With a flip of his wrist, West drove the spike of the fence pliers into the H-brace. He pulled a steel post and the driver off of the pack saddle, grinning in response to the horse's disgruntled, mean stare.

The dull, hollow ringing of the post driver planting the steel into the ground faded instantly into the wide expanse that surrounded them, and he lost himself in the rhythm for a few moments. That done, he took the stretcher and pulled the barbed wire taut; holding it, he fished a bracket from one pocket and looped it around the post and through the wire, crimping it with the pliers. Three loops around the H-brace and four staples later, the line of fencing was done.

He wasn't sure of the spread of land and small house was a mid-life crisis, or a sign he was in Sacramento to stay. Then again, he didn't really care. He had more important questions to ask himself.

With a practiced motion, he spun the pliers into a holster like one might a pistol. He slapped the horse's shoulder as he slipped the driver back onto the saddle and swung himself up.

Hell, it was only three acres. That was less than half a mile of fence.