CARSON CITY, Nev. - Every two years, a bunch of cowboys and city slickers gather in Nevada's capital city to hash out just what ought to be the law of the land.

Their debates range from how far between fence posts a rancher should mark his land to how long someone ought to spend in prison for robbing a bank. They work long hours for little pay, then go back to their homes to pitch hay or push paper, wait tables or deliver babies.

It's called the Nevada Legislature. Its members come from the many walks of life that make up Nevada's citizenry. Students and retirees, white collar and blue collar. From alfalfa fields to high rises, they range in age from 26 to 80.

State law limits the legislative session to 120 days every two years, meaning people can't become full-time politicians. The pay, about $8,300 per session plus $147 per day for expenses, ensures that the lawmakers must maintain another livelihood.

The National Counsel of State Legislatures counts Nevada among 17 states with part-time, low-paid lawmakers.

Many hope Nevada never loses its citizen Legislature, even as growth in southern Nevada puts more pressure on the state to increase the time that lawmakers stay in session.

"It's a remnant of our small-state, small-town heritage," said Bob Fulkerson, who lobbies the Legislature as executive director of the Progressive Leadership Alliance of Nevada, a liberal citizens advocacy group.

"Today, I know lawmakers, the good ones at least, get their ideas from ordinary people," Fulkerson said.

Carole Vilardo has been lobbying for the Nevada Taxpayers Association since 1987, and for other organizations in Nevada since 1970. She said the variety of people who serve means issues get a thorough debate. A bill originating from an urban area often changes after rural lawmakers review it, she said.

"When you have that type of interaction on these bills, you end up having generally better legislation," Vilardo said.

Those who work with Nevada lawmakers say they are more accessible and lack the pretense of lawmakers in some other states.

Assembly Majority Leader John Oceguera, D-Las Vegas, a firefighter, wants to keep that informality.

"I've been around to different legislatures around the country, and I do not want to be California, I do not want to be Washington, D.C. You ought to be able to sit down and have pancakes with the governor and have a cold drink with whoever you want to," Oceguera said.

Assembly Minority Leader Garn Mabey, R-Las Vegas, said he doesn't see Nevada's system changing anytime soon.

"Sometimes people prefer that we are not in session, because we can't raise taxes and we can't make more laws," Mabey said.

A doctor, Mabey sees patients on Saturdays in Las Vegas while he juggles the workload of lawmaking during the week.

When he's not working in the Assembly, Oceguera works at the North Las Vegas Fire Department, where he is a battalion chief. He keeps his 24-hour shift on weekends during the session.

"Right now when we are at the crunch time, there's only a limited amount of time and you are doing huge issues that could affect people's lives drastically. It's kind of the same thing I do at the fire department," Oceguera said.

For Sen. Maggie Carlton, D-Las Vegas, maintaining a life outside of Carson City means keeping the people she represents in mind.

"I think because I go back home and I put my uniform on and my working shoes back on, I go clock in for a living, I don't lose the perspective because I go right back to it. If you don't have to go back, you could end up almost insulated," said Carlton, a waitress at Treasure Island hotel-casino in Las Vegas and a local union leader.

Freshman Assemblyman Ruben Kihuen, D-Las Vegas, says being a citizen lawmaker means he keeps a personal connection with those he represents.

"The value of serving in a citizen Legislature is that it reflects what the state really is. So you have ranchers, teachers, waitresses, you have students. You have wealthy people, you have poor people. That's what Nevada is," said Kihuen, the youngest Assembly member at 26, who is a community college academic adviser and a political activist.

Freshman Assemblyman James Settelmeyer, R-Gardnerville, said his involvement in politics began with a dispute over a gravel pit on his family's land that sent him to a county commissioners meeting when he was 16.

Settelmeyer, who has taken online courses toward a law degree, pointed out that there's still some similarities between lawmaking and working the land.

"We started out as bankers, in the respect of having banker hours. We came in about nine and left about four or five. As of last week, we were doing rancher hours: sun up to sun down," Settelmeyer said.

This year, the Assembly and Senate will consider nearly 1,200 bill, which makes for long hours and even some all-nighters as the legislators near adjournment in early June.

Oceguera said he's departing from his initial view that "we don't need that many laws" and says the state may need a session every year to tackle fiscal issues.

Carlton, a working mother, said meeting every other year makes it difficult to tackle the state's emergencies.

"I would equate it to a family sitting down between January and June and saying OK, this is how we are going to run this family for the next two years. What if in that two years, you didn't plan on a fridge breaking? Do you have to wait another two years to come back and buy a new fridge?" Carlton said.

Carlton and Oceguera see the state's rapid growth as the main threat to the state's citizen Legislature.

Every-other-year sessions have been the rule in Nevada since 1867, except for 1960 after voters approved annual sessions. Soon after, biennial sessions were voted back in. Since then, periodic attempts to meet every year developed, but the proposals repeatedly died in the Senate, the latest in 2001.

Six other states meet every-other-year: Arkansas, Montana, North Dakota, Oregon, Kentucky and Texas. California made the move to a full-time legislature in the late 1960s and now its session runs from January through August each year.

Fulkerson thinks low pay could prove to be the undoing of Nevada's system.

"The idea that you can have a waitress or regular working folks be part of a Legislature is unique across the country, it's great. But the fact we pay them so little is the other side of the coin. That's the biggest threat to our citizen Legislature, is the lack of pay. It's getting filled with rich people who don't have the same perspective as working class folk," Fulkerson said.

Lawmakers in the California Assembly receive $110,000 per year salary, per diem pay that averages $25,000 a year, an office budget for staffing and supplies of $275,000 per year and $400 per month to lease a car in Sacramento.

"If you go to the full-time, $110,000 a year, you lose the citizen Legislature. There's a balancing point, but we are at the low end of that, and it's hard to get quality candidates to run," Oceguera said.

Kihuen, who represents a working-class district, said many people assume politicians are rich, and don't know that Nevada's lawmakers get paid for only half the time they work, the first 60 days of the session, often less than their own secretaries.

Settelmeyer said the pay should be more, but not too much.

"We don't want people making so much money that they are only interested in being here. No, no, no. Their main desire should be getting out of here," Settelmeyer said.