"He showed me ten more letters an’ messages, regardin’ th’ flaggin’ of a contract-mail train for four fares; an’ some of them letters must ’a’ been written by a old-time cowman, they was that eloquent an’ God-fearin’. Then I went. "Why, Charley was twenty years old; an’ we figgered that, when th’ last staple was drove in th’ last post, he ’d ’a’ been dead ten years! Where did I come in, the—?" "Oh, Lord!" sighed the bartender, holding his sides, and trying to straighten his face so that he could talk out of the middle of it. "That’s th’ best ever! Have another drink!" "I ain’t tellin’ my troubles for liquor," snorted Youbet. "You have one with me. Here comes some customers down th’ street, I reckon." "Say!" exclaimed the bartender hurriedly. "You keep mum about sheep. This is a red-hot sheep town, an’ it hates Waffles an’ all his friends. Hullo, boys!" he called to four men, who filed into the room. "Where ’s th’ rest of you?" "Comin’ in later. Same thing, Jimmy," replied Clayton, chief herder. "An’ give us th’ cards." "Have you seen Price?" asked Towne. "Yes; he was in here a few minutes ago. What ’d you say, Schultz?" the bartender asked, turning to the man who pulled at his sleeve. "I said dot you vas nod right aboud vat you said de odder day. Chust now I ask Clayton, und he said you vas nod." "All right, Dutchy—all right!" laughed the bartender. "Then it’s on me this time, ain’t it?" Youbet walked to the bar. "Say, where do I get that grub? It’s about time for me to mosey off an’ feed." "Next building—and you’ll take mutton if yo ’re wise," replied the bartender, in a low voice. "Th’ hash is awful, an’ the beef is tough," he added, a little louder. "Mutton be damned!" snorted Youbet, stamping out. "I eat what I punch!" And his growls became lost in the street. Schultz glanced up. "Yah! Und he shoot vat I eat, tarn him, ven he gan!" "Oh, put yore ante in, an’ don’t talk so much!" rejoined Towne. "He ain’t going to shoot _you_." "It ’ll cost you two bits to come in," remarked Clayton. "An’ two more," added Towne, raising the ante. "Goot! I blay mit you. But binochle iss der game!" "I ’ll tell you a good story about a barb’ wire fence tomorrow, fellers," promised the bartender, grinning. The poker game had been going for some time before further remarks were made about the cowman who had left, and then it was Clayton who spoke. "Say, Jimmy!" he remarked, as Schultz dealt. "Who is yore leather-pants friend who don’t like mutton?" The bartender lifted a bottle, and replaced it with great care. "Oh, just a ranch foreman, out of a job. He’s a funny old feller." "So? An’ what’s so funny about him? Get in there, Towne, if you wants to do any playin’ with us." "Why, he was ordered to build a hundred an’ fifty miles of wire fence around his range, an’ he jumped ruther than do it." "Yas—an’ most of it government land, I reckon," interposed Towne.