If you would test the soul of a friend, take him into the wilderness and rub elbows with him for five months. Either you will hate each other forever afterwards, or you will emerge with contempt tinged with a pitying toleration, or you will be close, unquestioning friends to the last six feet of earth.
Bud Moore, ex-cow-puncher, ex-owner of a tourist’s auto stage, divorced from his wife, separated from his child, was running away from himself and his associates when he bumped into the old prospector. That night he shared Cash Markham’s blankets and in the morning he cooked the breakfast. They became partners in a prospecting venture that led them into the wilderness, into a life completely removed from civilization, into just the kind of atmosphere which can induce “cabin fever.” They found their gold mine, but there was a line drawn down the center of the cabin which neither would cross.
Then Bud rescued from an Indian squaw a white child which she had stolen. Into the life of these enemies who were partners, into the little cabin in the wilderness, came the influence of a two-year-old boy. And that influence provided a twist not only to their lives, but to this story.