EightOn the trail moving west
On the morning of the second day, with the sun a blinding, burning orb dominating the sky, they camped by a small stream. Under the shade of large, overhanging rocks, Deep Water cooked a buck-rabbit he had caught earlier, turning it on a makeshift spit until the flesh fell from its bones, the fat sizzling in the flames.
The men ate in silence and afterwards, Simms went down to the river, scooping up handfuls of water to throw over his face. He scanned the far bank, the uniform, sand-colored ground broken with the occasional patch of gorse; hardy plants struggling to survive in such a harsh, unforgiving environment. “I fought in places like this,” he said as if to himself. “I hated it then, and I hate it still.” Sighing, he stood and wandered back to the camp
