he same street where another laid sewer pipe and a third
put in telephone poles. A branch line of a trans-continental railroad was
moving across the desert to tap the new oil field. Houses rose overnight.
Mule teams jingled in and out freighting supplies to Malapi and from
there to the fields. On all sides were rustle, energy, and optimism,
signs of the new West in the making.

Up the street a team of half-broken broncos came on the gallop, weaving
among the traffic with a certainty that showed a skilled pair of hands
at the reins. From the buckboard stepped lightly a straight-backed,
well-muscled young fellow. He let out a moment later a surprised shout
of welcome and fell upon Sanders with two brown fists.

"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 s