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