But though they did not mention it, they knew that Lovin Child was something more; something endearing, something humanizing, something they needed to keep them immune from cabin fever.
Some time in February it was that Cash fashioned a crude pair of snowshoes and went to town, returning the next day.

He came home loaded with little luxuries for Lovin Child, and with the simpler medicines for other emergencies which they might have to meet, but he did not bring any word of seeking parents.

The nearest he came to mentioning the subject was after supper, when the baby was asleep and Bud trying to cut a small pair of overalls from a large piece of blue duck that Cash had brought.

The shears were dull, and Lovin Child's little rompers were so patched and shapeless that they were not much of a guide, so Bud was swearing softly while he worked.
"I didn't hear a word said about that kid being lost," Cash volunteered, after he had smoked and watched Bud awhile.

"Couldn't have been any one around Alpine, or I'd have heard something about it." Bud frowned, though it may have been over his tailoring problem.
"Can't tell--the old squaw mighta been telling the truth," he said reluctantly.