determination in a bottle, until, near the end, the hand that held the scalpel was no longer steady and the brain that guided that hand became unclear and unreliable.
âSo Dr. Miles Picard received a medical discharge even as Grant received Lee at Appomattox and the war ended. That warâwhile Dr. Picard became a derelict, who for some reason still carried a medical bag and found himself in a flyspeck of a saloon in a flyspeck of a Texas town called Gileadânot far from what was left of a once proud ranch owned by a man named Wolf Riker.
âUnfortunately, I still wore remnants of a Union uniform from which I withdrew my last Yankee dollar and ordered another drink. And even more unfortunately, there were three pig ugly brothers who entered and sat at a nearby table.
âThe bartender brought a bottle and set it in front of me. I reached for the bottle but another hand beat me to it. A hand that belonged to one of the pig ugly brothers.
ââThis town donât serve Indians, niggers, or Yankees,â he growled. âWe saw enough of your kind during the war.â
âAnother brother grabbed my medical bag from the table and snapped it open.
ââLetâs see what the bluebellyâs got here.â
âHe held up a couple of scalpels.
ââKnives,â he grunted.
ââPut that back, and leave him alone,â a voice commanded from the bar.
âThe voice, I was to find, belonged to Wolf Riker.
âThe three brothers didnât care who it belonged to.
ââHeâs a goddamn Yankee and weâre gonna . . .â
âThat brother never finished. It all happened so fast they never knew what hit themâand neither really did I.
âHe sprang from the bar, both fists thundering into faces and bodies until the three brothers lay in three crumpled heaps on the sawdust of the floor.
âOne of those three stirred and started to lift his head until the heel of Rikerâs boot stomped it hard back into the floor.
âThen Riker turned to me.
ââYou are a doctor, arenât you?â
ââAccording to a certain medical institution, I am.â
ââThen grab that pouchââhe pointed to the medical bag on the tableââand come with me.â
âI pointed to the three unconscious victims.
ââThose fellows could use some medical attention. â
ââI donât give a damn about them. Come on!â
âI grabbed the bag and the bottle and followed him out the door.
âAs I sat next to him in the buckboard on the way to wherever we were going, I couldnât help occasionally glancing at the man who looked straight ahead, and who had rescued me from the post-war wrath of three unreconstructed belligerents, and who had suffered the wrath of a human whirlwind.
âA granite face atop a wide shouldered chest and with heavy hands that held the reins. A man who for his size moved with the grace and power of a panther.
âHe said nothing until I uncorked the bottle of whiskey and took a deep swallow.
ââGo easy on that until we get there.â
ââGet where?â
ââMy ranch.â
ââHow far?â
ââNot far.â
ââYou donât waste many words, do you, Mister . . .â
ââSometimes . . . Riker. Wolf Riker.â
ââMiles Picard. Dr. Miles Picard. Can you tell me what this is all about . . . this time?â
ââSomebodyâs sick. Fever. Sick in bed. I came into town to get a doctor.â
ââDid you expect to find him in a saloon?â
ââI didnât know it, but the doctor left town, left Texas; I stopped for a drink.â
ââLucky for me . . . I think.â
âI started to take another drink from the bottle. He spoke without looking at me.
ââPart of the Hippocratic Oath is that a doctor will do no harm, Doctor
âSo Dr. Miles Picard received a medical discharge even as Grant received Lee at Appomattox and the war ended. That warâwhile Dr. Picard became a derelict, who for some reason still carried a medical bag and found himself in a flyspeck of a saloon in a flyspeck of a Texas town called Gileadânot far from what was left of a once proud ranch owned by a man named Wolf Riker.
âUnfortunately, I still wore remnants of a Union uniform from which I withdrew my last Yankee dollar and ordered another drink. And even more unfortunately, there were three pig ugly brothers who entered and sat at a nearby table.
âThe bartender brought a bottle and set it in front of me. I reached for the bottle but another hand beat me to it. A hand that belonged to one of the pig ugly brothers.
ââThis town donât serve Indians, niggers, or Yankees,â he growled. âWe saw enough of your kind during the war.â
âAnother brother grabbed my medical bag from the table and snapped it open.
ââLetâs see what the bluebellyâs got here.â
âHe held up a couple of scalpels.
ââKnives,â he grunted.
ââPut that back, and leave him alone,â a voice commanded from the bar.
âThe voice, I was to find, belonged to Wolf Riker.
âThe three brothers didnât care who it belonged to.
ââHeâs a goddamn Yankee and weâre gonna . . .â
âThat brother never finished. It all happened so fast they never knew what hit themâand neither really did I.
âHe sprang from the bar, both fists thundering into faces and bodies until the three brothers lay in three crumpled heaps on the sawdust of the floor.
âOne of those three stirred and started to lift his head until the heel of Rikerâs boot stomped it hard back into the floor.
âThen Riker turned to me.
ââYou are a doctor, arenât you?â
ââAccording to a certain medical institution, I am.â
ââThen grab that pouchââhe pointed to the medical bag on the tableââand come with me.â
âI pointed to the three unconscious victims.
ââThose fellows could use some medical attention. â
ââI donât give a damn about them. Come on!â
âI grabbed the bag and the bottle and followed him out the door.
âAs I sat next to him in the buckboard on the way to wherever we were going, I couldnât help occasionally glancing at the man who looked straight ahead, and who had rescued me from the post-war wrath of three unreconstructed belligerents, and who had suffered the wrath of a human whirlwind.
âA granite face atop a wide shouldered chest and with heavy hands that held the reins. A man who for his size moved with the grace and power of a panther.
âHe said nothing until I uncorked the bottle of whiskey and took a deep swallow.
ââGo easy on that until we get there.â
ââGet where?â
ââMy ranch.â
ââHow far?â
ââNot far.â
ââYou donât waste many words, do you, Mister . . .â
ââSometimes . . . Riker. Wolf Riker.â
ââMiles Picard. Dr. Miles Picard. Can you tell me what this is all about . . . this time?â
ââSomebodyâs sick. Fever. Sick in bed. I came into town to get a doctor.â
ââDid you expect to find him in a saloon?â
ââI didnât know it, but the doctor left town, left Texas; I stopped for a drink.â
ââLucky for me . . . I think.â
âI started to take another drink from the bottle. He spoke without looking at me.
ââPart of the Hippocratic Oath is that a doctor will do no harm, Doctor
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