"Shore," replied Price. "I heard him shoot off his mouth, an hour ago, an’ he’s got altogether too much to say. You mind th’ bar an’ yore own business, Jimmy. We ain’t kids." "Go you two bits better," said Clayton, shoving out a coin. "Gimme some cards, Towne. It ’ll cost you a dollar to see our raises." Baxter walked over to watch the play. "I ’m comin’ in next game. Who ’s winnin’, now?" "Reckon I am; but we ain’t much more ’n got started," Clayton replied. "Did you call, Towne? Why, I ’ve got three little tens. You got anythin’ better?" "Never saw such luck!" exclaimed Towne disgustedly. "Dutchy, yo ’re a Jonah." "Damn th’ mutton, says I. It was even in that hash!" growled a voice, just outside the door. A moment later, Youbet Somes entered, swinging his sombrero energetically to shake off the water. "Damn th’ rain, too, an’ this wart of a town. A man can’t get nothin’ fit to eat for love or money, on a sheep range. Gimme a drink, sonny! Mebby it ’ll cut th’ taste of that rank tallow out ’n my mouth. Th’ reason there is sheep on this earth of our’n is that th’ devil chased ’em out ’n his place—an’ no blame to him." He drank half his liquor, and, placing the glass on the bar beside him, turned to watch the game. "Ah, strangers—that’s th’ only game, after all. I ’ve dabbled in ’em all from faro to roulette, but that’s th’ boss of ’em all." "See you an’ call," remarked Clayton, ignoring the newcomer. "What you got, you Dutch pagan?" "_Zwei Kaisers_ und a bair of chackasses, mit a deuce." "Kings up!" exclaimed Clayton. "Why, say—you bet th’ worst of anybody I ever knew! You ’ll balk on bettin’ two bits on threes, and plunge on a bluff. I reckoned you did n’t have nothin’. Why ain’t you more consistent?" he asked, winking at Towne. "Gonsisdency iss no chewel in dis game—it means go broke," placidly grunted Schultz, raking in his winnings. His friend Schneider smiled. "Coyotes are gettin’ too numerous, this year," Baxter remarked, shuffling. Youbet pushed his sombrero back on his head. "They don’t get numerous on a cow range," he said significantly. "Huh!" snorted Baxter. "They’ve got too much respect to stay on one longer than they ’ve got to." "They’d ruther be with their woolly-coated cousins," rejoined the cowman quietly. It was beneath his dignity as a cowman to pay much attention to what sheepmen said, yet he could not remain silent under such a remark. He regarded sheep herders, those human beings who walked at their work, as men who had reached the lowest rung in the ladder of human endeavors. His belief was not original with him, but was that of many of his school. He was a horseman, a mounted man, and one of the aristocracy of the range; they were, to him, the rabble, and almost beneath his contempt.