Doc

by Mary Doria Russell

The kids took off running. Morgan followed. The Famous Cowboy Band had stopped playing, and Morg pushed through the doors of the Lone Star, asking, “What’s the trouble?” because everybody was standing up, like they were watching a fight or something. Kate turned and shushed him. That was when he heard the piano. Alexander von Angensperg was right behind him. Sounding thunder-struck, he said, “Mein Gott … It’s the Emperor!” Which made no sense to Morgan, but Kate looked stunned. “Are you sure?” she asked Alex, and when he nodded, her hands went to her lips. “But that’s—That’s what Doc used to play for his mother …” Doc? Morg thought. Except it couldn’t be only him, because there were two people playing, it sounded like. He eased around until he could see better, and damn if it wasn’t just Doc, all alone at the piano, his back to the crowd, and he was playing something … something so … wonderful that Morgan didn’t even notice when Wyatt came over to stand beside him. “Did you know he could play like that?” his brother asked. “Hell, Wyatt,” Morg murmured. “I didn’t know anybody could play like that.” For he had never heard anything like it—did not know such music existed in the world—and it was hard to believe that a man he knew could play it with his own two hands. There were parts of it like birdsong, and parts like rolling thunder and hard rain, and parts that glittered like fresh snow when the sun comes out and it’s so cold the air takes your breath away.