it,” Bud assented placidly, taking a bite. They
might have wondered at his calm, but they did not. He ate what he
wanted, took a long drink of the coffee, and started off up the hill
they had rolled down an hour or more past.

He walked briskly, and when he was well out of earshot Bud began to
whistle. Now and then he stopped to chuckle, and sometimes he frowned at
an uncomfortable thought. But on the whole he was very well pleased with
his present circumstances.



CHAPTER SIX. BUD TAKES TO THE HILLS

In a little village which he had glimpsed from the top of a hill Bud
went into the cluttered little general store and bought a few blocks of
slim, evil smelling matches and a couple of pounds of sliced bacon, a
loaf of stale bread, and two small cans of baked beans. He stuffed
them all into the pocket of his overcoat, and went out and hunted up a
long-distance telephone sign. It had not taken him more than an hour to
walk to the town, for he had only to follow a country road that branched
off that way for a couple of miles down a valley. There was a post
office and the general store and a couple of saloons and a blacksmith
shop that was thinking of turning into a garage but had gone no further
than to hang out a sign that gasoline was for sale there. It was all
very sordid and very lifeless and altogether discouraging in the drizzle
of late afternoon. Bud did not see half a dozen human beings on his way
to the telephone office, which he found was in the post office.

He called up San Francisco, and got the chief of police's office on the
wire, and told them where they would find the men who had robbed that
jewelry store of all its diamonds and some other unset jewels. Also he
mentioned the car that was stolen, and that was now stalled and waiting
for some kind soul to come and give it a tow.

He speedily had all the attention of the chief, and having thought
out in advance his answers to certain pertinent questions, he did not
stutter when they were asked. Yes, he had been hired to drive the ear
south, and he had overheard enough to make him suspicious on the way. He
knew that they had stolen the car. He was not absolutely sure that
they were the diamond thieves but it would be easy enough to find out,
because officers sent after them would naturally be mistaken for first
aid from some garage, and the cops could nab the men and look into that
grip they were so careful not to let out of their sight.

“Are you sure they won't get the car repaired and go on?” It was
perfectly natural that the chief should fear that very thing.

“No chance!” Bud chuckled into the 'phone. “Not a chance in the world,
chief. They'll be right there where I left 'em, unless some car comes
along and gives 'em a tow. And if that happens you'll be able to trace
'em.” He started to hang up, and added another bit of advice. “Say,
chief, you better tell whoever gets the car, to empty the gas tank and
clean out the carburetor and vacuum feed--and she'll go, all right!
Adios.”

He hung up and paid the charge hurriedly, and went out and down a
crooked little lane that led between bushes to a creek and heavy timber.
It did not seem to him advisable to linger; the San Francisco chief of
police might set some officer in that village on his trail, just as a
matter of precaution. Bud told himself that he would do it were he in
the chief's place. When he reached the woods along the creek he ran,
keeping as much as possible on thick leaf mold that left the least
impression. He headed to the east, as nearly as he could judge, and when
he came to a rocky canyon he struck into it.

He presently found himself in a network of small gorges that twisted
away into the hills without any system whatever, as far as he could see.
He took one that seemed to lead straightest toward where the sun would
rise next morning, and climbed laboriously deeper and deeper into the
hills. After awhile he had to descend from the ridge where he found
himself standing bleakly revealed against a lowering, slaty sky that
dripped rain incessantly. As far as he could see were hills and more
hills, bald and barren except in certain canyons whose deeper shadows
told of timber. Away off to the southwest a bright light showed
briefly--the headlight of a Santa Fe train, he guessed it must be. To
the east, which he faced, the land was broken with bare hills that fell
just short of being mountains. He went down the first canyon that opened
in that direction, ploughing doggedly ahead into the unknown.

That night Bud camped in the lee of a bank that was fairly well screened
with rocks and bushes, and dined off broiled bacon and bread and a can
of beans with tomato sauce, and called it a meal. At first he was not
much inclined to take the risk of having a fire big enough to keep him
warm. Later in the night he was perfectly willing to take the risk, but
could not find enough dry wood. His rainproofed overcoat became quite
soggy and damp on the inside, in spite of his efforts to shield himself
from the rain. It was not exactly a comfortable night, but he worried
through it somehow.

At daylight he opened another can of beans and made himself two thick
bean sandwiches, and walked on while he ate them slowly. They tasted
mighty good, Bud thought--but he wished fleetingly that he was back
in the little green cottage on North Sixth Street, getting his own
breakfast. He felt as though he could drink about four cups of coffee;
and as to hotcakes--! But breakfast in the little green cottage recalled
Marie, and Marie was a bitter memory. All the more bitter because he
did not know where burrowed the root of his hot resentment. In a strong
man's love for his home and his mate was it rooted, and drew therefrom
the wormwood of love thwarted and spurned.

After awhile the high air currents flung aside the clouds like curtains
before a doorway. The sunlight flashed out dazzlingly and showed Bud
that the world, even this tumbled world, was good to look upon. His
instincts were all for the great outdoors, and from such the sun brings
quick response. Bud lifted his head, looked out over the hills to where
a bare plain stretched in the far distance, and went on more briskly.

He did not meet any one at all; but that was chiefly because he did not
want to meet any one. He went with his ears and his eyes alert, and was
not above hiding behind a clump of stunted bushes when two horsemen rode
down a canyon trail just below him. Also he searched for roads and then
avoided them. It would be a fat morsel for Marie and her mother to roll
under their tongues, he told himself savagely, if he were arrested and
appeared in the papers as one of that bunch of crooks!

Late that afternoon, by traveling steadily in one direction, he topped a
low ridge and saw an arm of the desert thrust out to meet him. A scooped
gully with gravelly sides and rocky bottom led down that way, and
because his feet were sore from so much sidehill travel, Bud went down.
He was pretty well fagged too, and ready to risk meeting men, if thereby
he might gain a square meal. Though he was not starving, or anywhere
near it, he craved warm food and hot coffee.

So when he presently came upon two sway-backed burros that showed the
sweaty imprint of packsaddles freshly removed, and a couple of horses
also sweat roughened, he straightway assumed that some one was making
camp not far away. One of the horses was hobbled, and they were all
eating hungrily the grass that grew along the gully's sides. Camp was
not only close, but had not yet reached suppertime, Bud guessed from the
well-known range signs.

Two or three minutes proved him right. He came upon a man just driving
the last tent peg. He straightened up and stared at Bud unblinkingly for
a few seconds.

“Howdy, howdy,” he greeted him then with tentative friendliness, and
went on with his work. “You lost?” he added carefully. A man walking
down out of the barren hills, and carrying absolutely nothing in the
way of camp outfit, was enough to whet the curiosity of any one who knew
that country. At the same time curiosity that became too apparent
might be extremely unwelcome. So many things may drive a man into the
hills--but few of them would bear discussion with strangers.

“Yes. I am, and I ain't.” Bud came up and stood with his hands in his
coat pockets, and watched the old fellow start his fire.

“Yeah--how about some supper? If you am, and you ain't as hungry as you
look--”

“I'll tell the world I am, and then some. I ain't had a square meal
since yesterday morning, and I grabbed that at a quick-lunch joint. I'm
open to supper engagements, brother.”

“All right. There's a side of bacon in that kyack over there. Get it out
and slice some off, and we'll have supper before you know it. We will,”
 he added pessimistically, “if this dang brush will burn.”

Bud found the bacon and cut according to his appetite. His host got
out a blackened coffeepot and half filled it with water from a dented
bucket, and balanced it on one side of the struggling fire. He remarked
that they had had some rain, to which Bud agreed. He added gravely that
he believed it was going to clear up, though--unless the wind swung back
into the storm quarter. Bud again professed cheerfully to be in perfect
accord. After which conversational sparring they fell back upon the
little commonplaces of the moment.

Bud went into a brush patch and managed to glean an armful of nearly
dry wood, which he broke up with the axe and fed to the fire, coaxing it
into freer blazing. The stranger watched him unobtrusively, critically,
pottering about while Bud fried the bacon.

“I guess you've handled a frying pan before, all right,” he remarked at
last, when the bacon was fried without burning.

Bud grinned. “I saw one in a store window once as I was going by,” he
parried facetiously. “That was quite a while back.”

“Yeah. Well, how's your luck with bannock? I've got it all mixed.”

“Dump her in here, ole-timer,” cried Bud, holding out the frying pan
emptied of all but grease. “Wish I had another hot skillet to turn over
the top.”

“I guess you've been there, all right,” the other chuckled. “Well, I
don't carry but the one frying pan. I'm equipped light, because I've got
to outfit with grub, further along.”

“Well, we'll make out all right, just like this.” Bud propped the handle
of the frying pan high with a forked stick, and stood up. “Say, my
name's Bud Moore, and I'm not headed anywhere in particular. I'm just
traveling in one general direction, and that's with the Coast at my
back. Drifting, that's all. I ain't done anything I'm ashamed of or
scared of, but I am kinda bashful about towns. I tangled with a couple
of crooks, and they're pulled by now, I expect. I'm dodging newspaper
notoriety. Don't want to be named with 'em at all.” He, spread his
hands with an air of finality. “That's my tale of woe,” he supplemented,
“boiled down to essentials. I just thought I'd tell you.”

“Yeah. Well, my name's Cash Markham, and I despise to have folks get
funny over it. I'm a miner and prospector, and I'm outfitting for a trip
for another party, looking up an old location that showed good prospects
ten years ago. Man died, and his wife's trying to get the claim
relocated. Get you a plate outa that furtherest kyack, and a cup.
Bannock looks about done, so we'll eat.”

That night Bud shared Cash Markham's blankets, and in the morning
he cooked the breakfast while Cash Markham rounded up the burros and
horses. In that freemasonry of the wilderness they dispensed with
credentials, save those each man carried in his face and in his manner.
And if you stop to think of it, such credentials are not easily forged,
for nature writes them down, and nature is a truth-loving old dame who
will never lead you far astray if only she is left alone to do her work
in peace.

It transpired, in the course of the forenoon's travel, that Cash Markham
would like to have a partner, if he could find a man that suited. One
guessed that he was fastidious in the matter of choosing his companions,
in spite of the easy way in which he had accepted Bud. By noon they had
agreed that Bud should go along and help relocate the widow's claim.
Cash Markham hinted that they might do a little prospecting on their own
account. It was a country he had long wanted to get into, he said, and
while he intended to do what Mrs. Thompson had hired him to do, still
there was no law against their prospecting on their own account. And
that, he explained, was one reason why he wanted a good man along.
If the Thompson claim was there, Bud could do the work under the
supervision of Cash, and Cash could prospect.

“And anyway, it's bad policy for a man to go off alone in this part of
the country,” he added with a speculative look across the sandy waste
they were skirting at a pace to suit the heavily packed burros. “Case
of sickness or accident--or suppose the stock strays off--it's bad to be
alone.”

“Suits me fine to go with you,” Bud declared. “I'm next thing to broke,
but I've got a lot of muscle I can cash in on the deal. And I know the
open. And I can rock a gold-pan and not spill out all the colors, if
there is any--and whatever else I know is liable to come in handy, and
what I don't know I can learn.”

“That's fair enough. Fair enough,” Markham agreed. “I'll allow you wages
on the Thompson job' till you've earned enough to balance up with the
outfit. After that it'll be fifty-fifty. How'll that be, Bud?”

“Fair enough--fair enough,” Bud retorted with faint mimicry. “If I was
all up in the air a few days ago, I seem to have lit on my feet, and
that's good enough for me right now. We'll let 'er ride that way.”

And the twinkle, as he talked, was back in his eyes, and the smiley
quirk was at the corner of his lips.



CHAPTER SEVEN. INTO THE DESERT

If you want to know what mad adventure Bud found himself launched upon,
just read a few extracts from the diary which Cash Markham, being a
methodical sort of person, kept faithfully from day to day, until he cut
his thumb on a can of tomatoes which he had been cutting open with his
knife. After that Bud kept the diary for him, jotting down the main
happenings of the day. When Cash's thumb healed so that he could hold a
pencil with some comfort, Bud thankfully relinquished the task. He hated
to write, anyway, and it seemed to him that Cash ought to trust his
memory a little more than he did.

I shall skip a good many days, of course--though the diary did not, I
assure you.

First, there was the outfit. When they had outfitted at Needles for the
real trip, Cash set down the names of all living things in this wise:

Outfit, Cassius B. Markham, Bud Moore, Daddy a bull terrier, bay horse,
Mars, Pete a sorrel, Ed a burro, Swayback a jinny, Maude a jack, Cora
another jinny, Billy a riding burro & Sways colt & Maude colt a white
mean looking little devil.

Sat. Apr. 1.

Up at 7:30. Snowing and blowing 3 ft. of snow on ground. Managed to get
breakfast & returned to bed. Fed Monte & Peter our cornmeal, poor things
half frozen. Made a fire in tent at 1:30 & cooked a meal. Much smoke,
ripped hole in back of tent. Three burros in sight weathering fairly
well. No sign of let up everything under snow & wind a gale. Making out
fairly well under adverse conditions. Worst weather we have experienced.

Apr. 2.

Up at 7 A.M. Fine & sunny snow going fast. Fixed up tent & cleaned up
generally. Alkali flat a lake, can't cross till it dries. Stock some
scattered, brought them all together.

Apr. 3.

Up 7 A.M. Clear & bright. Snow going fast. All creeks flowing. Fine
sunny day.

Apr. 4.

Up 6 A.M. Clear & bright. Went up on divide, met 3 punchers who said
road impassable. Saw 2 trains stalled away across alkali flat. Very
boggy and moist.

Apr.5.

Up 5 A.M. Clear & bright. Start out, on Monte & Pete at 6. Animals
traveled well, did not appear tired. Feed fine all over. Plenty water
everywhere.

Not much like Bud's auto stage, was it? But the very novelty of it, the
harking back to old plains days, appealed to him and sent him forward
from dull hardship to duller discomfort, and kept the quirk at the
corners of his lips and the twinkle in his eyes. Bud liked to travel
this way, though it took them all day long to cover as much distance as
he had been wont to slide behind him in an hour. He liked it--this slow,
monotonous journeying across the lean land which Cash had traversed
years ago, where the stark, black pinnacles and rough knobs of rock
might be hiding Indians with good eyesight and a vindictive temperament.
Cash told him many things out of his past, while they poked along,
driving the packed burros before them. Things which he never had set
down in his diary--things which he did not tell to any one save his few
friends.

But it was not always mud and rain and snow, as Cash's meager chronicle
betrays.

May 6.

Up at sunrise. Monte & Pete gone leaving no tracks. Bud found them
3 miles South near Indian village. Bud cut his hair, did a good job.
Prospector dropped into camp with fist full of good looking quartz.
Stock very thirsty all day. Very hot Tied Monte & Pete up for night.

May 8.

Up 5:30. Fine, but hot. Left 7:30. Pete walked over a sidewinder & Bud
shot him ten ft. in air. Also prior killed another beside road. Feed as
usual, desert weeds. Pulled grain growing side of track and fed plugs.
Water from cistern & R.R. ties for fuel. Put up tent for shade. Flies
horrible.

May 9.

Up 4. Left 6. Feed as usual. Killed a sidewinder in a bush with 3 shots
of Krag. Made 21 m. today. R.R. ties for fuel Cool breeze all day.

May 11.

Up at sunrise. Bud washed clothes. Tested rock. Fine looking mineral
country here. Dressed Monte's withers with liniment greatly reducing
swelling from saddle-gall. He likes to have it dressed & came of his own
accord. Day quite comfortable.

May 15.

Up 4. Left 6:30 over desert plain & up dry wash. Daddy suffered from
heat & ran into cactus while looking for shade. Got it in his mouth,
tongue, feet & all over body. Fixed him up poor creature groaned all
evening & would not eat his supper. Poor feed & wood here. Water found
by digging 2 ft. in sand in sandstone basins in bed of dry wash. Monte
lay down en route. Very hot & all suffered from heat.

May 16.

Bud has sick headache. Very hot so laid around camp all day. Put two
blankets up on tent pols for sun break. Daddy under weather from cactus
experience. Papago Indian boy about 18 on fine bay mare driving 4 ponies
watered at our well. Moon almost full, lots of mocking birds. Pretty
songs.

May 17.

Up 7:30 Bud some better. Day promises hot, but slight breeze. White
gauzy clouds in sky. Daddy better. Monte & Pete gone all day. Hunted
twice but impossible to track them in this stony soil Bud followed
trail, found them 2 mi. east of here in flat sound asleep about 3 P.M.
At 6 went to flat 1/4 mi. N. of camp to tie Pete, leading Monte by
bell strap almost stepped on rattler 3 ft. long. 10 rattles & a button.
Killed him. To date, 1 Prairie rattler, 3 Diamond back & 8 sidewinders,
12 in all. Bud feels better.

May 18.

At 4 A. M. Bud woke up by stock passing camp. Spoke to me who half awake
hollered, “sic Daddy!” Daddy sicced 'em & they went up bank of wash to
right. Bud swore it was Monte & Pete. I went to flat & found M. & P.
safe. Water in sink all gone. Bud got stomach trouble. I threw up my
breakfast. Very hot weather. Lanced Monte's back & dressed it with
creoline. Turned them loose & away they put again.

Soon after this they arrived at the place where Thompson had located his
claim. It was desert, of course, sloping away on one side to a dreary
waste of sand and weeds with now and then a giant cactus standing
gloomily alone with malformed lingers stretched stiffly to the staring
blue sky. Behind where they pitched their final camp--Camp 48, Cash
Markham recorded it in his diary--the hills rose. But they were as stark
and barren almost as the desert below. Black rock humps here and there,
with ledges of mineral bearing rock. Bushes and weeds and dry washes for
the rest, with enough struggling grass to feed the horses and burros if
they rustled hard enough for it.

They settled down quietly to a life of grinding monotony that would have
driven some men crazy. But Bud, because it was a man's kind of monotony,
bore it cheerfully. He was out of doors, and he was hedged about by no
rules or petty restrictions. He liked Cash Markham and he liked Pete,
his saddle horse, and he was fond of Daddy who was still paying the
penalty of seeking too carelessly for shade and, according to Cash's
record, “getting it in his mouth, tongue, feet & all over body.” Bud
liked it--all except the blistering heat and the “side-winders”
 and other rattlers. He did not bother with trying to formulate any
explanation of why he liked it. It may have been picturesque, though
picturesqueness of that sort is better appreciated when it is seen
through the dim radiance of memory that blurs sordid details. Certainly
it was not adventurous, as men have come to judge adventure.

Life droned along very dully. Day after day was filled with petty
details. A hill looks like a mountain if it rises abruptly out of a
level plain, with no real mountains in sight to measure it by. Here's
the diary to prove how little things came to look important because the
days held no contrasts. If it bores you to read it, think what it must
have been to live it.

June 10.

Up at 6:30 Baked till 11. Then unrigged well and rigged up an incline
for the stock to water. Bud dressed Daddy's back. Stock did not come in
all morning, but Monte & Pete came in before supper. Incline water shaft
does not work. Prospected & found 8 ledges. Bud found none.

June 11.

After breakfast fixed up shack--shelves, benches, tools, etc. Cleaned
guns. Bud dressed Daddy's back which is much better. Strong gold in test
of ledge, I found below creek. Took more specimens to sample. Cora comes
in with a little black colt newly born. Proud as a bull pup with two
tails. Monte & Pete did not come in so we went by lantern light a mile
or so down the wash & found them headed this way & snake them in to
drink about 80 gallons of water apiece. Daddy tied up and howling like a
demon all the while. Bud took a bath.

June 12.

Bud got out and got breakfast again. Then started off on Pete to hunt
trail that makes short cut 18 miles to Bend. Roofed the kitchen. Bud got
back about 1:30, being gone 6 hours. Found trail & two good ledges. Cora
& colt came for water. Other burros did not. Brought in specimens from
ledge up creek that showed very rich gold in tests. Burros came in at
9:30. Bud got up and tied them up.

June 13.

Bud gets breakfast. I took Sway & brought in load of wood. Bud went out
and found a wash lined with good looking ledges. Hung up white rags on
bushes to identify same. Found large ledge of good quartz showing fine
in tests about one mile down wash. Bud dressed Daddy's back. Located
a claim west of Thompson's. Burros did not come in except Cora & colt.
Pete & Monte came separated.

June 14.

Bud got breakfast & dressed Daddy's back. Very hot day. Stock came in
about 2. Tied up Billy Maud & Cora. Bud has had headache. Monte & Pete
did not come in. Bud went after them & found them 4 miles away where
we killed the Gila monster. Sent 2 samples from big ledge to Tucson for
assay. Daddy better.

June 15.

Up 2.30. Bud left for Bend at 4. Walked down to flat but could not see
stock. About 3 Cora & Colt came in for water & Sway & Ed from the south
about 5. No Monte. Monte got in about midnight & went past kitchen to
creek on run. Got up, found him very nervous & frightened & tied him up.

June 17.

Bud got back 4 P.M. in gale of wind & sand. Burros did not come in for
water. Very hot. Bud brought canned stuff. Rigged gallows for No.
2 shaft also block & tackle & pail for drinking water, also washed
clothes. While drying went around in cap undershirt & shoes.

June 18.

Burros came in during night for water. Hot as nether depths of infernal
regions. Went up on hill a mile away. Seamed with veins similar to shaft
No. 2 ore. Blew in two faces & got good looking ore seamed with a black
incrustation, oxide of something, but what could not determine. Could
find neither silver nor copper in it. Monte & Pete came in about 1 &
tied them up. Very hot. Hottest day yet, even the breeze scorching. Test
of ore showed best yet. One half of solution in tube turning to chloride
of gold, 3 tests showing same. Burros except Ed & Cora do not come in
days any more. Bud made a gate for kitchen to keep burros out.

The next morning it was that Cash cut the ball of his right thumb open
on the sharp edge of a tomato can. He wanted the diary to go on as
usual. He had promised, he said, to keep one for the widow who wanted
a record of the way the work was carried on, and the progress made. Bud
could not see that there had been much progress, except as a matter of
miles. Put a speedometer on one of his legs, he told Cash, and he'd bet
it would register more mileage chasing after them fool burros than his
auto stage could show after a full season. As for working the widow's
claim, it was not worth working, from all he could judge of it. And if
it were full of gold as the United States treasury, the burros took up
all their time so they couldn't do much. Between doggone stock drinking
or not drinking and the darn fool diary that had to be kept, Bud opined
that they needed an extra hand or two. Bud was peevish, these days. Gila
Bend had exasperated him because it was not the town it called itself,
but a huddle of adobe huts. He had come away in the sour mood of a
thirsty man who finds an alkali spring sparkling deceptively under a
rock. Furthermore, the nights had been hot and the mosquitoes a humming
torment. And as a last affliction he was called upon to keep the diary
going. He did it, faithfully enough but in a fashion of his own.

First he read back a few pages to get the hang of the thing. Then he
shook down Cash's fountain pen, that dried quickly in that heat. Then he
read another page as a model, and wrote:

June 19.

Mosquitoes last night was worse than the heat and that was worse than
Gila Bend's great white way. Hunted up the burros. Pete and Monte came
in and drank. Monte had colic. We fed them and turned them loose but the
blamed fools hung around all day and eat up some sour beans I throwed
out. Cash was peeved and swore they couldn't have another grain of feed.
But Monte come to the shack and watched Cash through a knothole the size
of one eye till Cash opened up his heart and the bag. Cash cut his thumb
opening tomatoes. The tomatoes wasn't hurt any.

June 20.

Got breakfast. Bill and harem did not come to water. Cash done the
regular hike after them. His thumb don't hurt him for hazing donkeys.
Bill and harem come in after Cash left. They must of saw him go. Cash
was out four hours and come in mad. Shot a hidrophobia skunk out by the
creek. Nothing doing. Too hot.

June 21.

The sun would blister a mud turtle so he'd holler. Cash put in most of
day holding a parasol over his garden patch. Burros did not miss their
daily drink. Night brings mosquitoes with their wings singed but their
stingers O.K. They must hole up daytimes or they would fry.

June 22.

Thought I know what heat was. I never did before. Cash took a bath. It
was his first. Burros did not come to water. Cash and I tried to sleep
on kitchen roof but the darned mosquitoes fed up on us and then played
heavenly choir all night.

June 25.

Cash got back from Bend. Thumb is better and he can have this job any
time now. He hustled up a widow that made a couple of mosquito bags to
go over our heads. No shape (bags, not widow) but help keep flies and
mosquitoes from chewing on us all day and all night. Training for hades.
I can stand the heat as well as the old boy with the pitch-fork. Ain't
got used to brimstone yet, but I'd trade mosquitoes for sulphur smoke
and give some boot. Worried about Cash. He took a bath today again,
using water I had packed for mine. Heat must be getting him.

June 26.

Cash opened up thumb again, trying to brain Pete with rock. Pete got
halfway into kitchen and eat biggest part of a pie I made. Cash threw
jagged rock, hit Pete in side of jaw. Cut big gash. Swelled now like
a punkin. Cash and I tangled over same. I'm going to quit. I have had
enough of this darn country. Creek's drying up, and mosquitoes have
found way to crawl under bags. Cash wants me to stay till we find good
claim, but Cash can go to thunder.

Then Cash's record goes on:

June 27.

Bud very sick & out of head. Think it is heat, which is terrible.
Talked all night about burros, gasoline, & camphor balls which he seemed
wanting to buy in gunny sack. No sleep for either. Burros came in for
water about daylight. Picketed Monte & Pete as may need doctor if Bud
grows worse. Thumb nearly well.

June 27. Bud same, slept most of day. Gave liver pills & made gruel of
cornmeal, best could do with present stores. Burros came at about 3 but
could not drink owing to bees around water hold. Monte got stung and
kicked over water cans & buckets I had salted for burros. Burros put for
hills again. No way of driving off bees.

June 28.

Burros came & drank in night. Cooler breeze, Bud some better & slept.
Sway has badly swollen neck. May be rattler bite or perhaps bee. Bud
wanted cigarettes but smoked last the day before he took sick. Gave him
more liver pills & sponge off with water every hour. Best can do under
circumstances. Have not prospected account Bud's sickness.

June 29.

Very hot all day, breeze like blast from furnace. Burros refuse to leave
flat. Bees better, as can't fly well in this wind. Bud worse. High fever
& very restless & flighty. Imagines much trouble with automobile, talk
very technical & can't make head or tail of it. Monte & Pete did not
come in, left soon as turned loose. No feed for them here & figured Bud
too sick to travel or stay alone so horses useless at present. Sponged
frequently with coolest water can get, seems to give some relief as he
is quieter afterwards.

July 4th.

Monte & Pete came in the night & hung around all day. Drove them away
from vicinity of shack several times but they returned & moped in shade
of house. Terrible hot, strong gusty wind. Bud sat up part of day, slept
rest of time. Looks very thin and great hollows under eyes, but chief
trouble seems to be, no cigarettes. Shade over radishes & lettice works
all right. Watered copiously at daylight & again at dusk. Doing fine.
Fixed fence which M & P. broke down while tramping around. Prospected
west of ranche. Found enormous ledge of black quartz, looks like
sulphur stem during volcanic era but may be iron. Strong gold & heavy
precipitate in test, silver test poor but on filtering showed like white
of egg in tube (unusual). Clearing iron out showed for gold the highest
yet made, being more pronounced with Fenosulphate than $1500 rock have
seen. Immense ledge of it & slightest estimate from test at least $10.
Did not tell Bud as keeping for surprise when he is able to visit ledge.
Very monotonous since Bud has been sick. Bud woke up & said Hell of a
Fourth & turned over & went to sleep again with mosquito net over head
to keep off flies. Burros came in after dark, all but Cora & Colt, which
arrived about midnight. Daddy gone since yesterday morning leaving no
trace.

July 5.

Miserable hot night. Burros trickled in sometime during night. Bud
better, managed to walk to big ledge after sundown. Suggests we call it
the Burro Lode. His idea of wit, claims we have occupied camp all summer
for sake of timing burros when they come to waterhole. Wish to call
it Columbia mine for patriotic reasons having found it on Fourth. Will
settle it soon so as to put up location. Put in 2 shots & pulpel samples
for assay. Rigged windows on shack to keep out bees, nats & flies &
mosquitoes. Bud objects because it keeps out air as well. Took them
off. Sick folks must be humored. Hot, miserable and sleepless. Bud very
restless.

July 6.

Cool wind makes weather endurable, but bees terrible in kitchen & around
water-hole. Flipped a dollar to settle name of big ledge. Bud won tails,
Burro lode. Must cultivate my sense of humor so as to see the joke. Bud
agrees to stay & help develop claim. Still very weak, puttered around
house all day cleaning & baking bread & stewing fruit which brought bees
by millions so we could not eat same till after dark when they subsided.
Bud got stung twice in kitchen. Very peevish & full of cuss. Says
positively must make trip to Bend & get cigarettes tomorrow or will blow
up whole outfit. Has already blowed up same several times today with no
damage. Burros came in about 5. Monte & Pete later, tied them up with
grain. Pete has very bad eye. Bud will ride Monte if not too hot for
trip. Still no sign of daddy, think must be dead or stolen though nobody
to steal same in country.

July 7.

Put in 2 shots on Burro Lode & got her down to required depth. Hot. Bud
finds old location on widow's claim, upturns all previous calculation
& information given me by her. Wrote letter explaining same, which Bud
will mail. Bud left 4 P.M. should make Bend by midnight. Much better but
still weak Burros came in late & hung around water hole. Put up monument
at Burro Lode. Sent off samples to assay at Tucson. Killed rattler near
shack, making 16 so far killed.

CHAPTER EIGHT. MANY BARREN MONTHS AND MILES

“Well, here come them darn burros, Cash. Cora's colt ain't with 'em
though. Poor little devils--say, Cash, they look like hard sleddin', and
that's a fact. I'll tell the world they've got about as much pep as a
flat tire.”

“Maybe we better grain 'em again.” Cash looked up from studying the
last assay report of the Burro Lode, and his look was not pleasant. “But
it'll cost a good deal, in both time and money. The feed around here is
played out.”

“Well, when it comes to that--” Bud cast a glum glance at the paper Cash
was holding.

“Yeah. Looks like everything's about played out. Promising ledge, too.
Like some people, though. Most all its good points is right on the
surface. Nothing to back it up.”

“She's sure running light, all right. Now,” Bud added sardonically, but
with the whimsical quirk withal, “if it was like a carburetor, and you
could give it a richer mixture--”

“Yeah. What do you make of it, Bud?”

“Well--aw, there comes that durn colt, bringing up the drag. Say Cash,
that colt's just about all in. Cora's nothing but a bag of bones, too.
They'll never winter--not on this range, they won't.”

Cash got up and went to the doorway, looking out over Bud's shoulder
at the spiritless donkeys trailing in to water. Beyond them the desert
baked in its rim of hot, treeless hills. Above them the sky glared a
brassy blue with never a could. Over a low ridge came Monte and Pete,
walking with heads drooping. Their hip bones lifted above their ridged
paunches, their backbones, peaked sharp above, their withers were lean
and pinched looking. In August the desert herbage has lost what little
succulence it ever possessed, and the gleanings are scarce worth the
walking after.

“They're pretty thin,” Cash observed speculatively, as though he was
measuring them mentally for some particular need.

“We'd have to grain 'em heavy till we struck better feed. And pack
light.” Bud answered his thought.

“The question is, where shall we head for, Bud? Have you any particular
idea?” Cash looked slightingly down at the assayer's report. “Such
as she is, we've done all we can do to the Burro Lode, for a year at
least,” he said. “The assessment work is all done--or will be when we
muck out after that last shot. The claim is filed--I don't know what
more we can do right away. Do you?”

“Sure thing,” grinned Bud. “We can get outa here and go some place where
it's green.”

“Yeah.” Cash meditated, absently eyeing the burros. “Where it's green.”
 He looked at the near hills, and at the desert, and at the dreary march
of the starved animals. “It's a long way to green country,” he said.

They looked at the burros.

“They're tough little devils,” Bud observed hopefully. “We could take
it easy, traveling when it's coolest. And by packing light, and graining
the whole bunch--”

“Yeah. We can ease 'em through, I guess. It does seem as though it would
be foolish to hang on here any longer.” Carefully as he made his tests,
Cash weighed the question of their going. “This last report kills any
chance of interesting capital to the extent of developing the claim on
a large enough scale to make it profitable. It's too long a haul to take
the ore out, and it's too spotted to justify any great investment in
machinery to handle it on the ground. And,” he added with an undernote
of fierceness, “it's a terrible place for man or beast to stay in,
unless the object to be attained is great enough to justify enduring the
hardships.”

“You said a mouthful, Cash. Well, can you leave your seven radishes and
three hunches of lettuce and pull out--say at daybreak?” Bud turned to
him with some eagerness.

Cash grinned sourly. “When it's time to go, seven radishes can't stop
me. No, nor a whole row of 'em--if there was a whole row.”

“And you watered 'em copiously too,” Bud murmured, with the corners
of his mouth twitching. “Well, I guess we might as well tie up the
livestock. I'm going to give 'em all a feed of rolled oats, Cash. We
can get along without, and they've got to have something to put a little
heart in 'em. There's a moon to-night--how about starting along
about midnight? That would put us in the Bend early in the forenoon
to-morrow.”

“Suits me,” said Cash. “Now I've made up my mind about going, I can't go
too soon.”

“You're on. Midnight sees us started.” Bud went out with ropes to catch
and tie up the burros and their two saddle horses. And as he went, for
the first time in two months he whistled; a detail which Cash noted with
a queer kind of smile.

Midnight and the moon riding high in the purple bowl of sky sprinkled
thick with stars; with a little, warm wind stirring the parched weeds as
they passed; with the burros shuffling single file along the dim trail
which was the short cut through the hills to the Bend, Ed taking the
lead, with the camp kitchen wabbling lumpily on his back, Cora bringing
up the rear with her skinny colt trying its best to keep up, and with
no pack at all; so they started on the long, long journey to the green
country.

A silent journey it was for the most part. The moon and the starry
bowl of sky had laid their spell upon the desert, and the two men rode
wordlessly, filled with vague, unreasoning regret that they must go.
Months they had spent with the desert, learning well every little
varying mood; cursing it for its blistering heat and its sand storms
and its parched thirst and its utter, blank loneliness. Loving it too,
without ever dreaming that they loved. To-morrow they would face the
future with the past dropping farther and farther behind. To-night it
rode with them.

Three months in that little, rough-walled hut had lent it an atmosphere
of home, which a man instinctively responds to with a certain clinging
affection, however crude may be the shelter he calls his own. Cash
secretly regretted the thirsty death of his radishes and lettuce which
he had planted and tended with such optimistic care. Bud wondered if
Daddy might not stray half-starved into the shack, and find them gone.
While they were there, he had agreed with Cash that the dog must be
dead. But now he felt uneasily doubtful It would be fierce if Daddy did
come back now. He would starve. He never could make the trip to the Bend
alone, even if he could track them.

There was, also, the disappointment in the Burro Lode claim. As Bud
planned it, the Burro was packing a very light load--far lighter than
had seemed possible with that strong indication on the surface. Cash's
“enormous black ledge” had shown less and less gold as they went into
it, though it still seemed worth while, if they had the capital to
develop it further. Wherefore they had done generous assessment work
and had recorded their claim and built their monuments to mark its
boundaries. It would be safe for a year, and by that time--Quien sabe?

The Thompson claim, too, had not justified any enthusiasm whatever. They
had found it, had relocated it, and worked out the assessment for the
widow. Cash had her check for all they had earned, and he had declared
profanely that he would not give his share of the check for the whole
claim.

They would go on prospecting, using the check for a grubstake, That much
they had decided without argument. The gambling instinct was wide awake
in Bud's nature--and as for Cash, he would hunt gold as long as he could
carry pick and pan. They would prospect as long as their money held out.
When that was gone, they would get more and go on prospecting. But
they would prospect in a green country where wood and water were not
so precious as in the desert and where, Cash averred, the chance of
striking it rich was just as good; better, because they could kill game
and make their grubstake last longer.

Wherefore they waited in Gila Bend for three days, to strengthen the
weakened animals with rest and good hay and grain. Then they took
again to the trail, traveling as lightly as they could, with food for
themselves and grain for the stock to last them until they reached
Needles. From there with fresh supplies they pushed on up to Goldfield,
found that camp in the throes of labor disputes, and went on to Tonopah.

There they found work for themselves and the burros, packing winter
supplies to a mine lying back in the hills. They made money at it,
and during the winter they made more. With the opening of spring they
outfitted again and took the trail, their goal the high mountains south
of Honey Lake. They did not hurry. Wherever the land they traveled
through seemed to promise gold, they would stop and prospect. Many a pan
of likely looking dirt they washed beside some stream where the burros
stopped to drink and feed a little on the grassy banks.

So, late in June, they reached Reno; outfitted and went on again,
traveling to the north, to the green country for which they yearned,
though now they were fairly in it and would have stopped if any tempting
ledge or bar had come in their way. They prospected every gulch that
showed any mineral signs at all. It was a carefree kind of life, with
just enough of variety to hold Bud's interest to the adventuring. The
nomad in him responded easily to this leisurely pilgrimage. There was no
stampede anywhere to stir their blood with the thought of quick wealth.
There was hope enough, on the other hand, to keep them going. Cash had
prospected and trapped for more than fifteen years now, and he preached
the doctrine of freedom and the great outdoors.

Of what use was a house and lot--and taxes and trouble with the
plumbing? he would chuckle. A tent and blankets and a frying pan
and grub; two good legs and wild country to travel; a gold pan and a
pick--these things, to Cash, spelled independence and the joy of living.
The burros and the two horses were luxuries, he declared. When they once
got located on a good claim they would sell off everything but a couple
of burros--Sway and Ed, most likely. The others would bring enough for a
winter grubstake, and would prolong their freedom and their independence
just that much. That is, supposing they did not strike a good claim
before then. Cash had learned, he said, to hope high but keep an eye on
the grubstake.

Late in August they came upon a mountain village perched beside a swift
stream and walled in on three sided by pine-covered mountains. A branch
railroad linked the place more or less precariously with civilization,
and every day--unless there was a washout somewhere, or a snowslide,
or drifts too deep--a train passed over the road. One day it would go
up-stream, and the next day it would come back. And the houses stood
drawn up in a row alongside the track to watch for these passings.

Miners came in with burros or with horses, packed flour and bacon and
tea and coffee across their middles, got drunk, perhaps as a parting
ceremony, and went away into the hills. Cash watched them for a day or
so; saw the size of their grubstakes, asked few questions and listened
to a good deal of small-town gossip, and nodded his head contentedly.
There was gold in these hills. Not enough, perhaps, to start a stampede
with--but enough to keep wise old hermits burrowing after it.

So one day Bud sold the two horses and one of the saddles, and Cash
bought flour and bacon and beans and coffee, and added other things
quite as desirable but not so necessary. Then they too went away into
the hills.

Fifteen miles from Alpine, as a cannon would shoot; high up in the
hills, where a creek flowed down through a saucerlike basin under
beetling ledges fringed all around with forest, they came, after much
wandering, upon an old log cabin whose dirt roof still held in spite of
the snows that heaped upon it through many a winter. The ledge showed
the scars of old prospect holes, and in the sand of the creek they found
“colors” strong enough to make it seem worth while to stop here--for
awhile, at least.

They cleaned out the cabin and took possession of it, and the next time
they went to town Cash made cautious inquiries about the place. It was,
he learned, an old abandoned claim. Abandoned chiefly because the old
miner who had lived there died one day, and left behind him all the
marks of having died from starvation, mostly. A cursory examination of
his few belongings had revealed much want, but no gold save a little
coarse dust in a small bottle.

“About enough to fill a rifle ca'tridge,” detailed the teller of the
tale. “He'd pecked around that draw for two, three year mebby. Never
showed no gold much, for all the time he spent there. Trapped some in
winter--coyotes and bobcats and skunks, mostly. Kinda off in the upper
story, old Nelson was. I guess he just stayed there because he happened
to light there and didn't have gumption enough to git out. Hills is full
of old fellers like him. They live off to the'rselves, and peck around
and git a pocket now and then that keeps 'm in grub and tobacco. If you
want to use the cabin, I guess nobody's goin' to care. Nelson never had
any folks, that anybody knows of. Nobody ever bothered about takin' up
the claim after he cashed in, either. Didn't seem worth nothin' much.
Went back to the gov'ment.”

“Trapped, you say. Any game around there now?”

“Oh, shore! Game everywhere in these hills, from weasels up to bear and
mountain lion. If you want to trap, that's as good a place as any, I
guess.”

So Cash and Bud sold the burros and bought traps and more supplies, and
two window sashes and a crosscut saw and some wedges and a double-bitted
axe, and settled down in Nelson Flat to find what old Dame Fortune had
tucked away in this little side pocket and forgotten.



CHAPTER NINE. THE BITE OF MEMORY

The heavy boom of a dynamite blast rolled across the fiat to the hills
that flung it back in a tardy echo like a spent ball of sound. A blob of
blue smoke curled out of a hole the size of a hogshead in a steep bank
overhung with alders. Outside, the wind caught the smoke and carried
streamers of it away to play with. A startled bluejay, on a limb high up
on the bank, lifted his slaty crest and teetered forward, clinging with
his toe nails to the branch while he scolded down at the men who had
scared him so. A rattle of clods and small rocks fell from their high
flight into the sweet air of a mountain sunset.

“Good execution, that was,” Cash remarked, craning his neck toward the
hole. “If you're a mind to go on ahead and cook supper, I'll stay and
see if we opened up anything. Or you can stay, just as you please.”

Dynamite smoke invariably made Bud's head ache splittingly. Cash was not
so susceptible. Bud chose the cooking, and went away down the flat, the
bluejay screaming insults after him. He was frying bacon when Cash came
in, a hatful of broken rock riding in the hollow of his arm.

“Got something pretty good here, Bud--if she don't turn out like that
dang Burro Lode ledge. Look here. Best looking quartz we've struck yet.
What do you think of it?”

He dumped the rock out on the oilcloth behind the sugar can and directly
under the little square window through which the sun was pouring a
lavish yellow flood of light before it dropped behind the peak. Bud set
the bacon back where it would not burn, and bent over the table to look.

“Gee, but it's heavy!” he cried, picking up a fragment the size of
an egg, and balancing it in his hands. “I don't know a lot about
gold-bearing quartz, but she looks good to me, all right.”

“Yeah. It is good, unless I'm badly mistaken. I'll test some after
supper. Old Nelson couldn't have used powder at all, or he'd have
uncovered enough of this, I should think, to show the rest what he had.
Or maybe he died just when he had started that hole. Seems queer he
never struck pay dirt in this flat. Well, let's eat if it's ready, Bud.
Then we'll see.”

“Seems kinda queer, don't it, Cash, that nobody stepped in and filed on
any claims here?” Bud dumped half a kettle of boiled beans into a basin
and set it on the table. “Want any prunes to-night, Cash?”

Cash did not want prunes, which was just as well, seeing there were none
cooked. He sat down and ate, with his mind and his eyes clinging to the
grayish, veined fragments of rock lying on the table beside his plate.

“We'll send some of that down to Sacramento right away,” he observed,
“and have it assayed. And we won't let out anything about it, Bud--good
or bad. I like this flat. I don't want it mucked over with a lot of
gold-crazy lunatics.”

Bud laughed and reached for the bacon. “We ain't been followed up with
stampedes so far,” he pointed out. “Burro Lode never caused a ripple in
the Bend, you recollect. And I'll tell a sinful world it looked awful
good, too.”

“Yeah. Well, Arizona's hard to excite. They've had so dang much
strenuosity all their lives, and then the climate's against violent
effort, either mental or physical. I was calm, perfectly calm when I
discovered that big ledge. It is just as well--seeing how it petered
out.”

“What'll you bet this pans out the same?”

“I never bet. No one but a fool will gamble.” Cash pressed his lips
together in a way that drove the color from there.

“Oh, yuh don't! Say, you're the king bee of all gamblers. Been
prospecting for fifteen years, according to you--and then you've got the
nerve to say you don't gamble!”

Cash ignored the charge. He picked up a piece of rock and held it to the
fading light. “It looks good,” he said again. “Better than that placer
ground down by the creek. That's all right, too. We can wash enough gold
there to keep us going while we develop this. That is, if this proves as
good as it looks.”

Bud looked across at him enigmatically. “Well, here's hoping she's worth
a million. You go ahead with your tests, Cash. I'll wash the dishes.”

“Of course,” Cash began to conserve his enthusiasm, “there's nothing so
sure as an assay. And it was too dark in the hole to see how much was
uncovered. This may be just a freak deposit. There may not be any real
vein of it. You can't tell until it's developed further. But it looks
good. Awful good.”

His makeshift tests confirmed his opinion. Bud started out next day with
three different samples for the assayer, and an air castle or two to
keep him company. He would like to find himself half owner of a mine
worth about a million, he mused. Maybe Marie would wish then that she
had thought twice about quitting him just on her mother's say-so. He'd
like to go buzzing into San Jose behind the wheel of a car like the one
Foster had fooled him into stealing. And meet Marie, and her mother
too, and let them get an eyeful. He guessed the old lady would have to
swallow what she had said about him being lazy--just because he couldn't
run an auto-stage in the winter to Big Basin! What was the matter with
the old woman, anyway? Didn't he keep Maria in comfort. Well, he'd like
to see her face when he drove along the street in a big new Sussex.
She'd wish she had let him and Marie alone. They would have made out all
right if they had been let alone. He ought to have taken Marie to some
other town, where her mother couldn't nag at her every day about him.
Marie wasn't such a bad kid, if she were left alone. They might have
been happy--

He tried then to shake himself free of thoughts of her. That was the
trouble with him, he brooded morosely. He couldn't let his thoughts ride
free, any more. They kept heading straight for Marie. He could not see
why she should cling so to his memory; he had not wronged her--unless
it was by letting her go without making a bigger fight for their home.
Still, she had gone of her own free will. He was the one that had been
wronged--why, hadn't they lied about him in court and to the gossipy
neighbors? Hadn't they broke him? No. If the mine panned out big as Cash
seemed to think was likely, the best thing he could do was steer clear
of San Jose. And whether it panned out or not, the best thing he could
do was forget that such girl as Marie had ever existed..

Which was all very well, as far as it went. The trouble was that
resolving not to think of Marie, calling up all the bitterness he could
muster against her memory, did no more toward blotting her image from
his mind than did the miles and the months he had put between them.

He reached the town in a dour mood of unrest, spite of the promise of
wealth he carried in his pocket. He mailed the package and the letter,
and went to a saloon and had a highball. He was not a drinking man--at
least, he never had been one, beyond a convivial glass or two with his
fellows--but he felt that day the need of a little push toward optimism.
In the back part of the room three men were playing freeze-out. Bud went
over and stood with his hands in his pockets and watched them, because
there was nothing else to do, and because he was still having some
trouble with his thoughts. He was lonely, without quite knowing what
ailed him. He hungered for friends to hail him with that cordial,
“Hello, Bud!” when they saw him coming.

No one in Alpine had said hello, Bud, when he came walking in that day.
The postmaster had given him one measuring glance when he had weighed
the package of ore, but he had not spoken except to name the amount of
postage required. The bartender had made some remark about the weather,
and had smiled with a surface friendliness that did not deceive Bud for
a moment. He knew too well that the smile was not for him, but for his
patronage.

He watched the game. And when the man opposite him pushed back his chair
and, looking up at Bud, asked if he wanted to sit in, Bud went and sat
down, buying a dollar's worth of chips as an evidence of his intention
to play. His interest in the game was not keen. He played for the
feeling it gave him of being one of the bunch, a man among his friends;
or if not friends, at least acquaintances. And, such was his varying
luck with the cards, he played for an hour or so without having won
enough to irritate his companions. Wherefore he rose from the table at
supper time calling one young fellow Frank quite naturally. They went to
the Alpine House and had supper together, and after that they sat in
the office and talked about automobiles for an hour, which gave Bud a
comforting sense of having fallen among friends.

Later they strolled over to a picture show which ran films two years
behind their first release, and charged fifteen cents for the privilege
of watching them. It was the first theater Bud had entered since he left
San Jose, and at the last minute he hesitated, tempted to turn back.
He hated moving pictures. They always had love scenes somewhere in the
story, and love scenes hurt. But Frank had already bought two tickets,
and it seemed unfriendly to turn back now. He went inside to the
jangling of a player-piano in dire need of a tuner's service, and sat
down near the back of the hall with his hat upon his lifted knees which
could have used more space between the seats.

While they waited for the program they talked in low tones, a mumble of
commonplaces. Bud forgot for the moment his distaste for such places,
and let himself slip easily back into the old thought channels, the
old habits of relaxation after a day's work was done. He laughed at
the one-reel comedy that had for its climax a chase of housemaids,
policemen, and outraged fruit vendors after a well-meaning but
unfortunate lover. He saw the lover pulled ignominiously out of a duck
pond and soused relentlessly into a watering trough, and laughed with
Frank and called it some picture.

He eyed a succession of “current events” long since gone stale out
where the world moved swifter than here in the mountains, and he felt
as though he had come once more into close touch with life. All the dull
months he had spent with Cash and the burros dwarfed into a pointless,
irrelevant incident of his life. He felt that he ought to be out in the
world, doing bigger things than hunting gold that somehow always
refused at the last minute to be found. He stirred restlessly. He was
free--there was nothing to hold him if he wanted to go. The war--he
believed he would go over and take a hand. He could drive an ambulance
or a truck--

Current Events, however, came abruptly to an end; and presently
Bud's vagrant, half-formed desire for achievement merged into biting
recollections. Here was a love drama, three reels of it. At first Bud
watched it with only a vague, disquieting sense of familiarity. Then
abruptly he recalled too vividly the time and circumstance of his first
sight of the picture. It was in San Jose, at the Liberty. He and Marie
had been married two days, and were living in that glamorous world of
the honeymoon, so poignantly sweet, so marvelous--and so fleeting. He
had whispered that the girl looked like her, and she had leaned heavily
against his shoulder. In the dusk of lowered lights their hands had
groped and found each other, and clung.

The girl did look like Marie. When she turned her head with that little
tilt of the chin, when she smiled, she was like Marie. Bud leaned
forward, staring, his brows drawn together, breathing the short, quick
breaths of emotion focussed upon one object, excluding all else. Once,
when Frank moved his body a little in the next seat, Bud's hand went out
that way involuntarily. The touch of Frank's rough coat sleeve recalled
him brutally, so that he drew away with a wincing movement as though he
had been hurt.

All those months in the desert; all those months of the slow journeying
northward; all the fought battles with memory, when he thought that he
had won--all gone for nothing, their slow anodyne serving but to sharpen
now the bite of merciless remembering. His hand shook upon his knee.
Small beads of moisture oozed out upon his forehead. He sat stunned
before the amazing revelation of how little time and distance had done
to heal his hurt.

He wanted Marie. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted her in
the old days, with a tenderness, an impulse to shield her from her own
weaknesses, her own mistakes. Then--in those old days--there had been
the glamor of mystery that is called romance. That was gone, worn away
by the close intimacies of matrimony. He knew her faults, he knew how
she looked when she was angry and petulant. He knew how little the real
Marie resembled the speciously amiable, altogether attractive Marie who
faced a smiling world when she went pleasuring. He knew, but--he wanted
her just the same. He wanted to tell her so many things about the
burros, and about the desert--things that would make her laugh, and
things that would make her blink back the tears. He was homesick for her
as he had never been homesick in his life before. The picture flickered
on through scene after scene that Bud did not see at all, though he was
staring unwinkingly at the screen all the while. The love scenes at the
last were poignantly real, but they passed before his eyes unnoticed.
Bud's mind was dwelling upon certain love scenes of his own. He was
feeling Marie's presence beside him there in the dusk.

“Poor kid--she wasn't so much to blame,” he muttered just above his
breath, when the screen was swept clean and blank at the end of the last
reel.

“Huh? Oh, he was the big mutt, right from the start,” Frank replied
with the assured air of a connoisseur. “He didn't have the brains of a
bluejay, or he'd have known all the time she was strong for him.”

“I guess that's right,” Bud mumbled, but he did not mean what Frank
thought he meant. “Let's go. I want a drink.”

Frank was willing enough; too willing, if the truth were known. They
went out into the cool starlight, and hurried across the side street
that was no more than a dusty roadway, to the saloon where they had
spent the afternoon. Bud called for whisky, and helped himself twice
from the bottle which the bartender placed between them. He did not
speak until the second glass was emptied, and then he turned to Frank
with a purple glare in his eyes.

“Let's have a game of pool or something,” he suggested.

“There's a good poker game going, back there,” vouchsafed the bartender,
turning his thumb toward the rear, where half a dozen men were gathered
in a close group around a table. “There's some real money in sight,
to-night.”

“All right, let's go see.” Bud turned that way, Frank following like a
pet dog at his heels.

At dawn the next morning, Bud got up stiffly from the chair where he
had spent the night. His eyeballs showed a network of tiny red veins,
swollen with the surge of alcohol in his blood and with the strain of
staring all night at the cards. Beneath his eyes were puffy ridges. His
cheekbones flamed with the whisky flush. He cashed in a double-handful
of chips, stuffed the money he had won into his coat pocket, walked,
with that stiff precision of gait by which a drunken man strives to
hide his drunkenness, to the bar and had another drink. Frank was at his
elbow. Frank was staggering, garrulous, laughing a great deal over very
small jokes.

“I'm going to bed,” said Bud, his tongue forming the words with a slow
carefulness.

“Come over to my shack, Bud--rotten hotel. My bed's clean, anyway.”
 Frank laughed and plucked him by the sleeve.

“All right,” Bud consented gravely. “We'll take a bottle along.”



CHAPTER TEN. EMOTIONS ARE TRICKY THINGS

A man's mind is a tricky thing--or, speaking more exactly, a man's
emotions are tricky things. Love has come rushing to the back of a
tip-tilted chin, or the tone of a voice, or the droop of an eyelid. It
has fled for cause as slight. Sometimes it runs before resentment for
a real or fancied wrong, but then, if you have observed it closely, you
will see that quite frequently, when anger grows slow of foot, or dies
of slow starvation, love steals back, all unsuspected and unbidden--and
mayhap causes much distress by his return. It is like a sudden
resurrection of all the loved, long-mourned dead that sleep so serenely
in their tended plots. Loved though they were and long mourned, think
of the consternation if they all came trooping back to take their old
places in life! The old places that have been filled, most of them, by
others who are loved as dearly, who would be mourned if they were taken
away.

Psychologists will tell us all about the subconscious mind, the
hidden loves and hates and longings which we believe are dead and long
forgotten. When one of those emotions suddenly comes alive and stands,
terribly real and intrusive, between our souls and our everyday lives,
the strongest and the best of us may stumble and grope blindly after
content, or reparation, or forgetfulness, or whatever seems most likely
to give relief.

I am apologizing now for Bud, who had spent a good many months in
pushing all thoughts of Marie out of his mind, all hunger for her out of
his heart. He had kept away from towns, from women, lest he be reminded
too keenly of his matrimonial wreck. He had stayed with Cash and had
hunted gold, partly because Cash never seemed conscious of any need of
a home or love or wife or children, and therefore never reminded Bud of
the home and the wife and the love and the child he had lost out of his
own life. Cash seldom mentioned women at all, and when he did it was
in a purely general way, as women touched some other subject he was
discussing. He never paid any attention to the children they met
casually in their travels. He seemed absolutely self-sufficient,
interested only in the prospect of finding a paying claim. What he would
do with wealth, if so be he attained it, he never seemed to know or
care. He never asked Bud any questions about his private affairs, never
seemed to care how Bud had lived, or where. And Bud thankfully left his
past behind the wall of silence. So he had come to believe that he was
almost as emotion-proof as Cash appeared to be, and had let it go at
that.

Now here he was, with his heart and his mind full of Marie--after more
than a year and a half of forgetting her! Getting drunk and playing
poker all night did not help him at all, for when he woke it was from a
sweet, intimate dream of her, and it was to a tormenting desire for her,
that gnawed at his mind as hunger gnaws at the stomach. Bud could not
understand it. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. By all
his simple rules of reckoning he ought to be “over it” by now. He had
been, until he saw that picture.

He was so very far from being over his trouble that he was under it; a
beaten dog wincing under the blows of memory, stung by the lash of his
longing. He groaned, and Frank thought it was the usual “morning after”
 headache, and laughed ruefully.

“Same here,” he said. “I've got one like a barrel, and I didn't punish
half the booze you did.”

Bud did not say anything, but he reached for the bottle, tilted it and
swallowed three times before he stopped.

“Gee!” whispered Frank, a little enviously.

Bud glanced somberly across at Frank, who was sitting by the stove with
his jaws between his palms and his hair toweled, regarding his guest
speculatively.

“I'm going to get drunk again,” Bud announced bluntly. “If you don't
want to, you'd better duck. You're too easy led--I saw that last night.
You follow anybody's lead that you happen to be with. If you follow my
lead to-day, you'll be petrified by night. You better git, and let me go
it alone.”

Frank laughed uneasily. “Aw, I guess you ain't all that fatal, Bud.
Let's go over and have some breakfast--only it'll be dinner.”

“You go, if you want to.” Bud tilted the bottle again, his eyes half
closed while he swallowed. When he had finished, he shuddered violently
at the taste of the whisky. He got up, went to the water bucket and
drank half a dipper of water. “Good glory! I hate whisky,” he grumbled.
“Takes a barrel to have any effect on me too.” He turned and looked down
at Frank with a morose kind of pity. “You go on and get your breakfast,
kid. I don't want any. I'll stay here for awhile.”

He sat down on the side of the cheap, iron bedstead, and emptied his
pockets on the top quilt. He straightened the crumpled bills and counted
them, and sorted the silver pieces. All told, he had sixty-three dollars
and twenty cents. He sat fingering the money absently, his mind upon
other things. Upon Marie and the baby, to be exact. He was fighting the
impulse to send Marie the money. She might need it for the kid. If he
was sure her mother wouldn't get any of it... A year and a half was
quite a while, and fifteen hundred dollars wasn't much to live on these
days. She couldn't work, with the baby on her hands...

Frank watched him curiously, his jaws still resting between his two
palms, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, his lips loose and trembling.
A dollar alarm clock ticked resonantly, punctuated now and then by the
dull clink of silver as Bud lifted a coin and let it drop on the little
pile.

“Pretty good luck you had last night,” Frank ventured wishfully. “They
cleaned me.”

Bud straightened his drooping shoulders and scooped the money into his
hand. He laughed recklessly, and got up. “We'll try her another whirl,
and see if luck'll bring luck. Come on--let's go hunt up some of them
marks that got all the dough last night. We'll split, fifty-fifty, and
the same with what we win. Huh?”

“You're on, ho--let's go.” Bud had gauged him correctly--Frank would
follow any one who would lead. He got up and came to the table where Bud
was dividing the money into two equal sums, as nearly as he could make
change. What was left over--and that was the three dollars and twenty
cents--he tossed into the can of tobacco on a shelf.

“We'll let that ride--to sober up on, if we go broke,” he grunted. “Come
on--let's get action.”

Action, of a sort, they proceeded to get. Luck brought luck of the same
complexion. They won in fluctuating spells of good cards and judicious
teamwork. They did not cheat, though Frank was ready if Bud had led him
that way. Frank was ready for anything that Bud suggested. He drank when
Bud drank, went from the first saloon to the one farther down and
across the street, returned to the first with cheerful alacrity and much
meaningless laughter when Bud signified a desire to change. It soothed
Bud and irritated him by turns, this ready acquiescence of Frank's. He
began to take a malicious delight in testing that acquiescence. He began
to try whether he could not find the end of Frank's endurance in staying
awake, his capacity for drink, his good nature, his credulity--he ran
the scale of Frank's various qualifications, seeking always to establish
a well-defined limitation somewhere.

But Frank was utterly, absolutely plastic. He laughed and drank when Bud
suggested that they drink. He laughed and played whatever game Bud urged
him into. He laughed and agreed with Bud when Bud made statements to
test the credulity of anyman. He laughed and said, “Sure. Let's go!” when
Bud pined for a change of scene.

On the third day Bud suddenly stopped in the midst of a game of pool
which neither was steady enough to play, and gravely inspected the
chalked end of his cue.

“That's about enough of this,” he said. “We're drunk. We're so drunk we
don't know a pocket from a prospect hole. I'm tired of being a hog. I'm
going to go get another drink and sober up. And if you're the dog Fido
you've been so far, you'll do the same.” He leaned heavily upon the
table, and regarded Frank with stern, bloodshot blue eyes.

Frank laughed and slid his cue the length of the table. He also leaned a
bit heavily. “Sure,” he said. “I'm ready, any time you are.”

“Some of these days,” Bud stated with drunken deliberation, “they'll
take and hang you, Frank, for being such an agreeable cuss.” He took
Frank gravely by the arm and walked him to the bar, paid for two beers
with almost his last dollar, and, still holding Frank firmly, walked him
out of doors and down the street to Frank's cabin. He pushed him inside
and stood looking in upon him with a sour appraisement.

“You are the derndest fool I ever run across--but at that you're a good
scout too,” he informed Frank. “You sober up now, like I said. You ought
to know better 'n to act the way you've been acting. I'm sure ashamed
of you, Frank. Adios--I'm going to hit the trail for camp.” With that
he pulled the door shut and walked away, with that same circumspect
exactness in his stride which marks the drunken man as surely as does a
stagger.

He remembered what it was that had brought him to town--which is more
than most men in his condition would have done. He went to the post
office and inquired for mail, got what proved to be the assayer's
report, and went on. He bought half a dozen bananas which did not
remind him of that night when he had waited on the Oakland pier for the
mysterious Foster, though they might have recalled the incident vividly
to mind had he been sober. He had been wooing forgetfulness, and for the
time being he had won.

Walking up the steep, winding trail that led to Nelson Flat cleared a
little his fogged brain. He began to remember what it was that he had
been fighting to forget. Marie's face floated sometimes before him, but
the vision was misty and remote, like distant woodland seen through
the gray film of a storm. The thought of her filled him with a vague
discomfort now when his emotions were dulled by the terrific strain
he had wilfully put upon brain and body. Resentment crept into the
foreground again. Marie had made him suffer. Marie was to blame for this
beastly fit of intoxication. He did not love Marie--he hated her. He
did not want to see her, he did not want to think of her. She had done
nothing for him but bring him trouble. Marie, forsooth! (Only, Bud put
it in a slightly different way.)

Halfway to the flat, he met Cash walking down the slope where the trail
seemed tunneled through deep green, so thick stood the young spruce.
Cash was swinging his arms in that free stride of the man who has
learned how to walk with the least effort. He did not halt when he
saw Bud plodding slowly up the trail, but came on steadily, his keen,
blue-gray eyes peering sharply from beneath his forward tilted hat brim.
He came up to within ten feet of Bud, and stopped.

“Well!” He stood eyeing Bud appraisingly, much as Bud had eyed Frank a
couple of hours before. “I was just starting out to see what had become
of you,” he added, his voice carrying the full weight of reproach that
the words only hinted at.

“Well, get an eyeful, if that's what you come for. I'm here--and
lookin's cheap.” Bud's anger flared at the disapproval he read in Cash's
eyes, his voice, the set of his lips.

But Cash did not take the challenge. “Did the report come?” he asked, as
though that was the only matter worth discussing.

Bud pulled the letter sullenly from his pocket and gave it to Cash. He
stood moodily waiting while Cash opened and read and returned it.

“Yeah. About what I thought--only it runs lighter in gold, with a higher
percentage of copper. It'll pay to go on and see what's at bed rock. If
the copper holds up to this all along, we'll be figuring on the gold to
pay for getting the copper. This is copper country, Bud. Looks like we'd
found us a copper mine.” He turned and walked on beside Bud. “I dug in
to quite a rich streak of sand while you was gone,” he volunteered after
a silence. “Coarse gold, as high as fifteen cents a pan. I figure we
better work that while the weather's good, and run our tunnel in on this
other when snow comes.”

Bud turned his head and looked at Cash intently for a minute. “I've been
drunker'n a fool for three days,” he announced solemnly.

“Yeah. You look it,” was Cash's dry retort, while he stared straight
ahead, up the steep, shadowed trail.



CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE FIRST STAGES

For a month Bud worked and forced himself to cheerfulness, and tried to
forget. Sometimes it was easy enough, but there were other times when
he must get away by himself and walk and walk, with his rifle over his
shoulder as a mild pretense that he was hunting game. But if he brought
any back camp it was because the game walked up and waited to be shot;
half the time Bud did not know where he was going, much less whether
there were deer within ten rods or ten miles.

During those spells of heartsickness he would sit all the evening and
smoke and stare at some object which his mind failed to register. Cash
would sit and watch him furtively; but Bud was too engrossed with his
own misery to notice it. Then, quite unexpectedly, reaction would come
and leave Bud in a peace that was more than half a torpid refusal of his
mind to worry much over anything.

He worked then, and talked much with Cash, and made plans for the
development of their mine. In that month they had come to call it a
mine, and they had filed and recorded their claim, and had drawn up an
agreement of partnership in it. They would “sit tight” and work on it
through the winter, and when spring came they hoped to have something
tangible upon which to raise sufficient capital to develop it properly.
Or, times when they had done unusually well with their sandbank, they
would talk optimistically about washing enough gold out of that claim to
develop the other, and keep the title all in their own hands.

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.

Bud was not a pretty sight. Four days and nights of trying to see how
much whisky he could drink, and how long he could play poker without
going to sleep or going broke, had left their mark on his face and
his trembling hands. His eyes were puffy and red, and his cheeks were
mottled, and his lips were fevered and had lost any sign of a humorous
quirk at the corners. He looked ugly; as if he would like nothing better
than an excuse to quarrel with Cash--since Cash was the only person at
hand to quarrel with.

But Cash had not knocked around the world for nothing. He had seen men
in that mood before, and he had no hankering for trouble which is vastly
easier to start than it is to stop. He paid no attention to Bud. He
made his loaves, tucked them into the pan and greased the top with bacon
grease saved in a tomato can for such use. He set the pan on a shelf
behind the stove, covered it with a clean flour sack, opened the stove
door, and slid in two sticks.

“She's getting cold,” he observed casually. “It'll be winter now before
we know it.”

Bud grunted, pulled an empty box toward him by the simple expedient of
hooking his toes behind the corner, and sat down. He set his elbows on
his thighs and buried his face in his hands. His hat dropped off
his head and lay crown down beside him. He made a pathetic figure of
miserable manhood, of strength mistreated. His fine, brown hair fell
in heavy locks down over his fingers that rested on his forehead. Five
minutes so, and he lifted his head and glanced around him apathetically.
“Gee-man-ee, I've got a headache!” he muttered, dropping his forehead
into his spread palms again.

Cash hesitated, derision hiding in the back of his eyes. Then he pushed
the dented coffeepot forward on the stove.

“Try a cup of coffee straight,” he said unemotionally, “and then lay
down. You'll sleep it off in a few hours.”

Bud did not look up, or make any move to show that he heard. But
presently he rose and went heavily over to his bunk. “I don't want any
darn coffee,” he growled, and sprawled himself stomach down on the bed,
with his face turned from the light.

Cash eyed him coldly, with the corner of his upper lip lifted a little.
Whatever weaknesses he possessed, drinking and gambling had no place in
the list. Nor had he any patience with those faults in others. Had Bud
walked down drunk to Cash's camp, that evening when they first met, he
might have received a little food doled out to him grudgingly, but
he assuredly would not have slept in Cash's bed that night. That he
tolerated drunkenness in Bud now would have been rather surprising to
any one who knew Cash well. Perhaps he had a vague understanding of the
deeps through which Bud was struggling, and so was constrained to hide
his disapproval, hoping that the moral let-down was merely a temporary
one.

He finished his strictly utilitarian household labor and went off up the
flat to the sluice boxes. Bud had not moved from his first position on
the bed, but he did not breathe like a sleeping man. Not at first; after
an hour or so he did sleep, heavily and with queer, muddled dreams that
had no sequence and left only a disturbed sense of discomfort behind
then.

At noon or a little after Cash returned to the cabin, cast a sour look
of contempt at the recumbent Bud, and built a fire in the old cookstove.
He got his dinner, ate it, and washed his dishes with never a word
to Bud, who had wakened and lay with his eyes half open, sluggishly
miserable and staring dully at the rough spruce logs of the wall.

Cash put on his cap, looked at Bud and gave a snort, and went off again
to his work. Bud lay still for awhile longer, staring dully at the wall.
Finally he raised up, swung his feet to the floor, and sat there staring
around the little cabin as though he had never before seen it.

“Huh! You'd think, the way he highbrows me, that Cash never done wrong
in his life! Tin angel, him--I don't think. Next time, I'll tell a
pinheaded world I'll have to bring home a quart or two, and put on a
show right!”

Just what he meant by that remained rather obscure, even to Bud. He
got up, shut his eyes very tight and then opened them wide to clear his
vision, shook himself into his clothes and went over to the stove.
Cash had not left the coffeepot on the stove but had, with malicious
intent--or so Bud believed--put it away on the shelf so that what coffee
remained was stone cold. Bud muttered and threw out the coffee, grounds
and all--a bit of bachelor extravagance which only anger could drive him
to--and made fresh coffee, and made it strong. He did not want it. He
drank it for the work of physical regeneration it would do for him.

He lay down afterwards, and this time he dropped into a more nearly
normal sleep, which lasted until Cash returned at dusk After that he lay
with his face hidden, awake and thinking. Thinking, for the most part,
of how dull and purposeless life was, and wondering why the world
was made, or the people in it--since nobody was happy, and few even
pretended to be. Did God really make the world, and man, just to play
with--for a pastime? Then why bother about feeling ashamed for anything
one did that was contrary to God's laws?

Why be puffed up with pride for keeping one or two of them
unbroken--like Cash, for instance. Just because Cash never drank or
played cards, what right had he to charge the whole atmosphere of the
cabin with his contempt and his disapproval of Bud, who chose to do
both?

On the other hand, why did he choose a spree as a relief from his
particular bunch of ghosts? Trading one misery for another was all
you could call it. Doing exactly the things that Marie's mother had
predicted he would do, committing the very sins that Marie was always
a little afraid he would commit--there must be some sort of twisted
revenge in that, he thought, but for the life of him he could not quite
see any real, permanent satisfaction in it--especially since Marie and
her mother would never get to hear of it.

For that matter, he was not so sure that they would not get to hear.
He remembered meeting, just on the first edge of his spree, one Joe De
Barr, a cigar salesman whom he had known in San Jose. Joe knew Marie--in
fact, Joe had paid her a little attention before Bud came into her life.
Joe had been in Alpine between trains, taking orders for goods from the
two saloons and the hotel. He had seen Bud drinking. Bud knew perfectly
well how much Joe had seen him drinking, and he knew perfectly well
that Joe was surprised to the point of amazement--and, Bud suspected,
secretly gratified as well. Wherefore Bud had deliberately done what
he could do to stimulate and emphasize both the surprise and the
gratification. Why is it that most human beings feel a sneaking
satisfaction in the downfall of another? Especially another who is, or
has been at sometime, a rival in love or in business?

Bud had no delusions concerning Joe De Barr. If Joe should happen to
meet Marie, he would manage somehow to let her know that Bud was going
to the dogs--on the toboggan--down and out--whatever it suited Joe to
declare him. It made Bud sore now to think of Joe standing so smug and
so well dressed and so immaculate beside the bar, smiling and twisting
the ends of his little brown mustache while he watched Bud make such
a consummate fool of himself. At the time, though, Bud had taken a
perverse delight in making himself appear more soddenly drunken, more
boisterous and reckless than he really was.

Oh, well, what was the odds? Marie couldn't think any worse of him than
she already thought. And whatever she thought, their trails had parted,
and they would never cross again--not if Bud could help it. Probably
Marie would say amen to that. He would like to know how she was getting
along--and the baby, too. Though the baby had never seemed quite real
to Bud, or as if it were a permanent member of the household. It was a
leather-lunged, red-faced, squirming little mite, and in his heart of
hearts Bud had not felt as though it belonged to him at all. He had
never rocked it, for instance, or carried it in his arms. He had been
afraid he might drop it, or squeeze it too hard, or break it somehow
with his man's strength. When he thought of Marie he did not necessarily
think of the baby, though sometimes he did, wondering vaguely how much
it had grown, and if it still hollered for its bottle, all hours of the
day and night.

Coming back to Marie and Joe--it was not at all certain that they would
meet; or that Joe would mention him, even if they did. A wrecked home is
always a touchy subject, so touchy that Joe had never intimated in his
few remarks to Bud that there had ever been a Marie, and Bud, drunk
as he had been, was still not too drunk to hold back the question that
clamored to be spoken.

Whether he admitted it to himself or not, the sober Bud Moore who lay on
his bunk nursing a headache and a grouch against the world was ashamed
of the drunken Bud Moore who had paraded his drunkenness before the man
who knew Marie. He did not want Marie to hear what Joe might tell There
was no use, he told himself miserably, in making Marie despise him as
well as hate him. There was a difference. She might think him a brute,
and she might accuse him of failing to be a kind and loving husband; but
she could not, unless Joe told of his spree, say that she had ever heard
of his carousing around. That it would be his own fault if she did hear,
served only to embitter his mood.

He rolled over and glared at Cash, who had cooked his supper and was
sitting down to eat it alone. Cash was looking particularly misanthropic
as he bent his head to meet the upward journey of his coffee cup, and
his eyes, when they lifted involuntarily with Bud's sudden movement, had
still that hard look of bottled-up rancor that had impressed itself upon
Bud earlier in the day.

Neither man spoke, or made any sign of friendly recognition. Bud would
not have talked to any one in his present state of self-disgust, but for
all that Cash's silence rankled. A moment their eyes met and held; then
with shifted glances the souls of them drew apart--farther apart than
they had ever been, even when they quarreled over Pete, down in Arizona.

When Cash had finished and was filing his pipe, Bud got up and reheated
the coffee, and fried more bacon and potatoes, Cash having cooked just
enough for himself. Cash smoked and gave no heed, and Bud retorted by
eating in silence and in straightway washing his own cup, plate, knife,
and fork and wiping clean the side of the table where he always sat. He
did not look at Cash, but he felt morbidly that Cash was regarding him
with that hateful sneer hidden under his beard. He knew that it was
silly to keep that stony silence, but he kept telling himself that if
Cash wanted to talk, he had a tongue, and it was not tied. Besides,
Cash had registered pretty plainly his intentions and his wishes when he
excluded Bud from his supper.

It was a foolish quarrel, but it was that kind of foolish quarrel which
is very apt to harden into a lasting one.



CHAPTER TWELVE. MARIE TAKES A DESPERATE CHANCE

Domestic wrecks may be a subject taboo in polite conversation, but Joe
De Barr was not excessively polite, and he had, moreover, a very likely
hope that Marie would yet choose to regard him with more favor than she
had shown in the past. He did not chance to see her at once, but as soon
as his work would permit he made it a point to meet her. He went about
it with beautiful directness. He made bold to call her up on “long
distance” from San Francisco, told her that he would be in San Jose that
night, and invited her to a show.

Marie accepted without enthusiasm--and her listlessness was not lost
over forty miles of telephone wire. Enough of it seeped to Joe's ears
to make him twist his mustache quite furiously when he came out of the
telephone booth. If she was still stuck on that fellow Bud, and couldn't
see anybody else, it was high time she was told a few things about him.
It was queer how a nice girl like Marie would hang on to some cheap
guy like Bud Moore. Regular fellows didn't stand any show--unless
they played what cards happened to fall their way. Joe, warned by her
indifference, set himself very seriously to the problem of playing his
cards to the best advantage.

He went into a flower store--disdaining the banked loveliness upon the
corners--and bought Marie a dozen great, heavy-headed chrysanthemums,
whose color he could not name to save his life, so called them pink and
let it go at that. They were not pink, and they were not sweet--Joe held
the bunch well away from his protesting olfactory nerves which were not
educated to tantalizing odors--but they were more expensive than roses,
and he knew that women raved over them. He expected Marie to rave over
them, whether she liked them or not.

Fortified by these, groomed and perfumed and as prosperous looking as a
tobacco salesman with a generous expense account may be, he went to San
Jose on an early evening train that carried a parlor car in which Joe
made himself comfortable. He fooled even the sophisticated porter
into thinking him a millionaire, wherefore he arrived in a glow of
self-esteem, which bred much optimism.

Marie was impressed--at least with his assurance and the chrysanthemums,
over which she was sufficiently enthusiastic to satisfy even Joe. Since
he had driven to the house in a hired automobile, he presently had the
added satisfaction of handing Marie into the tonneau as though she were
a queen entering the royal chariot, and of ordering the driver to take
them out around the golf links, since it was still very early. Then,
settling back with what purported to be a sigh of bliss, he regarded
Marie sitting small and still and listless beside him. The glow of the
chrysanthemums had already faded. Marie, with all the girlish prettiness
she had ever possessed, and with an added charm that was very elusive
and hard to analyze, seemed to have lost all of her old animation.

Joe tried the weather, and the small gossip of the film world, and a
judiciously expurgated sketch of his life since he had last seen her.
Marie answered him whenever his monologue required answer, but she was
unresponsive, uninterested--bored. Joe twisted his mustache, eyed her
aslant and took the plunge.

“I guess joy-ridin' kinda calls up old times, ay?” he began insidiously.
“Maybe I shouldn't have brought you out for a ride; maybe it brings back
painful memories, as the song goes.”

“Oh, no,” said Marie spiritlessly. “I don't see why it should.”

“No? Well, that's good to hear you say so, girlie. I was kinda afraid
maybe trouble had hit you hard. A sensitive, big-hearted little person
like you. But if you've put it all outa your mind, why, that's where
you're dead right. Personally, I was glad to see you saw where you'd
made a mistake, and backed up. That takes grit and brains. Of course, we
all make mistakes--you wasn't to blame--innocent little kid like you--”

“Yes,” said Marie, “I guess I made a mistake, all right.”

“Sure! But you seen it and backed up. And a good thing you did. Look
what he'd of brought you to by now, if you'd stuck!”

Marie tilted back her head and looked up at the tall row of eucalyptus
trees feathered against the stars. “What?” she asked uninterestedly.

“Well--I don't want to knock, especially a fellow that's on the toboggan
already. But I know a little girl that's aw-fully lucky, and I'm honest
enough to say so.”

“Why?” asked Marie obligingly. “Why--in particular?”

“Why in particular?” Joe leaned toward her. “Say, you must of heard how
Bud's going to the dogs. If you haven't, I don't want--”

“No, I hadn't heard,” said Marie, looking up at the Big Dipper so that
her profile, dainty and girlish still, was revealed like a cameo to Joe.
“Is he? I love to watch the stars, don't you?”

“I love to watch a star,” Joe breathed softly. “So you hadn't heard how
Bud's turned out to be a regular souse? Honest, didn't you know it?”

“No, I didn't know it,” said Marie boredly. “Has he?”

“Well, say! You couldn't tell it from the real thing! Believe me, Bud's
some pickled bum, these days. I run across him up in the mountains, a
month or so ago. Honest, I was knocked plumb silly--much as I knew about
Bud that you never knew, I never thought he'd turn out quite so--” Joe
paused, with a perfect imitation of distaste for his subject. “Say, this
is great, out here,” he murmured, tucking the robe around her with
that tender protectiveness which stops just short of being proprietary.
“Honest, Marie, do you like it?”

“Why, sure, I like it, Joe.” Marie smiled at him in the star-light.
“It's great, don't you think? I don't get out very often, any more. I'm
working, you know--and evenings and Sundays baby takes up all my time.”

“You working? Say, that's a darned shame! Don't Bud send you any money?”

“He left some,” said Marie frankly. “But I'm keeping that for baby, when
he grows up and needs it. He don't send any.”

“Well, say! As long as he's in the State, you can make him dig up. For
the kid's support, anyway. Why don't you get after him?”

Marie looked down over the golf links, as the car swung around the long
curve at the head of the slope. “I don't know where he is,” she said
tonelessly. “Where did you see him, Joe?”

Joe's hesitation lasted but long enough for him to give his mustache end
a twist. Marie certainly seemed to be well “over it.” There could be no
harm in telling.

“Well, when I saw him he was at Alpine; that's a little burg up in the
edge of the mountains, on the W. P. He didn't look none too prosperous,
at that. But he had money--he was playing poker and that kind of thing.
And he was drunk as a boiled owl, and getting drunker just as fast as
he knew how. Seemed to be kind of a stranger there; at least he didn't
throw in with the bunch like a native would. But that was more than a
month ago, Marie. He might not be there now. I could write up and find
out for you.”

Marie settled back against the cushions as though she had already
dismissed the subject from her mind.

“Oh, don't bother about it, Joe. I don't suppose he's got any money,
anyway. Let's forget him.”

“You said it, Marie. Stacked up to me like a guy that's got just enough
dough for a good big souse. He ain't hard to forget--is he, girlie?”

Marie laughed assentingly. And if she did not quite attain her old
bubbling spirits during the evening, at least she sent Joe back to San
Francisco feeling very well satisfied with himself. He must have been
satisfied with himself. He must have been satisfied with his wooing
also, because he strolled into a jewelry store the next morning and
priced several rings which he judged would be perfectly suitable for
engagement rings. He might have gone so far as to buy one, if he had
been sure of the size and of Marie's preference in stones. Since he
lacked detailed information, he decided to wait, but he intimated
plainly to the clerk that he would return in a few days.

It was just as well that he did decide to wait, for when he tried again
to see Marie he failed altogether. Marie had left town. Her mother, with
an acrid tone of resentment, declared that she did not know any
more than the man in the moon where Marie had gone, but that she
“suspicioned” that some fool had told Marie where Bud was, and that
Marie had gone traipsing after him. She had taken the baby along, which
was another piece of foolishness which her mother would never have
permitted had she been at home when Marie left.

Joe did not take the matter seriously, though he was disappointed at
having made a fruitless trip to San Jose. He did not believe that
Marie had done anything more than take a vacation from her mother's
sharp-tongued rule, and for that he could not blame her, after having
listened for fifteen minutes to the lady's monologue upon the subject
of selfish, inconsiderate, ungrateful daughters. Remembering Marie's
attitude toward Bud, he did not believe that she had gone hunting him.

Yet Marie had done that very thing. True, she had spent a sleepless
night fighting the impulse, and a harassed day trying to make up her
mind whether to write first, or whether to go and trust to the element
of surprise to help plead her cause with Bud; whether to take Lovin
Child with her, or leave him with her mother.

She definitely decided to write Bud a short note and ask him if he
remembered having had a wife and baby, once upon a time, and if he never
wished that he had them still. She wrote the letter, crying a
little over it along toward the last, as women will. But it sounded
cold-blooded and condemnatory. She wrote another, letting a little
of her real self into the lines. But that sounded sentimental and
moving-pictury, and she knew how Bud hated cheap sentimentalism.

So she tore them both up and put them in the little heating stove,
and lighted a match and set them burning, and watched them until they
withered down to gray ash, and then broke up the ashes and scattered
them amongst the cinders. Marie, you must know, had learned a good many
things, one of which was the unwisdom of whetting the curiosity of a
curious woman.

After that she proceeded to pack a suit case for herself and Lovin
Child, seizing the opportunity while her mother was visiting a friend
in Santa Clara. Once the packing was began, Marie worked with a feverish
intensity of purpose and an eagerness that was amazing, considering her
usual apathy toward everything in her life as she was living it.

Everything but Lovin Child. Him she loved and gloried in. He was like
Bud--so much like him that Marie could not have loved him so much if she
had managed to hate Bud as she tried sometimes to hate him. Lovin Child
was a husky youngster, and he already had the promise of being as tall
and straight-limbed and square-shouldered as his father. Deep in his
eyes there lurked always a twinkle, as though he knew a joke that would
make you laugh--if only he dared tell it; a quizzical, secretly
amused little twinkle, as exactly like Bud's as it was possible for
a two-year-old twinkle to be. To go with the twinkle, he had a quirky
little smile. And to better the smile, he had the jolliest little
chuckle that ever came through a pair of baby lips.

He came trotting up to the suit case which Marie had spread wide open on
the bed, stood up on his tippy toes, and peered in. The quirky smile was
twitching his lips, and the look he turned toward Marie's back was full
of twinkle. He reached into the suit case, clutched a clean handkerchief
and blew his nose with solemn precision; put the handkerchief back all
crumpled, grabbed a silk stocking and drew it around his neck, and was
straining to reach his little red Brownie cap when Marie turned and
caught him up in her arms.

“No, no, Lovin Child! Baby mustn't. Marie is going to take her lovin'
baby boy to find--” She glanced hastily over her shoulder to make sure
there was no one to hear, buried her face in the baby's fat neck and
whispered the wonder, “--to find hims daddy Bud! Does Lovin Man want
to see hims daddy Bud? I bet he does want! I bet hims daddy Bud will
be glad--Now you sit right still, and Marie will get him a cracker, an'
then he can watch Marie pack him little shirt, and hims little bunny
suit, and hims wooh-wooh, and hims 'tockins--”

It is a pity that Bud could not have seen the two of them in the next
hour, wherein Marie flew to her hopeful task of packing her suit case,
and Lovin Child was quite as busy pulling things out of it, and getting
stepped on, and having to be comforted, and insisting upon having on
his bunny suit, and then howling to go before Marie was ready. Bud would
have learned enough to ease the ache in his heart--enough to humble him
and fill him with an abiding reverence for a love that will live, as
Marie's had lived, on bitterness and regret.

Nearly distracted under the lash of her own eagerness and the fear that
her mother would return too soon and bully her into giving up her wild
plan, Marie, carrying Lovin Child on one arm and lugging the suit case
in the other hand, and half running, managed to catch a street car and
climb aboard all out of breath and with her hat tilted over one ear.
She deposited the baby on the seat beside her, fumbled for a nickel,
and asked the conductor pantingly if she would be in time to catch the
four-five to the city. It maddened her to watch the bored deliberation
of the man as he pulled out his watch and regarded it meditatively.

“You'll catch it--if you're lucky about your transfer,” he said, and
rang up her fare and went off to the rear platform, just as if it were
not a matter of life and death at all. Marie could have shaken him for
his indifference; and as for the motorman, she was convinced that he ran
as slow as he dared, just to drive her crazy. But even with these two
inhuman monsters doing their best to make her miss the train, and with
the street car she wanted to transfer to running off and leaving her at
the very last minute, and with Lovin Child suddenly discovering that he
wanted to be carried, and that he emphatically did not want her to carry
the suit case at all, Marie actually reached the depot ahead of the
four-five train. Much disheveled and flushed with nervousness and her
exertions, she dragged Lovin Child up the steps by one arm, found a seat
in the chair car and, a few minutes later, suddenly realized that she
was really on her way to an unknown little town in an unknown part of
the country, in quest of a man who very likely did not want to be found
by her.

Two tears rolled down her cheeks, and were traced to the corners of her
mouth by the fat, investigative finger of Lovin Child before Marie could
find her handkerchief and wipe them away. Was any one in this world
ever so utterly, absolutely miserable? She doubted it. What if she found
Bud--drunk, as Joe had described him? Or, worse than that, what if she
did not find him at all? She tried not to cry, but it seemed as though
she must cry or scream. Fast as she wiped them away, other tears dropped
over her eyelids upon her cheeks, and were given the absorbed attention
of Lovin Child, who tried to catch each one with his finger. To distract
him, she turned him around face to the window.

“See all the--pitty cows,” she urged, her lips trembling so much that
they would scarcely form the words. And when Lovin Child flattened a
finger tip against the window and chuckled, and said “Ee? Ee?”--which
was his way of saying see--Marie dropped her face down upon his fuzzy
red “bunny” cap, hugged him close to her, and cried, from sheer, nervous
reaction.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN. CABIN FEVER IN THE WORST FORM

Bud Moore woke on a certain morning with a distinct and well-defined
grouch against the world as he had found it; a grouch quite different
from the sullen imp of contrariness that had possessed him lately. He
did not know just what had caused the grouch, and he did not care. He
did know, however, that he objected to the look of Cash's overshoes that
stood pigeon-toed beside Cash's bed on the opposite side of the room,
where Bud had not set his foot for three weeks and more. He disliked the
audible yawn with which Cash manifested his return from the deathlike
unconsciousness of sleep. He disliked the look of Cash's rough coat and
sweater and cap, that hung on a nail over Cash's bunk. He disliked the
thought of getting up in the cold--and more, the sure knowledge that
unless he did get up, and that speedily, Cash would be dressed ahead of
him, and starting a fire in the cookstove. Which meant that Cash would
be the first to cook and eat his breakfast, and that the warped ethics
of their dumb quarrel would demand that Bud pretend to be asleep until
Cash had fried his bacon and his hotcakes and had carried them to his
end of the oilcloth-covered table.

When, by certain well-known sounds, Bud was sure that Cash was eating,
he could, without loss of dignity or without suspicion of making
any overtures toward friendliness, get up and dress and cook his own
breakfast, and eat it at his own end of the table. Bud wondered how long
Cash, the old fool, would sulk like that. Not that he gave a darn--he
just wondered, is all. For all he cared, Cash could go on forever
cooking his own meals and living on his own side of the shack. Bud
certainly would not interrupt him in acting the fool, and if Cash wanted
to keep it up till spring, Cash was perfectly welcome to do so. It just
showed how ornery a man could be when he was let to go. So far as he was
concerned, he would just as soon as not have that dead line painted down
the middle of the cabin floor.

Nor did its presence there trouble him in the least. Just this morning,
however, the fact of Cash's stubbornness in keeping to his own side
of the line irritated Bud. He wanted to get back at the old hound
somehow--without giving in an inch in the mute deadlock. Furthermore,
he was hungry, and he did not propose to lie there and starve while old
Cash pottered around the stove. He'd tell the world he was going to
have his own breakfast first, and if Cash didn't want to set in on the
cooking, Cash could lie in bed till he was paralyzed, and be darned.

At that moment Cash pushed back the blankets that had been banked to his
ears. Simultaneously, Bud swung his feet to the cold floor with a thump
designed solely to inform Cash that Bud was getting up. Cash turned
over with his back to the room and pulled up the blankets. Bud grinned
maliciously and dressed as deliberately as the cold of the cabin would
let him. To be sure, there was the disadvantage of having to start his
own fire, but that disagreeable task was offset by the pleasure he would
get in messing around as long as he could, cooking his breakfast. He
even thought of frying potatoes and onions after he cooked his bacon.
Potatoes and onions fried together have a lovely tendency to stick to
the frying pan, especially if there is not too much grease, and if they
are fried very slowly. Cash would have to do some washing and scraping,
when it came his turn to cook. Bud knew just about how mad that would
make Cash, and he dwelt upon the prospect relishfully.

Bud never wanted potatoes for his breakfast. Coffee, bacon, and hotcakes
suited him perfectly. But just for meanness, because he felt mean and
he wanted to act mean, he sliced the potatoes and the onions into the
frying pan, and, to make his work artistically complete, he let them
burn and stick to the pan,--after he had his bacon and hotcakes fried,
of course!

He sat down and began to eat. And presently Cash crawled out into the
warm room filled with the odor of frying onions, and dressed himself
with the detached calm of the chronically sulky individual. Not once
did the manner of either man betray any consciousness of the other's
presence. Unless some detail of the day's work compelled them to speech,
not once for more than three weeks had either seemed conscious of the
other.

Cash washed his face and his hands, took the side of bacon, and cut
three slices with the precision of long practice. Bud sopped his last
hotcake in a pool of syrup and watched him from the corner of his eyes,
without turning his head an inch toward Cash. His keenest desire, just
then, was to see Cash when he tackled the frying pan.

But Cash disappointed him there. He took a pie tin off the shelf and
laid his strips of bacon on it, and set it in the oven; which is a very
good way of cooking breakfast bacon, as Bud well knew. Cash then took
down the little square baking pan, greased from the last baking
of bread, and in that he fried his hot cakes. As if that were not
sufficiently exasperating, he gave absolutely no sign of being conscious
of the frying pan any more than he was conscious of Bud. He did not
overdo it by whistling, or even humming a tune--which would have
given Bud an excuse to say something almost as mean as his mood.
Abstractedness rode upon Cash's lined brow. Placid meditation shone
forth from his keen old blue-gray eyes.

The bacon came from the oven juicy-crisp and curled at the edges and
delicately browned. The cakes came out of the baking pan brown and thick
and light. Cash sat down at his end of the table, pulled his own can of
sugar and his own cup of syrup and his own square of butter toward him;
poured his coffee, that he had made in a small lard pail, and began to
eat his breakfast exactly as though he was alone in that cabin.

A great resentment filled Bud's soul to bursting, The old hound! Bud
believed now that Cash was capable of leaving that frying pan dirty for
the rest of the day! A man like that would do anything! If it wasn't for
that claim, he'd walk off and forget to come back.

Thinking of that seemed to crystallize into definite purpose what
had been muddling his mind with vague impulses to let his mood find
expression. He would go to Alpine that day. He would hunt up Frank and
see if he couldn't jar him into showing that he had a mind of his own.
Twice since that first unexpected spree, he had spent a good deal of
time and gold dust and consumed a good deal of bad whisky and beer, in
testing the inherent obligingness of Frank. The last attempt had been
the cause of the final break between him and Cash. Cash had reminded Bud
harshly that they would need that gold to develop their quartz claim,
and he had further stated that he wanted no “truck” with a gambler and
a drunkard, and that Bud had better straighten up if he wanted to keep
friends with Cash.

Bud had retorted that Cash might as well remember that Bud had a half
interest in the two claims, and that he would certainly stay with it.
Meantime, he would tell the world he was his own boss, and Cash needn't
think for a minute that Bud was going to ask permission for what he did
or did not do. Cash needn't have any truck with him, either. It suited
Bud very well to keep on his own side of the cabin, and he'd thank Cash
to mind his own business and not step over the dead line.

Cash had laughed disagreeably and asked Bud what he was going to
do--draw a chalk mark, maybe?

Bud, half drunk and unable to use ordinary good sense, had said yes, by
thunder, he'd draw a chalk line if he wanted to, and if he did, Cash had
better not step over it either, unless he wanted to be kicked back.

Wherefore the broad, black line down the middle of the floor to where
the table stood. Obviously, he could not well divide the stove and the
teakettle and the frying pan and coffeepot. The line stopped abruptly
with a big blob of lampblack mixed with coal oil, just where necessity
compelled them both to use the same floor space.

The next day Bud had been ashamed of the performance, but his shame
could not override his stubbornness. The black line stared up at him
accusingly. Cash, keeping scrupulously upon his own side of it, went
coldly about his own affairs and never yielded so much as a glance at
Bud. And Bud grew more moody and dissatisfied with himself, but he would
not yield, either. Perversely he waited for Cash to apologize for what
he had said about gamblers and drunkards, and tried to believe that upon
Cash rested all of the blame.

Now he washed his own breakfast dishes, including the frying pan, spread
the blankets smooth on his bunk, swept as much of the floor as lay upon
his side of the dead line. Because the wind was in the storm quarter and
the lowering clouds promised more snow, he carried in three big armfuls
of wood and placed them upon his corner of the fireplace, to provide
warmth when he returned. Cash would not touch that wood while Bud was
gone, and Bud knew it. Cash would freeze first. But there was small
chance of that, because a small, silent rivalry had grown from the
quarrel; a rivalry to see which kept the best supply of wood, which
swept cleanest under his bunk and up to the black line, which washed his
dishes cleanest, and kept his shelf in the cupboard the tidiest. Before
the fireplace in an evening Cash would put on wood, and when next it
was needed, Bud would get up and put on wood. Neither would stoop to
stinting or to shirking, neither would give the other an inch of ground
for complaint. It was not enlivening to live together that way, but it
worked well toward keeping the cabin ship shape.

So Bud, knowing that it was going to storm, and perhaps dreading a
little the long monotony of being housed with a man as stubborn as
himself, buttoned a coat over his gray, roughneck sweater, pulled a pair
of mail-order mittens over his mail-order gloves, stamped his feet
into heavy, three-buckled overshoes, and set out to tramp fifteen miles
through the snow, seeking the kind of pleasure which turns to pain with
the finding.

He knew that Cash, out by the woodpile, let the axe blade linger in
the cut while he stared after him. He knew that Cash would be lonesome
without him, whether Cash ever admitted it or not. He knew that Cash
would be passively anxious until he returned--for the months they had
spent together had linked them closer than either would confess. Like
a married couple who bicker and nag continually when together, but are
miserable when apart, close association had become a deeply grooved
habit not easily thrust aside. Cabin fever might grip them and impel
them to absurdities such as the dead line down the middle of their
floor and the silence that neither desired but both were too stubborn
to break; but it could not break the habit of being together. So Bud
was perfectly aware of the fact that he would be missed, and he was
ill-humored enough to be glad of it. Frank, if he met Bud that day, was
likely to have his amiability tested to its limit.

Bud tramped along through the snow, wishing it was not so deep, or else
deep enough to make snow-shoeing practicable in the timber; thinking
too of Cash and how he hoped Cash would get his fill of silence, and of
Frank, and wondering where he would find him. He had covered perhaps two
miles of the fifteen, and had walked off a little of his grouch, and had
stopped to unbutton his coat, when he heard the crunching of feet in the
snow, just beyond a thick clump of young spruce.

Bud was not particularly cautious, nor was he averse to meeting people
in the trail. He stood still though, and waited to see who was
coming that way--since travelers on that trail were few enough to be
noticeable.

In a minute more a fat old squaw rounded the spruce grove and shied
off startled when she glimpsed Bud. Bud grunted and started on, and
the squaw stepped clear of the faintly defined trail to let him pass.
Moreover, she swung her shapeless body around so that she half faced him
as he passed. Bud's lips tightened, and he gave her only a glance. He
hated fat old squaws that were dirty and wore their hair straggling down
over their crafty, black eyes. They burlesqued womanhood in a way that
stirred always a smoldering resentment against them. This particular
squaw had nothing to commend her to his notice. She had a dirty red
bandanna tied over her dirty, matted hair and under her grimy double
chin. A grimy gray blanket was draped closely over her squat shoulders
and formed a pouch behind, wherein the plump form of a papoose was
cradled, a little red cap pulled down over its ears.

Bud strode on, his nose lifted at the odor of stale smoke that pervaded
the air as he passed. The squaw, giving him a furtive stare, turned and
started on, bent under her burden.

Then quite suddenly a wholly unexpected sound pursued Bud and halted him
in the trail; the high, insistent howl of a child that has been denied
its dearest desire of the moment. Bud looked back inquiringly. The squaw
was hurrying on, and but for the straightness of the trail just there,
her fat old canvas-wrapped legs would have carried her speedily out of
sight. Of course, papooses did yell once in awhile, Bud supposed, though
he did not remember ever hearing one howl like that on the trail. But
what made the squaw in such a deuce of a hurry all at once?

Bud's theory of her kind was simple enough: If they fled from you, it
was because they had stolen something and were afraid you would catch
them at it. He swung around forthwith in the trail and went after
her--whereat she waddled faster through the snow like a frightened duck.

“Hey! You come back here a minute! What's all the rush?” Bud's voice and
his long legs pursued, and presently he overtook her and halted her by
the simple expedient of grasping her shoulder firmly. The high-keyed
howling ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and Bud, peering under
the rolled edge of the red stocking cap, felt his jaw go slack with
surprise.

The baby was smiling at him delightedly, with a quirk of the lips and
a twinkle lodged deep somewhere in its eyes. It worked one hand free of
its odorous wrappings, spread four fat fingers wide apart over one eye,
and chirped, “Pik-k?” and chuckled infectiously deep in its throat.

Bud gulped and stared and felt a warm rush of blood from his heart up
into his head. A white baby, with eyes that laughed, and quirky red lips
that laughed with the eyes, and a chuckling voice like that, riding on
the back of that old squaw, struck him dumb with astonishment.

“Good glory!” he blurted, as though the words had been jolted from him
by the shock. Where-upon the baby reached out its hand to him and said
haltingly, as though its lips had not yet grown really familiar with the
words:

“Take--Uvin--Chal!”

The squaw tried to jerk away, and Bud gave her a jerk to let her know
who was boss. “Say, where'd you git that kid?” he demanded aggressively.

She moved her wrapped feet uneasily in the snow, flickered a filmy,
black eyed glance at Bud's uncompromising face, and waved a dirty paw
vaguely in a wide sweep that would have kept a compass needle revolving
if it tried to follow and was not calculated to be particularly
enlightening.

“Lo-ong ways,” she crooned, and her voice was the first attractive thing
Bud had discovered about her. It was pure melody, soft and pensive as
the cooing of a wood dove.

“Who belongs to it?” Bud was plainly suspicious. The shake of the
squaw's bandannaed head was more artfully vague than her gesture. “Don'
know--modder die--fadder die--ketchum long ways--off.”

“Well, what's its name?” Bud's voice harshened with his growing interest
and bewilderment. The baby was again covering one twinkling eye with
its spread, pink palm, and was saying “Pik-k?” and laughing with the
funniest little squint to its nose that Bud had ever seen. It was so
absolutely demoralizing that to relieve himself Bud gave the squaw
a shake. This tickled the baby so much that the chuckle burst into a
rollicking laugh, with a catch of the breath after each crescendo tone
that made it absolutely individual and like none other--save one.

“What's his name?” Bud bullied the squaw, though his eyes were on the
baby.

“Don't know!”

“Take--Uvin--Chal,” the baby demanded imperiously.

“Uh--uh--uh? Take!”

“Uvin Chal? Now what'd yuh mean by that, oletimer?” Bud obeyed an
overpowering impulse to reach out and touch the baby's cheek with a
mittened thumb. The baby responded instantly by again demanding that Bud
should take.

“Pik-k?” said Bud, a mitten over one eye.

“Pik-k?” said the baby, spreading his fat hand again and twinkling at
Bud between his fingers. But immediately afterwards it gave a little,
piteous whimper. “Take--Uvin Chal!” it beseeched Bud with voice and
starlike blue eyes together. “Take!”

There was that in the baby's tone, in the unbaby-like insistence of its
bright eyes, which compelled obedience. Bud had never taken a baby of
that age in his arms. He was always in fear of dropping it, or crushing
it with his man's strength, or something. He liked them--at a safe
distance. He would chuck one under the chin, or feel diffidently the
soft little cheek, but a closer familiarity scared him. Yet when this
baby wriggled its other arm loose and demanded him to take, Bud reached
out and grasped its plump little red-sweatered body firmly under the
armpits and drew it forth, squirming with eagerness.

“Well, I'll tell the world I don't blame yuh for wanting to git outa
that hog's nest,” said Bud, answering the baby's gleeful chuckle.

Freed from his detaining grip on her shoulder, the squaw ducked
unexpectedly and scuttled away down the trail as fast as her old legs
would carry her; which was surprisingly speedy for one of her bulk. Bud
had opened his mouth to ask her again where she had gotten that baby. He
left it open while he stared after her astonished until the baby put up
a hand over one of Bud's eyes and said “Pik-k?” with that distracting
little quirk at the corners of its lips.

“You son of a gun!” grinned Bud, in the tone that turned the epithet
in to a caress. “You dog gone little devil, you! Pik-k! then, if that's
what you want.”

The squaw had disappeared into the thick under growth, leaving a track
like a hippo in the snow. Bud could have overtaken her, of course, and
he could have made her take the baby back again. But he could not face
the thought of it. He made no move at all toward pursuit, but instead he
turned his face toward Alpine, with some vague intention of turning the
baby over to the hotel woman there and getting the authorities to hunt
up its parents. It was plain enough that the squaw had no right to it,
else she would not have run off like that.

Bud walked at least a rod toward Alpine before he swung short around in
his tracks and started the other way. “No, I'll be doggoned if I will!”
 he said. “You can't tell about women, no time. She might spank the kid,
or something. Or maybe she wouldn't feed it enough. Anyway, it's too
cold, and it's going to storm pretty pronto. Hey! Yuh cold, old-timer?”

The baby whimpered a little and snuggled its face down against Bud's
chest. So Bud lifted his foot and scraped some snow off a nearby log,
and set the baby down there while he took off his coat and wrapped it
around him, buttoning it like a bag over arms and all. The baby watched
him knowingly, its eyes round and dark blue and shining, and gave a
contented little wriggle when Bud picked it up again in his arms.

“Now you're all right till we get to where it's warm,” Bud assured it
gravely. “And we'll do some steppin', believe me. I guess maybe you
ain't any more crazy over that Injun smell on yuh, than what I am--and
that ain't any at all.” He walked a few steps farther before he added
grimly, “It'll be some jolt for Cash, doggone his skin. He'll about
bust, I reckon. But we don't give a darn. Let him bust if he wants
to--half the cabin's mine, anyway.”

So, talking a few of his thoughts aloud to the baby, that presently
went to sleep with its face against his shoulder, Bud tramped steadily
through the snow, carrying Lovin Child in his arms. No remote glimmer of

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