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Before Sunrise [Tombstone | Doc Holliday/Wyatt Earp (friendship)]
Dr. John Henry Holliday D.D.S. had only been away from home for five years, but he'd already made a name for himself as one of the most feared guns this side of the Mississippi. He'd left his home in Griffin, Georgia in 1872, due to a very unfortunate diagnosis of tuberculosis. His doctor said that the dry climate of the west would do him good, and he may just live another two years.
Well, here he was, five years later, still alive, and milking what little time he may have left for all it was worth - and according to his calculations, tonight had been worth approximately two-thousand dollars.
John (Or 'Doc' as he was more commonly referred to as) straightened his vest and coat, taking care to conceal just enough of the ivory grip on his shoulder-holstered colt .38 so as to not appear openly threatening, but letting enough peek out so no one would forget that he was a dangerous man.
Yes, he was on the slim side and none too better for the wear. He was pale, and his ashen hair lacked the luster it had once had, those years ago before his illness. He was intelligent and witty, polite and sophisticated, chock full of Southern charm and grace... and for those very reasons, he was certainly taken for an easy mark - all of which he had taken in to account, making him almost ridiculously dangerous with a pistol... and a shotgun, for that matter.
And the rather large bowie knife he kept strapped to his back.
His father taught him the basics of hunting when he was small, "Every lad needs to know his way around steel, boy. If you don't know your horse and you don't know your gun, then you don't know a damn thing."
John certainly found his way around a gun. He seemed to take to it like he was born with one in his hand.
When he came out west, he ended up in Dallas, Texas, because that's as far as the railroad went. He tried to re-establish his dental practice (And thus gaining the nickname 'Doc'), but no one wanted a tubercular dentist coughing on them during a drilling. So, he decided to try his luck at gambling. Finding that he had an uncanny knack for counting cards (A gift gained from his rather excellent grasp on mathematics), he became a regular at the faro and poker tables about town. There were small confrontations now and then, mostly concerning Doc raking in too many pots in a row. He was constantly accused of cheating, which he never did, but counting cards was just as bad, so he never spoke up. He did, however, take to practicing with his guns and knife quite a bit more.
After all, one must protect one's own self-interest, and Doc's self-interest was staying alive as long as he could. If that meant killing every man that disregarded Doc's self-interest, then so be it.
When you're a dead man walking, you have nothing to loose but your life, and Doc was determined to die with his boots on, not coughing up blood in a sanitarium somewhere. He led a dangerous life, and he would die in the style that suited it.
And so, life (And the perusal of more than a few authority figures) had led Doc to Fort Griffin, Texas... by way of Dallas, Jacksboro, Denver, Colorado and Cheyenne, Wyoming. He rode into Fort Griffin in November of 1877, and certainly didn't expect that this town would change his life.
"I would like to thank you gentlemen for the lovely evening," the refined Georgian accent drawled as Doc rose smoothly from his seat at the poker table, tipping his hat to the grumbling group of men, all of whom were walking home with considerably lighter pockets tonight.
Doc smiled to himself, "Kate! Come along, darling." A pretty brunette in a red satin and black lace dress glanced up from the faro table, then gathered up her winnings and walked out after Doc.
Just as he was exiting the saloon, a voice called him back, "Holliday!"
Doc turned to see a largish man rise from one of the tables in the corner, "Hows about just one more hand, Holliday? Just you and me?"
Doc smirked, glancing down at Kate. She winked at him and nodded, then turned and scampered from the saloon in the direction of their rooms. Doc straightened his hat and walked back inside, "Well, Ed Bailey... if you insist..." he drawled, then walked over to Ed table and sat down for one more hand for the evening.
Another man riding into Fort Griffin, Texas, in November of 1877, was a lawman by the name of Wyatt Earp. Wyatt was hot on the trail of a train robber named Dave Rudabaugh, but unfortunately, after 400 miles, that hot trail had grown cold. He trotted his horse up to the first saloon he spotted, then slid out of the saddle and tethered the horse. He entered Shanssey's Saloon, figuring Rudabaugh might have stopped in for a drink or a room sometime in the near past and he could glean some information from the bartender.
He stepped through the doorway, only to be assaulted with the sounds of a rather badly played piano. He grimaced and glanced over towards the corner of the saloon by the bar - his abused ears indicating that that's where the piano racket was coming from.
At the piano sat two people: a man, dressed in fine clothing - black trousers, an off-white shirt and blue brocade vest. His coat and hat were nowhere to be seen - looking all for the world like death personified; sweating and sickly and very, very drunk. To his left, and the one abusing the piano keys, was a rather attractive brunette dance hall girl, garbed in a dress made of what appeared to be blue satin and black lace. She also appeared to be extremely intoxicated, and seemed to be staring at the piano with an intensity the likes Wyatt had never seen. From the way they were communicating, Wyatt gauged the man must be trying to teach the woman how to play the piano. He was failing miserably, but they were both so blissfully drunk, neither was aware nor cared.
Wyatt slid up to the bar, smirking to himself in amusement as the brunette paused in her "playing" and just started banging the keys, letting out a peal of laughter and almost slipping off of the piano bench. The drunken man shot an arm out and caught her before she fell, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. Wyatt blinked, surprised by the man's agility and reaction time, considering his obvious state of inebriation.
"What can I do for you, stranger?" the bartender asked, rousing Wyatt from his contemplations.
Wyatt cleared his throat, leaning into the bartender's personal space, his voice lowering a notch, "I'm on the trail of Dave Rudabaugh. Been trackin' him for a time, now. He's robbed a few trains, and I'm lookin' to bring him in. Any help you can give me as to his whereabouts would be-"
"Is that... "Dirty" Dave Rudabaugh you're looking for?" a gently accented voice slurred from behind Wyatt.
Wyatt spun around and came face to face with the inebriated piano teacher. Wyatt blinked in surprise, his eyes flickering to the brunette female who now appeared to be napping on the floor, curled up around the piano bench, and back to the man who was standing straight as a stickpin, swaying back and forth in front of him, his eyes bloodshot, yet sharply focused on Wyatt's.
"Well, yes - yes I am. Do you know anything?" Wyatt asked, cautiously.
The man nodded a bit, then slowly lowered himself onto one of the barstools, gesturing to the bartender, "Another, please, Nathan, if you don't mind."
The bartender, Nathan, furrowed his brow and crossed his arms across his chest, "I don't know, Doc. You've had an awful lot to drink tonight, and I don't think-"
Doc rolled his eyes, then reached into his coat and pulled out a flask which he tossed onto the bar top, "You either allow me to pay you for your fine bourbon, sir, or I drink this swill and abuse your hospitality and piano for free."
Nathan sighed and ducked under the bar for a moment, popping back up with a clean glass and a bottle of bourbon. He poured Doc a glass of the amber liquid and pushed it towards the slight man, "But that's it, Doc. I'm cutting you off for tonight. Your piano playing drove out five of my high-rollers."
Doc smirked, curling his slim fingers around the glass and gesturing to the snoring woman passed out on the wooden floor, "That was Kate's doing, not mine. You know quite well I can hold a tune, even in my worst state."
Nathan just grunted and shook his head, moving down the bar to clean the other side. Doc chuckled softly, bringing the glass to his lips. Wyatt cleared his throat and continued his questioning.
"You said you knew something, mister..?"
Doc nodded once more, gesturing to a table not five feet away, "Please, join me..." Doc paused for a second, and then the question finally sank in. He tilted his head, and Wyatt thought he almost saw the man blush, "My apologies, where are my manners? Mother raised me better than this," he muttered. He inclined his head in a slight bow, "My name is Dr. John Holliday. Call me Doc, if you like. Everyone else does."
This time the surprise on Wyatt's face did not go unregistered, "Doctor?"
Doc smiled a bit, pulling out a chair at the table and seating himself. Wyatt did the same.
"Hm, yes. Doctor. I studied dentistry before I came out west. Earned my certificate, and even ran my own practice for a time. Unfortunately, I received a fair share of bad news and I was forced to relocate myself. Now I am here, and -"
Wyatt interrupted, "Wait - Doc... Holliday? Doc Holliday?" Doc's smile turned bemused, and he raised his eyebrows over the rim of his now half-empty glass of bourbon.
"That would be me, sir. However, I am afraid I did not catch your name..."
"Oh, right. Sorry. Wyatt Earp." Wyatt stretched his hand out across the table. Doc set his glass down and glanced at the offered hand, the side of his mouth curling up.
"I'm afraid I don't shake hands, Mr. Earp."
Wyatt shrugged his shoulders and withdrew his hand, "No skin off my back. Mind if I ask why?"
Doc shook his head, running a fingertip around the rim of his glass, "Not at all. I simply don't trust too many people, Mr. Earp... especially people with the power to arrest and imprison me," Doc winked, picking his glass back up and swallowing down nearly the entire half glass of bourbon in one.
Wyatt chuckled, nodding, "Well, with a reputation and name such as yours, I don't blame you in the least. However, I'm afraid I just don't have time to be arrestin' you, Mr. Holliday. I've heard a bit about you, and they say you're fast with a gun, but it all sounds like self-defense to me. Besides, I'm on the trail of a big-time criminal, here. Now, you said you had infor -"
Doc gasped, placing his free hand to his chest in mock insult, "Are you saying that I am not big-time, Mr. Earp? I'll have you know that I've killed my fair share of men in cold blood."
Wyatt paused, a nervous smile playing about his lips, "Look, Mr. Holliday -"
"Doc, please."
"Doc... All I need to know is if you've seen Dave Rudabaugh in the past few days..."
Doc slunk down in his seat, his smile turning kittenish, "And what do I get out of this little exchange of information, Mr. Earp? The satisfaction of helping protect my fellow townsfolk? The knowledge that I helped bring down a hardened criminal, whose very existence was a threat to the lives and morality of decent people everywhere?"
Wyatt paused, then nodded, "Well, yeah."
Doc stared at him for a moment, and then burst into laughter, "In that case, sir, you had better arrest me. The only crime Rudabaugh committed in this town was to offend my olfactory senses with his ripe stench, and to have the audacity to accuse me of cheating at cards. I sent him on his way, and he jumped me later that evening as I was walking back to my room. I received this for my troubles," Doc unbuttoned the sleeve on his left arm and rolled it up to reveal a rather nasty cut that looked about two days old, "However Rudabaugh received a bullet to the throat and a free trip to the town morgue. I'm sure if you inquire with the Sheriff, he'll allow you to view the body, for confirmation purposes, of course."
And with that, Doc finished up the last of his bourbon and set the glass down on the table, hard. He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and removed a rolling paper and pinched a bit loose tobacco onto it. He then proceeded to roll himself a cigarette, his eyes trained on Wyatt, as if waiting for the reaction that he knew would come.
Wyatt did not disappoint him.
"What?!" Wyatt huffed in indignation, scowling, "You mean to say, I've been tracking this man for weeks, only to have you - a drunk piano-playing dentist - kill him? Just like that?!"
Doc smiled and stuck the cigarette between his lips, scrapping a match across the table. He lit the cigarette, exhaling a large plume of smoke, shaking the match out, "Just like that."
"But - I just -" Wyatt sputtered, then sat back in his chair, exhaling a huge sigh, "Damnit. Now what am I going to do?"
Doc blinked wearily, shrugging his thin shoulders, and then giggled a bit as that latest glass of bourbon wormed it's way into his system, making him - if possible - even more drunk than he had been five minutes earlier. He gestured to Wyatt with his cigarette, "You look like you could use the company of a good woman."
Wyatt glanced up at Doc, and then shifted to look at Kate, who now appeared to be conscious and giggling to herself.
"What do you say, darling? Would you give Mr. Earp here a throw for his troubles?" Doc asked, laughter in his voice. His silvery-blue gaze remained steady on Wyatt, apparently intent on making him as uncomfortable as possible. Wyatt shifted in his seat, glancing back at Kate, who had turned bleary eyes on the seated pair.
"I don't work for free, Doc. You know that. Unless it's for you..." She threw him a wink and giggled again, before promptly passing out.
Doc grinned, stretching his arms above his head, "That's my lovely, little Hungarian throw rug. Just lies down and lets me walk all over her."
Wyatt gaped, "That is absolutely no way to talk about a lady, Doc."
"I assure you, Mr. Earp - Kate is no lady. I've only known her for just two weeks, and her behavior towards me has been anything but ladylike," Doc said, a laugh in his voice, as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood on trembling legs. He took a deep breath which was cut short as a few sharp coughs shuddered through him. Doc shook his head a bit and cleared his throat, then released the table. His knees immediately began to buckle, and Wyatt was at his side in flash, holding him about the arms and slowly lowering the smaller man back into his seat.
Doc muttered in protest, "No, no, Mr. Earp... the purpose of that exercise was to stand up, not to sit back down. Now, if you don't mind..." Doc wiggled his way out of Wyatt's grasp, then shot back up again, holding his arms out at his side, his eyes focused and determined.
Wyatt shook his head in disbelief, backing off a bit. Doc made his way over to Kate, swaying all the while, "Kate... Kate, darling... I'm afraid it is time for us to retire. Upstairs."
Kate murmured something in a language that Wyatt didn't understand - he could only assume it was Hungarian, from Doc's earlier comment - and came to, slowly. She opened her eyes and stared up at Doc, "I don't think I can get up, Doc."
Doc smiled apologetically down at her, shaking his head, "And I'm afraid I can't bend down to help you up. I appear to have had a bit too much to drink, myself."
"I can carry her," Wyatt said, walking over, "If that's okay with the both of you?"
Doc shrugged and took a few shaky steps back, "As you wish, Mr. Earp."
Wyatt gathered Kate in his arms and hoisted her up. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, muttering, "Earp? I knew an Earp..."
Doc smirked and walked to the door, opening it for Wyatt, "Did you, dearest?"
Kate nodded into Wyatt's chest, and Wyatt looked to Doc, questioningly. Doc, however, had directed his attentions to Nathan, "Good evening, Nathan."
Nathan nodded to Doc, his eyes amused, "And a good evening to you, Doc. I expect I'll see you in here tomorrow evening?"
"You will indeed, Nathan. Again, I appreciate your hospitality," Doc paused at the door to retrieve his coat from the coat rack. It was dove-grey in color, and of a fine cut. He drapped it over his arm and slipped a black hat on his head, then gestured for Wyatt to take lead out the door.
Wyatt shifted Kate in his arms and stepped out onto the wood-planked walkway outside of the saloon. He glanced to Doc for directions.
"Just around that corner and into the alley, Mr. Earp. Kate and I take a room above the saloon." Doc stepped around in front of Wyatt and began to lead the way.
Wyatt followed, Kate's weight almost nothing to him, "Um, Kate said she knew and Earp. Do you know what she means by that?"
"I do," Doc replied, and then began to whistle a tune Wyatt had never heard before.
Wyatt sighed, speeding up his pace a bit to catch up with the unburdened man, "Care to explain?"
Doc rounded the corner into a darkened alley, "Kate was in the employ of a Mrs. Bessie Earp in Wichita, Kansas a few years back. I would assume Mrs. Earp is a relation of yours?"
Wyatt failed to hide his surprise, "Well, yes... she's my sister-in-law."
Doc nodded and continued on his way. Wyatt spotted a door about ten feet up, "Bessie ran a, uh... she ran a..."
"A whorehouse, Mr. Earp. You can say it. I doubt anyone's sensibilities are going to be ruffled," Doc said, amusement evident in his tone.
Wyatt cleared his throat, pausing as Doc opened the door, "Oh, um... right."
Doc unlocked the door and paused in the pitch-dark stairway for a moment. Wyatt blinked as a match flared brightly, illuminating half of Doc's pale face. For a moment, Wyatt thought he was looking at a ghost. Doc raised the flame to a small stub of a candle, melted down into a candle-holder that had been bolted to the wall. He shook the match out, and the acrid smell of sulfur and smoke was bitter in Wyatt's nose.
"Now, then," Doc said, grasping the handrail and all but pulling himself up the stairs, "Just follow me."
Wyatt nodded and followed Doc upstairs. At the top of the stairs was a landing on which two doors rested. He turned to the one on the left and began struggling with the lock and key, "Damn, blasted keyhole..."
At last, the key turned and a satisfying click was heard. Doc pushed the door open and gestured Wyatt to the bed in the far corner, "Just lay her there, if you please."
Wyatt obliged, taking in the room as he did. It was larger than he had expected, and much more opulently decorated. He'd pegged Doc for the sort of man who drank his winnings away nightly, but either he was mistaken and he'd happened upon Doc on a rare night of binge drinking, or the gambler made a lot more in the way of profit than Wyatt had expected.
"This is a nice room, Doc. You don't usually see rooms this nice above saloons."
Doc nodded slowly, glancing around himself, "Yes, well... allowances are made when one has enough money," Doc drawled, smirking.
Wyatt nodded, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair, "Yes, I suppose that's true."
Wyatt glanced back at Doc, who was wearing that kittenish smile once again. For some reason, that smile made him very uncomfortable. The way Doc regarded him made Wyatt feel as if this man knew something he didn't. Usually that would only serve to anger Wyatt, but in Doc's case, he simply felt scrutinized, cross-examined, and even a little bit ashamed. Of what, though, he sure as hell didn't know.
He hadn't been lying when he said he'd heard of Doc. He knew the man made his living as a gambler, and he knew he was good at it. He also knew that Doc had killed several men for trying to jeopardize his way of living, and while Wyatt Earp the lawman saw this as unnecessary and saw Doc Holliday as a criminal, Wyatt Earp the man knew that Doc was simply trying to survive, the way they all were. You find something you excel at and you use that to earn a living. Wyatt seemed to excel at righting wrongs. Doc happened to excel at removing men from their money.
Just because Wyatt had a badge, didn't make him any better. Wyatt had stolen when he was younger... a few horses. He'd bullied people, and even killed a man once. Of course, he could forgive himself for that one, because he'd been wearing a badge at the time, but did it truly make him right and that man wrong?
Maybe that's why Doc's stare wilted Wyatt. Wyatt knew just by talking to Doc that Doc was a man of education and breeding. Even drunk, he stood with aristocratic flair and poise. He was a doctor. And then you have Wyatt Earp, who is made above John Holliday, simply because of the metal star pinned to his vest.
No, Wyatt thought, it doesn't make it right.
Doc's voice interrupted Wyatt's thoughts, "Do you have a place to stay for the evening, Mr. Earp?"
Wyatt sighed, "I wish you would call me Wyatt."
Doc nodded, his smile turning more sincere, "I'd be pleased to, Wyatt."
Wyatt nodded, smiling a bit, "No, I don't have a place just yet, but I spotted a hotel as I rode in. I suppose I'll take a room there."
Doc nodded and started towards the door, "Yes, I took a room there when I first came to town. It is a nice place. I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable there. Come along. I shall walk you out."
"No, Doc - that's not necessary. You should lie down -" Wyatt protested.
"Now, now, Wyatt - I don't appreciate being told my business. I am quite capable of walking you downstairs, thank you very much."
Stubborn old fool, Wyatt thought, his smile growing, "If you like, Doc."
"I do like, Wyatt," Doc said, holding the door open for Wyatt, "If you please."
Wyatt shook his head, chuckling, and walked out past Doc and made his way downstairs. He took the stairs a bit slowly, just in case Doc decided he'd like to pass out right then and there. It wouldn't do to have his new friend breaking his neck on the steps of his very own room. Wyatt made it down first, several steps ahead of Doc, and opened the door, stepping out into the fresh night air -
And the barrel of a shotgun.
"There you are, Earp. I thought I saw you headin' this way."
Wyatt jumped back, slamming the door shut as he did. Now he was alone in a dark alley, practically kissing the barrel of this man's shotgun, his only friend in this town probably been knocked out by the door on the stairs behind him. He glanced around frantically, praying it was only this one man. Wyatt saw no one else, but that didn't lessen the fact that if he went for his gun, his brains would be painting the side of this building before he could breathe.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Wyatt demanded, trying to compose himself.
He heard the man spit, then the shotgun cocking, "Ain't important, lawdog. I hear you're after a buddy of mine. Dave Rudabaugh. Well, I come here to ensure that you don't leave. I don't take kindly to the law huntin' down my friends."
Wyatt raised his hands, slowly, and began to inch away from the door. If Doc was still there, standing or not, he wouldn't risk the gambler taking any stray shotgun blast if this crazy man decided to shoot him.
"Dave Rudabaugh is dead," Wyatt said, "I heard word as soon as I rode into town. Feel free to go and ask the sheriff, if you don't believe me. My business is done, here."
"He's dead?!" The man took a step closer, bringing him parallel to the door, "Was that your doing, lawdog?"
Wyatt set his jaw, his resolve coming back in full force, "What if it was? What are you going to do about it?"
The man growled, shoving the shotgun into Wyatt's gut, "What am I gonna do?! I'm gonna blow your son-of-a-bitch insides all over this here dirt alley. What do you think of that?"
Just as Wyatt was bracing himself for the shot, the door slammed open, loud as a shotgun crack. The man whirled around, training his shotgun on the darkened doorway.
"What the hell?! Who's there? Come on out!"
Doc's voice floated from the darkness, as cold and as hard as the bullet that tore off the top of the man's head, "Why don't I just send a messenger."
Wyatt almost fainted with relief. He glanced down at the dead man, then back up as Doc came wavering out of the doorway, twirling his colt .38 around his index finger before putting it back in his shoulder holster. Wyatt just stared, hardly believing what had just happened.
"How..." he began, not able to find the words.
And for the second time in as many hours, Wyatt thought he saw Doc Holliday blush, "I may have been numbingly drunk, Wyatt, but I never let liquor get the better of my brain, my senses, or my mouth. I saw the barrel of that shotgun glint in the moonlight before you slammed the door shut on me. Believe me, when you're as paranoid as I am, you train yourself to look for these things religiously."
Wyatt just stared at Doc, then shook his head and smiled gratefully, walking over to the man who'd just saved his life, "A messenger, huh?"
Doc reached up and straightened Wyatt's hat, which had gone askew in the ruckus, "Indeed, sir."
Wyatt grinned, "And what would that message be?"
Doc took a step back and smiled, "As a tenet of this building, I do not appreciate loud gunshots sounding outside of my window at such a late hour, unless, of course, they are the fault of me."
Wyatt laughed, "I believe he got the message."
Doc chuckled softly, "I do hope so."
Wyatt just smiled, shaking his head, "Thank you, Doc. Not many men would risk their lives to save a man they hardly knew," he offered his hand to the gambler, who just regarded it with a melancholy smile. After a few seconds, Wyatt let out a short chuckle then drew his hand back, eyes on Doc, "Right. No handshakes. Sorry."
Docs smiled gently, tilting his head, "No apology necessary. And you are quite welcome, Wyatt. "
But no sooner were the words out, than a coughing fit seemed to rack the smaller man's frame. Doc turned aside, reaching into his sleeve to withdraw a pristine white handkerchief, which he put to his lips. He coughed softly into it.
"Is something wrong, Doc?" Wyatt's voice was concerned, and Doc was slightly touched. Here was a man that he'd met no less than two hours ago, and he was already concerned as a friend would be.
Doc shook his head, turning back to face the taller man. His quick eyes scanned the whiteness of the fabric, checking for the telltale sign. The streak of crimson shone bright in the darkness. Doc sighed, stuff the handkerchief away, hurriedly. He then quickly reached into his inner coat pocket and removed his flask. Unscrewing the cap, he raised it to Wyatt.
"I apologize for not offering you a sip, Wyatt..." Doc took a good pull, and Wyatt smelled the bourbon. He cleared his throat a bit, then recapped the flask and put it back in his coat, "But you see, I'm afraid I am burdened with a touch of tuberculosis. You may not want to stand too close."
Wyatt furrowed his brow, "Tuberculosis? You mean consumption?"
Doc sighed, nodding, "Yes. I was diagnosed five years ago."
"So... that's the reason you left the south for the west? The climate. And that's why you won't shake my hand. You're afraid of passing it along to me," Wyatt estimated, nodding to himself.
Doc quirked an eyebrow in surprise, impressed that Wyatt could put that together so quickly, "Yes, exactly," he replied, "I wouldn't wish this on anyone, and the drier climate is apparently helping. I was given approximately two years to live, give or take, and here I am, five years later... still alive," his smile faded a bit, and he let out a loud sigh, "Or as close as this is."
Wyatt's eyes shone with sympathy for the younger man, "Don't be too hard on yourself, Doc. Just remember - live each day to the fullest. That way, when it is your time, you'll go with no regrets. That's how I plan on spending my last hour. With no regrets."
Doc smiled softly, nodding to himself, "No regrets. I suppose I can try."
Wyatt stared at Doc for a few beats, then glanced down at his dead would-be assailant, "I suppose we should go tell the sheriff about this."
"I suppose. Then again, if we just left the maggot here, there would be no questions asked."
"Yes, that's probably true... but I do have a code I have to uphold," Wyatt said, gesturing vaguely to the left side of his chest where Doc knew the badge was pinned.
"Certainly, Wyatt. Moral duty to uphold. I understand completely. A favor, though..."
"Anything."
"When you mention this incident, I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. I have a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later, and while that reputation may be founded in fact, I've no desire to get run out of yet another town."
Wyatt smiled, "No need to mention you at all, Doc."
"Much appreciated, Wyatt. Much appreciated," Doc said, and then surprised Wyatt by holding his hand out.
Wyatt stared at it in mild surprise, then glanced up and met Doc's gaze.
If you really are my friend, you will take my hand, it said.
Wyatt grasped Doc's cold hand firmly, not moving to shake, just holding it; reassuring the smaller man that he'd always have a friend. Doc nodded in understanding, the same radiating from Doc. After a few seconds, they mutually released, and Wyatt stepped back.
"I should be going. I suppose, with Rudabaugh dead, I ought to be headin' back to where I came from. I guess I need to be getting' some sleep."
Doc nodded, "Of course. I wish you a good evening, then," Doc turned back towards the door, but was halted but Wyatt's voice.
"Doc..." Doc turned around, the slightest hint of hope in his eyes. Wyatt faltered for a moment, "I... I've never had anyone do that for me before. Not even any of my brothers. I'm gonna go back to that hotel and catch a few hours of sleep, and I'll most likely be leavin' before sunrise, but I don't think I can leave without knowing that you're my friend."
Doc stood there regarding Wyatt for a few seconds, and for a fraction of those seconds, Wyatt almost feared Doc might reject him. However, this was a night of many surprises. Doc made his way slowly back to Wyatt, not stopping until the front of his vest brushed Wyatt's lapels. Wyatt glanced down, only to see Doc extend his hand again. Wyatt smiled softly and took Doc's hand. Before he could shake it, he felt Doc's over hand covering his in a tight embrace. He stared down in surprise for a moment, and then looked up to meet Doc's eyes. He searched the smaller man's gaze for any indication of what Doc might be feeling and was met with Doc's own stone-cold sobriety and a look of determination.
"I don't have many friends, Wyatt," Doc said, softly, "Hell, I don't have any friends. But if you will have me, I will always be your friend, Wyatt Earp. I will bet the remainder of my days on that."
He was so surprised and shocked and... and flattered. He felt an emotion filling him. One he had never felt. A true feeling of kinship. A true and completely unbreakable bond. It felt so wonderful... so right. He knew he had a friend for life in John Holliday... a man that would be with him until the end, no matter when that may be.
***
"You know, Ed, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it."
Ed Bailey, who had just accused Doc of cheating, stood, looming over the poker table, glaring at Doc. The Southerner just sat passively, a tiny smile playing about his lips. Suddenly, Ed went for his gun.
Doc had his pulled and trained on Ed before Ed could breathe. Doc coked the left pistol, then the right, the very same impassive stare on his face. Ed's eyes widened, his resolve cracking as he took a half a step backwards. Doc released his guns and swung them around his fingers so they hung upside down. Then he placed them on the table, right in the middle of the pot. He patted them three times with his hands before looking up at Ed again.
"There. Now we can be friends again," he said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.
Ed stared at him for a few seconds, and then lunged for Doc's guns. Doc jumped from his seat and slid his knife from the sheath hidden across his back. He grabbed Ed by the arm and neatly slid the blade up into Ed's ribs. Ed made no sound, just a slight gurgling noise. Doc grimaced and threw him on a nearby table, on his side. He pulled the knife out and wiped it off on Ed's coat.
As he turned from the dying man, he saw Kate sweeping the pot into a carpet bag. He walked back over to the table and re-holstered his guns, smirking at the prostitute, "I calculate that's the end of this town."
Kate grinned and spoke, but Doc didn't register her words.
That's the end of this town, but the beginning of a new journey. I'm coming to find you, Wyatt Earp. I'm coming to find my friend.
Dr. John Henry Holliday D.D.S. had only been away from home for five years, but he'd already made a name for himself as one of the most feared guns this side of the Mississippi. He'd left his home in Griffin, Georgia in 1872, due to a very unfortunate diagnosis of tuberculosis. His doctor said that the dry climate of the west would do him good, and he may just live another two years.
Well, here he was, five years later, still alive, and milking what little time he may have left for all it was worth - and according to his calculations, tonight had been worth approximately two-thousand dollars.
John (Or 'Doc' as he was more commonly referred to as) straightened his vest and coat, taking care to conceal just enough of the ivory grip on his shoulder-holstered colt .38 so as to not appear openly threatening, but letting enough peek out so no one would forget that he was a dangerous man.
Yes, he was on the slim side and none too better for the wear. He was pale, and his ashen hair lacked the luster it had once had, those years ago before his illness. He was intelligent and witty, polite and sophisticated, chock full of Southern charm and grace... and for those very reasons, he was certainly taken for an easy mark - all of which he had taken in to account, making him almost ridiculously dangerous with a pistol... and a shotgun, for that matter.
And the rather large bowie knife he kept strapped to his back.
His father taught him the basics of hunting when he was small, "Every lad needs to know his way around steel, boy. If you don't know your horse and you don't know your gun, then you don't know a damn thing."
John certainly found his way around a gun. He seemed to take to it like he was born with one in his hand.
When he came out west, he ended up in Dallas, Texas, because that's as far as the railroad went. He tried to re-establish his dental practice (And thus gaining the nickname 'Doc'), but no one wanted a tubercular dentist coughing on them during a drilling. So, he decided to try his luck at gambling. Finding that he had an uncanny knack for counting cards (A gift gained from his rather excellent grasp on mathematics), he became a regular at the faro and poker tables about town. There were small confrontations now and then, mostly concerning Doc raking in too many pots in a row. He was constantly accused of cheating, which he never did, but counting cards was just as bad, so he never spoke up. He did, however, take to practicing with his guns and knife quite a bit more.
After all, one must protect one's own self-interest, and Doc's self-interest was staying alive as long as he could. If that meant killing every man that disregarded Doc's self-interest, then so be it.
When you're a dead man walking, you have nothing to loose but your life, and Doc was determined to die with his boots on, not coughing up blood in a sanitarium somewhere. He led a dangerous life, and he would die in the style that suited it.
And so, life (And the perusal of more than a few authority figures) had led Doc to Fort Griffin, Texas... by way of Dallas, Jacksboro, Denver, Colorado and Cheyenne, Wyoming. He rode into Fort Griffin in November of 1877, and certainly didn't expect that this town would change his life.
"I would like to thank you gentlemen for the lovely evening," the refined Georgian accent drawled as Doc rose smoothly from his seat at the poker table, tipping his hat to the grumbling group of men, all of whom were walking home with considerably lighter pockets tonight.
Doc smiled to himself, "Kate! Come along, darling." A pretty brunette in a red satin and black lace dress glanced up from the faro table, then gathered up her winnings and walked out after Doc.
Just as he was exiting the saloon, a voice called him back, "Holliday!"
Doc turned to see a largish man rise from one of the tables in the corner, "Hows about just one more hand, Holliday? Just you and me?"
Doc smirked, glancing down at Kate. She winked at him and nodded, then turned and scampered from the saloon in the direction of their rooms. Doc straightened his hat and walked back inside, "Well, Ed Bailey... if you insist..." he drawled, then walked over to Ed table and sat down for one more hand for the evening.
Another man riding into Fort Griffin, Texas, in November of 1877, was a lawman by the name of Wyatt Earp. Wyatt was hot on the trail of a train robber named Dave Rudabaugh, but unfortunately, after 400 miles, that hot trail had grown cold. He trotted his horse up to the first saloon he spotted, then slid out of the saddle and tethered the horse. He entered Shanssey's Saloon, figuring Rudabaugh might have stopped in for a drink or a room sometime in the near past and he could glean some information from the bartender.
He stepped through the doorway, only to be assaulted with the sounds of a rather badly played piano. He grimaced and glanced over towards the corner of the saloon by the bar - his abused ears indicating that that's where the piano racket was coming from.
At the piano sat two people: a man, dressed in fine clothing - black trousers, an off-white shirt and blue brocade vest. His coat and hat were nowhere to be seen - looking all for the world like death personified; sweating and sickly and very, very drunk. To his left, and the one abusing the piano keys, was a rather attractive brunette dance hall girl, garbed in a dress made of what appeared to be blue satin and black lace. She also appeared to be extremely intoxicated, and seemed to be staring at the piano with an intensity the likes Wyatt had never seen. From the way they were communicating, Wyatt gauged the man must be trying to teach the woman how to play the piano. He was failing miserably, but they were both so blissfully drunk, neither was aware nor cared.
Wyatt slid up to the bar, smirking to himself in amusement as the brunette paused in her "playing" and just started banging the keys, letting out a peal of laughter and almost slipping off of the piano bench. The drunken man shot an arm out and caught her before she fell, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. Wyatt blinked, surprised by the man's agility and reaction time, considering his obvious state of inebriation.
"What can I do for you, stranger?" the bartender asked, rousing Wyatt from his contemplations.
Wyatt cleared his throat, leaning into the bartender's personal space, his voice lowering a notch, "I'm on the trail of Dave Rudabaugh. Been trackin' him for a time, now. He's robbed a few trains, and I'm lookin' to bring him in. Any help you can give me as to his whereabouts would be-"
"Is that... "Dirty" Dave Rudabaugh you're looking for?" a gently accented voice slurred from behind Wyatt.
Wyatt spun around and came face to face with the inebriated piano teacher. Wyatt blinked in surprise, his eyes flickering to the brunette female who now appeared to be napping on the floor, curled up around the piano bench, and back to the man who was standing straight as a stickpin, swaying back and forth in front of him, his eyes bloodshot, yet sharply focused on Wyatt's.
"Well, yes - yes I am. Do you know anything?" Wyatt asked, cautiously.
The man nodded a bit, then slowly lowered himself onto one of the barstools, gesturing to the bartender, "Another, please, Nathan, if you don't mind."
The bartender, Nathan, furrowed his brow and crossed his arms across his chest, "I don't know, Doc. You've had an awful lot to drink tonight, and I don't think-"
Doc rolled his eyes, then reached into his coat and pulled out a flask which he tossed onto the bar top, "You either allow me to pay you for your fine bourbon, sir, or I drink this swill and abuse your hospitality and piano for free."
Nathan sighed and ducked under the bar for a moment, popping back up with a clean glass and a bottle of bourbon. He poured Doc a glass of the amber liquid and pushed it towards the slight man, "But that's it, Doc. I'm cutting you off for tonight. Your piano playing drove out five of my high-rollers."
Doc smirked, curling his slim fingers around the glass and gesturing to the snoring woman passed out on the wooden floor, "That was Kate's doing, not mine. You know quite well I can hold a tune, even in my worst state."
Nathan just grunted and shook his head, moving down the bar to clean the other side. Doc chuckled softly, bringing the glass to his lips. Wyatt cleared his throat and continued his questioning.
"You said you knew something, mister..?"
Doc nodded once more, gesturing to a table not five feet away, "Please, join me..." Doc paused for a second, and then the question finally sank in. He tilted his head, and Wyatt thought he almost saw the man blush, "My apologies, where are my manners? Mother raised me better than this," he muttered. He inclined his head in a slight bow, "My name is Dr. John Holliday. Call me Doc, if you like. Everyone else does."
This time the surprise on Wyatt's face did not go unregistered, "Doctor?"
Doc smiled a bit, pulling out a chair at the table and seating himself. Wyatt did the same.
"Hm, yes. Doctor. I studied dentistry before I came out west. Earned my certificate, and even ran my own practice for a time. Unfortunately, I received a fair share of bad news and I was forced to relocate myself. Now I am here, and -"
Wyatt interrupted, "Wait - Doc... Holliday? Doc Holliday?" Doc's smile turned bemused, and he raised his eyebrows over the rim of his now half-empty glass of bourbon.
"That would be me, sir. However, I am afraid I did not catch your name..."
"Oh, right. Sorry. Wyatt Earp." Wyatt stretched his hand out across the table. Doc set his glass down and glanced at the offered hand, the side of his mouth curling up.
"I'm afraid I don't shake hands, Mr. Earp."
Wyatt shrugged his shoulders and withdrew his hand, "No skin off my back. Mind if I ask why?"
Doc shook his head, running a fingertip around the rim of his glass, "Not at all. I simply don't trust too many people, Mr. Earp... especially people with the power to arrest and imprison me," Doc winked, picking his glass back up and swallowing down nearly the entire half glass of bourbon in one.
Wyatt chuckled, nodding, "Well, with a reputation and name such as yours, I don't blame you in the least. However, I'm afraid I just don't have time to be arrestin' you, Mr. Holliday. I've heard a bit about you, and they say you're fast with a gun, but it all sounds like self-defense to me. Besides, I'm on the trail of a big-time criminal, here. Now, you said you had infor -"
Doc gasped, placing his free hand to his chest in mock insult, "Are you saying that I am not big-time, Mr. Earp? I'll have you know that I've killed my fair share of men in cold blood."
Wyatt paused, a nervous smile playing about his lips, "Look, Mr. Holliday -"
"Doc, please."
"Doc... All I need to know is if you've seen Dave Rudabaugh in the past few days..."
Doc slunk down in his seat, his smile turning kittenish, "And what do I get out of this little exchange of information, Mr. Earp? The satisfaction of helping protect my fellow townsfolk? The knowledge that I helped bring down a hardened criminal, whose very existence was a threat to the lives and morality of decent people everywhere?"
Wyatt paused, then nodded, "Well, yeah."
Doc stared at him for a moment, and then burst into laughter, "In that case, sir, you had better arrest me. The only crime Rudabaugh committed in this town was to offend my olfactory senses with his ripe stench, and to have the audacity to accuse me of cheating at cards. I sent him on his way, and he jumped me later that evening as I was walking back to my room. I received this for my troubles," Doc unbuttoned the sleeve on his left arm and rolled it up to reveal a rather nasty cut that looked about two days old, "However Rudabaugh received a bullet to the throat and a free trip to the town morgue. I'm sure if you inquire with the Sheriff, he'll allow you to view the body, for confirmation purposes, of course."
And with that, Doc finished up the last of his bourbon and set the glass down on the table, hard. He pulled a small pouch from his pocket and removed a rolling paper and pinched a bit loose tobacco onto it. He then proceeded to roll himself a cigarette, his eyes trained on Wyatt, as if waiting for the reaction that he knew would come.
Wyatt did not disappoint him.
"What?!" Wyatt huffed in indignation, scowling, "You mean to say, I've been tracking this man for weeks, only to have you - a drunk piano-playing dentist - kill him? Just like that?!"
Doc smiled and stuck the cigarette between his lips, scrapping a match across the table. He lit the cigarette, exhaling a large plume of smoke, shaking the match out, "Just like that."
"But - I just -" Wyatt sputtered, then sat back in his chair, exhaling a huge sigh, "Damnit. Now what am I going to do?"
Doc blinked wearily, shrugging his thin shoulders, and then giggled a bit as that latest glass of bourbon wormed it's way into his system, making him - if possible - even more drunk than he had been five minutes earlier. He gestured to Wyatt with his cigarette, "You look like you could use the company of a good woman."
Wyatt glanced up at Doc, and then shifted to look at Kate, who now appeared to be conscious and giggling to herself.
"What do you say, darling? Would you give Mr. Earp here a throw for his troubles?" Doc asked, laughter in his voice. His silvery-blue gaze remained steady on Wyatt, apparently intent on making him as uncomfortable as possible. Wyatt shifted in his seat, glancing back at Kate, who had turned bleary eyes on the seated pair.
"I don't work for free, Doc. You know that. Unless it's for you..." She threw him a wink and giggled again, before promptly passing out.
Doc grinned, stretching his arms above his head, "That's my lovely, little Hungarian throw rug. Just lies down and lets me walk all over her."
Wyatt gaped, "That is absolutely no way to talk about a lady, Doc."
"I assure you, Mr. Earp - Kate is no lady. I've only known her for just two weeks, and her behavior towards me has been anything but ladylike," Doc said, a laugh in his voice, as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood on trembling legs. He took a deep breath which was cut short as a few sharp coughs shuddered through him. Doc shook his head a bit and cleared his throat, then released the table. His knees immediately began to buckle, and Wyatt was at his side in flash, holding him about the arms and slowly lowering the smaller man back into his seat.
Doc muttered in protest, "No, no, Mr. Earp... the purpose of that exercise was to stand up, not to sit back down. Now, if you don't mind..." Doc wiggled his way out of Wyatt's grasp, then shot back up again, holding his arms out at his side, his eyes focused and determined.
Wyatt shook his head in disbelief, backing off a bit. Doc made his way over to Kate, swaying all the while, "Kate... Kate, darling... I'm afraid it is time for us to retire. Upstairs."
Kate murmured something in a language that Wyatt didn't understand - he could only assume it was Hungarian, from Doc's earlier comment - and came to, slowly. She opened her eyes and stared up at Doc, "I don't think I can get up, Doc."
Doc smiled apologetically down at her, shaking his head, "And I'm afraid I can't bend down to help you up. I appear to have had a bit too much to drink, myself."
"I can carry her," Wyatt said, walking over, "If that's okay with the both of you?"
Doc shrugged and took a few shaky steps back, "As you wish, Mr. Earp."
Wyatt gathered Kate in his arms and hoisted her up. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, muttering, "Earp? I knew an Earp..."
Doc smirked and walked to the door, opening it for Wyatt, "Did you, dearest?"
Kate nodded into Wyatt's chest, and Wyatt looked to Doc, questioningly. Doc, however, had directed his attentions to Nathan, "Good evening, Nathan."
Nathan nodded to Doc, his eyes amused, "And a good evening to you, Doc. I expect I'll see you in here tomorrow evening?"
"You will indeed, Nathan. Again, I appreciate your hospitality," Doc paused at the door to retrieve his coat from the coat rack. It was dove-grey in color, and of a fine cut. He drapped it over his arm and slipped a black hat on his head, then gestured for Wyatt to take lead out the door.
Wyatt shifted Kate in his arms and stepped out onto the wood-planked walkway outside of the saloon. He glanced to Doc for directions.
"Just around that corner and into the alley, Mr. Earp. Kate and I take a room above the saloon." Doc stepped around in front of Wyatt and began to lead the way.
Wyatt followed, Kate's weight almost nothing to him, "Um, Kate said she knew and Earp. Do you know what she means by that?"
"I do," Doc replied, and then began to whistle a tune Wyatt had never heard before.
Wyatt sighed, speeding up his pace a bit to catch up with the unburdened man, "Care to explain?"
Doc rounded the corner into a darkened alley, "Kate was in the employ of a Mrs. Bessie Earp in Wichita, Kansas a few years back. I would assume Mrs. Earp is a relation of yours?"
Wyatt failed to hide his surprise, "Well, yes... she's my sister-in-law."
Doc nodded and continued on his way. Wyatt spotted a door about ten feet up, "Bessie ran a, uh... she ran a..."
"A whorehouse, Mr. Earp. You can say it. I doubt anyone's sensibilities are going to be ruffled," Doc said, amusement evident in his tone.
Wyatt cleared his throat, pausing as Doc opened the door, "Oh, um... right."
Doc unlocked the door and paused in the pitch-dark stairway for a moment. Wyatt blinked as a match flared brightly, illuminating half of Doc's pale face. For a moment, Wyatt thought he was looking at a ghost. Doc raised the flame to a small stub of a candle, melted down into a candle-holder that had been bolted to the wall. He shook the match out, and the acrid smell of sulfur and smoke was bitter in Wyatt's nose.
"Now, then," Doc said, grasping the handrail and all but pulling himself up the stairs, "Just follow me."
Wyatt nodded and followed Doc upstairs. At the top of the stairs was a landing on which two doors rested. He turned to the one on the left and began struggling with the lock and key, "Damn, blasted keyhole..."
At last, the key turned and a satisfying click was heard. Doc pushed the door open and gestured Wyatt to the bed in the far corner, "Just lay her there, if you please."
Wyatt obliged, taking in the room as he did. It was larger than he had expected, and much more opulently decorated. He'd pegged Doc for the sort of man who drank his winnings away nightly, but either he was mistaken and he'd happened upon Doc on a rare night of binge drinking, or the gambler made a lot more in the way of profit than Wyatt had expected.
"This is a nice room, Doc. You don't usually see rooms this nice above saloons."
Doc nodded slowly, glancing around himself, "Yes, well... allowances are made when one has enough money," Doc drawled, smirking.
Wyatt nodded, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair, "Yes, I suppose that's true."
Wyatt glanced back at Doc, who was wearing that kittenish smile once again. For some reason, that smile made him very uncomfortable. The way Doc regarded him made Wyatt feel as if this man knew something he didn't. Usually that would only serve to anger Wyatt, but in Doc's case, he simply felt scrutinized, cross-examined, and even a little bit ashamed. Of what, though, he sure as hell didn't know.
He hadn't been lying when he said he'd heard of Doc. He knew the man made his living as a gambler, and he knew he was good at it. He also knew that Doc had killed several men for trying to jeopardize his way of living, and while Wyatt Earp the lawman saw this as unnecessary and saw Doc Holliday as a criminal, Wyatt Earp the man knew that Doc was simply trying to survive, the way they all were. You find something you excel at and you use that to earn a living. Wyatt seemed to excel at righting wrongs. Doc happened to excel at removing men from their money.
Just because Wyatt had a badge, didn't make him any better. Wyatt had stolen when he was younger... a few horses. He'd bullied people, and even killed a man once. Of course, he could forgive himself for that one, because he'd been wearing a badge at the time, but did it truly make him right and that man wrong?
Maybe that's why Doc's stare wilted Wyatt. Wyatt knew just by talking to Doc that Doc was a man of education and breeding. Even drunk, he stood with aristocratic flair and poise. He was a doctor. And then you have Wyatt Earp, who is made above John Holliday, simply because of the metal star pinned to his vest.
No, Wyatt thought, it doesn't make it right.
Doc's voice interrupted Wyatt's thoughts, "Do you have a place to stay for the evening, Mr. Earp?"
Wyatt sighed, "I wish you would call me Wyatt."
Doc nodded, his smile turning more sincere, "I'd be pleased to, Wyatt."
Wyatt nodded, smiling a bit, "No, I don't have a place just yet, but I spotted a hotel as I rode in. I suppose I'll take a room there."
Doc nodded and started towards the door, "Yes, I took a room there when I first came to town. It is a nice place. I'm sure you'll be quite comfortable there. Come along. I shall walk you out."
"No, Doc - that's not necessary. You should lie down -" Wyatt protested.
"Now, now, Wyatt - I don't appreciate being told my business. I am quite capable of walking you downstairs, thank you very much."
Stubborn old fool, Wyatt thought, his smile growing, "If you like, Doc."
"I do like, Wyatt," Doc said, holding the door open for Wyatt, "If you please."
Wyatt shook his head, chuckling, and walked out past Doc and made his way downstairs. He took the stairs a bit slowly, just in case Doc decided he'd like to pass out right then and there. It wouldn't do to have his new friend breaking his neck on the steps of his very own room. Wyatt made it down first, several steps ahead of Doc, and opened the door, stepping out into the fresh night air -
And the barrel of a shotgun.
"There you are, Earp. I thought I saw you headin' this way."
Wyatt jumped back, slamming the door shut as he did. Now he was alone in a dark alley, practically kissing the barrel of this man's shotgun, his only friend in this town probably been knocked out by the door on the stairs behind him. He glanced around frantically, praying it was only this one man. Wyatt saw no one else, but that didn't lessen the fact that if he went for his gun, his brains would be painting the side of this building before he could breathe.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Wyatt demanded, trying to compose himself.
He heard the man spit, then the shotgun cocking, "Ain't important, lawdog. I hear you're after a buddy of mine. Dave Rudabaugh. Well, I come here to ensure that you don't leave. I don't take kindly to the law huntin' down my friends."
Wyatt raised his hands, slowly, and began to inch away from the door. If Doc was still there, standing or not, he wouldn't risk the gambler taking any stray shotgun blast if this crazy man decided to shoot him.
"Dave Rudabaugh is dead," Wyatt said, "I heard word as soon as I rode into town. Feel free to go and ask the sheriff, if you don't believe me. My business is done, here."
"He's dead?!" The man took a step closer, bringing him parallel to the door, "Was that your doing, lawdog?"
Wyatt set his jaw, his resolve coming back in full force, "What if it was? What are you going to do about it?"
The man growled, shoving the shotgun into Wyatt's gut, "What am I gonna do?! I'm gonna blow your son-of-a-bitch insides all over this here dirt alley. What do you think of that?"
Just as Wyatt was bracing himself for the shot, the door slammed open, loud as a shotgun crack. The man whirled around, training his shotgun on the darkened doorway.
"What the hell?! Who's there? Come on out!"
Doc's voice floated from the darkness, as cold and as hard as the bullet that tore off the top of the man's head, "Why don't I just send a messenger."
Wyatt almost fainted with relief. He glanced down at the dead man, then back up as Doc came wavering out of the doorway, twirling his colt .38 around his index finger before putting it back in his shoulder holster. Wyatt just stared, hardly believing what had just happened.
"How..." he began, not able to find the words.
And for the second time in as many hours, Wyatt thought he saw Doc Holliday blush, "I may have been numbingly drunk, Wyatt, but I never let liquor get the better of my brain, my senses, or my mouth. I saw the barrel of that shotgun glint in the moonlight before you slammed the door shut on me. Believe me, when you're as paranoid as I am, you train yourself to look for these things religiously."
Wyatt just stared at Doc, then shook his head and smiled gratefully, walking over to the man who'd just saved his life, "A messenger, huh?"
Doc reached up and straightened Wyatt's hat, which had gone askew in the ruckus, "Indeed, sir."
Wyatt grinned, "And what would that message be?"
Doc took a step back and smiled, "As a tenet of this building, I do not appreciate loud gunshots sounding outside of my window at such a late hour, unless, of course, they are the fault of me."
Wyatt laughed, "I believe he got the message."
Doc chuckled softly, "I do hope so."
Wyatt just smiled, shaking his head, "Thank you, Doc. Not many men would risk their lives to save a man they hardly knew," he offered his hand to the gambler, who just regarded it with a melancholy smile. After a few seconds, Wyatt let out a short chuckle then drew his hand back, eyes on Doc, "Right. No handshakes. Sorry."
Docs smiled gently, tilting his head, "No apology necessary. And you are quite welcome, Wyatt. "
But no sooner were the words out, than a coughing fit seemed to rack the smaller man's frame. Doc turned aside, reaching into his sleeve to withdraw a pristine white handkerchief, which he put to his lips. He coughed softly into it.
"Is something wrong, Doc?" Wyatt's voice was concerned, and Doc was slightly touched. Here was a man that he'd met no less than two hours ago, and he was already concerned as a friend would be.
Doc shook his head, turning back to face the taller man. His quick eyes scanned the whiteness of the fabric, checking for the telltale sign. The streak of crimson shone bright in the darkness. Doc sighed, stuff the handkerchief away, hurriedly. He then quickly reached into his inner coat pocket and removed his flask. Unscrewing the cap, he raised it to Wyatt.
"I apologize for not offering you a sip, Wyatt..." Doc took a good pull, and Wyatt smelled the bourbon. He cleared his throat a bit, then recapped the flask and put it back in his coat, "But you see, I'm afraid I am burdened with a touch of tuberculosis. You may not want to stand too close."
Wyatt furrowed his brow, "Tuberculosis? You mean consumption?"
Doc sighed, nodding, "Yes. I was diagnosed five years ago."
"So... that's the reason you left the south for the west? The climate. And that's why you won't shake my hand. You're afraid of passing it along to me," Wyatt estimated, nodding to himself.
Doc quirked an eyebrow in surprise, impressed that Wyatt could put that together so quickly, "Yes, exactly," he replied, "I wouldn't wish this on anyone, and the drier climate is apparently helping. I was given approximately two years to live, give or take, and here I am, five years later... still alive," his smile faded a bit, and he let out a loud sigh, "Or as close as this is."
Wyatt's eyes shone with sympathy for the younger man, "Don't be too hard on yourself, Doc. Just remember - live each day to the fullest. That way, when it is your time, you'll go with no regrets. That's how I plan on spending my last hour. With no regrets."
Doc smiled softly, nodding to himself, "No regrets. I suppose I can try."
Wyatt stared at Doc for a few beats, then glanced down at his dead would-be assailant, "I suppose we should go tell the sheriff about this."
"I suppose. Then again, if we just left the maggot here, there would be no questions asked."
"Yes, that's probably true... but I do have a code I have to uphold," Wyatt said, gesturing vaguely to the left side of his chest where Doc knew the badge was pinned.
"Certainly, Wyatt. Moral duty to uphold. I understand completely. A favor, though..."
"Anything."
"When you mention this incident, I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. I have a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later, and while that reputation may be founded in fact, I've no desire to get run out of yet another town."
Wyatt smiled, "No need to mention you at all, Doc."
"Much appreciated, Wyatt. Much appreciated," Doc said, and then surprised Wyatt by holding his hand out.
Wyatt stared at it in mild surprise, then glanced up and met Doc's gaze.
If you really are my friend, you will take my hand, it said.
Wyatt grasped Doc's cold hand firmly, not moving to shake, just holding it; reassuring the smaller man that he'd always have a friend. Doc nodded in understanding, the same radiating from Doc. After a few seconds, they mutually released, and Wyatt stepped back.
"I should be going. I suppose, with Rudabaugh dead, I ought to be headin' back to where I came from. I guess I need to be getting' some sleep."
Doc nodded, "Of course. I wish you a good evening, then," Doc turned back towards the door, but was halted but Wyatt's voice.
"Doc..." Doc turned around, the slightest hint of hope in his eyes. Wyatt faltered for a moment, "I... I've never had anyone do that for me before. Not even any of my brothers. I'm gonna go back to that hotel and catch a few hours of sleep, and I'll most likely be leavin' before sunrise, but I don't think I can leave without knowing that you're my friend."
Doc stood there regarding Wyatt for a few seconds, and for a fraction of those seconds, Wyatt almost feared Doc might reject him. However, this was a night of many surprises. Doc made his way slowly back to Wyatt, not stopping until the front of his vest brushed Wyatt's lapels. Wyatt glanced down, only to see Doc extend his hand again. Wyatt smiled softly and took Doc's hand. Before he could shake it, he felt Doc's over hand covering his in a tight embrace. He stared down in surprise for a moment, and then looked up to meet Doc's eyes. He searched the smaller man's gaze for any indication of what Doc might be feeling and was met with Doc's own stone-cold sobriety and a look of determination.
"I don't have many friends, Wyatt," Doc said, softly, "Hell, I don't have any friends. But if you will have me, I will always be your friend, Wyatt Earp. I will bet the remainder of my days on that."
He was so surprised and shocked and... and flattered. He felt an emotion filling him. One he had never felt. A true feeling of kinship. A true and completely unbreakable bond. It felt so wonderful... so right. He knew he had a friend for life in John Holliday... a man that would be with him until the end, no matter when that may be.
***
"You know, Ed, if I thought you weren't my friend, I just don't think I could bear it."
Ed Bailey, who had just accused Doc of cheating, stood, looming over the poker table, glaring at Doc. The Southerner just sat passively, a tiny smile playing about his lips. Suddenly, Ed went for his gun.
Doc had his pulled and trained on Ed before Ed could breathe. Doc coked the left pistol, then the right, the very same impassive stare on his face. Ed's eyes widened, his resolve cracking as he took a half a step backwards. Doc released his guns and swung them around his fingers so they hung upside down. Then he placed them on the table, right in the middle of the pot. He patted them three times with his hands before looking up at Ed again.
"There. Now we can be friends again," he said, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.
Ed stared at him for a few seconds, and then lunged for Doc's guns. Doc jumped from his seat and slid his knife from the sheath hidden across his back. He grabbed Ed by the arm and neatly slid the blade up into Ed's ribs. Ed made no sound, just a slight gurgling noise. Doc grimaced and threw him on a nearby table, on his side. He pulled the knife out and wiped it off on Ed's coat.
As he turned from the dying man, he saw Kate sweeping the pot into a carpet bag. He walked back over to the table and re-holstered his guns, smirking at the prostitute, "I calculate that's the end of this town."
Kate grinned and spoke, but Doc didn't register her words.
That's the end of this town, but the beginning of a new journey. I'm coming to find you, Wyatt Earp. I'm coming to find my friend.