Slim spoke to Lightning and the sorrel quickened her pace. As he rode past the pole corral, men poured out of the bunkhouse to watch his approach.
Slim pulled Lightning up several rods from the bunkhouse and surveyed the Box B riders with a cool eye. It was easy to pick out Joe Haines, the foreman. He was a typical cowboy, head slightly bald as though singed by too much exposure to the sun and face as brown as saddle leather. He could claim any age from forty to fifty, and Slim would have been willing to guess that he was closer to fifty. The others were younger, but he noticed that every one of them carried guns and well-filled cartridge belts.
“I’m looking for Joe Haines,” said Slim. “I have news for him.”
“You’re looking at him,” said the foreman, stepping forward.
Slim leaned over in his saddle and looked into the foreman’s eyes.
“Your boss was shot last night,” he said.
“What’s that?” demanded Joe, stunned by the words.
“Adam Marks was shot last night. His team brought him to Dirty Water and Doc Baldridge patched him up.”
“How bad was he hurt?” a younger cowboy edged forward with this question.
“A rifle ball creased one side of his forehead. He was unconscious for a while, but Doc thinks he’ll pull through.”