Doc Holliday must die!

Doc and Hardin walked over to the Drover’s Cottage to have dinner. They took a table at the back in the corner where each could put their backs to the wall and look out over the dining room. Both ordered the special. Fried potatoes. Beans. Huge steaks. Blood rare and juicy. Fresh Texas beef that had been driven up the trail to the railroad. So fresh they were still moving. Abilene was at its height. A short season in the sun until the railroad built a spur closer to the trail.

Hardin and Holliday had a great deal in common. Both were Southerners. Too young to serve in the Civil War they still had the attitudes common to young men from that section of the country. They had no love for the Union, Yankees, the government or blacks.  They sat quietly and enjoyed their repast. Two deadly men not afraid to break bread.

“What made you decide to ride up the trail John Wesley” asked Holliday? “I don't reckon riding herd would be something that would interest you.” “Why would you say that John. Not to say that you are wrong. Following a cows behind and eating his dust is not what I would call fun. I just needed to get out of Texas. It was getting too hot for me at home.” “I know the feeling. Sometimes that’s just the way the cards fall. You can rest for a while. Hickok seems to like you so that is something to hold on to. In another town the Marshal might just want to try you on to get himself a reputation.”

“I wish I had an occupation I could call my own like you John. As a dentist you can set up shop anywhere. I taught school for a while. And I enjoyed it. I just don’t think anyone will want a gunman as an instructor any time soon. So I have to find something to do. Gambling is fun but it seems too chancy to me.” “You can say that for certain sure. I don’t want to depend on gambling but it sure beats working as a dentist. A lot less spit. I just don’t know if I can resist the charms of the poker table.”

Two boisterous obvious Yankees burst into the restaurant. You could tell they were Yankees because they were wearing remnants of Union uniforms. They pushed past the waiter and flopped into seats directly across from the two gunmen who looked at them with the unflinching eyes of the predator. The damn fools didn’t know what they had walked into.

“Say Waiter service before I bust up this shithole” shouted one of the miscreants in a Boston accent as thick as his head while he banged on the table. “Food now. Drink. Bring us a bottle right now you shit kicker.” His friend just laughed and rubbed himself through the crotch of his worn cavalry uniform pants. They were lucky that there were no women in the restaurant as several of the men who were dining would not have stood for that sort of talk in the presence of ladies. Since it was only men they could turn to their plates and not get involved. Unless they pushed it.

One of them looked over at Hardin and Holliday through bleary eyes that were dulled by drink. He decided that Hardin was a callow youth who was ripe for some abuse. A big mistake.

“Look at this Josiah. A real life cowboy. Must be from Texas like all these god damn cows that are shitting everywhere. Say boy where you from?” “From Texas friend and I would appreciate it if you let me enjoy me meal without interruption” said John Wesley Hardin in a surprisingly calm voice. Anyone who could measure danger would step lightly but this fool was oblivious.

"Well then enjoy your meal you Texas shit kicker. I bet you were a Johnny Reb. No you’re too young for that. Maybe your old daddy was. Or was he home fucking his slaves like all you dirty Rebs?” His friend snorted his whiskey that he was guzzling. “Maybe we fucked his Mama when we were down in Texas Cyrus.  We had us a fine old time with Governor Davis’s police.”

John Wesley Hardin didn’t reply. He froze for a moment and then stood up and put his hands on the Colts that were placed in custom pockets sewn into his vest. The butts of his pistols pointed inward across his chest. He crossed his arms to draw but waited until the two drunks realized what was happening. He could not just shoot them down. As much as he wanted to. That was a recipe for a rope.

The two drunks looked at each other and then went for their guns. They both drew their weapons but to no avail. Hardin shot one of them through the mouth and blasted his brains out the back of his head all over the wall. He shot the second one through eye. In fact he shot his eye out. But not before the drunken lout managed to get a shot off. 

Doc had risen when Hardin did and got out his pistol almost as quickly but was shot in the arm before he could pull the trigger. Doc was not particularly fast with a pistol. He was just not afraid to die. That made him deadly.

“So much for that” said John Wesley. He looked over at Doc. “You’re hit John. We best go to the doctor. These poor fools are not in need of his services.” “Let me tie it off John Wesley. It is not too bad he only winged me. Missed the bone thank the Lord.” Doc stripped his cravat and started to tie it two inches above the wound. A bystander came over and tightened it for him. “Thank you sir” said Holliday “I am much obliged.” “Let’s go John before Hickok gets here. I don’t want to wait here to talk to him until after the doctor gets a look at you.” 

They walked out into the street. Hardin with the heat of two barrels on his vest. Holliday with an arm dripping blood. He chuckled without any amusement in his voice.

“I hope that whore can sew. I am running out of clothes.”