The war dragged on, and Antonio grew tired of endless surgery that seemed to be alleviated only by weeks of boredom. Dr. Marsden had been lying sick in his bunk for a week, febrile, jaundiced, and vomiting blood. Antonio suspected he’d picked up yellow jack in Texas. One day, he walked into the tent and found the surgeon dead. Without further thought, Antonio loaded the surgeon’s books and surgical kit into a bag, mounted a blue roan, and rode away from the war.
Fourteen years later, he sat with his head on a bar, vertiginous from the cheap liquor. He had become Old Doc Marsden, who liked a drink but sure was handy with a blade. He had pulled a thousand arrowheads, had sounded even more bullet wounds, and set countless fractures. He kept to the rough mining towns and frontier spaces where there was no shortage of injuries and no questions were asked. Timberline was just his speed. Recently, a second doctor had come to town. He did not mind the competition; in fact, he was glad to have someone to whom he could send the tougher cases.
Time passes.
It was a cool fall morning. There was a frost on the ground, and Doc Marsden was hung-over, sitting on his porch rolling his first morning cigarette. Boone Harkness had returned to town those many months ago with a wife, and she was pregnant. The new doctor in town had taken her case. Doc was glad; he wanted nothing to do with either Snake-Eye Harkness or his bride. He’d seen her only once, walking in town, and that was enough. She seemed a tiny china doll next to the tough man with the narrow hips and wide shoulders.
A rider approached his house. Some cowboy had probably been shot last night, or had stumbled down drunk and broken his leg. But it was Billy Harkness. He told Doc he was wanted on the Harkness ranch, pronto. The new doctor, Jenkins, was having trouble with Helena Harkness and wanted Doc’s help. That could only mean things were bad, real bad. Doc had foaled a few in his time, but he was no hand at tricky birthing. Doc Marsden said he’d be by shortly. Billy looked at him with pity. Snake-Eye had said now.
Doc ran into his home and took a quick drink from his whisky bottle, then grabbed his bag and his Colt. They rode out in the cool morning air, Billy leading the way. Doc Marsden thought about the gun in his holster. It would not be hard to put a slug in Billy’s back and make for the high country. He might get away. But then he’d spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. He might as well face his doom straight up. He was a fake and a drunk, but he was no coward. He had never shot a man, and he wouldn’t start now.
Halfway to the Harkness spread, Billy pulled up. He had another chore to run, he said; he’d be up at the big house later that day. This was Doc’s chance. He might not be willing to shoot Billy and run for it, but he was mounted, and the road was open to the north and west. He thought about the scene in the ranch house: thin-legged Helena trying to squeeze out that big Harkness baby, bleeding, crying, dying. If she died so would Doc, no question about that.
Doc turned north and headed up the road a mile, then stopped. He looked out over the prairie. He thought about the immigrant boy, the butcher shop, the war, the bullets and arrows. Philadelphia was a lifetime away. Antonio Lombano was long dead. He was Doc Marsden. He took a deep breath of mountain air, thought about the bottle in his saddlebag, and left it there. He turned the blue roan with the double snake brand south and headed toward the Harkness ranch. TH