"But that man Galloway has no right to fence up Government land he doesn't lease. The map shows every section of it open to entry back there for a hundred miles."
"He ain't got no more right to it than the King of Ireland," Clemmons declared. "There's land enough goin' to waste inside of that fence to make twenty sheepmen rich. If I could take my little band up there I'd be independent in five years."
"You're a flockmaster, then?" said Rawlins, in undisguised surprise.
"What did you take me for—one of them sap-headed herders? I never run sheep for no man but myself in my life, foolish as I look. I never aim to."
"You darned sheep magnates run around lookin' like you didn't have the price of ham and eggs on you, and fly up when somebody takes you for a hired hand. If you're underrated sometimes, it's your own fault."
"What do you expect us sheepmen to do, son, so folks can spot us from hired men? Put on knee pants and golf stockin's?" The flockmaster chuckled with the thought, more pleased than offended that his own importance had not been duly appraised.
"Or put a feather in your hat, or something," said Rawlins. "How many have you got in that band?"
"Seven hundred and fifty-two, countin' lambs. I'm just a little feller, but I could be a big one if I could go back there on one of them cricks where the question of water wouldn't bother me. There's a dozen or two other little fellers strung out along that fence in the same fix as me, all held down on account of water.
