Later when he wakes, McGauran raises his head a little to look around at the smoke-filled cabin. The dusty blueish light creeping through saplings and logs tells him that it’s late afternoon, close to dusk. The men should be back soon.
The scent of molasses still lingers in the air. It vaguely comforts him.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Simon says, entering the cabin with a few logs. He drops them heavily on the pile by his station. “You can peel some potatoes.” He doesn’t waste a second and lugs a large tin pail full of water along with a sack of potatoes over to him. “You can use my pocket knife.” He tosses the blade on the cot. “Feeling better?” he asks, returning to his spot at the large tree stump he uses as a cutting board. Over the fire, a large cast-iron pot simmers with tonight’s st
