"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.