The Eighth Doctor

The Doctor snapped the edge of one of his white latex gloves in place and moved a hand over the row of finely-sharpened tools. Somewhere a tap was dripping regularly; he glanced up and looked lost for a moment, then turned back to his work.

He placed his hands on either side of the woman's skull, studied it for a moment, then selected an intrument shaped like a pick, angling it near her eye. He hesitated for a moment, gazing into those clear, blue eyes. Eyes that held a universe inside, so much older than himself and had seen so much more. Eyes that had been other colours, the eyes of a lover, an enemy, an old, lost soul that needed a doctor's hands now.

There was the sharp odor of antiseptic and alcohol and he caught up several long pins. The skin around her eye should be numb by now. At least there wouldn't be any reflexive movement.

The eyelid was peeled back swiftly and the Doctor inserted the pins to keep it in place. For a moment he stood poised with the pick in hand, glancing down at the arms, legs, torso, and head bound securely. The Doctor dropped the tool and rechecked all the fastenings on a sudden impulse, and then retrived the pick. For a moment he thought about gagging her.

He was going to wish she'd been gagged, wasn't he.

The young woman reigned in her horse, a tall, long-limbed dun gelding, that shook his head and danced sideways away from the other animals. "Vicario, no vamos a parar aquí. No me gustan sus expresiones," she said, casting a glance back down the town's main street-- its only street. "Sólo tener suficiente agua para llegar al pozo."

Josué Vicario turned his horse around and considered. The town had been populated by a train of settlers coming from the American state of Missouri. It had not been here the times Vicario had traveled this way before. The boards were still newly cut and fresh, adobe still white and clean. Technically these were Mexican open range lands and the settlers should not be here, but Mexican authorities were hard-pressed to keep out all the illegal squatters, especially so soon after the War.

And the town easily had sixty men to the Doña's company of sixteen.

"Estoy de acuerdo. Pero debemos tratar de vender caballos y comprar--" his horse snorted and pawed the ground, rolling its eyes to try to look back at the startling distant wheezing, scraping sound "-- what we need."

She shook her head vehemently, silver earrings rattling. "We cannot sell the horses! The horses are the money. They are my family's blood money. Sell the clothes off our backs first." The Doña Olalla Fuentes spurred her animal hard and trotted ahead.

Vicario shrugged to nearest of his vaqueros and clicked at his mount to wheel it into the street. The six Mexicans rode slowly, casting wary glances at the hard features of the few men they saw. The wagons needed water desperately. And there would be no reason to expect any sympathy from any outsiders.

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