Mary Russell - Doc

“Well, did you ever!”

“I had no idea he could—”

“By God! Now, that was something!”

And he was surprised to see that sometime during the concerto, Kate had come to sit beside him on the bench, and that she was sobbing.

“ Ne meurs pas, mon amour! Don’t die on me!” she begged as he took her in his arms. “Don’t die, Doc. Please, don’t die.”

“I am doin’ my best, darlin’.”

“Promise you won’t leave me!”

“You have my word. Hush, now. Hush. Don’t cry.”

“Promise you won’t leave?”

“I promise.” He gave her a handkerchief.

“Liar! Everyone leaves,” she muttered bitterly, and blew her nose. “Or they die.”

“You have me there,” he admitted. “Everybody dies.”

She laid her head against that traitorous, murderous chest of his.

“Oh, Doc,” she whispered, “I want to go home .”

“I know, darlin’.”

“Take me home. Please, Doc, take me home!”

“And where is that?” he wondered. “Where is home for us now?”

Us, she thought.

She started to laugh, and wiped her eyes, and said, “Las Vegas! Please, Doc, let’s try it. Just six months! Please!”

“No,” he told her, though he held her close. “No, and that’s final.”

In late April of 1879, Dr. Robert Holliday received a note postmarked “Dodge City, Kansas.”

Please forgive the long silence. I have been poorly for some time and my health remains brittle. This is to inform you that I will be moving to Las Vegas in the New Mexico Territory. I have made a place for myself in Dodge and I am sorry to leave, but the winter is severe here, perhaps worse for me than summers back in Georgia. There are hot springs near Las Vegas and a sanatorium that is the latest thing in tubercular Society. We club together and pay some quack who pretends to know what’s good for us while we cough our lungs out. I don’t put much stock in the enterprise, but I have a passel of children praying on me and I hate to disappoint them. Tell Martha Anne I will write soon. Give my love to the family, and tell Sophie Walton how much I miss her .

—YOUR COUSIN JOHN HENRY

In 1930, the Arizona Pioneers’ Home in Prescott admitted an eighty-year-old woman who called herself Mary K. Cummings. By the end of her first week, the old lady was thoroughly disliked by the entire staff. Their antipathy was returned, in spades. Imperious, opinionated, blunt, and profane, Mrs. Cummings would spend the next ten years firing off ungrammatical letters to the governor of Arizona, informing him of graft, corruption, inefficiencies, and generalized malfeasance by the employees of the Arizona Pioneers’ Home and demanding an official investigation of conditions there.

The governor’s replies, if any, have not survived.

Mary K. Cummings was merely the last in the old woman’s impressive collection of names. The baby who began life in Hungary as Mária Katarina became María Catarina in Mexico, Mary Katharine in Iowa, and just plain Kate in Kansas. Her maiden surname was certainly Harony. Or perhaps Haroney. Whether she really married Silas Melvin as a pregnant teenager is unclear. She used the surname Fisher for a while and was also known as Katie Elder while a working whore in Kansas, Texas, and Arizona. Nobody ever called her Big Nose Kate to her face.

Not twice, anyway.

In her old age, Kate sometimes claimed that she had married John Henry Holliday. That was wishful thinking, though it was true that they were together, off and on, for the final nine years of his life. After Doc’s death, Kate did marry a blacksmith named George Cummings; he turned out to be a mean drunk so she left the bastard, though she kept his name. Finally, at the turn of the century, she became the housekeeper for a mining man named John J. Howard. With no disrespect to the dead, we may wonder if Kate was more to him than a housekeeper, for she stayed with Mr. Howard for three decades; upon his death, in 1930, she became both executrix of his will and sole heir to his modest estate.

In 1939, a year before she died, Kate was approached by two publishers who wanted her to write a memoir about the legendary gunman Doc Holliday . She was surprised to find that anyone was still interested. Doc had been briefly famous, along with the Earp brothers, after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, but nearly sixty years had passed since that half-minute shoot-out.

Doc himself and his family back in Georgia were deeply distressed by the notoriety that attached itself to his name after the events in Arizona. He moved to Colorado and he did his best to live there quietly, but his efforts to drop out of sight were only partially successful. Toward the end of his life his name was in the newspapers again when he shot a man named Billy Allen. For all Doc’s reputation as a deadly pistoleer, he only wounded Allen. After he was arrested for attempted murder, John Henry Holliday’s entire defense was to sit in a Leadville, Colorado, courtroom—all 122 pounds of him—coughing relentlessly. When it came time to speak, he admitted that he was destitute. In desperation, he had borrowed five dollars from Billy Allen and was unable to repay the debt on time. Allen, who outweighed Doc by fifty pounds, had declared to all who would listen that he planned to kill Doc over the matter.

“If he got hold of me, I’d have been a child in his hands,” Doc said, and everyone in court could see that was true.

Sick as he was, Doc testified, he still valued his life, and so he had defended himself. After a few minutes’ deliberation, the jury voted to acquit, but the trial was a sorry affair that made humiliating headlines and added misery to Doc’s last months.

Thirty years later, Bat Masterson earned Kate’s everlasting contempt by pimping Doc’s memory in a magazine article that portrayed the dentist as a bitter, bad-tempered drunk who killed without cause or conscience—libel that would be repeated for a hundred years. Then, in 1931, a successful posthumous biography of Wyatt Earp reminded people of Doc’s part in the Tombstone gunfight. It was Wyatt’s defense of Doc’s good character that sent those two publishers to Kate when they heard that Doc Holliday’s woman was still alive.

After some thought, Kate concluded that Doc would have been pleased if she could turn his misfortune to her advantage. She had almost signed the book contract when she found out the cheap bastards weren’t going to pay her for the work, so she told the publishers to go to hell.

Nevertheless, thoughts of Doc preoccupied Kate at the end of her own long life. Of all the men she’d been with—and there must have been a thousand or more in two decades of active frontier prostitution—only John Henry Holliday remained memorable. The rest were as obvious and as easily dealt with as a phallus. Doc was different, start to finish. She never truly understood that man, but she loved him in her way.

A single letter from Kate has been preserved. Written in the last year of her life, it includes an outline of her time with Doc and an unflattering portrayal of Wyatt Earp, whom Kate considered an illiterate bumpkin. She hardly mentioned Morgan; that might seem odd, but Kate was the kind who remembered animosity more passionately than affection, and it was impossible to dislike Morgan Earp. He and Kate had forged a bond at Doc’s bedside back in Dodge, and she always appreciated the way Morg could tell when his own easy strength and robust health were a comfort and a support to Doc, and when they felt like mockery and an undeserved rebuke.

That first hemorrhage was neither the last nor the worst that Doc survived, but it remained the most frightening—for Doc himself and for those who cared about him. “You get used to it,” Doc always said. “You can get used to anything.” Used to the gnawing pain; used to the sudden taste of iron and salt; used to the struggle to pull air in as blood from his lungs rose. After 1878, Kate and the Earps knew what to do when Doc started coughing blood and they, too, got used to the way he would rally and recover. “Cheatin’ the Fates is gettin’ to be a habit,” Doc would say, but his cough and breathlessness worsened steadily, and each successive episode of bleeding left him weaker than before.