A Holiday to Remember
"I'm leaving. Nothing you say will make any difference." Doc eased Wyatt's hand from his shoulder and offered a smile as if to compensate for what he was about to say, "besides, I'll be back. It's not as if I'm running away from home. I'm not a child."
Earp scowled. "Aren't you?"
"Aren't I what, running away from home or a child? Wyatt, I have no home. I have no family. Go to yours. Have a delightful holiday. Kiss your lady fair beneath the mistletoe. Eat haggis or whatever it is you Scots eat when you celebrate. Enjoy yourself! I ask you as a friend, leave me out of it."
If Wyatt thought his patented withering glare would have some effect on John Henry 'Doc' Holliday, he was mistaken. Doc only laughed at the sour expression. "You can't possibly be angry with me. And even if you are, you won't stay that way."
Swinging up into the saddle he leaned down slightly and tipped his hat. "Have a bit of Christmas cheer for me and I'll be back soon. Count on it."
Wyatt slapped Holliday's horse on the rump causing the mare to sidestep. "Just remember, folks don't need to be blood relations to be family, but since you're so set on leaving go on then and a happy Christmas to you, too, Doc."
Holliday turned the mare south and with a nudge to the ribs, they were off. In reality he hadn't wanted to leave Tombstone, but he saw no way out of it. Another Christmas would come and go and he far from home and the comfort of his own family, what there was left of it. No brothers, no sisters and no mother, only a father and sorely wounded feelings a rift between him and his only son.
December 18th, 1880, as perfect a day as might be imagined. Cool dry air drifted beneath a layer of high fair weather clouds, like strands of iridescent silk woven by an unseen hand. Holliday rode slowly, savoring the quiet, the peacefulness, the unbelievable beauty that was southeastern Arizona.
Keeping close to the San Pedro River with its ribbon of willows and cottonwoods lent a feeling of security. He loved the river with a passion he seldom felt anymore. The sounds of the water, the warm soft sand, the call of birds and the heavy limbed trees reminded him of places and times long past. But ultimately he had to leave the river to make his way further west. His destination was Nogales and he figured to lose himself in the revelry he was certain to find in that most festive south-of-the-border town.
The fiesta was in full bloom by the time he arrived. Senoritas of unsurpassed beauty danced and twirled to the music of roving musicians; food was in abundance as were drink and play of every sort. And for those so inclined, there was a lovely mission church offering services.
Hard as Holliday tried, as much as he wanted to join in and feel that inclusion, as much as he wanted to be moved by the spirit, by the infectiousness of it all, it was no good. Nothing felt right, nothing tasted right, nothing had that correct feel; alone...always and still alone even in a crowd. After two days he gave up and gave in. Saddling the mare, stuffing belongings haphazardly into saddlebags, John Holliday left Nogales and headed back toward Tombstone.
Winter cold set in with a vengeance. Snow swirled around Holliday in tiny devils twisted and spun by a brisk wind. Even hunkered down in his heavy sheepskin coat, he felt the chill, and with it the sickness coming on him. It was almost as if he was being punished for his stubborn foolishness. "Perhaps I should have remained in Tombstone," he mused aloud, "Little good that revelation does me now."
In Nogales he'd begun to cough with chest burning regularity which had since escalated into searing pain and endless coughing spasms that left him exhausted, eyes watering and head pounding. Desperately he wanted to sleep and found himself doing so in the saddle, the mare's pace slowed to an aimless shuffle as the reins went slack. On she plodded.
Holliday woke with a start, at once alert, his hand going to the ivory handled Colt at his hip, but there was nothing, no one that he could see. Sliding down off the tall horse's back, he glanced around. Swaying unsteadily he found he stood near the bank of the river, but what part of the river was a mystery. Beneath his feet the earth heaved and rocked and he felt as if he stood on the deck of a sailing ship instead of on solid ground. A cough took him, doubling him up and sending him to his knees. The pain in his chest unbearable, he blacked out.
Coming to consciousness proved difficult. He didn't want to wake, but something urged him to do so. Not something, but someone. A cup, the tin cup from his saddlebags was being held to his lips and when he drank he choked on the bitter warm liquid it held. Drink it he would, all of it, before the cup was removed.
Gritting his teeth at the pain in his chest, he attempted with no success to pull away from the arms that held him. His only desire was to distance himself from the agony. But the arms held him securely and when John finally looked up, it was into a face the likes of which he'd never before seen.
Skin like wrinkled ancient parchment covered a face with incredibly high cheekbones. The eyes were mere slits and so black as to show no sign of an iris. The mouth was just another wrinkle in the aged face and when the man spoke, his lips barely moved. The words were only whispers on the wind, but the tone invoked a command that must be obeyed. Whether due to the fever and the roaring in his ears, or to the fact that the elderly Apache wasn't speaking English hardly mattered; Holliday couldn't understand one word.
Groaning, John buried his hot face against the Indian's chest. Rocked in the old man's arms, aided by gentle murmurs and whatever potion it was the Apache had made him drink, John finally found relief from the pain. He slept.
Waking, he found himself wrapped in blankets and lying near a fire which burned and crackled with enthusiasm and over which hung a pot. From the pot issued fragrant steam.
A cool cloth was laid across his forehead and again the ancient aged face hovered above him, going in and out of focus. Hands that were as wrinkled as the face were gentle as they patted the pale sweat-soaked hair and tucked the blankets in around the thin shivering body. When the cup was held to Holliday's lips this time, it contained only cold sweet water from the river. John downed it without pause.
Putting aside the cup, the Indian patted his own chest and spoke a single word. He then tapped John lightly on the shoulder and waited for a response. When a reply was not forthcoming, the old man repeated the action and the word.
John knew the Indian wanted to know his name, but the fever slowed both thought and action. Finally, in a voice low and broken, Holliday told the Apache what he wanted to know. The old man repeated the name only twice, smiling in satisfaction at his own quick success. Again tapping his own chest, the Indian spoke the single Apache word. John parroted in a whispery drawl, the odd pronunciation difficult to grasp, until the old man appeared satisfied and again the smile creased the worn face.
The day passed quickly with Holliday sleeping soundly, aided by plenty of water and whatever the herb that eased the terrible cough and allowed him rest. The day and the night as well passed, with the old man gone only long enough to come back with a rabbit which went into the pot. By morning it was a rich soup flavored with herbs and thickened with Apache know-how, a stem from this and a root from that, a sprinkle of salt from a pouch. All the while the old man kept up a steady stream of talk, none of which Holliday understood, but the sound of the voice was soothing, nevertheless.
"Perhaps you are as alone as I," John said, his tone melancholy. "Why else would you behave so kindly toward a stranger?"
Encouraged by his patient's efforts at conversation, the Indian redoubled his own, smiling and gesturing while he spoke. He didn't seem to mind when John drifted off in the middle of the rambling dialog.
The cough eased and the fever peaked and finally broke. Holliday lay cocooned in blankets, the wool warm even damp with sweat from the broken fever. With assistance from the old man, he sipped some of the broth from the all-purpose tin cup. It warmed his belly and made him feel almost human again. Sleep came easily and without the tossing and turning the fever had brought with it.
Yet something came to disturb the peace and it brought Holliday up with a start, his hand going to the Colt on his hip, but the pistol and the belt had been removed some time earlier by his Indian caretaker. Unarmed and defenseless, he felt the rise of unaccustomed panic. Before him, well mounted, sat a goodly sized party of Apache warriors. From the expressions on those faces, he was not a welcome sight.
At his side sat the old man. Across his lap rested Holliday's own Winchester. It was cocked and pointed in the general direction of the warriors.
Weak as a day old kitten, John slumped against the saddle at his back. Not used to being defenseless only exacerbated the feeling. Watching with tired eyes was all he could do.
Using his rifle as a pointer, the warrior leader, an imposing figure, powerfully built with black searching eyes and a pock-marked face and sitting a fine gray gelding, indicated first Holliday and then the mare picketed down by the river. The old man's gruff response to the implied order was brief.
The leader appeared hardly able to control his anger at the reply; hatred contorted his face.
Gesturing threateningly with the Winchester, the old man spoke – a long heated diatribe. His words were met with derision.
Holliday, though he knew none of the language, certainly caught the gist of the conversation. By the tone of the voices, the laughter and the aggression on the faces of the Indian party, nothing boded well for him. He reached out to the old man, his fingertips barely snagging the Indian's sleeve; not enough to get his attention. Repeating the elderly Indian's name worked, perhaps too well as the laughing abruptly ceased and all attention focused on the white man and his ancient companion.
"Don't do it," John said, shaking his head. "Don't."
The old man patted Holliday's hand and nodded, again speaking words John did not understand, but which gave him a sense of peace. He angled his exhausted body to face the Apache warriors. At least he and the old man could present a united front to the intruders.
For whatever reason, the Apache leader turned his horse as if to leave. Yet while the leader seemed most inclined to go, another warrior, youthful and perhaps foolhardy in his inexperience, protested the decision vigorously. After his outburst, there passed a brief moment of uncomfortable silence.
Snarling in disgust when there was no response to his protests, the young brave brought his rifle up, aiming it directly at Holliday's chest. In less than a heartbeat the old man pushed himself in front of John. The heavy slug caught him fairly while his own shot angled harmlessly off.
Holliday grabbed for the rifle and levered a round into it. Before he could bring it to bear a second shot echoed, a short loud crack in the dry air.
The shooter crowed in triumph, his celebration short-lived as the leader swung his Henry in a wide arc, catching the young brave across the face. Blood spurted from the smashed nose, the force of the blow knocking the youth from his mount.
Riding over to where Holliday and the old man lay, the blood from their wounds mingling, the leader bent down to pluck the prized Winchester from Holliday's hands. To John, in shock, but conscious, the Apache appeared almost sorry, though obviously not sorry enough to leave any valuable possessions behind. The last thing Holliday glimpsed through dimming vision was the Indian riding off, leading Doc's own mare.
John woke slowly, blood thick in his mouth. Raising a shaking hand, he gingerly touched the place that burned so badly, a narrow swath cut through the scalp on the left side above his ear. The pain was so fierce that when he attempted to lift his head, white-hot shards of agony blinded him.
Reaching out, he rested a hand against the old man's chest. He felt no breath. Allowing his hand to remain where it was, Holliday grieved. He had known the old Indian only a brief time, but how long really did it take to discover the measure of a man?
Unable to life his head, barely able to move at all, John spent a miserable night lying next to the dead man. The body grew cold and certainly offered no comfort. He shivered as the temperature dropped and feared that if he slept, he wouldn't wake. But he did sleep and when he woke to birdsong and the color-washed beauty of an Arizona sunrise, he felt a pang of remorse. A good man had died here and it was as if no one noticed. The earth turned. The sun rose. The birds sang.
Testing his ability to lift his head and finding it possible to do so without passing out from pain, Holliday made it to his knees, then to his feet. But the world spun sickeningly around him, pushing him back to the ground. He panted, willing the dizziness to pass. Attempting to get to his feet again and failing again, Holliday crawled towards the river and the desperately needed water.
Dropping his face to the cold stream, he sucked greedily until he felt he'd drunk enough; then began the task of washing the blood from his face, a task he went about most carefully, so as not to wash the scab from the head wound. Losing more blood was something he could ill afford. His clothing was black with it, down the front and back of his heavy coat and his left eye was swollen shut. The vision reflected back at him in the clear water was certainly not a pretty one. He hardly recognized himself.
Pushing away from the river he sprawled out on the bank, resting his throbbing head in the fold of his arms. Blessedly, the sun was warm and there was little wind to speak of though the air itself was still cold. He slept for some time.
Waking, he again attempted to gain his feet. This time he succeeded, though the pain and dizziness remained. The old man's body lay some yards away and Holliday knew what he wanted to do – what he had to do.
Finding a tin plate among the old man's things and his own cup, John began to dig a grave. The going was fairly easy in that the ground there was mostly sand, but Holliday was weak and easily exhausted. His head ached and throbbed with each beat of his heart and the consumptive cough remained. The grave wasn't finished to his satisfaction until nearly dusk and even then Holliday wasn't certain the elderly man should be buried in the ground. For the life of him he couldn't remember how the Apache buried their honored dead.
'Is it the Plains Indians who bury their people above ground on platforms?' The knowledge eluded him. The harder he tried to remember, the more his head hurt and the more confused he became. John Holliday owed the elderly Apache more than he could hope to repay, but he would do all that was in his power; the old man would be laid to rest with the utmost respect and reverence.
Holliday spread the blankets out on the sand and with difficulty rolled the body onto them. He arranged the old man just so, arms folded across his breast. John searched his own pockets for something he valued. He discovered the small folding knife his mother had given him before her untimely death; it had belonged to her father. Holding it tightly, transferring some of his feeling for the inanimate object to the knife itself, he warmed it in his hands before placing it into the Indian's. With gentleness, he folded the blankets over and across the body, lastly obscuring the face, peaceful in death, surprisingly so.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Lacking the strength to lift the corpse, Holliday pulled the shroud-wrapped body the few feet to the grave. Levering it into the deep hole, he placed the last blanket over the body and pushed the sand back in. Many hours later and in the light of the full moon, John finished piling the last of the gathered stones atop the grave. His final gesture was to position a board he'd found washed up from the San Pedro and onto which he'd earlier and painstakingly carved the Indian's name, spelled as it sounded, into place at the head. Exhausted, Holliday collapsed next to the cairn.
Doc recognized the voices, though he lacked the strength and the desire to open his eyes.
"Been shot. Lost a lot of blood." Wyatt rested a hand inside Holliday's coat, checking the heartbeat, then reached up, carefully examining the scalp wound.
"Can't imagine how he coulda come to bury somebody, bein' in the condition he's in." Creek Johnson's footsteps crunched through the sand. "Name on this marker's Apache." he observed from his position at the grave.
"Well Indian or no, Doc did the digging. Look here at his hands." Wyatt held one out. Holliday's fingers were raw, several nails torn down to the quick.
"All that aside, he needs to get warm and get somethin' hot inside him. I'll get a fire goin'." Johnson replied.
Doc dozed, but not for long as he felt himself lifted from the sand. Stabbing pain arced through his skull and he brought his hands up to cradle his head.
"Don't, you'll start bleeding again," Wyatt cautioned as he and Creek rested Doc against a saddle and Earp grabbed the offending hands.
Holliday hadn't yet opened his eyes. It was just too much of an effort; exhausted, cold, thirsty, hungry and hurting, anything more than just breathing would've been too much effort. He drank the water that was offered and the cup that followed. Blankets were tucked around him and the voices were soothing, though the words themselves remained mostly lost in a woozy haze. A cold cloth was laid against the swollen eye and hot coffee held for him to drink. For the first time in days Holliday felt safe.
He woke to the smells of cooking and the bacon especially got his mouth to watering. He couldn't even remember the taste of the rabbit the old Indian had stewed for him. It was a distant memory and nothing more. Yet hungry as he was, Holliday doubted his stomach would tolerate greasy bacon dished out over a mound of warmed over beans, Creek Johnson's favorite campfire fare.
It took a few moments for anyone to notice he was awake, let alone acknowledge the fact. Wyatt and Creek seemed to be in some sort of conspiracy as they knelt by the cook fire, voices low. Finally Wyatt got to his feet, dropped the spoon he held into the enamel cup and walked over to where his friend silently watched the proceedings.
Loudly Doc's stomach complained of its empty status and although it made Holliday cringe in embarrassment, Wyatt grinned. Crouching at Doc's side, Earp reached into the cup with the battered silver spoon, brought out some of the contents and held it out to Holliday.
Doc was skeptical. As hungry as he was he still wasn't quite sure he was ready to take a bite of whatever the cup contained without at least some clue as to the contents. And reclining as he was, he could not see into the deep bowl of the spoon.
"You'll like it," Earp prompted.
When Holliday's expression did not change and he made no move to open his mouth Wyatt added, "I promise."
Closing his good eye, Doc dutifully opened his mouth. At first the texture of the food was suspect, but only at first. The sweet syrup and pulpy fruit were a delight to the hungry man. A smile spread across Holliday's wan face as he chewed and swallowed.
"Thought you'd go for peaches, being a Georgia boy and all. Hope it don't matter that they're tinned." Wyatt dipped into the cup for another spoonful.
Shrugging his hands out from beneath the blankets, Doc reached for the cup and spoon.
"Rather do it yourself, huh?" Wyatt asked.
"Not that I don't appreciate being waited on hand and foot, Wyatt, and not to hurt your feelings, but yes."
Going over to the fire and accepting a plate of food and a cup of coffee from Creek, Wyatt went back over to sit by Holliday. Johnson followed and all three ate in a contented silence.
Creek, acting as waiter, topped off the coffee cups with what remained in the battered pot before he again sat down at the fire's circle.
It was Wyatt who offered up a toast. "Happy Christmas." His voice was soft and solemn and he touched each of the coffee cups in turn, the salute metallic yet somehow appropriate.
Doc was surprised. "Christmas…you came out looking for me on Christmas?"
"We didn't have much of a choice;" Wyatt sipped his coffee, "after a group of miners rode into town saying they saw your mare in the possession of renegade Apaches and unless you'd taken to gambling and losing to Indians, I figured that horse was come by in a suspicious manner. There was no choice."
"No choice at all," Creek added. "Friends do fer friends."
Doc nodded, closing his eyes as weariness overtook him. He felt a hand against his shoulder and with great effort opened his eyes again. It was Johnson.
"Do you know what that name means… that name you carved onto that piece a wood for the Indian's grave?"
"A name, it was an old man's name. He saved my life. One day I'll tell you the entire story. I owe him everything and all I could offer in return was a grave." Doc's head spun and he reached up to rub at the ache in his forehead," A name, just an old man's name," he repeated.
"Father…it means Father," Creek informed him.
Several silent moments passed with Holliday stunned speechless. Slipping down into the warmth of the blankets he whispered in a somewhat awestruck manner, "This is one Christmas I will certainly remember."
"Well, it's not quite over yet." Wyatt reached into a deep coat pocket and retrieved a tooled leather bridle which he held out to Holliday. "I must be getting old, forgot to tell you…those miners got your horse back. Wasn't an easy job, I'd reckon. Anyhow, being that I couldn't bring her out here, she was near as beat as you, I thought this might be enough."
Tentatively, Doc reached out to take the token, touched by the gesture. "I'd thought that mare lost for certain. I would've missed her.
"Thank you, Wyatt…and you, Creek. I'm not usually at a loss for words, however…" Holliday paused briefly, to gather his thoughts and to bring his emotions under control, the past several days having been difficult at best. Running a finger over the bridle's intricately wrought design he finally laid the article aside and reached out a hand to each man in turn, the handshake warm if not terribly strong. "A man couldn't ask to spend the holiday in finer company. Happy Christmas to you both."
END