"Don't want to hire us to drive, do you?" asked Merritt.
"Allers willin' to pay a good man," said the foreman with a grin. "Give ye forty and chuck."
The Supervisor smiled.
"I'm supposed to be holding down a soft job," he said; "government service."
"Soft job," snorted Grier, "they'd have to give me the bloomin' forest afore I'd go at it the way you do. But, Merritt," he added, "this is how. A piece down the road, say a mile an' a half, I'm told there's a rotten bit o' road, an' I'm a little leery of trouble there. I'd have strung out the cattle three times as far if I'd known of it. But I had no chance; I've only just heard that some old county board is tryin' to fix a bridge, an' they're movin' about as rapid as a spavined mule with three broken legs."
"Well?" queried Merritt; "I suppose you want us to help you over that spot."
"That's it, pard," said the foreman; "an' I'll do as much for you some time."
"I wish you could, but I'll never have a string of cattle like those to turn into good hard coin."
"Well," said the cowpuncher, "why not?"
"Nothing doing," replied Merritt; "the Forest Service is an incurable disease that nobody ever wants to be cured of."