Doc Holliday

By Matt Braun

Doc Holiday

Matt Braun


He came from the American South, a gentleman by breeding, a dentist by training, a gambler by vocation. But as Dr. John H. Holliday, a man fleeing his tragic past, drifted across the West, living among some of the roughest men on the frontier, word spread quickly he never walked away from a fight, and he never drew too late.

Now, from Dodge City to Denver and Cheyenne, from boomtown to sinkholes, "Doc" Holliday was driven by the demons of his past, a skilled gambler and a seasoned mankiller--his name was known and feared long before the O.K. Corral. The story of a man who spoke softly and carried a lightning gun, Doc Holliday is Matt Braun's extraordinary chronicle of the West's most complex and legendary figure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466816091

Matt Braun

Matt Braun was the author of more than four dozen novels, and won the Golden Spur Award from the Western Writers of America for The Kincaids. He described himself as a "true westerner"; born in Oklahoma, he was the descendant of a long line of ranchers. He wrote with a passion for historical accuracy and detail that earned him a reputation as the most authentic portrayer of the American West. Braun passed away in 2016.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

"You can get dressed, John."

Holliday was bare-chested. He slipped into his shirt, which hung loosely on his thin frame. His trousers were too large, and when he tucked the shirttail into his waistband, he had to buckle the belt to the last notch. He began knotting his tie.

Tom Eckhart was a friend as well as a physician. He studied Holliday a moment. How much weight have you lost?

Twenty pounds, Holliday said. Perhaps a little more.

Considerably more, I’d judge. I wish you had come to see me sooner.

Holliday was wracked by a sudden, harsh cough. He swabbed phlegm from his mouth with a handkerchief. I thought it was pleurisy, he said. These things sometimes linger on after a hard winter.

You should have known better, Eckhart grumbled. Dental college should have taught you the difference.

The difference in what?

God, I wish it were someone besides me! Why didn’t you go to another doctor?

Holliday stared at him. Just tell me.

Eckhart dropped his stethoscope on the desk. You have what’s commonly called consumption. The correct term is ‘pulmonary tuberculosis.’

You couldn’t be mistaken?

No, John, I’m not mistaken. I’ve seen too much of it in the last few years.

A generation of Southerners had contracted the disease during the Civil War. Younger men, their condition weakened by general hardship and the shortage of proper foods, were particularly susceptible. Even now, eleven years following the end of the war, tuberculosis was still rampant throughout the South.

Holliday’s features were stoic. How bad is it?

Quite bad, Eckhart said gravely. Your lungs are in an advanced stage of deterioration.

You’re trying to sugarcoat it, Tom. Give it to me straight.

I’m afraid your condition is terminal. As you know, there is no cure.

I see. Holliday nodded, silent a moment. He was tall, with ash-blond hair and a brushy mustache, and penetrating gray-blue eyes. Yet now his look was closed and inaccessible. How long do I have?

A year, Eckhart told him. Maybe longer if you relocate to a drier climate. Atlanta is no place for a man with consumption.

What would you recommend?

Somewhere out West, perhaps Colorado or Texas. The sooner the better, John.

Eckhart thought Holliday, who was barely twenty-four, had taken the news with a maturity beyond his years. Some men, particularly one with a future in dentistry, would have accepted their fate with far less equanimity. He watched as Holliday shrugged into his suit jacket.

What will you do with your dental practice?

Take down my shingle, Holliday said simply. Let my patients know I’m moving west. There’s no scarcity of dentists.

I suppose not, Eckhart agreed. When will you leave?

As soon as my affairs are in order. Nothing to hold me here now.

The matter-of-fact tone piqued Eckhart’s curiosity. He knew Holliday was engaged to be married, and he told himself that it was none of his business. Yet, presuming on their friendship, he couldn’t resist a personal question.

Will you ask Mattie to go with you?

Would that make her a bride or a widow?

Holliday departed on that cryptic note. He stepped through the door of the office, and turned south along Piedmont Street. Somewhere inside himself, he was struck by a bitter irony. One far too difficult to accept.

He had lost more than his life today.

The evening was lit by a primrose-yellow moon. Holliday sat beside Mattie on the porch swing, cloaked in the warmth of a gentle April breeze. Her arm tucked in his, she chatted on about plans for their wedding, set for June 6. He had yet to find a way to tell her.

The house was on Peachtree Road, north of the city proper, in one of Atlanta’s finer residential enclaves. Like the phoenix of myth, Atlanta had risen from ashes after the Civil War. Mattie’s father, the Honorable George W. Holliday, was a judge on the fifth superior court. He had survived the war, and the Reconstruction Era, to attain prominence in the new South.

Last year, upon graduating from the Baltimore Dental College in Maryland, Holliday had established his practice in Atlanta. The shingle outside his office read JOHN H. HOLLIDAY, D.D.S., and he was readily accepted into the professional community. But his welcome was lukewarm, and at times bordered on frosty, in the household of Judge Holliday. The situation was aggravated by the betrothal announcement of Mattie and Holliday, early in 1876. All of Atlanta, it seemed, loved a scandal.

Judge Holliday was the brother of Holliday’s father. By blood they were uncle and nephew, which meant that Mattie was Holliday’s first cousin. The judge and his wife strongly opposed the engagement, for everyone knew that a union of first cousins resulted in offspring that were physically, and oftentimes mentally, impaired. But their daughter was willful and defiant, unconcerned that the man she loved was her cousin. Despite their protests, she accepted Holliday’s proposal of marriage.

For his part, Holliday was willing to suffer the outrage and the gossip, even the stigma of cousins joined in wedlock. His deep feelings for Mattie stemmed from their childhood, when they were raised together in Lowndes County, in southern Georgia. After the war, when he’d gone off to college and her father had been appointed to the bench in Atlanta, nothing had changed to alter their lifelong bond. He chose Atlanta to establish his dental practice for no other reason than it reunited him with Mattie. She chose him to be her husband.

But now, beside her in the porch swing, Holliday searched for a way to begin, a way to tell her. She was vivacious and animated, a young woman of remarkable beauty, with auburn hair and a trim figure. In the face of her spirited manner, Holliday was at a loss as to how he might break the news. Finally, when she paused for breath, he decided the simplest way was the direct way. He steeled himself to the task.

I went to see Tom Eckhart today.

Oh, good, she said briskly. I’ve been worried sick with all the weight you’ve lost. Did he prescribe something for your pleurisy?

Holliday held her gaze. Tom ruled out pleurisy. He diagnosed it as consumption … tuberculosis.

What? She suddenly looked stricken. Oh, John, that’s not possible. He must be wrong.

No, I trust his judgment. He’s seen too many cases over the years to make a mistake. He was quite certain about it.

Well, what did he say? Surely there’s something to be done.

Holliday had already decided that the whole truth would serve no purpose. To tell her that he’d been sentenced to death would destroy her, and he couldn’t bear to see her hurt. Far better to let time and distance bring about a gradual loss of hope.

I have to go away, he said gently. A drier climate, somewhere out West. That’s the only known treatment.

She squared her shoulders. Then I’ll go with you. We’ll be married just as quickly as possible. She smiled bravely. We’ll go west together.

Not so fast. Holliday took her hand. There’s no need to rush things. Give me time to get located out there, and try to recuperate. We’ll get married when I’m better.

How long will that take? Did Tom say?

Six months, maybe a year. Certainly no longer.

A year! She watched him, a dark edge of dread shading her eyes. Are you telling me everything, John? You’re not just putting me off … are you?

Holliday smiled, reassured her with a bold lie. Give me a little time and I’ll be as good as new. He squeezed her hand. You want a healthy husband, don’t you?

I want you, John Holliday. Healthy or not, only you.

You have me, Mattie, and that’s the gospel truth. I’ve been yours since the day we met. Nothing will change that.

Her eyes welled with tears. You promise?

Holliday enfolded her in his arms. Yes, I do, most solemnly. On my oath.

There was no lie in the promise, and he felt absolved in that. For he would love her until the day he died.

However long, or short, his time. All his life.

The following afternoon Holliday stepped off the train in Valdosta. The town was the county seat of Lowndes County, his hometown. The place of his boyhood and his rite of passage into manhood. He was there to see his father.

For the most part, his memories of Valdosta were pleasant ones. Walking toward the town square, he was reminded of a time, long ago, when he’d fallen for Mattie. His family, and hers, were the landed aristocracy of Lowndes County before the Civil War. Their lives were idyllic, filled with the romanticism of youth, days of splendor. A time of innocence.

Then, with the war’s end, the society to which he’d been born was destroyed. The Yankees came, and the carpetbaggers robbed his family of their lands, the genteel plantation life. His father, who had fought with the Twenty-seventh Georgia Infantry, became a lawyer, and Mattie’s father, through murky political connections, moved on to a judgeship in Atlanta. Shortly afterward, in the fall of 1866, his mother died as much of lost dreams as failing health. A grieving youngster, scarcely fourteen, he was appalled when his father promptly took another wife. His time of innocence ended with the wedding.

From that day onward, Henry Holliday’s only son became a rebellious troublemaker. He spent his time in the woods, avoiding his stepmother and his father, content to hunt deer and wildfowl. Lean and hard, gifted with quick hands and exceptional coordination, he discovered an inborn talent with firearms. Over the intervening years he won shooting contests, defied the Yankee constabulary by carrying a revolver, and often ran away to Atlanta to see Mattie. Finally, when he was twenty, and steadfastly refused to study for the legal profession, his father shipped him off to dental college in Baltimore. He had not returned to Valdosta since, a matter of some four years.

The law offices of Henry Holliday were located on the north side of the courthouse square. He looked up from a sheaf of legal documents as his son came through the door and halted before his desk. He managed a strained smile.

Well, well, he said, somewhat taken aback. The prodigal son returns. To what do I owe the pleasure?

Good breeding, Holliday said dryly. If nothing else, you taught me duty, and manners. I’ve come to say good-bye.

Have you, indeed? the elder Holliday replied. And where are you off to now?

Somewhere out West, perhaps Texas. I hear Dallas is more civilized than most.

Why on earth would you move west?

A matter of health. I’m told my constitution requires a drier climate.

Henry Holliday appeared startled. He looked closer, saw that his son was pale and wasted, abnormally thin. What is it, John? Are you ill?

In a manner of speaking, Holliday said. I have tuberculosis. Otherwise known as consumption.

My God, you can’t be serious! How ill are you?

I’d thought to send you a telegram. But then, after some consideration, I thought it was better done in person. You might say this is our final parting.

You’re— His father faltered, searching for words. You came all this way to tell me you’re dying?

Holliday was struck by a sudden fit of coughing. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, noting that the sputum was tinged red. I’m touched by your concern. You’ve made the trip worthwhile.

You’re my son, for God’s sake! What did you expect?

Actually, I came here with a request. I could hardly tell all to Uncle George, particularly since he’s not one to keep a secret. That being the case—would you look after Mattie for me?

You haven’t told her the truth?

Let’s say she believes it to be a temporary condition.

So she still thinks you’re to be married?

For now, Holliday amended. Time will convince her otherwise.

I see. The elder Holliday looked at him with a dimming stare, as though he wanted to say something but it was too late. When the time comes, I’ll do what I can for Mattie. You have my word on it.

Good-bye, Father. Holliday extended his hand. I’m catching the afternoon train back to Atlanta. I appreciate your help.

Come now, John, why rush off? His father held their handshake a moment longer. Won’t you stay the night?

Thank you, no. I leave for Texas tomorrow.

Well then, will you write me? Once you’ve settled?

We’ve never been much for letters, have we?

John … what do you want me to say—you’re my son.

I think that says it all, Father. I wish you well.

Godspeed, John. You’ll ever be in my prayers.

Holliday nodded, quickly turning away, and walked to the door. As he stepped outside, the clock on the courthouse tower tolled the hour. He paused, staring upward, oddly reminded of a poem he’d studied in college. He thought it was by John Donne.

Never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee. A slight, ironic smile touched the corner of Holliday’s mouth. All of it seemed somehow fitting, appropriate to the moment.

He walked toward the train station.

CHAPTER 2

Dallas was located on the banks of the Trinity River. Late in April the noon train slowed as it entered the outskirts of town. A brassy midday sun stood high in a cloudless sky.

Holliday was seated in the lead passenger coach. He stared out the window, marking the date as April 27, as the train rolled through a residential section. His trip west had consumed six days, and the rigors of coach travel, combined with the constant jostling over rough roadbeds, had left him sapped of energy. He felt soiled and worn.

The engineer throttled down, further reducing speed as the train approached the depot. Holliday got a sudden scratchy sensation in his throat, and pulled a flask from his inside coat pocket. His coughing fits had grown progressively worse, and he’d discovered that a stiff shot of whiskey acted as a palliative. He uncorked the flask, tipped it to his mouth, and drank deeply. His urge to cough was quelled by the fiery bourbon.

A moment later the train chuffed to a halt outside the depot. Holliday gathered his carpetbag from an overhead luggage rack and moved to the end of the coach with the other passengers. Dallas was the terminus for the Texas & Pacific line, and everyone was eager to see the trip ended. Upon exiting the vestibule, he went down the steps and emerged onto the platform. He nodded to the conductor, who was standing nearby.

I’m new to Dallas. Perhaps you could recommend a good hotel. Something comfortable.

The conductor was familiar with him from the trip westward. He knew that, apart from tippling a flask, which was a gentleman’s personal business, Holliday wore tailored suits and was somewhat more cultivated than most who rode his train. He motioned uptown.

The Regent, he said. A fine establishment, the best in Dallas. Only a couple of blocks along Main Street.

Thank you most kindly.

Not at all, sir. Enjoy your stay.

Holliday moved into the shade of the stationhouse, waiting until the baggage car was unloaded. He signaled a porter, who claimed his steamer trunk and muscled it onto a handcart, along with his carpetbag. After being given the name of the hotel, the porter led the way around the corner of the depot. They walked toward the center of town.

Dallas was in the midst of boom times. The streets were jammed with wagons and carriages, the boardwalks lined with an array of shops and business establishments. Holliday was struck by the raw vitality of the place, strangely invigorated as they wound their way through the crowds. The porter, who had settled there with the advent of the railroad, proved to be something of a civic booster. A single question from Holliday elicited a spirited monologue on the town’s growth.

Organized in 1841, Dallas began as a trading post on the Trinity River. During the Civil War, the town prospered and grew as the administrative center for Confederate army forces in the southwest. Following the war, it became the hub of banking and commerce for homesteaders and ranchers throughout the northern region of Texas. In 1872, with the arrival of the Houston & Texas Central Railroad, the town mushroomed. A year later, when the Texas & Pacific laid track to the Trinity, Dallas exploded in growth. By the summer of 1873, the population topped seven thousand people.

The great financial panic of 1873, spreading early that fall from Wall Street across the nation, was the ruination of many Western communities. But Dallas, with two railroads and river navigation to the Gulf of Mexico, thrived as the center of trade for a sprawling frontier. The rail yards became a way station for the transshipment of goods to the reservations in Indian Territory. A string of military garrisons, stretching from Central Texas to New Mexico, were supplied out of Dallas by the government. All of this added to the normal trade of settlers and buffalo hunters scattered across the vast region. The population swelled to almost ten thousand by the close of 1875.

Even now, a frenzy of construction continued far beyond the banks of the Trinity. Carpenters and brick masons by the hundreds erected buildings as the boom went on unabated. The price of real estate skyrocketed, doubling and doubling again, fueled by enterprising speculators with an eye for profit. Southerners in particular, forsaking their war-ravaged homeland, flocked to Dallas seeking a fresh start, a new life. All in all, as Holliday listened to the porter’s prideful boosterism, he thought he’d made an excellent choice. A man with no future might find a measure of cheer in a roaring boomtown.

The porter halted in front of the hotel. As he unloaded the steamer trunk, he ducked his chin farther upstreet. A gentleman like yourself wants to be careful up thataways. Folks call it the sporting district, if you take my meaning.

Do they? Holiday said, amused by the warning. Danger awaits the unwary, is that it?

Mister, it’s three city blocks of unfettered hell. Grifters and whores the likes of which you ain’t never seen. They’d rob you blind faster’n scat.

I’ll heed your advice. Holliday slipped him three dollars. And I’m obliged for the commentary on your fair city.

Helluva town! You’re gonna like it here, mister. Ever’body does!

Inside the hotel, Holliday crossed a carpeted lobby appointed with sofas and overstuffed chairs. As he approached the desk, the room clerk snapped to attention. Good afternoon, sir.

Good afternoon, Holliday said. I’d like one of your best rooms. I prefer a street view.

Certainly, sir. The clerk swiveled the registration ledger around and handed him a pen. How long will you be staying with us?

Holliday smiled. Indefinitely.

Upstairs, with a window overlooking the street, he waited while a bellman unlatched his trunk. He then ordered a tub and hot water brought to the room. After the bellman departed, he opened one of the trunk drawers and removed a quart of bourbon. He took a long slug straight from the bottle.

Walking to the window, he pulled a leather case from his pocket and extracted a cigarillo. He lit up in a haze of smoke, wryly aware that the tobacco would only kill him faster. Still, the whiskey held his cough in check, and he saw no reason not to indulge himself with a smoke. A man’s vices, whatever the state of his lungs, were not easily discarded.

Yet his thoughts were not on mortality, or doom. He had decided that whatever time was allotted to him, he would live it to the fullest. His outlook was fatalistic: take the bitter with the sweet and make the best of it. The bitter, he’d told himself more than once, was in having lost Mattie. The sweet was to be found in the life he made for himself in the time remaining. He refused to enforce concessions on himself simply to prolong the inevitable.

Still staring out the window, he savored the pungent aroma of the cigarillo. His attention was drawn upstreet, and he idly wondered if the sporting district was all that dangerous. He recalled reading that everyone in the Wild West went armed, routinely settling their disputes with gunfire. Though amused at the time, he thought now the porter’s warning was probably worth heeding. His lungs would kill him, but no man should be allowed that privilege. Irony had its limits.

The cigarillo wedged in the corner of his mouth, he moved back to the trunk. From the top compartment, he removed a Colt’s New Line Pocket Revolver. The pistol was small and compact, perfect for concealment, and fired a .41-caliber slug. Before departing Atlanta he had purchased it on the premise that newspaper accounts, at the very least, bore an element of truth. Every man in the Wild West needed a gun.

He loaded five rounds into the chambers.

Early that afternoon, Holliday emerged from the hotel. After a soaking bath, which restored his vitality, he was ready to explore Dallas. He was attired in a dark serge suit, with a gold watch chain draped across his vest, and a narrow-brimmed hat. The pistol was tucked into his waistband.

The first order of business was to arrange a location for his dental practice. Finances were no great concern, for he’d cashed out his investments in Atlanta, and carried a bank draft for almost eight thousand dollars. But he was trained in dentistry, and he had no intention of falling into slothful habits merely because of illness. He was not yet infirm, and by no means lazy. He meant to practice his profession.

On a sidestreet, not far from the hotel, he found a vacant storefront suitable to his needs. He arranged with the owner to rent it by the month, and paid two months in advance. Through the owner, he was directed to a cabinetmaker, and ordered a reclining chair with a padded headrest. All of his dental instruments were packed in the steamer trunk, and it was a simple matter to purchase the necessary pans and other materials. He planned to open shop within the week.

An hour or so later, exploring the downtown area, Holliday wandered into the courthouse square. On the south side of the square, a small crowd was gathered before an oval-topped wagon. He heard the jaunty strains of a banjo, and strolled over to have a look. Emblazoned on the sides of the wagon were bright, gaily colored signs: HAMLIN’S WIZARD OIL & BLOOD PILLS. The back of the wagon dropped to the ground, supported by retractable legs, to form a stage.

The crowd was attracted to the medicine show by free entertainment. When the banjo player finished his tune, a large muscular man took center stage and proceeded to swallow a glistening sword fully half his body length. As he extracted the sword, bowing to cheers and applause, another man popped through the curtains at the rear of the wagon, brandishing a fiery torch. He drank from a bottle of clear liquid, then spat flames high in the air, and concluded by dousing the torch down his gullet. The crowd went wild.

The banjo player then strummed loudly, and brought out, with august pronouncement, Professor Omar Blackstone. The professor strode to the edge of the stage, attired in swallowtail coat and top hat, clutching bottles of patent medicine in either hand. His voice raised in sonorous cadence, he proclaimed the wonders of his wares, concocted from a secret formula discovered in the wilds of Borneo. Hamlin’s Wizard Oil, he thundered grandly, would cure lumbago, rheumatism, heart trouble, and the loss of hair. The Blood Pills, he noted with a sly smile, were for those ailments peculiar to the female condition. A dollar a bottle, he roared mightily, and a cure in every bottle!

The crowd surged forward. Holliday was tempted to ask if the professor’s secret recipe would also cure consumption. But instead he turned away, certain in the knowledge that the Wizard Oil was at least fifty-percent alcohol, guaranteed to temporarily relieve any suffering known to man or beast. As he crossed the courthouse square, he blithely mused that the flask in his pocket was far more potent, and no less curative, than the professor’s Wizard Oil. Unbidden, too sardonic to suppress, a more troubling thought flashed through his mind. The crowd, however fleetingly, took hope from Wizard Oil.

He wished the same could be said for bourbon.

That evening, after a light supper, Holliday went for a walk. His appetite was diminishing day by day, and no matter how tasty the dish, he had to force himself to eat. Whiskey and cigars, though short on sustenance, were an acceptable solace. He lit a cigarillo.

Drawn by curiosity, he took an excursion through the sporting district. He was no stranger to whores, or games of chance, nor to the rougher element whose stock-in-trade was vice. In Baltimore, during his college years, he had frequented seamy gambling dives, and when the urge came over him, an occasional bordello. But he was nonetheless curious as to whether vice in the untamed West compared favorably with vice in the more sophisticated East. He quickly discovered that sin in Texas was the same, simply rowdier.

The sporting district occupied three city blocks. On both sides of the street there were saloons, gaming dens, dance halls, and a galaxy of whorehouses. Some of the dives were sleazier than others, and a few, clearly for select clientele, possessed a touch of class. The men crowding the streets were a democratic admixture of burly teamsters, rawboned cowhands, and well-dressed businessmen. They came there to satisfy lust, or drown their sorrows, or court Lady Luck. The sporting crowd catered to their every whim.

Holliday inspected several of the dives, pausing for an occasional drink. Finally, his curiosity dampened, he returned to the Acme Gaming Palace. The interior was pleasantly furnished, the atmosphere quiet if not genteel, and the patrons intent on the pursuit of fortune. The Acme was clearly the haunt of serious gamblers, wagering serious money on dice, roulette, poker, and faro. Holliday assumed many of them were professionals, and he drifted from table to table, casually watching the play. At length, determined to test the waters, he took a chair at a poker table where the players appeared to be evenly matched. No one commented as he placed a hundred dollars in greenbacks on the

Reviews for Doc Holliday

[miststalker · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Matt Braun excels in this novel. The fictional biography feels real and implements many elements of truth(not without elaboration I imagine). Exciting and fast paced, you grow to really admire and possibly even idolize Doc Holliday as the story progresses. It would make for one hell of a western movie.