"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