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. "Miss Joyce, he's here," Bob said. "Who--Dave?" She and her father and Bob had more than once met as a committee of three to discuss the interests of Sanders both before and since his release. The week after he left Cañon City letters of thanks had reached both Hart and Crawford, but these had given no address. Their letters to him had remained unanswered nor had a detective agency been able to find him. "Yes, ma'am, Dave! He's right here in town. Met him half an hour ago." "I'm glad. How does he look?"