There were pieces of pork rind and biscuits in the pan, fried up with the last of the butter from his saddle bags, and John Wesley, sitting under the shade of an overhanging tree, put his head back, licked his lips, and prepared to eat.
From the other side of the crackling fire, the young man whom John Wesley rode off with after the killing of the fat man back in the white-washed frontier town, sat and watched. On his lap was his own untouched breakfast. Having ridden all through the night, his body drained of all strength, he neither wanted to eat or even think about eating.
“I"m so dog-tired,” he said, pushing the congealed mass on his tin plate away with his spoon, “I haven"t the strength…” He looked up. John Wesley"s mouth worked mechanically, munching down spoonful after spoonful of
