"But this year! Lord—but that was an awful pile of wire, bronch! Three strands high, an’ over a hundred an’ fifty miles round that pasture. That was a’ insult, bronch; an’ I never swaller ’em. That’s what put me an’ you out here, in th’ middle of nowhere, tryin’ to find a way out. G’wan, now! You ain’t goin’ to rest till I gets off you. G’wan, I told you!" Mr. Somes was riding east, bound for the Bar-20, where he had friends. For a year or two, he had heard persistent rumors to the effect that Buck Peters had more cows than he knew what to do with; and he argued rightly that the Bar-20 foreman could find a place for an old friend, whose ability was unquestioned. Of one thing he was certain—there were no wire fences, down there. It was dusk when he dismounted in front of Logan’s, in Kit, and went inside. The bartender glanced up, reaching for a bottle on the shelf beside him. Youbet nodded. "You got it first pop. Have one with me. I ’m countin’ on staying over in town tonight. Got a place for me?" "Shore have—upstairs in th’ attic. Want grub, too?" "Well, I sorter hope to have somethin’ to eat afore I pull out. Here’s how!" And when Mr. Somes placed his empty glass on the bar, he smiled good-naturedly. "That’s good stuff. Much goin’ on in town?" "Reckon you can get a game most anywhere." "Where do I get that grub? Here?" "No—down th’ street. Ridin’ far?" "Yes—a little. Goin’ down to th’ Bar-20 for a job punchin’. I hear Peters has got more cows than he can handle. Know anybody down there you wants to send any word to?" "I ’ll be hanged if I know," laughed the bartender. "I know a lot of fellers, but they shift so I can’t keep track of ’em, nohow." A man in a far corner pushed back his chair, and approached the bar, scowling as he glanced at Youbet. "Gimme another," he ordered. "Why, hullo, stranger!" exclaimed Youbet. "I did n’t see you before. Have one with me." The other looked him squarely in the eyes. "Ex-cuse me, stranger—I ’m a sheepman, an’ I don’t drink with cowmen." "Well, ex-cuse _me_!" retorted Youbet, like a flash. "If I ’d ’a’ knowed you was a sheepman, I wouldn’t ’a’ asked you!" The sheepman drank his liquor and, returning to his corner, placed his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, apparently paying no further attention to the others. "If I can’t get a job with Peters, I can try th’ C-80 or Double Arrow," continued Youbet, as he toyed with his glass. "If I can’t get on with one of them, I reckons Waffles, of th’ O-Bar-O, will find a place for me, though I don’t like that country a whole lot." The bartender hesitated for a moment. "Do you know Waffles?" he asked. "Shore—know ’em all. Why? Do you know him, too?" "No; but I ’ve heard of him." "That so? He ’s a good feller, he is. I ’ve punched with both him an’ Peters." "I heard he wasn’t," replied the bartender, slowly but carelessly.