Day was breaking in the Panhandle. The line-rider finished his breakfast of buffalo-hump, coffee, and biscuits. He had eaten heartily, for it would be long after sunset before he touched food again.Cheerfully and tunelessly he warbled a cowboy ditty as he packed his supplies and prepared to go."Oh, it's bacon and beans most every day,I'd as lief be eatin' prairie hay."While he washed his dishes in the fine sand and rinsed them in the current of the creek he announced jocundly to a young world glad with spring:"I'll sell my outfit soon as I can,Won't punch cattle for no damn' man."The tin cup beat time against the tin plate to accompany a kind of shuffling dance. Jack Roberts was fifty miles from nowhere, alone on the desert, but the warm blood of youth set his feet to moving. Why should he not dance? He was one and twenty, stood five feet eleven in his socks, and weighed one hundred and seventy pounds of bone, sinew, and well-packed muscle. A son of blue skies and wide, wind-swept spaces, he had never been ill in his life. Wherefore the sun-kissed world looked good to him.He mounted a horse picketed near the camp and rode out to a remuda of seven cow-ponies grazing in a draw. Of these he roped one and brought it back to camp, where he saddled it with deft swiftness.