"Then you heard wrong, all right," rejoined Youbet. "He’s one of us old fellers—hates sheep, barb’ wire, an’ nesters as bad as I do; an’ sonny," he continued, warming as he went on. "Th’ cow country ain’t what it used to be—not no way. I can remember when there war n’t no wire, no nesters, an’ no sheep. An’, between you and me, I don’t know which is th’ worst. Every time I runs up agin’ one of ’em, I says it’s th’ worst; but I guess it’s just about a even break." "I heard about yore friend Waffles through sheep," replied the bartender. "He chased a sheep outfit out of a hill range near his ranch, an’ killed a couple of ’em, a-doin’ it." "Served ’em right—served ’em right," responded Youbet, turning and walking toward the door. "They ain’t got no business on a cattle range—not nohow." The man in the corner started to follow, half raising his hand, as though to emphasize something he was about to say; but changed his mind, and sullenly resumed his brooding attitude. "Reckon I ’ll put my cayuse in yore corral, an’ look th’ town over," Youbet remarked, over his shoulder. "Remember, yo ’re savin’ a bed for me." As he stepped to the street, the man in the corner lazily arose and looked out of the window, swearing softly while he watched the man who hated sheep. "Well, there ’s another friend of yore business," laughed the bartender, leaning back to enjoy the other’s discomfiture. "_He_ don’t like ’em, neither." "He ’s a fool of a mossback, so far behind th’ times he don’t know who ’s President," retorted the other, still staring down the street. "Well, he don’t know that this has got to be a purty fair sheep town—that’s shore." "He ’ll find out, if he makes many more talks like that—an’ that ain’t no dream, neither!" snapped the sheepman. He wheeled, and frowned at the man behind the bar. "You see what he gets, if he opens his cow mouth in here tonight. Th’ boys hate this kind real fervent; an’ when they finds out that he ’s a side pardner of that coyote Waffles, they won’t need much excuse. You wait—that’s all!" "Oh, what’s th’ use of gettin’ all riled up about it?" demanded the bartender easily. "He did n’t know _you_ was a sheepman, when he made his first break. An’ lemme tell you somethin’ you want to remember—them old-time cowmen can use a short gun somethin’ slick. They ’ve got ’em trained. Bet _he_ can work th’ double roll without shootin’ hisself full of lead." The speaker grinned exasperatingly. "Yes!" exploded the sheepman, who had tried to roll two guns at once, and had spent ten days in bed as a result of it. The bartender laughed softly as he recalled the incident. "Have you tried it since?" he inquired. "Go to th’ devil!" grinned the other, heading for the door. "But he ’ll get in trouble, if he spouts about hatin’ sheep, when th’ boys come in. You better get him drunk an’ lock him in th’ attic, before then."