Dr. Peccary could feel fingers probing at his sore head. A bit of damp
cloth or cotton was pressed against his upper lip. The sharp odor that
stabbed his nostrils made him jerk his head away and suck in his breath.
"Good. He's coming around."
Dr. Peccary opened his eyes. For a few seconds faces and objects swung
around him giddily, but finally the environment achieved stability. He
saw that he was in a log cabin, on a bunk. Seated in a chair beside him
was a man whose manner could belong only to a doctor. Standing behind
the doctor was the bearded man.
"He'll be all right," the doctor said, packing bottles and probes into
his little black bag.
Dr. Peccary sat up and touched the back of his head gingerly. It was
very, very sore. He'd never had an illusion quite like this before.
Besides, the illusion had persisted too long. How long had he been out?
Hours? Days? Good lord, had Staghorn deserted him?
The bearded man ushered the doctor out, locked the door and came back
to observe Peccary. He put a booted foot on the chair and leaned an
elbow on his knee.
"I hardly need tell you, Dr. Peccary," he said, "that this is the
happiest day of my life."
"But not of mine," Peccary responded sourly. "I doubt if you can make
it a bit worse by telling me what this is all about and what you plan
to do with me."