Dawn had broken over the crests of the Cajons and smoke was curling above the cookhouse when Slim rode down on the Box B. The ranch buildings were set almost in the shadows of the Three Soldiers, the towering peaks looming above the huddled structures at their feet.

The foothills rose some miles behind the ranch, but the buildings themselves were in a broad, rich valley. A fringe of cottonwoods growing rank along a creek protected the layout from the winter winds which swept down from the north.

The ranch house, a rambling frame structure, had once been painted gray, but wind and rain had worn this to a sickly hue. The other buildings, including the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and the blacksmith shop, were unpainted, their boards warped and burned by the sun.

A large corral was just below the buildings with a score of horses inside. Beyond was a rich meadow through which the creek wandered, and the grass there was thick and green. Stacks of hay, cut for winter use, were ranged along one side. It was an ideal layout and Slim could understand the pride of Adam Marks in the Box B and its rich, rolling miles of range land. He could understand, with the spirit of a true cowman, how a man would fight to the end to retain his possessions in this last stand of the cattle frontier.

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.”

“Where did it happen?” asked Haines, hitching his gun belt forward.

“Marks said it was at the mouth of Wolf coulee, wherever that is.”

Joe Haines nodded.

“That’s a bad place. Come on, boys. We’re riding for Dirty Water.”

Slim spoke quickly.

“Just a minute. I had a talk with your boss before I left town. He wants you to stick at the ranch and watch the cattle. Maybe this is just a ruse to get you all away so the rustlers can clean out the place.”

Pausing, the foreman turned back toward Slim. “Who in thunder are you?” he asked.

“Name’s Evans--Slim Evans. I’ve been riding over on the Flying Arrow. Been hired and told to report to you for work. My pardner, Chuck Meade, is staying in Dirty Water and he’s camped right beside your boss, so you won’t need to worry about anything happening to him there.”

“How do I know you’re telling a straight story?” countered the range boss.

“You’ve got my word for it and people don’t question my word,” said Slim quietly. He straightened up in his saddle and his right hand slipped along his leg.

Joe Haines saw the move and a broad smile covered his homely features.

“No offense meant, cowboy, but we’ve had so much trouble I’m just naturally suspicious of everyone who comes along. We’ll take your word. Better turn your horse loose. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes.”

Slim rode down to the corral, pulled his saddle off Lightning and turned the sorrel loose. There was plenty of water and feed in the corral and, satisfied that his horse was all right, Slim returned to the bunkhouse where the cowboys were finishing their morning toilets under the pump.

“Meet the gang, or what’s left of them,” said Haines. “Here’s Pat Beals, Doug Huston and Walt Kelly.”

Slim shook hands with the outfit as the breakfast bell clanged. A Chinese cook, Lee Wu, brought steaming bowls of breakfast food, a pitcher of black coffee, and then stacks of cakes and bacon. There was little conversation as the cowboys stowed away enough food to carry them through the day if need be.

Slim made a survey of his companions while they were eating. Pat Beals and Walt Kelly were only a little older than himself and there was a reckless glint in their eyes. Doug Huston was sandy-haired and Slim put him down as probably thirty. His left eyelid drooped slightly and he seemed to be continually squinting. He was the least likeable of the group and Slim felt that he could not be trusted altogether.

Breakfast over, they gathered outside the cook house and Joe Haines issued orders for the day.

“Pat, you and Doug ride along the west range and see how those cattle along Stony creek are faring. Walt can trail over north and see if everything is all right toward the Double O. I’ll take Evans and ride down to Wolf coulee and see what happened there last night.”

They started for the corral, Slim and the range boss walking together.

“Your horse fit for a full day?” asked Haines.

“She’ll be all right,” smiled Slim as he thought of Lightning’s wonderful endurance. There was no need to tell anyone of the capabilities of his horse.

While the others had to rope their mounts to separate them from the milling string of horses in the corral, Slim only whistled once and Lightning responded instantly.

“My gosh!” exclaimed Pat Beals enviously. “You must have a circus horse. I can yell my head off and I can’t get any of my mounts to come near me.”

“Maybe they don’t like your voice,” suggested Walt Kelly, who had just finished a battle with a calico cayuse and was badly winded.

They swung into their saddles and started out on the day’s ride, Pat and Doug heading west to ride along the headwaters of Stony creek, Walt riding north toward the range of the Double O and Slim and the foreman backtracking along the trail to Dirty Water.

Joe Haines was openly admiring Lightning.

“Quite a horse,” he said. “Must be fast?”

“She can go places,” grinned Slim, but he did not encourage the conversation along that line.

“Have any trouble getting into the Creeping Shadows country?” asked the foreman.

“Why?”

“Rustling’s bad here and we’d heard that the gang doing most of the dirty work had plugged up every trail coming in and were getting ready for a final clean-up.”

“I haven’t been here long enough to find out what’s going on,” said Slim, which was partly true. “If rustling is bad, why not appeal to the peace officers?”

The foreman snorted. “The sheriff’s on the other side of the Three Soldiers and he’s either been bought off or is scared to death.”

“How about the marshal at Dirty Water?”

Haines laughed bitterly. “Kovec’s nothing but a tool for the rustlers. It’s a wonder you ever got out here alive.”

“I left when the town was asleep,” grinned Slim.

“That town never sleeps. It’s bad from top to bottom and Hal Titzell is one of the worst of them. He rides all over the country but I never heard of him ever buying any stock to amount to anything and Maxie Denkman and Newt Bemis, who say they’re helping him, are nothing but hired gunmen.”

“Maxie isn’t feeling so well,” said Slim.

“How come?”

“Well, from what I gather, Maxie and his friend Newt must have tried to stop a couple of cowboys from riding into the valley. Seems as though they picked the wrong targets and Maxie got a bullet through his arm.”

“You wouldn’t know who shot at Maxie, would you?” Haines asked, a broad grin wrinkling his face.

“I might,” smiled Slim, “and then again I might not. I’ve got a bad memory.”

“I think we’re going to get along fine,” said the foreman, “and I’m only hoping that pardner of yours is the right kind of a hombre.”

“Don’t worry about him. He’s as steady as they make them and a dead shot with a rifle.”

“Then I’m starting to take heart again. For a while it looked like we would be cleaned out, but with a couple of good riders who’ve got plenty of nerve and aren’t afraid of a struggle, we’ll fight this gang of rustlers to the end.”