I made up Prof. Blakely. I couldn't easily find info on Doc's teachers. Michael Blakely is made up /
"In the family way" means pregnant. ^_-
"Well..." Wyatt said after an uncomfortable silence, "you've sure given me a lot to think about when it comes to how I treat my horse."
Doc choked on a laugh, narrowly avoiding a coughing spell. "That was just for illustrative purposes."
"No, I mean it. It's a whole other perspective. Who's to say we haven't got it wrong?"
They fell silent again, but Doc felt a lot less miserable now. Wyatt's hand on his leg was comforting in spite of the heat. He thought he was shaking slightly, but fortunately the movement of the buckboard covered it.
Wyatt gave Doc's leg a squeeze before letting go. "I appreciate you telling me all that," he said quietly, looking straight ahead.
"I appreciate your listening," Doc answered. "You're the first Yankee who ever let me speak my mind on it without cuttin' me off or cussin' me out or threatening bodily harm."
"I apologize on behalf of us Yankees."
"Pshaw. I told you not to apologize to me - don't start doin' it on behalf of anybody else." And don't lower yourself to the standard of those I've met before. You're a class above them. "I don't give a damn what other people think. If they won't be decent to me, I've no use for them." Doc said it with a little more bravado than he felt. He wished his reputation didn't matter to him, but it cut deep when people made collective statements about the South or the Confederacy when they had no idea what they were talking about.
"I guess if you'd tried to do anything about it as a boy, you wouldn't have gotten very far."
That was to say the least. Doc could hardly imagine such a thing. "Aw, hell... if I had so much as suggested any sort of objection - that would be as good as sayin' my father had lived his whole life wrong. He'd have given me the whippin' of my life, I'm sure."
"That wouldn't have helped anything."
"Indeed not. Mind you, ordinarily Pa was pretty reasonable," Doc added, not wanting Wyatt to think his father to be a tyrant of historic proportions. "But you didn't cross him directly. I knew better than that."
"Sounds about like mine. Earned myself a few whippings, though."
"You don't learn so fast, do you?" Doc teased.
"No, I s'pose not," Wyatt said with a chuckle. "I told you I tried to run off and join the army a few times. Got my hide tanned pretty good."
More tension was fading from Doc's body by the moment, and that chuckle about chased away the last of it. It was going to be fine. They would stay friends. Wyatt was a daisy among Yankees.
October, 1870
Nineteen-year-old John H. Holliday arrived at the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery twenty minutes before class was due to start. He roamed the halls, looking at the pictures and diagrams on the walls. He had settled into his town home two days before, and he was looking forward to starting his two-year degree.
After poking around every unlocked room on the first floor, he made his way back toward the classroom where his first lecture was to take place. He was eager to begin. He found the door wide open, and a man standing behind the desk, arranging papers.
"Good morning, sir," John said, boldly approaching.
The man looked up and smiled. "Good morning. Are you one of my students?"
"John Holliday."
"I'm glad to know you," the other answered, offering his hand. "I'm professor Blakely."
"Yes, sir. Eight o'clock sharp." John shook the teacher's hand.
Blakely renewed his smile. "Do you have your schedule memorized?"
"I had a long trip up from Georgia."
"I see. How are you finding Philidelphia?"
"A mite cold, but it's a welcome change. Will we have a large class?"
This was the way John's mother had taught him to speak to his elders. You introduced yourself. You spoke up clearly. You talked about how you came to be there and the weather and the other's profession and so forth. You formed small connections as a foundation for strong alliances. And above all, you were polite. Even to a Yankee man. This Yankee man was going to teach John how to be a dentist. So far, he seemed cordial and well-spoken.
When the next student arrived, John quietly excused himself from speaking to the teacher and chose a seat near the front. The new boy sat in the front row too, with one empty seat between them.
"Good morning," John said, since the new boy hadn't offered a greeting.
"Good morning," the other repeated stiffly.
"I'm John Holliday. It's nice to meet you." John offered his hand over the empty seat. He had been taught to be polite to his peers as well, especially at first meeting.
The other took his hand gingerly, frowning at him in a strange sort of way. "Michael Edwards." After shaking hands, he said, "You from England or someplace?"
John kept himself from smiling with practiced grace. "Actually, I'm from Georgia."
Edwards froze, seeming almost to look through him. Then he stiffly turned toward the front of the room.
The abrupt end of their exchange was rude, but John told himself not to take it personally. His origin was bound to be a shock to his classmates. He would just have to wait for it to wear off.
John was buzzing with excitement, and since he had already read the first few chapters of his textbook, his mind wandered a lot during the lecture. He put more attention into learning Blakely's manner of teaching than he did into the actual subject matter. This was going to be a good two years. And at the end of it, he would have his degree.
July, 1878
Coolidge was little more than a railroad stop along the Santa Fe line. The coach paused long enough for the travelers to use the facilities.
"Looked like you and Doc got kind of serious about something," James commented to Wyatt while they waited by the wagon for Doc to rejoin them. "Everything all right?"
Why do I keep forgetting he might notice things? Wyatt wondered. "Yeah... we were just talking about days gone by. The war and such." Leave it at that.
"I see. Did he lose someone close to him?"
"Not exactly. I probably shouldn't say much. I think he was telling me things in confidence."
"That never used to stop you." James smiled knowingly.
"Well, it's a little delicate. And after all, you were a soldier."
"You think that would make it more of a betrayal?"
"Maybe. I think I should get to know him a little more before I make a judgment like that."
"Are you displaying forethought? Is it this transport scheme of yours, or your newfound interest in the church that has you acting so responsible?"
Wyatt scoffed and gave his brother a playful shove. "It's all your influence, Jim. All you."
Doc emerged from the little depot and rejoined them. "Are we ready, gentlemen?"
"Yeah. Let's go."
A short while later, the transport came to the spot by the road where a simple marker read, "Colorado state line." The Stagecoach driver pulled up his team, and the lawmen and soldiers grouped together.
"Well, boys," the driver said, "he's all yours. I sure hope you get to Denver all right. Maybe I'll see you in Granada."
"Probably so," Wyatt answered.
The soldiers helped move Jackson to the back of the buckboard, which would have been no easy task if he had been stubborn about it.
Wyatt saddled his horse and mounted up.
"We'll split two ahead and two behind, like before," the sergeant in charge told them as the Stagecoach disappeared in a distant dust cloud. "Those behind will keep an eye on Jackson and see that he doesn't tamper with your men on the buckboard."
"Thanks," Wyatt said. "I appreciate your sticking with us for now."
"We're almost as close to Granada as Syracuse. After that, we'll have to head back, but I wish we could go further. I'd hate for Jackson's men to catch you on some empty stretch."
"Don't worry; we'll manage. Let's get moving." Wyatt called to James, who waved to show that he was ready.
The sergeant raised his hand. "Company - posts!"
The soldiers got into their positions.
"Forward!" The sergeant let his hand fall forward, and they were off.
"How are you feeling, Doc?" James asked as they left the state line behind them.
"I'm feeling better than I did last night, thank you," Doc answered. He had put his scarf away now that the stagecoach was out of sight.
"You seemed a little distressed earlier."
Did I? Since his face had been covered, it seemed doubtful that James could have noticed how upset he was. Damn it, he probably saw Wyatt lay a hand on me. "Ah. Wyatt and I were having a rather serious discussion. No need to be concerned."
"Wyatt wouldn't say what it was about, except that it had something to do with the war. I won't pry, but I want you to know that I do my best to live peaceably with all men. Wyatt vouches for you, so you won't get any ill-will from me. And I hope you won't hold it against me that I was a Union soldier."
Doc nodded, schooling his features to an expression of neutrality. "Any brother of Wyatt's is a friend of mine, as long as he doesn't willfully act against me."
"Good. I think we understand each other."
It's so much easier when you're not trying to have a close friendship - no need to get into the details. But Doc was glad James had made him this goodwill gesture. He felt accepted now, more than he had expected to at the outset of the trip. He even felt ready to tackle his least favorite topics of conversation if need be. In fact, there was an unfinished conversation about the Earp family that he wanted to get back to.
"So, your brother Virgil. Wyatt mentioned that he was a bit of a black sheep?"
James shifted a little, looking reluctant. "Well... he was practically a kid at the time. Virg is two years younger than me. We were living in Pella, Iowa when he fell in love with this Dutch girl called Ellen. She was even about a year older than him, I think. Well, they wanted her to marry a Dutch boy, and Pa didn't thing Virg was old enough to get married anyway, so they eloped. It was a bit of a scandal when it came out."
"It sounds it," Doc said, lacing his voice with shock. "It's all rather Shakespearian. Did they remain married?"
"To be honest, there's debate over whether they were properly married in the first place. Her parents found out because she was in the family way, but she and Virg wouldn't tell where they'd gotten married, and since no place around had any record of it, we can only assume they used false names. That makes the marriage unofficial in the first place."
"Indeed. And so?"
"Virg enlisted right after he turned eighteen. While he was away, Ellen's father told her that he'd been killed, and got her married off to some Dutch fellow. Pa had a lot of other things on his hands at the time and hadn't approved of the whole thing in the first place, so we didn't do anything to stop it."
"I'm quite outraged on behalf of brother Virgil," Doc said passionately. "What happened to the child?"
"Nellie Jane was her name. Ellen and her new husband left for Oregon territory. That's the last we saw of them."
"Well, I never." Doc took a minute to digest the scandal related to him. He shook his head. "I can't imagine some fella taking off with my girl and my child. I think I'd track him to the ends of the earth and kill him."
"If you ever meet Virg, don't tell him I told you this," James said, sounding very serious. "Pa married Virg to a girl named Rosella when they lived in Missouri, and it seemed like that was a good match, but the poor girl didn't live long. After that, I think Virgil sort of considered formal marriage to be bad luck or something. He's with a woman called Allie now, and he seems happy with her."
"I hope that he is," Doc said sincerely.
Near the end of his life, Virgil Earp was reunited with his Dutch wife and grown daughter, Nellie Jane. By this time, Nellie had children of her own. Virgil had probably thought he would die childless, and here he was a grandfather. Good for you, Virg!