200 Posts
Tag finished tapping his fingertips together and said, “I’d say that’d be about 200 posts.”
“That’s allotta goddamn posts,” his partner groused, spitting sideways onto the trail. Jikk didn’t mind work as a rule, but digging was no better than sucking love from a porcupine’s ass. Hell, the porcupine would probably leave fewer splinters.
“That’s a lot of goddamn stock,” Tag mimicked back with a chuckle. His eyes roved over the range of desert scrub they’d selected. Now they just needed to construct the pen. “Figure, two an hour, ten hours a day for ten days, and that leaves us plenty of time to string the line.”
Jikk was unmoved, his visage harder than the cobalt repeater slung on his hip. Unblinking, he spit again. “And say again why we aren’t hiring out to local handies?”
“This herd is fettle,” Tag responded, leaning in closer to shy from the worst of the wind, “Every last head. How many poachies you think we’d be dealing with if word got out?”
“Pff, poachies I can handle. It’s slingin’ dirt that makes my insides scream.”
Tag ran a palm down over his nose and mouth, then said, “Why must everything come down to death and dyin’ with you? This is clean, easy work that pays well, if the buy goes through. For that, we need the pen. It’s not that damn hard.”
“Mm hmm,” the younger man retorted, “Let me hear you say that after a hunnert posts.”