Holliday in Tombstone

Holliday in Tombstone

S.M. Ballard

Published by S.M. Ballard at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 S.M. Ballard

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Chapter 1

Among the drunken cowboys, sleazy whores and card sharps separating honest men from their pokes, the newest patron of the Mexicali Rose stood apart. It wasn’t his looks that singled him out. Rather it was his attitude, as if he had nothing to lose and didn’t mind proving it. John Henry Doc Holliday leaned against the bar and ordered a whiskey, oblivious to the raucous hell raising going on around him.

Wyatt Earp pushed his way through the throng of patrons to the bar, brushing travel dust from his clothing as he walked. Why in hell you picked this particular place to have a drink I can’t fathom.

Doc grinned. It happens to be the only game in town. He gestured as broadly as possible considering the tight quarters. One saloon, one, in the bustling community of… of…

He realized he had no idea of the town’s name and signaled to the bartender. Sir, what is the name of your thriving metropolis?

The bartender scowled. What?

Wyatt interrupted. What’s the name of this town? It does have a name?

Sure, sure it does, the bartender replied, though in his harried state he neglected to provide the information.

Doc shrugged. Wyatt, you’ve kept me in the saddle, out in the middle of nowhere for two days now. Though I will admit searching out water rights in the Huachuca Mountains is an experience I shall always treasure, sleeping on the ground, food cooked over an open fire. He rolled his eyes. You can’t fault a man for feeling the need for a bit of diversion. He lifted his glass and downed the shot. A few drinks won’t hurt, either.

Earp snorted. This dump is enough to drive a man to drink.

Doc glanced around the room, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the amalgamation of smells, all vying for his attention. The saloon epitomized the word dive with its refuse covered dirt floor, board and barrel bar and dodgy clientele. I do see what you mean. However, since we’re already here, why not make the best of it?

He insinuated himself at one of the over-crowded tables. A haze of cigarette and cigar smoke hung over the seated gamblers. Calling for a bottle from the bartender, he studied the fellow across from him dealing the cards.

After several hands, Doc scanned the crowd for Earp. He hadn’t meant to ignore his friend, but he figured Wyatt was a big boy and could take care of himself. Noticing him at the bar, beer in hand, Doc nodded a greeting. Wyatt replied by raising his glass in a toast. With the knowledge his companion was occupied and in no hurry to be on his way, Doc settled down to the game at hand.

By the time he glanced up again Wyatt had switched from beer to coffee. This time when the toast was offered, it came with a scowl. Doc figured the time had come to call it a day. Sometimes, however, fate intervenes in a man’s plans.

The dealer toyed with a barmaid. Well into his cups, the fellow went from loud to mean in a heartbeat.

Don’t, mister, huh? The girl struggled to pull her skinny arm from the drunk’s grasp.

Her pleas only angered the bully. His next squeeze brought the girl to her knees with a sob.

That’s enough. Doc felt a warm flush rise into his cheeks.

The drunk ignored the warning. As the girl jerked her arm free, the drunk lunged for her, ripped her bodice from throat to waist, exposing thin heaving shoulders and small, pale breasts.

Doc pushed back from the table.

The drunken dealer again lunged after the crying girl.

Doc rose to his feet, the fingers of his right hand drumming against the butt of the ivory-handled revolver tucked low in the shoulder holster on his left. The lady would like to leave. I suggest you allow her to do so. Even in anger, his voice remained calm, his southern accent that of an educated gentleman.

The dealer’s jowly face, already flushed from liquor, reddened even further. Mind yer business, ya nosy son of a bitch. Think of it, he sneered, leering at the crowd. This fancy talkin' dude’s tellin' me how to treat a whore. And callin' her a lady. Haw, haw, haw.

Doc’s tapping of the gun butt grew more pronounced. His line of sight narrowed as he focused his attention on the dealer. The crush of men around him faded into the shadows. Over the pounding of his heart he heard a whispered warning. No, don’t. He could have sworn the voice belonged to Wyatt. He ignored the advice, real or imagined.

Just leave the lady alone and let's get back to the game. While his voice coaxed, his whip thin body remained rigid, the finger tapping constant.

The girl stood still, hemmed in by the crowd. Men leered down at her, hands reached out to touch and fondle. Once again the dealer ignored Doc, turned and grabbed her by the neck, his massive fingers hurting, bruising. She screamed.

Leave… the… lady… alone. Doc’s voice rose above the crowd noise, his tone now threatening.

The dealer released the girl and swiveled toward Doc. A derringer rigged from a contraption up his sleeve sprang into his hand. He fired. At the same instant, Doc fired the .45 he'd drawn. The dealer's face registered shocked amazement as Holliday’s bullet caught him square in the chest. Men at the table tripped over themselves and each other in their haste to get out of the line of any further gunfire.

Doc, holding the smoking pistol level in one hand, gathered his winnings with the other and slipped bills into the deep pocket of his coat. He backed slowly toward the bar where Wyatt, gun drawn, covered him. The two angled their way to the door.

The angry crowd pushed forward.

Wyatt shot off a round, careful to aim way high. In the chaos of men diving for cover, he and Doc bolted for their horses. Putting spurs to hide, they hit full gallop in record time. Wild shots zinged past the riders, kicking up dust or winging harmlessly by.

Earp took the lead and held it, keeping a relentless pace, men and horses laboring. They rode hard across country, Earp heading for high ground where they could stop long enough to rest the horses and check for pursuers.

Cresting a rise, they swung their animals around. From this point their vision was unlimited. No sign of pursuit, nothing but mesquite, ocotillo, sagebrush and blue sky.

Wyatt pulled out a kerchief and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. That was too damn close, he muttered, stepping down from his lathered horse.

Closer than you think. Without warning, Doc slipped sideways out of the saddle. Wyatt barely had time to break his fall.

Doc panted, fighting to get air into lungs nearly destroyed by consumption and a life style of neglect and perverse joy in bucking the odds.

In falling he’d lost his hat, and his hair lay sweat-plastered against his scalp, the blond appearing dark and wet. Wyatt eased Doc down and checked him out. He found what he feared, a bullet hole through the gray wool coat, brocade waistcoat and lawn shirt and into the left shoulder. Wyatt tethered both horses down the far side of the ridge, grabbed the canteens, bedrolls and Doc's saddlebags and raced back.

With as much gentleness as speed allowed, Wyatt slipped Doc out of his coat and unbuckled the leather harness of the shoulder holster. Unbuttoning the vest and shirt, he pulled both away from the wound.

Goddamn it, Doc, was it worth it? Was it?

It was, Holliday replied breathlessly. The fellow was a brute as well as a cheat…and a poor cheat at that.

Checking through Doc’s saddlebags, Wyatt pulled out several white cotton bar towels. He placed one of the cloths against the hole and applied pressure with the heel of his hand. Doc turned his head to the side, sucking breath in between his teeth. His body tensed, but he offered no protest as Wyatt kept up the steady pressure.

Damn it, Doc. Damn you.

Wyatt grabbed another towel and pressed it over the first. Eventually, the bleeding stopped, but it was some time before Wyatt allowed himself to relax. Reaching for a canteen, he offered his friend a drink.

Are you attempting to poison me? Doc quipped, grimacing as the warm metallic liquid passed his lips. Complaints aside, he drank several long swallows, took a moment to catch a breath, and drank again.

Darkness fell without benefit of twilight. It was evident no one followed them, so Wyatt built a fire to keep the wounded man warm, and to brew a pot of Arbuckle’s.

Doc slept fitfully most of the night, waking thirsty and in pain. His futile efforts to shift his hurting body to a more comfortable position on the rocky ground woke Wyatt from his light doze. After a long swallow of tepid, leftover coffee, Doc began talking, not like he expected answers, more like he was getting things off his chest, things he’d never spoken of aloud before.

I am afraid of dying, he said. Afraid, but not in the way most men are, I would guess. He licked at his dry lips.

Wyatt offered Holliday the last of the coffee. Doc, I didn't think you were afraid of anything, he countered. But if you are afraid of death, why do you court it on such a regular basis?

Afraid of dying, not death, Wyatt. There is a difference.

Explain it to me then. I’m listening. Wyatt settled back next to Holliday, sipping his own coffee, waiting for as long as it took for Doc to begin. The wait was short.

I’m living on borrowed time, but I’ve come to accept it, not happily by any stretch, but I no longer fear death, only the dying. He stopped a moment. I'd give a ten dollar gold piece for a cigarette, he whispered, making a halfhearted attempt to pat down his shirt pockets.

Wyatt took out fixins' and rolled one, placed it between Doc’s lips, and lit it with an ember from the fire. You can pay me the ten when we get back to town.

Done, sir, Doc replied. Enjoyment suffused his face as he inhaled, praying the acrid smoke wouldn't trigger a violent bout of coughing. It didn’t. After several quiet moments spent enjoying the smoke, he continued.

I am afraid of dying in a hovel, like that saloon this morning, in a filthy, no name town, dying broke and hard, alone, spending my final days begging drinks off drovers and cow pokes, or lying face down in a dung covered street. I won’t die that way.

Wyatt said nothing, but Doc accepted the lack of comment from his taciturn friend. If Wyatt couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t trite or condescending, Doc knew he would say nothing at all, and that was fine with him.

Dawn crept up over the horizon in subtle bands of pink, blue and gray. Birds sang and the scent of morning wafted across the land, fragrant and something else which made the desert smell singularly original. Old-timers claimed the creosote bush created the unique scent. Perhaps it was the land itself as Doc believed.

As Wyatt peeled back the makeshift bandaging to check his wound Doc couldn’t help but notice his friend’s concerned expression. Bad?

Not bleeding anymore…but the bullet's still in there.

Remove it then.

You can't be serious.

I am indeed serious. I would rather trust you than that veterinarian who calls himself a physician back in Tombstone. I wouldn't trust my horse's care to that charlatan. Cigarette? The thought of anyone poking around his injured shoulder was less than palatable. It turned Doc’s stomach. A cigarette would ease the nausea and shakes.

Wyatt rolled him one. While Doc smoked, eyes closed in satisfaction, Wyatt pondered the situation, coming to a conclusion. I’ve got no doctoring skills. If you start bleeding again and I can’t stop it, you’ll die. If that bullet doesn’t come out and soon, blood poison’ll set in.

Doc opened his eyes, squinting up at Earp. I do hope that isn’t the good news.

There’s a ranch, halfway between here and town. A place that size always has a man to set bones, stitch up cuts and the like.

You mean Smith's? Doc didn't wait for an answer. Smith won't help, not me. He's one of those religious zealots. My mother referred to them as holy rollers. They have no use for gamblers and ne're-do-wells such as myself. Forget it, Wyatt.

Holliday seemed resigned to whatever hand the fates dealt, but not Wyatt. He gathered up belongings and kicked dirt over the dying embers to smother the last of the fire then poured the dregs of the coffee out onto the dirt, going about his business in grim silence.

He slid Doc’s coat over his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. The slim man trembled against Wyatt, his legs nearly going out from beneath him, yet he didn't utter a word of complaint. Wyatt handed him his black Stetson, which he settled on his head, pulling the stampede strings tight beneath his chin.

As Wyatt watched Doc struggle to settle himself onto the unfamiliar saddle, he shook his head. Doc liked his horses full of vinegar and raw energy and his current mount, a huge bay, was fast but nervy and skittish and also still half green, trying his skill as a horseman in the best of times. In his current condition, Doc was barely a match for Earp’s gelding.

Though Doc was game, there was only so much he could give and when that was gone, there was nothing holding him in the saddle but heart and guts. The heart was willing, but the body was weak. He lasted five miles and a ways more before passing out cold.

Realizing Doc probably couldn't make Smith's, Wyatt had led them close to the San Pedro River with its cottonwoods, cool shade and water. This time of year the leaves were just coming onto the trees, and the water slowed to more creek than river, but it offered shelter and life and Wyatt grabbed for it.

He crouched on the soft river sand beside a feverish and shivering Doc. I’ll be back with help. Count on it.

Chapter 2

Doc reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed his watch, meaning to check the time, though time hardly mattered at this point. Since he had no idea when Wyatt had left, he would have no idea how much time had passed.

He held the familiar gold timepiece in his palm and ran his thumb over the worn filigree, tracing the intricate design, knowing that among the twining leaves were engraved his initials. Unless one knew where to find them, the scripted letters remained elusive. He closed his fingers around the timepiece and brought it to his ear. The ticking, like that of a beating heart, brought comfort and reminded him always of her who had bestowed the treasured gift, his mother, her last present to him, upon the occasion of his fifteenth birthday. Time froze in that moment.

Above him white clouds drifted across a blue backdrop broken only by tree limbs which moved with a dancer’s grace, dipping and bowing to a quickening breeze. The murmur of the river added its voice.

He woke to a familiar face, one he had not seen since Dodge City, and a familiar voice.

It’s fine to see you again, Doc. Turkey Creek Jack Johnson’s face creased in a smile, its countenance even more lined from wind and sun than when Holliday had last seen