Cash seemed to be asleep, but his breathing sounded harsh and unnatural,
and his hand, lying uncovered on the blanket, clenched and unclenched
spasmodically. Bud watched him for a minute, holding the cup of grease
and turpentine in his hand.
"Say," he began constrainedly, and waited. Cash muttered something and
moved his hand irritatedly, without opening his eyes. Bud tried again.
"Say, you better swab your chest with this dope. Can't monkey with a
cold, such weather as this."
Cash opened his eyes, gave the log wall a startled look, and swung
his glance to Bud. "Yeah--I'm all right," he croaked, and proved his
statement wrong by coughing violently.
Bud set down the cup on a box, laid hold of Cash by the shoulders and
forced him on his back. With movements roughly gentle he opened Cash's
clothing at the throat, exposed his hairy chest, and poured on grease
until it ran in a tiny rivulets. He reached in and rubbed the grease
vigorously with the palm of his hand, giving particular attention to the
surface over the bronchial tubes. When he was satisfied that Cash's
skin could absorb no more, he turned him unceremoniously on his face
and repeated his ministrations upon Cash's shoulders. Then he rolled
him back, buttoned his shirts for him, and tramped heavily back to the
table.
"I don't mind seeing a man play the mule when he's well," he grumbled,
"but he's got a right to call it a day when he gits down sick. I ain't
going to be bothered burying no corpses, in weather like this. I'll tell
the world I ain't!"
He went searching on all the shelves for something more that he could
give Cash. He found a box of liver pills, a bottle of Jamaica ginger,
and some iodine--not an encouraging array for a man fifteen miles of
untrodden snow from the nearest human habitation. He took three of
the liver pills--judging them by size rather than what might be their
composition--and a cup of water to Cash and commanded him to sit up
and swallow them. When this was accomplished, Bud felt easier as to his
conscience, though he was still anxious over the possibilities in that
cough.
Twice in the night he got up to put more wood on the fire and to stand
beside Cash's bed and listen to his breathing. Pneumonia, the strong
man's deadly foe, was what he feared. In his cow-punching days he had
seen men die of it before a doctor could be brought from the far-away
town. Had he been alone with Cash, he would have fought his way to town
and brought help, but with Lovin Child to care for he could not take the
trail.
At daylight Cash woke him by stumbling across the floor to the water
bucket. Bud arose then and swore at him for a fool and sent him back
to bed, and savagely greased him again with the bacon grease and
turpentine. He was cheered a little when Cash cussed back, but he did
not like the sound of his voice, for all that, and so threatened mildly
to brain him if he got out of bed again without wrapping a blanket or
something around him.