He slept well and woke feeling refreshed, the memories of the previous evening giving him a warm feeling inside. He went outside to where a breakfast of sorts was being served up by the cook. Thick ham, more fat than meat, and fried potatoes drenched in grease. The coffee tasted bitter, the bread meant to soak up the fat like a hunk of stone. He left, spirits deflated, and promised himself he would buy some good cuts for the journey. Salted they may be, but anything would be better than the recent concoction he had forced himself to swallow.
He went again to the secluded glade and fired off more rounds, this time, with a good deal more success. The Paterson felt good in his hands, almost as good as his old Remington.
Tramping across the parade ground on his way back to his bunkhouse, he
