Bokyung was silent. He did not want to ride out with this warrant office. He did not want to get back on a horse. He was exhausted, sore, hungry--he wanted whisky and a bed and a cigarette.

And now he was going to jail. Or worse.

He stayed quiet, and the cuffs went on his wrists. He didn't fight, but he was overly complacent, that dead-weight sprawl on his body still in place. He looked up at the warrant office with venom written across the line of his eyes.