“Tastes like your trail coffee,” she complained, shaking her head. “I make the best trail coffee of anybody I ever rode with,” he said. “Must be why you ride alone so much.” Clint enjoyed the stew because he was hungry. Alice consumed some of the vegetables, but picked at the meat until Clint asked if she was going to finish it. “You want it?” “Sure.” “Be my guest.” He grabbed her bowl and dumped the remaining stew—easily half of it—into his own bowl. He covered it with onions (you can’t ruin onions) and polished it off. They had pie to complete the bad meal, apple for Alice and peach for Clint. He finished his; she ate half of hers. “There’s something else you’re going to have to learn,” he told her. “What’s that?” “When you get a chance to eat,” he said, “you’re going to have to do it. It doesn’t matter what the food tastes like. You don’t know the next time you’ll get a hot meal.” “You call this a hot meal?” “It’s what was available,”
