Wild Boys: Six Shooters and Fangs

by catt dahman

  "They sure act like they like each other,” Kit went on, ”I could tell they do.”

  "He ain't likely to settle down,” Tell said as a kind of a prayer.

  "Some do." For Kit, it was akin to a death sentence to get hitched.

  “Not Doc, he can't with that sickness,” Fallon said. His consumption. It was what no one would mention and what Doc pretended wasn't there hanging over his head. Only Paris dared say it. He had shot a man for calling Doc a lunger.

  “He feels better,” Kit said cautiously.

  "He won't leave a widow; he won't settle,”Fallon said. He pointed out the obvious. Paris Fallon knew Doc best. Doc didn't want to leave too many mourners.

  Usually Paris wouldn't say this much about Doc's illness.

  Paris put his mug down with a bang; Doc's illness and his upcoming death never ceased to hurt and anger Paris; it wasn't fair. Of course, Doc had laid odds that he would die in a gunfight before the tuberculosis could finish him off. "I hope he don't fall for that girl. It'll hurt them both in the long run.”

  Kit asked, “What do you think will happen?”

  Paris was quiet again. He had fallen into one of his infamous moods that were darker than Doc's. He ordered a bottle of whiskey and decided to get drunk.

  Chapter 4

  Doc Holliday

  In his room, John Henry Holliday sprawled in a faded, tapestry chair and sat in front of the window so that the faint breeze brushed the thin sheers over him. Swallowing the amber-colored bourbon and relishing the mellow flame down the back of his throat, he willed the pain to leave him.

  He fought fear. Pain and fear had been his closest companions these last eight years, appearing before him in all kinds of guises. Sometimes, they appeared to take physical form as he literally coughed up his own lungs. Other times, it was emotional, when despair threatened to suffocate him.

  At any time he expected to die, either from a bullet or from his illness, and he had thought it best not to be too in love with the world and its possessions since he couldn't take anything with him. His friendships were against his better judgment, but although he valued them deeply and cared about those few people, therein lay the problem.

  He was dying and couldn't stand to leave people behind and didn't want them to have to mourn him. For the most part, he avoided close relationships, preferred loose, sometimes vile women whom he could never, ever love, or even faintly care about, actually.

  Now, he had noticed Frannie Masterson. She had first caught his attention, he had to admit in retrospect, because she had blonde hair and light eyes, was obviously brilliant and spoiled, but was refined just like his mother had been. But in Frannie was also a quiet fire, cleverness, independence, and a spirit, as well as great sensitivity and gentleness. These were a few of the qualities he had inherited from his mother, so Frannie, in a way, mirrored what he liked in himself.

  An only child born in 1852, John grew up with the better of two worlds. His mother instilled in him a thirst for knowledge, great intelligence, charming manners, and sensitivity. From his father, he got his tendency to be high-strung and his hot temper.

  His father taught him to solve problems and to depend on himself, so if something went wrong, he had only himself to blame, no one else.

  A Georgia native, John saw his father fight for the South in a war that should never have been while he mother tried in vain to preserve the southern gentility, despite having to do without what had once been taken for granted.

  Although the South suffered, John was a positive child full of dreams and mature for his age. Luckily, their family retained enough to be considered a good family, unlike some that descended into white-trash status.

  Then came the worst time of his life; his mother died in September of 1866.

  A year later, the girl next door called Rachael began to cook for them. She had lost her beau in the war and was closer to John's age than his father's. She was nice enough and fairly pretty, a good cook, and an excellent housekeeper. But when she turned twenty-four, just ten years older than John, she married his father. John could muster no love for his so-called stepmother and began to hold the re-marriage against his father.

  When his beloved mother died, a bitterness set in him like a blizzard in his soul, but John had held in his grief, hiding away the sorrow where it festered, but he couldn't give it up. Now, his rage and the exquisite pain that his father's re-marriage had brought him were also buried away, deep.

  Doc crossed his legs again as he remembered it all while he sat in the hotel room alone. He drank more deeply of the bourbon and let the old memories chew at his soul. The pain was nothing new.

  When he had been fifteen, he had fancied himself in love with his first cousin, Hattie. She was a devout Catholic while he was a Presbyterian, and their union was almost impossible; that made it all the more desirable.

  They might have overcome their religious differences eventually, but then he had gone off to college, and tragedy had galloped after him. In college, Doc studied history and geography; physics and math that included calculus, geometry, and trigonometry; languages: Greek, Latin, and French, along with literature; and finally medicine. With his intelligence and curiosity, coupled with ambition and competitiveness, he had excelled in every subject, especially Latin studies. He devoted himself to dental studies and had Latin and literature for entertainment.

  Everyone, including John, had expected so much. He received his Doctor of Dentistry degree and then returned to Georgia where he would practice in Atlanta. He worked long hours and grew tired. Then, he lost weight and felt ill. There was the constant fever that left him drenched in the mornings. It could have been anything. But it wasn't.

  When he began to cough so hard that he choked and spit up blood, he knew what was wrong with him even before he saw a physician. It was Chronic Pulmonary Tuberculosis, and he could hope for six months in the warm, wet Georgian climate or two years in a drier area, or so he was informed.

  Upon learning that he was dying when he was only twenty, Doc became terribly embittered by futility and unfairness of life. He saw no future, no security, and no time for any damned dreams. He was adrift in a sea of abject hopelessness and deep despair. There were so many dreams, but knowing that he couldn't have all he wanted made him angry.

  Bravely, he left his homeland to work in Dallas and waited for his death, but the two years passed, then three, and he was still around. Years passed, and he waited to die, expecting to go at any time, but it never happened. Not only had life cheated him, but death had cheated him as well.

  In Dallas, Doc found liquor to be not only a social enjoyment, but also to be a liquid with amassing, incredible power; it dulled all his fears and pain. So he drank, and the alcohol eased a little of his burning rage, fear, and pain while he tried to slow time itself.

  Working in a dental office during the day with another man, he spent his nights drinking in saloons. The drinking and the brothel girls got him through the lonely, dark, long nights.

  At the saloons, he got to be known as Doc and lost his John identity. His reputation developed for his hard drinking and card shark abilities. With incredible powers of concentration, unreadable eyes, and an acute ability to read an opponent's hand of cards, he became more than a formidable poker player. That same ability to concentrate and his infallible attention to detail also made him an outstanding Faro dealer.

  He might have built himself an early, notorious, colorful reputation had he not made a mistake in Dallas. He had been up three days and nights, was pale, thin, and deathly afraid that his days were few. It was early in the evening, and he was stone-cold sober and hated life and everyone who was enjoying what he was being denied. Nerves on razor’s edge, he felt more bitter that usual; it was New Year’s Eve.

  Noise grated on his already thin nerves. Desperate for relief, Doc demanded a bottle, and to this day, he couldn't remember the wise-ass remark that the barkeep, Austin, had made, but suddenly, Doc drew his .45, its short barrel
aimed. The barkeep pulled, too, but he was nervous. Both men fired, but the shots went wild; the gunfight was abandoned.

  After that, he left Dallas, gambling and dealing Faro all the way to Denver, where he gained a reputation as the best Faro dealer of all time.

  Remembering the other parts, Doc suddenly threw his shot glass against the wall in an explosion of fury, but the curtains still breezed lazily because Doc’s being cheated of his dreams made no difference. Turning up the bottle, he drank from it while tiny glass slivers and shards twinkled up at him. Doc drank from the bottle and fondly remembered that life was a Faro game: from “soda to hock" meaning "from beginning to end”.

  Eight years. Right now, he was in a kind of remission, and at times like this, he thought he might live forever. It was a cruel, vicious joke still to be alive when he had been preparing for his death for so long.

  He knew what his reputation was; he was the kind of man that respectable women such as Frannie Masterson wouldn't look at. He was known as an excellent gambler with a lightning-quick draw and a nasty temper that was brought on by sleep deprivation and pain, and raw nerves were scraped tenderer by the fact that the years kept passing.

  Even now in his hotel room, Doc could recall every detail; it made him smile. He sure as hell wouldn't screw up like that again. He had been without blood on his hands then and hadn't yet killed a man. Now, today at least, he felt confident and relaxed. Fine bourbon. Much experience.

  A knock on the door interrupted Doc's ruminations.

  Paris Fallon came in uninvited and settled into a second faded tapestry chair, its bottom moth-eaten, and he displayed two more bottles of good Kentucky bourbon.

  "Thought you might be getting' dry”.

  "I am." Doc held up his own bottle to show his friend that it was empty. He was barely feeling the effects so high had his tolerance become.

  Doc grinned and said, "You're a good man, Paris Fallon."

  "Want any company?"

  At first, Doc didn't answer, but he didn't have to; Paris knew he was welcome. Then, he nodded and said, "Just sitting here with my memories."

  "I'll stay.”

  Doc leaned his head against the back of the chair. Many times they had sat like this: Doc relating stories and Paris commenting occasionally or sometimes asking a question. When Doc was in a dark mood, Paris always showed up. Doc thought that Paris came for fear that Doc would turn his Colt to his own head one evening in a fit of despair.

  “You look amused."

  "I am. If you came to hear me recite and teach you Latin, this evening you'll be gravely disappointed; I feel reflective."

  “What are you remembering?”

  "Right now? I just thought of Kate."

  Paris grunted. Kate Elder was a buxom, healthily curved whore whom Doc had spent time with. She was fun loving, but coarse, loud, and vulgar. She really and truly liked being a whore and didn't mind being poorly mannered, somewhat stupid, and brazen. Doc enjoyed her as he did self-destruction.

  "You never liked her," Doc mused, "but you like Luke Short, and most people don't. He has killed many men. I guess you've killed more.”

  "And they deserved killin’.”

  “Oh, I agree," Doc admitted, Luke is short tempered like I am. He's loyal, though."

  "You know the Masterson bunch?"

  "Ed was the best of them all. Did you ever know Ed?"

  Paris shook his head and replied, "Never did."

  "Good fellow. Jack Wagner and Alf Walker killed him. Hell of a thing. I was with him when he died. After he was shot, we took him to his room, and I worked on him an hour, but there was no chance.”

  “Wasn't there no doctor in town?”

  “Several. One was out delivering a baby, and we couldn't find the others. That's how things were in Dodge City then. When people couldn’t get a doctor, a dentist seemed to be the next best thing.”

  "Tell is good with doctoring," Paris noted.

  He is. Anyway, Ed died very bravely which isn't very easy. Dying is a terrible thing. It is very frightening, I think.”

  Fallon's voice was soft as he replied, “What a waste.”

  "Yes. He was my age, twenty-six." Doc drank deeply. "I met Bat Masterson, too, and he didn't impress me then. He was flashy acting. Later, I realized that some men dress fine and have gentlemanly manners but can still plug a man easily.” He could have been speaking of himself.

  "I guess Bat is as good as an Earp in a fight though there ain't many men I'd like in a fight more that Virgil Earp."

  Doc frowned and said, "That's because you get along with Virgil and Morgan Earp. They have never cared for me."

  "But you and Wyatt are close."

  "I do like Wyatt."

  Paris did not. "I just don't think he's the man people make him out to be.”

  “He's out for a buck, and he's on the side of the law if it profits him, and he'll turn sides if need be. But more than anything, he is a very loyal friend, one of the most loyal outside of you, Kit and Tell.”

  "I'd take him as a back in a fight,” Paris admitted.

  "Earl McClain tried to shoot Wyatt in the back, but I shot that old son of a bitch first. That's where Wyatt's and my friendship comes from."

  "Well, I ain't talkin' against him.”

  Doc appreciated honesty; Paris didn't know Wyatt that well. "Those were some years, Paris. I killed a lot of men. I've destroyed myself with all the hating and killing. My first love could have no faith in me; I have none in myself."

  Paris listened to the reflections and was hearing the despondency. "You turned to Kate. She certainly couldn't judge you, could she?”

  Doc gulped the liquor, and said, "Kate, ahhh, she's the opposite of Hattie. With Katie, there are no shame, no guilt, and no decency at all. With her, I don't have to have any self-respect or pretend to have any respect for her, either."

  "She is one of a kind," said Paris as he recalled her demanding that Doc come to bed with her in front of other people, explaining loudly, if not drunkenly, what she planned to do to or with him in bed. How she'd parade indecently, half dressed in front of other men, and fondle Doc openly. Sometimes she would tell jokes or stories about herself or others that were downright disgusting.

  Paris grinned and added, "And sometimes you two would lock yourselves away in a room for a day or two, and then you sure would come outta there lookin' happy.”

  “I was. She knew the most amazing things." He smiled.

  "And your fights with her....” Paris reminded his friend. The couple would get drunk, argue, and curse each other loudly. Violently. They broke things, and often they ended up bloody and exhausted after one of their brawls, but they always made up- in bed.

  “She always made up with me in a most pleasurable way."

  Paris shook his head as he told his friend, "Kate degraded you."

  "She did, but it was easier to roll in filth than to get clean."

  "Do you believe that?"

  "I don't know," Doc admitted.

  Despite his distaste for Kate, Doc had even allowed her to leave Dodge with him, but he had left her in Tombstone when he had ridden with Paris and Kit to Texas.

  Doc stared into space for several seconds. “I have never wanted to saddle any decent woman with someone like me, a dying man. Kate doesn't care because she is trash, you know; she has a big heart, but she is truly a whore." He smiled sadly.

  "I think you're healthier lately. Arizona has been good for you."

  "It seems so. Sometimes I must remind myself that I am still a dying man."

  Paris watched him, and Doc could see a flicker of compassion in the man's eyes.

  Then Paris turned away.

  "You need a woman, Paris,” Doc said brightly.

  "Like I need a hole in my head, I do. Hell, no I don't. I ain't got no use for one other than what I can get from a sporting girl. I don't expect to fall in love.”

  "It might happen."

  "Nope."

  “What do you think of
me calling on Frannie Masterson?” Doc was relaxed enough to ask.

  “It surprises me. She sure ain't no Kate Elder.”

  “Frannie is like my mother was. She has an effect on me: reminds me of the old South when it wasn’t ruined, before the damned Yankees destroyed the genteel, refined qualities it possessed. Full of spirit and class.”

  "I guess. Paris didn't know about the old South except what Doc had described in bitter detail.”

  "I miss being the southern gentleman I was supposed to be, Paris.”

  “And?”

  "She knows who I am. She knows my reputation, yet I have been given permission to call upon her. A lady like her, she’ll allow me to call. That's something.”

  "I guess it is.”

  “Of course, it is. Paris, she could redeem me."

  Paris' eyebrows shot up. "Holy God, isn't this awful damned fast?”

  “Now, I didn't say I had feelings for her, and I know she doesn't see a thing in me, but it could happen; it's possible. Just now, I think that maybe I have time. Paris, I want to die redeemed and loved, I think.”

  This was a complete turn-around. Doc's jaw was set in a stubborn line that Paris knew; he sometimes got like that, too. He pointed out one thing, “You have always said you wouldn't leave a widow to mourn you.”

  Doc nodded slowly, “Why, I have said that. I shall have to think on this a bit. But I might have years...look how long I have already cheated death...I have wasted so much time."

  It was what Paris had tried to tell him three dozen times before. Paris could see the light in Doc's eyes.

  "What is this? "Paris whispered in a kind of awe, "hope?"

  Paris had given up his own hope long ago; never would he imagine his friend so full of this, this hope for a future. Doc was like a brother to him, and if Frannie Masterson had this effect and could save Doc's life, then if need be, Paris would gladly fall at her feet and worship there. Hell, he'd do anything for her if she could save Doc.

  “She is lovely," Doc said, "her eyes are that funny green of the sky before a storm. They're pretty eyes you can drown in," he spoke in poetic tones.