Free To Hell and Back by P. A. Bechko Page A

a release. She closed her eyes and hiccuped. When she opened them again, Hollander was standing right beside her, scuffed, worn boots at eye-level, frowning down at her.  
    “If it was anybody but me, you’d be in one helluva fix,” Hollander observed. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
    Amanda gasped, giggled and felt the rush of embarrassment at not even being able to force a word between her teeth. She pointed to the dead five-foot snake in the grass.
    Jake spotted it and started to chuckle himself.  
    “Got us dinner after all, did you?”
    Amanda nodded and gasped out, “I didn’t want to wake you!”
    “Good thought, but I’m hungry now, so let’s eat.”
    Jake rummaged in his sparse sack of supplies, coming up with some coffee, a pot to cook it in, some flour, and a twist of salt. He handed her the pot and coffee, then dragged a wicked-looking knife from his boot.
    “Get some water. I’ll skin the snake and get a fire going. Teach you how to do some trail cooking.”

 
    Chapter 7
     
    Amanda stared at him a moment in disbelief, transfixed by his swift return to consciousness. He moved and worked, unencumbered by sleep, or the clinging dregs of it.  
    She got to her feet, laughter ebbing, then picked up the coffee pot and headed off to the pools.
    By the time she returned, pot full, Jake had the snake skinned and dressed out, the succulent white flesh of the reptile laid out in the green grass.
    “Tastes like chicken I hear.”
    Hollander laughed. “Tastes like snake. But snake can taste mighty good.”
    He dug in his saddlebags, pulled out a flint and handed it over to her.
    “Get us a fire started. I’ll go see what else I can find to eat. You might get some dumplings started if you can cook.”
    Amanda tossed him a scathing look. “Of course I can cook! I’ve fed myself for a good long while now.”
    “There’s some salt pork in the sack. Go easy on it though, it’s all we’ve got for a spell.”
    She wrinkled her nose. What would he want salt pork for?
    “It’s for the grease in the pan,” Jake called back over his shoulder as if he could read her mind.
    She cut a few chunks of the pork into the pan, then threw some coffee into the pot setting it optimistically beside the pan before she turned her hand to starting the fire Jake had laid. There was tinder, kindling and heavier sticks laying in a pile nearby. She struck the flint and was rewarded by a good-sized spark jumping from it. Then she settled down to start the fire. Directing the flint toward the tinder, she struck it firmly. A spark jumped, caught for an instant, then smoldered and died. She tried again. This time the spark didn’t even catch for a moment.
    Amanda frowned. The sun was drifting quickly toward the western horizon. Her stomach growled. The past several days, living on hardly more than water, jerky and hard tack, had meant little, but now it was different. In another lifetime such frustration might have reduced her to tears of frustration, but no longer.  
    Again and again she struck the flint, rearranged the tinder, re-stacked the kindling. Finally another spark caught. It burned, tentative, precarious, vulnerable to the slightest breeze. She cupped her hands around it and softly blew on the tiny fire then delicately fed it a few more bits shredded bark, some dried grass. It swelled and the smallest hint of warmth emanated from the fire. She coddled it and it grew until a strong flame burned at the center of the circle of rocks.  
    Back aching from the stooped over effort, Amanda straightened and fed the flames even more until the heat of it caressed her face, oblivious to the fact that darkness had fallen while she had worked.  
    When Jake returned he was laden with freshly washed greenery, seed pods and roots.
    “You got the fire started. Good. I’ll show you what to do with the rest of this stuff in a few minutes. Every critter in these parts needing water will be coming down to those pools