The man who picked it up read the letter before returning it to the pocket.  He began at once to whisper the news.  The subject was discussed back and forth among the men on the quiet.  Sanders guessed they had discovered who he was, but he waited for them to move.  His years in prison had given him at least the strength of patience.  He could bide his time.

They went to the contractor.  He reasoned with them.

“Does his work all right, doesn’t he?  Treats you all civilly.  Doesn’t force himself on you.  I don’t see any harm in him.”

“We ain’t workin’ with no jail bird,” announced the spokesman.

“He told me the story and I’ve looked it up since.  Talked with the lawyer that defended him.  He says the man Sanders killed was a bad lot and had stolen his horse from him.  Sanders was trying to get it back.  He claimed self-defense, but couldn’t prove it.”

“Don’t make no difference.  The jury said he was guilty, didn’t it?”

“Suppose he was.  We’ve got to give him a chance when he comes out, haven’t we?”

Some of the men began to weaken.  They were not cruel, but they were children of impulse, easily led by those who had force enough to push to the front.

“I won’t mix cement with no convict,” the self-appointed leader announced flatly.  “That goes.”

The contractor met him eye to eye.  “You don’t have to, Reynolds.  You can get your time.”

“Meanin’ that you keep him on the job and let me go?”

“That’s it exactly.  Long as he does his work well I’ll not ask him to quit.”

A shadow darkened the doorway of the temporary office.  The Arizonan stepped in with his easy, swinging stride, a lithe, straight-backed Hermes showing strength of character back of every movement.

“I’m leaving to-day, Mr. Shields.”  His voice carried the quiet power of reserve force.

“Not because I want you to, Sanders.”

“Because I’m not going to stay and make you trouble.”

“I don’t think it will come to that.  I’m talking it over with the boys now.  Your work stands up.  I’ve no criticism.”

“I’ll not stay now, Mr. Shields.  Since they’ve complained to you I’d better go.”

The ex-convict looked around, the eyes in his sardonic face hard and bitter.  If he could have read the thoughts of the men it would have been different.  Most of them were ashamed of their protest.  They would have liked to have drawn back, but they did not know how to say so.  Therefore they stood awkwardly silent.  Afterward, when it was too late, they talked it over freely enough and blamed each other.

From one job to another Dave drifted.  His stubborn pride, due in part to a native honesty that would not let him live under false pretenses, in part to a bitterness that had become dogged defiance, kept him out of good places and forced him to do heavy, unskilled labor that brought the poorest pay.