I was dreaming of smoke, fire, blood, and demons. I awoke to the burning stench of smelling salts, screaming men, and a splitting headache.

The doctor waving the salts under my nose was wearing a leather apron which was slick with blood. His hands were stained red, along with parts of his white beard. His face betrayed the turmoil of his stressed mind. In his other hand, there was a Colt with the hammer cocked and barrel pointed at my brow.

“Hey, doc,” I spoke groggily, “I don’t think that’s necessary.” His face relaxed as he lowered the Colt.

“Not for you, maybe,” the surgeon snarled, “but some of my patients have been very ill.”

“Are you a horse doctor? Is a .44 what passes for medicine in Pennsylvania?”

“Men are catching a sickness,” he explained, “a form of rabies maybe. I have to protect myself from patients during surgery.”

Next to me, a few tools soaked in whiskey. I didn’t like the looks of the bone saw.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “the gash isn’t too bad. Slight concussion. No amputations.”