"'Mad! Mad!' he shouts, hoppin' round, but hangin' onto my laig like grim death. 'Mad! I 'm goin' loco—crazy! I can't sleep! There 's twenty letters an' messages on my table, tellin' me to get that wire off'n th' cars an' send th' empties back on th' next freight! You've got to take it—got to!'"
The bartender shocked his nervous system by drinking plain water by mistake, but he listened eagerly. "Yes? What then?"
"Well, then I asks him where I can find my men, an' team, an' waggin'. He tells me. Th' team an' waggin is in a corral down th' street, but he don't know where th' men are. They held a gun to his head, an' said they 'd kill him if he didn't flag th' next train for 'em. Th' next train was a through express, carryin' mail. He was n't dead.
"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.