"I didn't think you were that righteous," she said.
He brought his eyes back to hers with an effort, staring a moment before he comprehended. "Look," he said, then, with a careful deliberateness. "I don't give a damn about Rockland being killed. It's me, see. It's purely a selfish motive. I told you. A man gets tired after a while. He gets tired jumping like a jack rabbit every time a tree toad chirps. He gets tired running the brush all day and all night to keep one jump ahead of those badge-packers. He gets tired living on raw meat because he's afraid to build a fire, and sleeping in a bunch of mesquite because he can't get near enough a house to get a blanket, and scratching his face off because he hasn't even got so much as a knife to shave with."
"Then why didn't you leave?"
He opened his mouth to say it. Then he closed it again, staring at her. Finally he shrugged sullenly. "It's my country, that's all."
"Is it?" she said. "Or maybe I'm wrong again. Maybe Quartel was closer to the truth than any of us. Where do you pin the badge? On your undershirt?"
"I didn't think you'd understand," he said.
"It would be the most logical reason for your staying, through all that," she said, studying him. "If you really are hoping to find Rockland's murderer, that would be the most logical reason."
"Let's close the poke," he said.
"And maybe that about your legs is wrong, too," her voice probed relentlessly. "That would be a pretty good blind. Who would suspect them of sending in a lawman who couldn't even sit a horse?"
She must have meant it to sting him. He saw some strange satisfaction in her face as he stiffened perceptibly.