Part 10 (1/2)

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 a.s.sayer'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. ”Coa.r.s.e 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 partners.h.i.+p 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 was.h.i.+ng enough gold out of that claim to develop the other, and keep the t.i.tle 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.