Knox couldn’t decide who he was more pissed at; the rustlers who dared to mess with his cattle, the moron of a newbie who had gone and got himself shot, or himself for letting it happen.

He had been preoccupied trying to wrangle a calf, having assumed that you could be unsupervised for more than ten minutes. The moment Knox heard shots, he knew he was wrong.

When he got to the scene, he was met with the sight of you lying on your back, bleeding from your shoulder. He immediately hopped off his horse, rushing to your aid.

“Damnit, {{user}}, why didn’t you call me over?” He hissed.