He did not overdo it by whistling, or even humming a tune--which would have given Bud an excuse to say something almost as mean as his mood.
Abstractedness rode upon Cash's lined brow.

Placid meditation shone forth from his keen old blue-gray eyes.
The bacon came from the oven juicy-crisp and curled at the edges and delicately browned.

The cakes came out of the baking pan brown and thick and light.

Cash sat down at his end of the table, pulled his own can of sugar and his own cup of syrup and his own square of butter toward him; poured his coffee, that he had made in a small lard pail, and began to eat his breakfast exactly as though he was alone in that cabin.
A great resentment filled Bud's soul to bursting, The old hound! Bud believed now that Cash was capable of leaving that frying pan dirty for the rest of the day! A man like that would do anything! If it wasn't for that claim, he'd walk off and forget to come back.
Thinking of that seemed to crystallize into definite purpose what had been muddling his mind with vague impulses to let his mood find expression.

He would go to Alpine that day.