ALMA was at the gate like a vigilant warden when the two fugitives from the distant cow camp rode up in the twilight. She was surprised to see Fred Grubb, who was in buoyant humor, exalted in spirit by his new freedom, his manly independence, the prospect of coming at last into the green paradise of his dreams. He swung from the saddle lightly, the shotgun in his hand, and made her a gracious, if not too graceful, bow.
My lady fair which I lay them at your feet,
As I have told you so oft many times before,
My lady fair and sweet.
Fred delivered this rather crippled, though gallant tribute with all outward evidence of entire spontaneity, although Barrett was very well able to account now for the poet's silence during the last two or three miles of the ride. Alma, carrying out her part of what appeared to be a set ceremony between them, sank low in a slow curtsy, grave as if her troubadour, in fact, had come to her castle hall with his lute beneath his arm.
"That's a new one, Fred, you precious old humbug!" she said, laughing now, giving each of them a hand in warm welcome.
