Picard.â
ââWhom am I harming?â
âThis time he did turn and look at me. The penetrating glare in his eyes answered my question without his saying a word.
ââAll right, Mr. Riker, Dr. Picard will drink no more until after tending to the patient.â
ââThere it is.â
ââWhat?â
ââThe ranch.â
âFrom a distance it looked like a huge stone bridge over dry land, arching high and wide across the narrow trail we had been following. But it was not a bridge. It was an entrance. A proclamation. Across the top of the arch were carved two âRâsâ back-to-back. A brand.
ââTwo Râs,â I said. âRiker and Riker?â
ââNot anymore,â he replied. âRikerâs Range.â
âFarther ahead, the main building was an imposing Spanish-style two-story structure with a tile roof and wide veranda. Nearby, corrals and small buildings, bunkhouses. A stable. Nothing in the condition it once must have been . . . and should be.
âDozens of ranch hands, some on horseback, most on foot, none of whom waved at, nor greeted, Riker, nor did he acknowledge their presence.
âAs the buckboard pulled up to the main building, Riker loosed the reins, looked toward the porch, stroked at the scar on his forehead and spoke . . . but not to me.
ââIâll be goddamned. You son of a bitch!â
âStanding on the porch, leaning to the left, smoking the stub of a black cigar, a well-worn cowboy rubbed the stubble of a speckled beard, squinted and smirked.
âââBout time you got back,â the cowboy said.
ââPepper, you son of a bitch.â
ââWhatâs wrong?â I managed to inquire.
ââWrong?! Thatâs your patient. He was on his deathbed when I left.â
âWe both got off the buckboard as the cowboy limped off the porch and closer to us.
ââWell,â I remarked. âHe doesnât seem to be dead anymore. What happened to the fever?â I asked.
ââIt just decided to go away, so I just decided to get up and smoke one of Mr. Rikerâs cigars.â
ââIt happens to patients sometimes,â I said to Mr. Riker. âPartly they die and partly they revive. May I take a drink before I leave?â
ââYou can drink the whole damn bottle, doctor . . . and stay as long as you want. Pepper, this is Dr. Miles Picardâand to paraphrase the Bard, âAt journeyâs end . . . present mirth hath present laughter.â
âWell, Mr. Guthrie, you asked how Riker and I met. Thatâs how. As to why I stayed, the truth is I had no place to go and no money to get there . . . and I was fascinated by the so-called Range Wolf, a man who could beat three men senseless without compunction or conscience . . . and at the same time care for an old crippled cowboy while quoting Hippocrates and Shakespeare. And in spite of his primitive nature he seemed to enjoy the interchange of views with a sometimes sober doctor. He pays me a pittance, enough to provide for a limited supply of spirited libation.
âAs for my medical duties on the ranch, mostly I set an assortment of broken bones of wranglers with a degree of success, but not in the case of a young wrangler, who was thrown off a horse and suffered a broken neck.
âAnd now, Mr. Guthrie, enough of my autobiographical rambling. You must tell me the story of your life some time . . . some other time.
âIâm tired and sleepy.â
CHAPTER XIII
âWhere the hell you been?â
That was Cookieâs salutation as I approached the campfire, where quite a few of the drovers were gathered.
âVisiting a sick friend,â I answered.
âHumph!â He responded and went back to watching the contest.
After a grueling dayâs work, twelve or more hours in the saddle herding recalcitrant cattle, the drovers sought
ââWhom am I harming?â
âThis time he did turn and look at me. The penetrating glare in his eyes answered my question without his saying a word.
ââAll right, Mr. Riker, Dr. Picard will drink no more until after tending to the patient.â
ââThere it is.â
ââWhat?â
ââThe ranch.â
âFrom a distance it looked like a huge stone bridge over dry land, arching high and wide across the narrow trail we had been following. But it was not a bridge. It was an entrance. A proclamation. Across the top of the arch were carved two âRâsâ back-to-back. A brand.
ââTwo Râs,â I said. âRiker and Riker?â
ââNot anymore,â he replied. âRikerâs Range.â
âFarther ahead, the main building was an imposing Spanish-style two-story structure with a tile roof and wide veranda. Nearby, corrals and small buildings, bunkhouses. A stable. Nothing in the condition it once must have been . . . and should be.
âDozens of ranch hands, some on horseback, most on foot, none of whom waved at, nor greeted, Riker, nor did he acknowledge their presence.
âAs the buckboard pulled up to the main building, Riker loosed the reins, looked toward the porch, stroked at the scar on his forehead and spoke . . . but not to me.
ââIâll be goddamned. You son of a bitch!â
âStanding on the porch, leaning to the left, smoking the stub of a black cigar, a well-worn cowboy rubbed the stubble of a speckled beard, squinted and smirked.
âââBout time you got back,â the cowboy said.
ââPepper, you son of a bitch.â
ââWhatâs wrong?â I managed to inquire.
ââWrong?! Thatâs your patient. He was on his deathbed when I left.â
âWe both got off the buckboard as the cowboy limped off the porch and closer to us.
ââWell,â I remarked. âHe doesnât seem to be dead anymore. What happened to the fever?â I asked.
ââIt just decided to go away, so I just decided to get up and smoke one of Mr. Rikerâs cigars.â
ââIt happens to patients sometimes,â I said to Mr. Riker. âPartly they die and partly they revive. May I take a drink before I leave?â
ââYou can drink the whole damn bottle, doctor . . . and stay as long as you want. Pepper, this is Dr. Miles Picardâand to paraphrase the Bard, âAt journeyâs end . . . present mirth hath present laughter.â
âWell, Mr. Guthrie, you asked how Riker and I met. Thatâs how. As to why I stayed, the truth is I had no place to go and no money to get there . . . and I was fascinated by the so-called Range Wolf, a man who could beat three men senseless without compunction or conscience . . . and at the same time care for an old crippled cowboy while quoting Hippocrates and Shakespeare. And in spite of his primitive nature he seemed to enjoy the interchange of views with a sometimes sober doctor. He pays me a pittance, enough to provide for a limited supply of spirited libation.
âAs for my medical duties on the ranch, mostly I set an assortment of broken bones of wranglers with a degree of success, but not in the case of a young wrangler, who was thrown off a horse and suffered a broken neck.
âAnd now, Mr. Guthrie, enough of my autobiographical rambling. You must tell me the story of your life some time . . . some other time.
âIâm tired and sleepy.â
CHAPTER XIII
âWhere the hell you been?â
That was Cookieâs salutation as I approached the campfire, where quite a few of the drovers were gathered.
âVisiting a sick friend,â I answered.
âHumph!â He responded and went back to watching the contest.
After a grueling dayâs work, twelve or more hours in the saddle herding recalcitrant cattle, the drovers sought
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