[ He glances over at Alec again, a measuring sort of look, before he turns back around. For a long while, Faraday stays silent, smoking his cigar, hoping it'll calm him some. The few hours spent riding hardly helped that agitation creeping through him, and, unsurprisingly, neither did burying Wyatt in that shallow grave.

And now, he's still tense, fidgety, and he hardly has a reason for it – or at least, none he can understand, much less give voice to.]

I ain't mad.

[ Simply. ]

I just find myself puzzlin' over how a man who thinks himself so clever could do something so damned thickheaded, still. A mystery for the ages.