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'm Your Huckleberry!

A band of brothers? A special few?

Huckleberries.

Doc Holiday Must Die

Doc stood out on the wooden boardwalk and watched as the bar swamper and another patron carried the limp body of Lew McCall down the street toward the undertakers. He straightened his cravat and touched his hide out gun in the pocket of his vest. He walked along the boardwalk until he crossed the line. The line was the imaginary border between the upper and lower classes. 

As a dentist Doc had an entrée to the “better” side of town. The further away from the heart of the district the less you heard the revelry of the underemployed. Hickok stood across the street and looked up and down the thoroughfare from the front of the jail house that was smack dab on the line. He followed the group walking down the street with baby steps as they hefted the dead weight of the knucklehead he had just shot. Hickok was illuminated it the gas light that hung from the top of the porch in front of the jail. That seemed a chancy thing to do. Hickok was a bold man. Perhaps it is true that fortune favors the bold. Perhaps it even had a sneaking affection for the stupid. Standing in full view like an illuminated sign seemed stupid instead of bold. It wasn't Doc’s problem so it was none of his never mind.

Doc Holliday Must Die

Doc knew he had to kill him. The only question was when.

The mark had been playing the worst game of poker that he had ever seen. The burly teamster looked like he could barely read and it was a wonder that he could recognize the meaning of the cards he was playing. Best of all he was stinking drunk. Stinking in all aspects. He reeked of stale tobacco and rot gut whiskey with flesh that had not seen water since the last time he was caught in a rainstorm.

It was only a matter of time before it came to pistols. Not be the first time. A problem none the less. You see the sheriff had warned him when he rode into Newton. He had managed to keep his nose clean. Well relatively clean since his nose could often be found in a saloon girl’s cooze. Doc was an old school Southern gentlemen but he did favor the soiled doves. Their corruption assuaged the rot in his soul.

The whiskey drummer with the stained cravat had the play. “Two” he said. Doc spun two cards across the table. The drummer picked them up delicately and frowned. He tossed down his hand. “Fold.

Just Doc and idjit who smelled like a constipated buffalo. “Three” he slurred. Doc sent them across the table from the bottom of the deck. 

No need to trifle with circumstance. Since it would come to killing he might as well win the pot.