“Dave!  Where in Mexico you been, old alkali?  We been lookin’ for you everywhere.”

“In Denver, Bob.”

Sanders spoke quietly.  His eyes went straight into those of Bob Hart to see what was written there.  He found only a glad and joyous welcome, neither embarrassment nor any sign of shame.

“But why didn’t you write and let us know?” Bob grew mildly profane in his warmth.  He was as easy as though his friend had come back from a week in the hills on a deer hunt.  “We didn’t know when the Governor was goin’ to act.  Or we’d ‘a’ been right at the gate, me or Em Crawford one.  Whyn’t you answer our letters, you darned old scalawag?  Dawggone, but I’m glad to see you.”

Dave’s heart warmed to this fine loyalty.  He knew that both Hart and Crawford had worked in season and out of season for a parole or a pardon.  But it’s one thing to appear before a pardon board for a convict in whom you are interested and quite another to welcome him to your heart when he stands before you.  Bob would do to tie to, Sanders told himself with a rush of gratitude.  None of this feeling showed in his dry voice.

“Thanks, Bob.”

Hart knew already that Dave had come back a changed man.  He had gone in a boy, wild, turbulent, untamed.  He had come out tempered by the fires of experience and discipline.  The steel-gray eyes were no longer frank and gentle.  They judged warily and inscrutably.  He talked little and mostly in monosyllables.  It was a safe guess that he was master of his impulses.  In his manner was a cold reticence entirely foreign to the Dave Sanders his friend had known and frolicked with.  Bob felt in him a quality of dangerous strength as hard and cold as hammered iron.

“Where’s yore trunk?  I’ll take it right up to my shack,” Hart said.

“I’ve rented a room.”

“Well, you can onrent it.  You’re stayin’ with me.”

“No, Bob.  I reckon I won’t do that.  I’ll live alone awhile.”

“No, sir.  What do you take me for?  We’ll load yore things up on the buckboard.”

Dave shook his head.  “I’m much obliged, but I’d rather not yet.  Got to feel out my way while I learn the range here.”

To this Bob did not consent without a stiff protest, but Sanders was inflexible.

“All right.  Suit yoreself.  You always was stubborn as a Missouri mule,” Hart said with a grin.  “Anyhow, you’ll eat supper with me.  Le’s go to the Delmonico for ol’ times’ sake.  We’ll see if Hop Lee knows you.  I’ll bet he does.”

Hart had come in to see a contractor about building a derrick for a well.  “I got to see him now, Dave.  Go along with me,” he urged.

“No, see you later.  Want to get my trunk from the depot.”

They arranged an hour of meeting at the restaurant.

In front of the post-office Bob met Joyce Crawford.  The young woman had fulfilled the promise of her girlhood.  As she moved down the street, tall and slender, there was a light, joyous freedom in her step.  So Ellen Terry walked in her resilient prime.