"G’wan! I ain’t playin’ guardian to nobody," rejoined the bartender. "But remember what I said—them old fellers can use ’em slick an’ rapid." The sheepman went out as Youbet returned; and the latter seated himself, crossing his legs and drawing out his pipe. The bartender perfunctorily drew a cloth across the bar, and smiled. "So you don’t like wire, sheep, or nesters," he remarked. Mr. Somes looked up, in surprise, forgetting that he held a lighted match between thumb and finger. "Like ’em! Huh, I reckon not. I ’m lookin’ for a job because of wire. H—l!" he exclaimed, dropping the match, and rubbing his finger. "That’s twice I did that fool thing in a week," he remarked, in apology and self-condemnation, and struck another match. "I was foreman of my ranch for nigh onto ten years. It was a good ranch, an’ I was satisfied till last year, when they made me put up a windmill that did n’t mill, but screeched awful. I stood for that because I could get away from it in th’ daytime. "But this year! One day, not very long ago, I got a letter from th’ owners, an’ it says for me to build a wire fence around our range. It went on to say that there was two carloads of barb’ wire at Mesquite. We was to tote that wire home, an’ start in. If two carloads wasn’t enough, they ’d send us more. We had one busted-down grub waggin, an’ Mesquite shore was fifty miles away—which meant a whoppin’ long job totin’. "When I saw th’ boys, that night, I told ’em that I ’d got orders to raise their pay five dollars a month—which made ’em cheer. Then I told ’em that was so providin’ they helped me build a barb’ wire fence around th’ range—which did n’t make ’em cheer. "Th’ boundary lines of th’ range we was usin’ was close onto a hundred an’ fifty miles long, an’ three strands of wire along a trail like that is some job. We was to put th’ posts twelve feet apart, an’ they was to be five feet outen th’ ground an’ four feet in it—which makes ’em nine feet over all. "There was n’t no posts at Mesquite. Them posts was supposed to be growin’ freelike on th’ range, just waitin’ for us to cut ’em, skin ’em, tote an’ drop ’em every twelve feet along a line a hundred an’ fifty miles long. An’ then there was to be a hole dug for every post, an’ tampin’, staplin’, an’ stringin’ that hell-wire. An’ don’t forget that lone, busted-down grub waggin that was to do that totin’! "There was some excitement on th’ Two-X-Two that night, an’ a lot of figgerin’; us bein’ some curious about how many posts was needed, an’ how many holes we was to dig to fit th’ aforesaid posts. We made it sixty-six thousand. Think of it! An’ only eight of us to tackle a job like that, an’ ride range at th’ same time!" "Oh, ho!" roared the bartender, hugging himself, and trying to carry a drink to the narrator at the same time. "Go on! That’s good!"