This one got long because it's heavy and I didn't want to break off in the middle of the hard-core angst.
Warning: Discussion of slavery. As before, remember that the thoughts and opinions of characters do not necessarily reflect the views of the AUTHOR, the READER, or even the HISTORICAL FIGURES depicted here. Please don't use the comments as a soapbox. I think we all agree that slavery in general is bad. No need to virtue signal.
(But do leave a comment on the story, if you're enjoying the read.)

Wyatt was slightly more dressed than Doc remembered, so he must have gone back to his room at some point.

Doc coughed once and cleared his throat. "Tell me you didn't really sit there all night."

"I didn't. Once you were sleeping well, I went to bed for a few hours. Even managed to sleep through James snoring."

"Good. At least you've some sense."

"Want me to bring you breakfast?"

That sounded nice, but Doc said, "Don't be absurd. I'll go down with you."

"All right, but you'd better hurry. James is up and dressed already."

"On the double, Marshal."

Wyatt stood and headed for the door.

"Wyatt."

He paused. "Yeah?"

Thank you. But Doc couldn't thank him for being stubborn and refusing to leave in the face of repeated instructions - orders - to the contrary. "Tell James I'll be right out."

Wyatt nodded and let himself out.

Doc sat up and stretched. The burning was gone from his throat, and each breath no longer made him want to scream. He should be more careful today - ride in front of the coach more and breathe through his handkerchief when he was on the buckboard. He got out of bed and quickly dressed in sturdy trousers and a plain traveling waistcoat that could weather the dust of the trail. He doubted he would need his jacket, so he folded it into his bag along with his evening clothes. They would stay in the buckboard.

He suddenly spied his handkerchief hanging over the headboard of the bed. When he grasped it, it felt stiff, as if someone had wetted it, wrung it out, and hung it up to dry. Wyatt. He imagined his friend washing it out for him, maybe cooling his brow with it. It made his chest ache a little. He folded the cloth and put it in his pocket, determined to say nothing of it. He would forget about it himself, if possible.

A few minutes later, Doc joined the Earp brothers and they went down to breakfast. After that, they loaded their belongings into the buckboard and met the stagecoach at the post office, where they learned that they would have about twenty minutes to wait before heading out. Doc decided to visit the general store.

"Don't take long," James said.

Doc tipped his hat to James and went on his way.

The general store was packed full of everything Doc expected and some things he never would have thought of.

"Good morning," the proprietor greeted him. "I'm John O'Loughlin. May I help you find something?"

"Doctor John Holliday. I suppose I'd like to have an extra deck of cards. You have any?"

"Playing cards," O'Loughlin repeated. A moment later, he bustled away, only to return shortly with a deck of cards. "They're used, but not damaged," he said. "Eight cents."

Doc took the cards and carefully thumbed through the deck once. Fifty-two. "Sounds fair. Do you carry any liquor?"

"I don't stock it. For that, I'd have to have a license."

Doc tilted his head to give the man a shrewd look. "But you might take some in trade now and then," he guessed.

"I might."

"I don't suppose anyone traded you a bottle of Old Rye lately? I'd like to refill my flask before we leave. See, I'm headed all the way to Denver, helping to transport a prisoner with a couple of deputy town marshals from Dodge. The roads are mighty dusty."

"I see. Let me take a look." Again, O'Loughlin disappeared in the heaps and shelves of wares, and soon he was back with a whiskey bottle. "Old Rye isn't the most commonplace whiskey," he said, showing the very label for which Doc had asked, "but under the circumstances, I'll let you have it for two bits."

"I don't need the bottle," Doc said, taking out his flask. "In fact, I'd rather not take it. But I'll give you the two bits just to fill this to the brim."

"That's more than fair." O'Loughlin carefully poured out the whiskey and handed the flask back to Doc, who gave him his thirty-three cents.

Since the bottle was open anyway, O'Loughlin lifted it in salute to Doc and took a drink, himself.

Doc smiled and drank with him. "My ancestors hail from Ireland as well," he said. "I'm always pleased to find Irishmen all over the country."

"Amen to that," O'Loughlin said. "I'm sure your blood does you credit where holding your liquor is concerned."

Doc grinned. "I imagine it does at that. Thanks very much, sir. I should be getting to the stagecoach."

He started toward the entrance and saw Wyatt coming toward him. "Need something, Wyatt? The man has just about everything."

Wyatt looked around. "I can't think of a thing I need."

O'Loughlin joined the two of them and introduced himself, then cautioned them about the Cheyenne.

"Thank you kindly, Mister O'Loughlin," Doc said. "You dig in deep here and don't give anyone an inch. Give 'em hell."

"I aim to," O'Loughlin said, smiling in return. "Good luck."

They made Syracuse in time for lunch.

"You should like it here, Doc," The driver said, smiling as he climbed down from the box. "This town used to be called Holliday."

"Oh?" Still on horseback, Doc raised an eyebrow.

"After the railway tycoon."

"Never heard of him." He was sure he would have heard if there was a railroad man in the family.

The driver's smile faltered. "Well... anyway... I'll change out the horses and get some lunch. Be ready to go at one-thirty."

"One-thirty," James repeated. "We'll be here."

"This is the last leg before Jackson is ours," Wyatt said. "James, you mind if Doc and I take the buckboard from here? I'll ride once we get to the border."

"Just a moment," Doc interrupted. "Oughtn't I be the one on horseback at the border? I reckon you're handier with a shotgun than I am, and I'd like more maneuverability."

"They won't try to ambush us while we're with the soldiers. You can ride from Granada."

Doc wasn't as sure as Wyatt, but he decided to trust his judgment. "Whatever you say, sir."

"It's fine with me," said James. "But let's have the ammunition ready just in case."

"All right," Wyatt agreed. "Let's eat up and stretch our legs."

Doc hadn't had much appetite at breakfast, but he ate a little better now. He listened to Wyatt and his brother talking about this and that, hearing their voices more than their words. Again, he found himself feeling wistful. It must be nice to have a brother you enjoy talking to. One that makes plans with you at a moment's notice. That you know you can depend on.

Done eating, Wyatt pushed his chair back. "I'm going to take a walk around this town. Coming?"

"Sure," said James.

Doc followed the pair of them like a shadow, almost feeling that it would be impolite to say anything. Like it would be intruding.

"Tell me the honest truth," Doc heard Wyatt say after some small talk about the townspeople. "Are you worried about getting outgunned? Because if you think we don't stand a chance, we can wire Denver from Granada. Tell them we'll bring Jackson, but only if they send someone to meet us. We will have gotten him into their state; they'll have jurisdiction to send a decent escort for us."

"That would mean a much smaller reward," James pointed out.

"I'm not talking about the money right now."

"If I didn't think it could be done, I wouldn't have agreed in the first place, let alone come this far. Don't doubt yourself now, Wyatt. We'll see it through."

Doc had tried to persuade and to dissuade Wyatt from a few things before and met with limited success. From this exchange, he sensed that Wyatt took confidence from his brothers' support and approval. He wondered what it would take for Wyatt to want the same from him.

Just then, Wyatt's head turned. Doc looked across the street and saw a very pretty lady in quality clothing of a style very much à la mode.

"So much for focusing on our objective," Doc murmured in amusement, not sure the brothers would hear him.

"What?" Wyatt glanced back at him.

Doc nodded pointedly at the lady.

"Oh, I was only admiring the view." He took out his watch. "Not much I could do in the way of courting in twenty or thirty minutes."

"Plenty of time to get yourself in trouble," Doc contradicted.

"What about Mattie?" asked James.

"I'm not getting in any trouble," Wyatt said, starting to sound irritated. "I just admired her a little. Didn't you think she was pretty?"

Doc chuckled. "Pretty as a picture. But what sort of picture was in your mind as you were 'admiring' her, that I'd like to see."

Wyatt actually looked hot under the collar.

"All right," James said good-naturedly. "Lay off him, Doc."

Doc's smile stayed in place as they continued walking. For a moment, he had felt included. Part of the familial banter. It seemed that James was less wary of him than before, becoming comfortable. We'll be thick as thieves by the time we hit Denver, he decided.

Back on the buckboard, Doc covered his face with a scarf to prevent the previous day repeating itself with more damaging dust in his lungs. He didn't like having to do this, but he was sure it alleviated some of Wyatt's worry, as well as his own discomfort.

They traveled without talking for a couple of miles. Doc glanced at Wyatt from time to time. He thought his friend looked as if he had something on his mind, even looked about to speak a couple of times, but didn't.

Finally, Doc broke their silence. "Something botherin' you?"

Wyatt made a noncommittal noise that was lost in hoofbeats and harness creaking.

"I suppose you still have questions," Doc guessed.

A furtive glance reinforced his suspicion.

"If you can keep from blurting out opinions and let me say my piece before you rush to judgment, I'll tell you what you want to know."

From how uncomfortable Wyatt looked, Doc thought he knew exactly what he wanted to ask.

"You want to know if my family kept slaves."

Wyatt looked down at the reins in his hands, then up toward the horses again. "It crossed my mind," he said.

For you, Wyatt. Only for you. Doc forced himself to turn his thoughts back to that bittersweet time in his past when life had seemed so much simpler, even if it wasn't really. "I think it's important to point some things out before I get into it."

"All right."

"Take these horses. Where did they come from?"

"The Dodge livery," Wyatt answered promptly.

"And before that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Do you know they're well treated at the livery?"

"I think so. The place couldn't stay in business long if they weren't."

"I'll give you that. Do you reckon these horses were bred or caught wild?"

"Bred, I expect." Wyatt eyed him, looking a little unsure, but he didn't ask whatever he was wondering.

"And their sire and dam?"

"Probably bred."

"By whom?"

Wyatt shrugged again. "Who knows? They look like grades, so they could have come from just about anywhere."

"Does that trouble you?"

"No... should it?"

"Supposing you were born in a magical land where horses could talk. Then you came here and saw the rest of us using horses as beasts of burden. What would you think?"

Wyatt looked skeptical.

"Go on."

With a little sigh, Wyatt's expression turned to one of concentration. "I guess I'd think it was awful. If the horses were like people where I came from... But then I'd learn that these couldn't talk."

"Naturally, but I think you'll understand my point. My point being that where you're raised, or rather, the society in which you are raised is very much responsible for the way you view things. In the land of my childhood, if you had something you needed done and there was a slave handy, you'd get the slave to do it, just as natural as going to the livery for a horse to rent. I don't say it was right - I wouldn't say that - but as a boy, seeing that as the way things were, it didn't occur to me that it might be wrong."

"All right," Wyatt said, sounding a little begrudging.

The sun was making things uncomfortable enough as it was, but the subject matter multiplied the discomfort. Doc shed his waistcoat and laid it in the back of the buckboard. He took a slow, deep breath. "Yes, my father owned slaves. It didn't occur to me to wonder where they had come from, how he had acquired them. Not whether they were born in Georgia or overseas. It didn't seem important at the time. It shames me to say it, but that's how it was when I was a boy.

"During the war, when there was all this talk of emancipation, then I really started thinkin' on it. I realized that I had wondered about a few things, but I had pushed that down because if anything was wrong, that meant my pa was wrong. That our whole way of life was wrong. I couldn't stomach it at twelve years old. So, I pushed it down some more. Then the war ended, and pa was forced to let them go. In turn, that forced him to sell off most of his land because he didn't have the means to work it.

"I admit, I'm not happy about his having to sell the land, if only for the fact that it was sort of his life's work, and it doesn't seem right for that to suddenly be taken away. But there are other things I hold against him that cause me to retain little pity for him. And he still did all right for himself - became Mayor of Valdosta. He always knew how to keep ahead of things.

"Anyway, the slaves were free long before there was any question of my inheriting them. In a way, I'm glad. Because I'm not sure I'd have made the best decision concerning them if I had."

"You think you might have kept them?"

Doc stared at his own hands for a while. He felt sweat trickling down his face. "It's worse than that," he said in a low voice. "I'm afraid I would have sold them. I didn't care about running a plantation - by my mid teenage years, I wanted to be as unlike my father as I could. I wanted to be a professional like my uncle, the doctor. To provide a service rather than to produce goods for sale. But I don't think the goodness in my heart would have been sufficient to convince me to free them. I probably would have been tempted by the thought that freeing them would be a waste when I could sell them instead and let someone else decide what became of them. It would have been a selfish, irresponsible act, and I'm glad I was never in that position. I know better now - they're not talking horses. They're people, and most or maybe all of them did nothing to deserve their fate.

"I'm truly ashamed of it, but I don't see how I could have done differently. Not without divine intervention or someone teaching me better somehow." Doc felt his throat tightening, and it had little to do with the dust of the road. Nor did the blurring of his vision. Am I making excuses? Will he condemn me? It was an agony waiting for Wyatt to reply, but he couldn't bring himself to say more.

"I think I understand," Wyatt said at last.

A tear made it over Doc's lower eyelid, and he hastily wiped it away with the tail of his scarf. "For what it's worth," he said in a subdued tone, "Pa wasn't cruel to them. I mean... not like some were. He always made sure they weren't made to work in the worst heat of the day, kept them fed and clothed and watered. He didn't sell them off as they started to get too old or work them to death. I remember we had one old man who didn't do any heavy work from the time I was about six years old. He was practically free, but stayed on the place because he knew he'd be taken care of. Other plantations had slaves runnin' off from time to time, but not ours. Pa was considered a very kind master. Even fired a foreman for being too rough one time."

Doc stole a glance at Wyatt, who didn't exactly look charitable. "I'm not sayin' that makes it right." The tears were trying to escape again. Why is it so damn hot? He swallowed thickly. "God, nothin'll make it right." His voice broke, and somehow he felt even hotter from the embarrassment of it.

Wyatt gathered the reins in his left hand and put his right on Doc's leg. It was an extremely familiar gesture - or perhaps familial. He wasn't saying anything to alleviate Doc's shame, but after all, what could he say?

Under different circumstances, Doc would have warned Wyatt not to paw at him. But just now, the action told him he wasn't hated. And just now, that was exactly what he needed.

Syracuse, Kansas was known as "Holliday" for a while. But the man it was named for was from Pennsylvania. It's possible, if not probable, that Doc had never heard of him. Even if he had, he would probably claim not to know of him, because the man in question was a Yankee. ^_-
I'm not sure if the term "grade" was used of horses in the 1800s. It means mixed-breed, like "mutt" for dogs.
Doc is really suffering from some second-hand guilt. And some hypothetical guilt. And a deep-seated fear of being judged by the one person whose opinion he respects. Sorry for making things so heavy and uncomfortable, but in that time period, for these two to be friends, I think they would have to come to some kind of understanding on this issue sooner or later.
Doc's grandfather, and maybe his father, did own slaves, his father did have to sell or relinquish most or all of his land after the war, and did become mayor of Valdosta.
Remember, we don't need a bunch of comments on slavery. But please do leave a comment on the story. It would mean so much to me. I feel like Doc, agonizing while waiting for Wyatt to say something. Wondering if people hate the story.