"How does it feel to be chasing men all the time?"
"I've had more experience myself in getting chased."
She attempted to laugh: "Do they ever chase deputy marshals?"
He took up, gravely, the last sandwich: "I expect they do once in a while."
"You ought to know, I should think."
He offered her the sandwich and on her refusal bit into it: "No," he returned simply, "for I'm not a deputy marshal."
Kate was stunned: "Why, you said you were! What do you mean?" she demanded when she could speak. He ate so deliberately! She thought he never would finish his mouthful and answer: "I mean—not regularly. Once or twice I've been deputized to serve papers—when the job went begging. Farrell Kennedy, the marshal at Medicine Bend, is a friend of mine—that's the nearest I come to working for him."
"But if you're not a deputy marshal, what are you?" demanded Kate, uneasily.
His face reflected the suspicion of a smile: "I guess the answer to that would depend a good deal on who told the story."
"I could hardly imagine anyone chasing you," she continued, not knowing in her confusion what to say.