The man with the barbed-wire soul!
I was falling asleep in my saddle through most of the night, and shivering even with my coat on. The damned desert will do that to you every time. During the day, sweat runs down your back like a small river. Then, soon as the sun drops out of the sky, it feels like all the sweat turns to ice and is working itself right into your bones. Damned desert. I hate it.
Before I knew it, the sun was knifing out from the rim and the heat arrived with it. Ahead, Trapp pointed to a clump of boulders and we steered our horses in that direction. Twenty minutes later, we were stretched out on the ground with our backs against two rocks, shaded by two bigger boulders that hung over our heads. We shared a tin of the worst tasting beans ever made and washed them down with warm water from our canteens.
“Sure is fun,” I said, “being a professional gunman.”