Hungry with the sharp, gnawing hunger of healthy stomachs accustomed to regular and generous feeding; tired with the weariness of healthy muscles pushed past their accustomed limit of action; and hot with the unaccustomed heat of a blazing day shunted unaccountably into the midst of soft spring weather, the Happy Family rode out of the embrace of the last barren coulee and up on the wide level where the breeze swept gratefully up from the west, and where every day brought with it a deeper tinge of green into its grassy carpet. Only for this harassment of the Dot sheep, the roundup wagons would be loaded and ready to rattle abroad over the land. Meadow larks and curlews and little, pert-eyed ground sparrows called out to them that roundup time was come. They passed a bunch of feeding Flying U cattle, and flat-ribbed, bandy-legged calves galloped in brief panic to their mothers and from the sanctuary of grass-filled paunches watched the riders with wide, inquisitive eyes. “We ought to be starting out, by now,” Weary observed a bit gloomily to Andy and Pink, who rode upon either side of him. “The calf crop is going to be good, if this weather holds on another two weeks or so. But--” he waved his cigarette disgustedly “--that darned Dot outfit would be all over the place, if we pulled out on roundup and left 'em the run of things.” He smoked moodily for a minute. “My religion has changed a lot in the last few days,” he observed whimsically. “My idea of hell is a place where there ain't anything but sheep and sheepherders; and cowpunchers have got to spend thousands uh years right in the middle of the corrals.” “If that's the case, I'm going to quit cussing, and say my prayers every night,” Andy Green asserted emphatically.