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.