An historical story of fiction

November 7th, 1887 –Glenwood Springs, Colorado

The bed sheet was damp with sweat when he woke from another fitful sleep. It had been a long night of coughing, and now, upon waking, he spat up blood again—a grim ritual that had become all too frequent. Reaching for the bottle of laudanum on his bedside table, he drank the last swallow and hurled the empty glass against the wall. Then, with trembling fingers, he reached for the bottle of Old Overholt rye.

He paused mid-cough, drew a ragged breath, and took a long pull. The whiskey’s warmth spread through him, easing the pain if only for a moment.

John Henry “Doc” Holliday set the bottle back on the table, muttering curses between spasms of breath. He’d battled consumption for more than fourteen years now, long enough to know it would kill him, as it had his mother, sister, and stepbrother. But he vowed it wouldn’t take him before he made it out of this bed and back to Globe, Arizona, near the Superstition Mountains, where he meant to hunt for the Lost Dutchman’s gold.

When Kate, his Hungarian common-law wife, entered the room, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of whiskey and sickness. She had arrived only yesterday, saying she’d come to visit her brother nearby. In truth, she had come to see the man who once made her laugh—and who was now fading before her eyes.

“Hello, John,” she said. “What in tarnation’s all that racket?”

Kate never called him “Doc.” She despised her own nickname—Big Nose Kate—and figured the best way to kill a name was to stop using the other one too.

Doc, caught in another coughing fit, couldn’t answer. Kate spotted the empty laudanum bottle on the floor and picked it up. When she turned back, his lips and knuckles were red with blood. She sat beside him and stroked his leg until the coughing eased.

He smiled faintly. “Kate, my dear, would you be an angel and saunter down to the apothecary for a new bottle of my medicinal laudanum? As you can directly observe, I seem to be bereft of that magic potion which calms these infernal fits.”

Kate: “Sure, John. Have you any money for me to buy it?”

Doc, pointing at his pants draped over a chair: “I should have some in my britches over there—so long as that little hussy didn’t run off with it. If not, tell Doc Harris to put it on my bill. I’ll be down to settle up in a day or two.”

Ignoring the “hussy” remark, Kate looked at him with quiet worry before standing. He looked worse than at any time in the ten years she’d known him, going bald, and what hair remained turned gray. At just thirty-six, he looked thirty years older.

She thought back on their tumultuous years. She’d met him dealing cards at a saloon in Fort Griffin, Texas, and they’d hit it off at once. They stayed together in Tombstone until he decided he’d make a better gambler than dentist up in Colorado and the Cheyenne–Dakota country. By 1887, he’d taken a room at the Hotel Glenwood in Glenwood Springs for the “curative” waters. By the time she reached him, she had to wonder whether the springs were curing anything at all.

She checked his pants pockets and found nothing. Turning to speak, she saw John caught in another wrenching cough. She gave a quick wave and headed for the apothecary, figuring she’d have to pay out of pocket.

After she’d gone, Doc wiped his bloody lips on the sleeve of his long johns and took another pull of whiskey. It warmed him, loosened his chest a little. He stared into a dim corner, catching his breath, and drifted into memory — how he’d come to this dingy room; how he’d had so much left to do; how tired he was of fighting this disease.

He thought back to the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery, age twenty, and began to mutter:

“There wasn’t a better student than I, but damn, I didn’t care for that surly old professor. Had a peculiar habit of belittling me, never knew why. For the life of me, I can’t recall his name at the moment, though I know it as well as my own. I even thought of killing the old coot once, over a slur about me and the Confederacy. But kill him and I’d lose my degree, which would’ve riled my overbearing father something fierce. After the deaths in our family, he took all his woes out on me. Truth is, school in Pennsylvania was a sabbatical from him. So I let that no-good son of a gun live.”

The notion gave him pause. He didn’t usually curse so much. Cursing showed a lack of couth and a limited vocabulary, he reminded himself. Finding no good answer for it, he went on:

“After graduating, I worked for a dentist in Atlanta and lived with my uncle. I was right satisfied there—unless my father visited. He and my uncle would drink, and then the old man would complain about me. When the doctors put a name to this damnable scourge and told me to seek drier, warmer air than muggy Georgia, I took the chance to live longer and farther from Father. I packed up for Dallas to partner with Dr. John Seegar.”

He paused for another coughing fit. Where was Kate? He missed their talks, even their quarrels. When the spell passed, he continued:

“I was a damned good dentist. Me and Doc Seegar won awards for our work.”

He smiled, remembering the fair—the Annual Fair of the North Texas Agricultural, Mechanical and Blood Stock Association in Dallas—when he and Seegar took all three prizes: Best Set of Gold Teeth, Best in Vulcanized Rubber, and Best Set of Artificial Teeth. Good for business, and good for romance.

“I wanted my own practice, though,” he murmured. “So I dissolved with Seegar and opened upstairs over the Dallas County Bank. But these coughing fits alarmed folks when my hands were in their mouths, and business fell off. That’s when I took to gambling—until those uppity Bible-thumpers in Dallas indicted me and a dozen others for illegal gambling. They arrested me in ’75 after a saloon keeper and I traded shots. No one was hit; they found me not guilty.”

He chuckled, laughter turning ragged at the edges. When it faded, he went on:

“Then I moved to Dennison. They took a dim view of gambling there, too, so I left the state. Up to Denver I went, dealing faro at Babb’s Theatre Comique, until I got into a knife fight with that mean old hombre Bud Ryan. Well, I was looking for a job when I got that one.”

The door opened. Kate entered with a bottle.

Doc, grinning: “Ah, my angelic health provider returns, and none too soon.”

Kate unscrewed the laudanum and handed it over. “Cost me a buck. Pharmacist says he doesn’t give credit. Too many patients die owing him money. Nothing personal.”

Doc: “A smart businessman. If I wore a hat, I’d doff it to his shrewdness.”

She sat beside him and felt his forehead. “How were you while I was gone, John?”

Doc, between swallows of whiskey: “Explaining to myself how I wound up in this bed. I hadn’t finished my oration when you returned. Perhaps you’d like to be regaled as well.”

Having nothing better to do, Kate agreed—and took a belt of whiskey herself. Doc winced; that woman could drink most men under the table.

Doc: “Well, I’d just worn out my welcome in Denver, what with Bud Ryan near dying. So I headed to Cheyenne to deal cards at the Bella Union Saloon. Gold rush on, you know. Then Mr. Miller moved the Bella Union to Deadwood, so I followed.”

He coughed hard, then steadied. “I hated Deadwood, Kate. Cold, uncouth, dirty—every disagreeable trait a town can bear. Even the girls weren’t pretty. I drifted back to Cheyenne, then down to Denver, where they ran me out again. So I headed east to visit my aunt in Kansas.”

He paused; she wiped his brow.

“From there I went to Breckenridge, Texas. Took a shine to the place. Went back to gambling—until I ‘agreed to disagree’ with that quadruped Henry Kahn. Beat him with my walking stick, I did. He bushwhacked me later and shot me. Damn near died, Kate. A calamity, wouldn’t you say?”

Kate: “Not a calamity at all, John. If not for that, you’d never have met me at Fort Griffin. Worked out well for you.”

Doc: “Can’t argue that. Did I tell you how I met Wyatt Earp?”

She noticed his words slurring. She rose. “Yes, but you’ll tell me again if I sit here. Let’s talk in the morning. You need rest.”

Doc grabbed her arm. “I’ll rest when I’m dead, woman! Give me a little more time. I was getting to the good part. Please.”

She sat. John loved his stories about that irascible Wyatt. She’d never cared for the Earp’s and never understood that friendship.

Doc: “So…one night…” A fit seized him; he chased laudanum with whiskey. When it passed, she wiped the blood from his lips and the sweat from his brow.

Doc: “Thank you, my dear.”

Kate: “Sure you don’t want to rest?”

Doc: “I’m going to talk whether you sit here or not, so if I’m to perform all this prodigious oration, don’t you think it prudent you hear it?”

Kate squeezed his hand, blinking back tears. “Sure, John.”

Doc: “There I was, dreadful hot evening, playing poker at the Bee Hive Saloon, winning as usual, when proprietor John Shanssey introduced me to a deputy U.S. marshal. Tall, handsome fellow. Big handlebar mustache, blue eyes like chips of ice. Always wore black with a clean white shirt that nearly dazzled. Toughest hombre I ever met. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was after Dirty Dave Rudabaugh for robbing a Santa Fe Railroad camp. I’d taken a few dollars off Dirty Dave that evening, had no notion he was a thief. Wyatt asked about him, and one thing I can’t abide is a thief. Well, that and a card cheat, but I repeat myself. I’d overheard Dave say he was headed back to Kansas, so I told Wyatt. Wyatt telegraphed Bat Masterson to keep a sharp eye out. Wyatt and I spent the next month in Fort Griffin, mostly playing cards and getting into the occasional scrape. We traded the same fifty dollars thirty times, I reckon.”

He blinked, gathering the thread. “I heard Bat caught Dirty Dave and they hung him for killing a little girl—drunk, shooting up the town—an errant bullet hit her on her own porch.”

Kate rose. “Have to visit the privy, John. Back in a few.” She’d heard this one more than once.

Doc kept talking as if she were there. “Me and Wyatt became friends, same poker tables, same sod-busters to lighten. When he headed back to Dodge City to serve as assistant city marshal, I went along. Took my wife—Hungarian woman named Kate Horony. Good Lord, that woman had a temper. She talked me into reopening a dental office, which did fine until the consumption flared.”

He dozed until the door’s squeak woke him. Kate sat again.

Doc: “One night I’m in the back room at the Long Branch—fine establishment—when all hell breaks loose. Cowboys galloping up the street, shooting town to pieces. They blast into the Long Branch to rob customers, pistol-whip an old fella who didn’t hand over his watch. Wyatt busts in to see the trouble and finds himself staring down several barrels. I’m behind a curtain in the back room, see? I slip up behind the leader, jam my Colt into his skull, and advise him to tell his boys to drop their irons. They knew I meant it. They disarmed; Wyatt marched the lot to jail. He later said I saved his life.”

He paused, drifting. Kate shifted; the bed creaked; his eyes opened.

Doc: “Where was I?”

“You’d just mentioned Wyatt,” she said gently.

“Precisely. Later I met him in Las Vegas, New Mexico, and we rode to Prescott, then down to Tombstone. You recall what happened there, Kate?”

Smiling, she patted his hand. “Tell me again. I’ve forgotten some of the details.”

Doc: “Gladly. Boys in Tombstone were saying I’d robbed a stagecoach – kept threatening me. Never met half of ’em. Never robbed a stagecoach in my life, Sally!”

Kate noticed the slip, said nothing.

“They called themselves the Cochise County Cowboys. Absurd name, if you ask me. Marshal Virgil Earp deputized me, and we set off for the O.K. Corral to disarm them and brought Morgan along. Rough bunch, Sally. October of ’81, I think. They chose to shoot rather than give up their guns and—well—you know the rest…”

He sagged into sleep mid-sentence. Kate waited ten minutes, covered him, and left in tears. Everyone knew the rest; it was the greatest tale to come out of the West.

She rode the twenty-nine miles to her brother Alexander’s small place in Redstone, nearly two hours on horseback. Weary, she was grateful Elizabeth had supper waiting. Afterward, Elizabeth tended the children. Alexander built up the fire, opened a bottle, and the siblings rocked and talked of Doc late into the night.

Kate: “Not long after the O.K. Corral, Virgil was shot and maimed. Three months later, Morgan was killed. Wyatt tried the courts—no use. Newly appointed a deputy U.S. marshal, he deputized John and a few friends and formed a posse to hunt those Cowboys. They killed four. Then a local sheriff issued a warrant for Wyatt and the posse. Can you believe it? John, Wyatt, and the rest lit out for New Mexico Territory.”

Alexander: “I’ve heard Doc killed up to a dozen men…”

Kate, cutting him off: “Not true. At most four, and they had it coming. He killed Tom McLaury, and possibly Frank, at the O.K. Corral. He shot Mike Gordon in a street draw. They tried to pin Frank Stilwell on him, but John walked without saying one way or the other. Handy with a gun, yes, but he didn’t want to kill anybody. Felt bad when he did. He preferred marks at the poker table.”

Alexander: “How about Johnny Ringo?”

Kate blinked. “No, that was Wyatt.”

They stared into the fire a while, sipping whiskey.

Kate: “Did you know John rode with Bat Masterson?”

Alexander: “No foolin’?”

Kate: “Two railroads—the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe and the Denver & Rio Grande—were fighting over the Royal Gorge right-of-way. Bat figured guerrilla war might break out. He deputized men, including John, and they rode herd at Leadville for a spell. Denver line slipped Bat ten thousand; John got his share.”

She went on: “John owned a saloon for a time, with a partner named John Webb. Sold his share eventually.”

After a thoughtful refill, she sighed. “I’m not proud of this, Alexander. John and I had a terrible row in Tombstone. We’d both been drinking. He threw me out, so I went to Sheriff Johnny Behan to complain. We kept drinking and Behan told me a lie about John. I signed an affidavit saying John robbed a stage and murdered folk. It wasn’t true. I was mad as a hornet and didn’t even know what I was signing. John put me on a stage out of town after that.”

Alexander: “I wish I’d met him. You could’ve brought him by. Folks say he was one of the quickest draws in spite of being so sick. Odd for a Georgian.”

Kate: “He was that. But he was proudest of his gambling. Called it a noble profession.”

Alexander laughed; Kate didn’t see the humor. Silence ensued.

Finally: “Where are his guns?” he asked. “I heard he favored the 1877 Colt Lightning, nickel-plated, ivory grips. True?”

Kate: “He had to check his guns with the front desk as collateral for his room, or so they told him.”

Alexander stood and yawned. “Time for bed, Kate.”

They parted without another word.

In the morning, Alexander hitched the buggy and drove Kate to the hotel as he planned to buy a horse and ride it home, leaving her the rig.

Kate reached Doc’s room around half past nine. A doctor and a nurse stood over him, their faces grave. “Is something wrong?” she asked. They didn’t answer. Irritated, she asked again, louder. The doctor finally said the proprietor had called him; Doc had coughed all night. He’d only just fallen asleep—shallow breathing, drenched in sweat. His fingers and feet were turning purple.

They watched for fifteen minutes. Doc’s eyes opened. He looked at the faces peering down, asked for whiskey, and the doctor refused. Instead of anger, he glanced at his bare feet sticking from beneath the sheet and smiled at Kate.

Doc: “This is funny.”

He closed his eyes and was gone soon after. John Henry “Doc” Holliday, dentist, gambler, gunfighter, died at 10:00 a.m. on November 8, 1887. He was thirty-six.

The funeral was held that afternoon in Linwood (Pioneer) Cemetery, high above Glenwood Springs. The doctor and nurse attended. Afterward, they asked Kate about his odd last words.

Kate: “John always said he wanted to be shot by a jealous husband. Like most cowboys, he figured he’d die with his boots on, not in his bare feet.”

Postscript. Linwood’s wrought-iron monument to Doc is handsome enough, but no one today knows his exact burial spot. When my wife and I labored up the mountain to pay our respects, a smaller marker at the foot of the plot made it plain: no one can say for sure he lies there. By the time he died, he owed the hotel dearly for room, food, and whiskey. No one settled the bill. It’s possible he was buried among the paupers on the far side of the cemetery.

Makes you wonder, though—where are those guns now?