"It's hell," he said, "when God Almighty turns agin a man. Ain't the sheriff's enough—without a thing like that?" His thumb made a gesture towards the river, which he cursed abominably—cursing it for a trap, a seeming benefit, here in the desert, ready to eat a man alive.
Van made no reply. He rather felt the man was justified—at least in some opinions. Towards Barger he felt no anger, but rather a pity instead.
After a time the convict moved sufficiently to prop himself up against the bank. He looked at Van dully. This was the man who had "sent him up"—and saved him from the sand. There was much that lay between them, much that must always lie. He had no issues to dodge. There was nothing cowardly in Barger, despite his ways.
"I nearly got you, up yonder," he said, and he jerked his thumb towards the mountains, to indicate the pass where he and Van had met an hour before.
Van nodded. "You sure did. Who told you to look for me here?"
Barger closed his eyes. "Nothing doing." He could not have been forced to tell.
Van smiled. "That's all right." There was no resentment in the tone.
Barger looked at him curiously.
"What for did you pull me out?"
"Don't know," Van confessed. "Perhaps I hated to have the quicksand cheat the pen."