Fighting for Air: the Unknown Adventures of Young Doc Holliday

By Jack Kincade

Finally these unwritten chapters of one of the Wild West's greatest real life heroes flash dangerously to life across the open pages of 'Fighting for Air - the Unknown Adventures of Young Doc Holliday', as if illuminated by gunfire.
Everyone around the world knows all about Wyatt Earp's exciting life story, the legendary shootout at the O.K. Corral and how his best friend named Doc Holliday was there to back him to the hilt, even willing to die for Wyatt and his brothers.
But very few Western fans know anything at all about the extraordinary past of the infamous and dashing Doc Holliday himself. He was so much more than merely Wyatt's loyal best friend and defender in all dangers. His unwavering friendship has come down to us through time to define the very meaning of Loyalty, Friendship and literally the American notion of 'Having Someone's Back'.
But how did Doc Holliday ever become Doc Holliday in the first place? It seems that everyone knows the name but no one knows much about the youth of one of the coolest heroic western characters to ever live. And unfortunately his early, unknown life story has been lost to us all on the winds of time. Until now.
It turns out that Doc Holliday's intrepid young life was filled with endless tales of his own impossible daring adventures. His gallant youth composed of nothing less than an endless series of swaggering, witty conflicts as he consciously ran headlong into danger with countless deadly exploits long before he ever grew up and met that famously somber young Deputy Marshal named Earp or arrived in a bustling little silver town called Tombstone.
'Fighting for Air - the Unknown Adventures of Young Doc Holliday' covers the span of time that no one is familiar with in Doc Holliday’s life story. The story of his 'coming of age' has never been told.
What everyone gets wrong and forgets in the Doc Holliday story, in all books and all films, is just how young Doc Holliday really was when his fierce reputation and legend began to grow. He was only 21 years old when the doctors in Atlanta, Georgia handed him his death sentence. Consumption. Tuberculosis. He knew what he was in for. He had watched helplessly as his mother had died from it a mere seven years before. The doctor’s told him he might add a year, maybe two at the most to his young life if he fled west for the dry air. And so he did. Running for his life. Leaving behind his family, his beloved South and even the great love of his life, his first-cousin Mattie Holiday, who ultimately joined a nunnery over their scandalous affair.
This sweeping, romantic epic follows young John Holliday all the way from his dangerous Civil War childhood adventures, taking him through the daring rescue of his Uncle Thomas at the end of the war and the tragic, untimely death of his beloved mother in his arms; his mad dashes through the west looking for any chance at prolonging his own life, only by risking it daily; his first legendary meeting with Wyatt Earp and the dapper Bat Masterson and even Eddie Foy, the world famous vaudevillian; Doc’s major involvement at the Royal Gorge Railroad Wars and his helping Wyatt survive an assault on Dodge City by the infamous Clay Allison and his gang. And ultimately the novel ends with Doc triumphantly and happily riding away from Dodge to hopefully reunite once again with his best new friend Wyatt Earp in a little place called Tombstone, accompanied by his faithfully dark soul-mate, the lovely saloon girl, Kate Elder, riding fast at his side.
The other element that everyone gets wrong in the Doc Holliday Story is that Doc was extremely violent and carelessly cavalier with his young life merely because he was so close to his own death. But I believe the absolute opposite was true. No young man ever wanted to live more than Doctor John Henry Holliday. He ran to live, he fought to live and he loved to live. He was constantly running for his life, ‘Fighting for Air’... every singl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Kincade
• Release date: Jan 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452469348

Jack Kincade

After discovering the world's brightest minds still couldn't explain gravity, he took offense and joined the Marine Corps. After four years of that high adventure, he dashed west with his future wife to attend the UCLA Film School and then on to a career in Hollywood, where he was lucky enough to be nominated for an Emmy and several other awards while working as the Supervising Sound Editor on 'Orange is the New Black'; 'Weeds'; 'Glow'; 'New Girl'; 'Hell on Wheels'; 'Chance'; 'The United States of Tara'; 'The Dead Zone, 'The Guardian'; 'Judging Amy'; 'V.I.P.' as well as many others. After retiring in 2018, he returned to his first love, which was writing. This new version of a Fairy Tale resulted after years of gestation.

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Fighting for A i r

The Unknown Adventures of

Young Doc Holliday

JACK KINCADE

Copyright © 2008 by Jack Kincade. All rights reserved.

Smashword Edition

Revised 05/15/2012

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without prior written permission of the Publisher and Author.

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Limits of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this fictional novel, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

Cover Art & Design by Susan Leonard Kincade

ISBN 1452469348

Printed in the U.S.A

For my beautiful wife Susan…

Across vast deserts we two outlaws ran free!

I found him a loyal friend and good company. Doc was a dentist whom necessity had made a gambler; a gentleman whom disease had made a frontier vagabond; a philosopher whom life had made a caustic wit; a long lean, ash-blonde fellow nearly dead with consumption, and at the same time the most skillful gambler and the nerviest, speediest, deadliest man with a gun that I ever knew.

~Wyatt Earp~

Some say it all happened just like this…

Part I

~The South~

1

Creeping along the edge of a gloomy Georgia swamp, a barefoot boy of nine carefully stalked his imaginary prey with a homemade spear when suddenly the sound of a big bullfrog's croak erupted from somewhere just up ahead of him in the moss shrouded distance.

Surprised, the boy stopped immediately, his head turning quickly toward the sound of the great amphibian’s bellow, his still hovering foot instinctively settling back down silently into the murky water. Listening even more intently, all of his senses were now on full alert. That wasn't just a small croak from some ordinary sized bullfrog up ahead but a large bellowing, belly rumble of a croak. After a moment he heard it again. Closer still and huge.

There you are, he thought as a sly smile spread across his handsome young face.

Quietly and with great stealth the young boy now redirected his make-believe stalk towards the real monster. Each barefoot step of his was executed with a natural, practiced grace as he quietly plunged his naked feet down into the deep stagnant pools of leech brown water and onward toward the pompous croaks.

He gripped his homemade frog-gigger even more firmly with both small fists now, ready to strikeout like a water moccasin and kill within the space of a bullfrog's short heartbeat. The boy crept forward slowly, following the sporadic bursts of croaking coming from somewhere just up ahead.

This young hunter was on the trail of a living legend the locals hereabouts called ‘Big Wart’. Seems this great frog had been around these parts forever to hear town and country folk alike, talk about it. Most of the locals had only heard the deep, hideous croaks late, late at night with very few of ‘em really ever catching even a sight of his huge ugly hide throughout the tumble of all the years. And so, with all the mystery, came all the stories and the legends began to grow. Until finally the bullshit simply outgrew the bullfrog.

Fourteen pounds! some would say. Twenty one and a half! another would chime in. Twenty years old! some would add. Forty! Fifty! A hunnert if ‘en a day, my granddaddy swears! others would yell over the top of ’em all. It seemed that everyone down here in Griffin, Georgia gnawed on these lively old country myths like family soup-bones. People pulled at the sweet marrow of the stories, reshaping them with all of their jawin’, transforming them at every telling until eventually everyone had left some of their own wet, teeth marks imbedded deep in them.

But none of that really mattered this day as the giant bullfrog, the mighty legendary ‘Big Wart’, was sitting somewhere just up ahead of him and the boy knew he was finally getting close to the reality of the monster and not just the legend any longer.

He couldn't see the great beast as yet but he could sure hear it...

Smell it even, the boy smiled. Everything about this place is soggy and musty, just like you ‘Big Wart’, the boy thought.

Every rancid odor here seemed to hang off the thick, unmoving air like the foul stench on the fur of a wet dog. But it simply smelled like home to this happy child. He almost didn't even notice the noxious smell anymore. Almost.

A magpie cried out a sudden alarm above him and the young boy looked up through the enormous canopy of moss-covered trees overhead. He noticed that even the sharp blades of bright sunlight that eventually sliced their way down through the thick canopy of trees overhead seemed damp and wet by the time any of it finally spilled out onto the ground below in dappled pools of misty light.

But this lad didn't care about any of that. This place was his. Special. Magical even, if you just gave it a good squint.

Following the croaks, the boy crept out of the shallower, tea colored water and onto a small beach and suddenly there he was, just sitting there in a speckled patch of sunlight. ‘Big Wart’! In all of his spectacular, massive glory.

The huge, legendary bullfrog now leaped just yards ahead of him in the wet, red Georgia clay. What a sight he made. And what a giant plop exploded when he landed. It appeared that everything that everyone had ever said about this legend's size and appearance were utterly true.

This thing could swallow a possum! the boy thought.

‘Big Wart’ had to be the biggest, oldest, ugliest bullfrog in all of Georgia, hell, maybe all the world.

I'm here ta' get ya' ‘Big Wart’. Your time is up for sure old-timer, the young boy taunted the ancient, green monster with a raspy, excited whisper as he continued to stalk.

A huge flock of white herons exploded into the sky above the boy's head shrieking down their alarm and instinctively the young boy startled back.

In that instant ‘Big Wart’ saw his only chance for escape and with one gigantic leap, he was gone. Gone so fast it was as if he had never even existed. Just a myth. A legend.

The entire swamp around the boy continued to react as one in their shared shrieks of alarm when mysteriously everything quieted just as quickly. Every living thing fell deadly silent almost simultaneously. Only the sound of the thick clouds of white-fly and skeeters that buzzed around the boy's face in the heavy, damp air could be heard now.

Something is very wrong. Something else is here.

All of the boy's senses went immediately onto a higher alert than ever before. He swore to himself that he could even smell the unfamiliar odor of danger coursing through the musty swamp air now. It seemed more acidic and copper-charged than normal.

Just like I smell the stink of this big old bullfrog. Did something just move over there on the edge of the tree line where the moss dips down into the deep water? What is that slithering under the clinging mist?

The young boy noticed that a large, single dark ripple now radiated out across the placid, black surface of the swamp where none had existed just a second before.

Big Wart’? Water moccasin? Or ‘gator? he sorted through the familiar threats to his personal claim on this Secret Place. Hadn't seen either one up here in, what was it...two years now?

He watched the ring grow menacingly toward him and then sensed something even closer, sudden movement off to his left now.

Something is here?! What is it? his young mind panicked.

The young boy's sudden electric jolt of fear demanded immediate flight but its harsh intensity paralyzed and froze him in place instead, momentarily immobilizing and confusing him and his bare feet.

And the stalking dark shape took full advantage of his complete stillness and moved in ever closer from behind.

Abruptly all of the young boy’s electrically charged survival instincts arced and fired at once and he instantly found his feet moving intuitively under him as he sprinted out of the swamp like a bolt of human lightning. He ran just as fast as his nine-year-old legs could possibly carry him and he raced out of the clutches of the dark finger-swamp's clinging shadows and out into a wide open sun-drenched field of wild flowers.

The little boy finally found the guts to shoot a quick glance back over his shoulder and see what was running him to ground so fast. And that's when he saw that it wasn't some dark swamp beast chasing him at all. No. Worse. It was a man that was chasing him. But not just a man. A soldier. And he wore grey.

No! the young boy screamed as he tried to run away from the pursuing soldier faster than ever before, somehow finding even more speed somewhere in his new fear.

Just then a gunshot rang out and all of the birds in the swamp panicked and they all took flight once more, instantly filling the sky overhead with their prehistoric screaming alarms, frightening the entire swamp into hiding for miles around.

And nine-year-old John Henry Holliday dropped to the ground, dead among the daisies. His small eyes fluttered and closed and were completely still as hundreds of terrified swamp birds flying overhead painted his small, helpless body below with their dark shadows. The beautiful flowers that surrounded the boy were now splayed out all around him in a final halo of color.

The pursuing soldier finally slowed his chase and moved carefully through the towering grasses and fiery blossoms like a tall grey ghost, cautiously advancing on the dead boy's position. He re-holstered his nickel-plated Colt as he approached the colorful depression in the flowers and then stopped abruptly as he drew his sword out of its finely carved ivory scabbard. The razor sharp blade glinted in the sunlight as he raised it up overhead. He took a deep breath in, his sword arm drew back a few more inches and tensed to swing down on the boy's position with full fury when without warning, young John unexpectedly rolled out of hiding behind him and started shooting at the soldier with both of his out-stretched index fingers, pointing at him like guns.

Bang, bida-bang, bang, bang!! the boy gleefully yelled.

The ambushed soldier staggered with a grunt, dropping his sword to the ground with a soft clang. He instantly clasped both his hands to his chest, pitched over ever-so-dramatically with a deep wet gargle of the throat and then fell down to the ground with such a wonderful, hammy, thud, that the flower petals exploded into the air all around him in sudden ovation.

As the confetti of multicolored petals continued to rain down gently around him, small John advanced carefully through the tall forest of wild flowers towards the sprawled out body of the now dead soldier that lay just in front of him.

Taking no chances, the boy still pointed both of his tiny fingers down, gun-style, at the obviously dead rebel officer’s body as he approached.

In fact the soldier looked so hilariously dead, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, that young John Holliday was having a very hard time trying to swallow his own giggles as he walked up to him. Ever so gently the sound of the most beautiful piano music started drifting in from somewhere nearby on a soft warm breeze.

The music was so lovely and the melody so enchanting that it seemed to define and resonate with the very heart and soul of this place, and of this time, on this delicate amber afternoon.

That's my mother! young John giggled pridefully.

And in that split second of distraction, the prone soldier's leg swept the boy's feet right out from under him, sending him crashing down onto his butt, landing on a cushion of wild flowers.

Ah ha! I got you! the suddenly very-much-alive soldier laughed. You young sir, just got caught by your own trick! Just a variation on the same kind of subterfuge. Never trust your enemy to give you a break, Johnny boy, he won't. Nor you he. Strike to kill every single time and never, I mean never let the bastards get...back...up, he scolded gently.

Young John giggled as he stood back up next to his Uncle Thomas McKey and saluted.

Yes sir Uncle Captain Thomas, Thomas Uncle Captain! John said mock seriously and then he playfully punched his prone Uncle's arm just as hard as he could. The good-naturedly suffering soldier tried to get back up to his feet, but young John began to wrestle with him again.

Then get back down you, bandit! John shrieked in innocent glee, shoving his Uncle back onto his ass.

Alright John, alright! The time for play is over, Thomas' mood began to quickly shift and change, as the rambunctious nine-year-old simply wouldn't let it end.

Never let'em back up! John echoed back with a giggle.

The soldier grabbed the boy's shoulders firmly, momentarily jarring the boy's mood into his. John almost thought he saw tears in his Uncle's eyes and it scared him.

I never wanted to hurt my favorite Uncle, his mind raced. I wasn't even trying to....

Now I mean it John, his Uncle snapped as he regained his balance along with his composure and kneeled beside the boy.

Mean what? You said never let'em... John quieted at his uncle's somber expression.

The time for play is over for all of us, son. I'm so sorry boy but...this bears on your immediate future and your Mother's, Uncle Thomas steeled himself again trying to find the words and a way to strengthen this child. There's some awful tough times ahead of ya' boy, he finally sighed.

Young John was confused. This was his Uncle Thomas. The man who always came running whenever there was trouble of any kind, big or small. He had never seen his Uncle act afraid before.

You're scaring me. You taught me to hunt and shoot Uncle Thomas. You taught me fine. We'll eat. I'll see ta' that, John half grinned, practically raised by this beloved uncle in his father's many absences.

What's so different this time?

Uncle Thomas could only beam back at his small, brave nephew with deep pride and affection.

I did teach you fine, didn't I my boy? he reaffirmed with a sad, proud smile and a solid pat on the boy's back. You're the only nine-year-old boy that I know that if you can see it, you sure as spit can hit it! You're becoming a crack shot, that's for sure, Uncle Thomas' face darkened. No, I...I know you'll eat, John... I only pray to God there'll be enough game left around for you to all keep yer'selves fed, 'cause if it’s on hoof or wing, I know you'll sure hit it. But I'm not talking about hunting game here...blast-it son, I wish your father was here to explain...why do I always....? but Thomas didn't get to finish that sentence as John quickly cut him off.

You're the one who's always been here Uncle Thomas, John smiled. Always.

His Uncle smiled back proudly but then he proceeded in soft, dark, quiet tones. But I'm not going to be around...anymore...not for a...long, long while now, son. Neither's yer Daddy. You'll have George and some of the other men slaves to help look after ya'll, but you can't count on even them, I fear. What I'm trying to tell you John...I'm talking about killing men, son. There's just no way to honey-coat it for ya', he paused. You could...no…you will...be seeing it all around you. Death is going to be hovering darkly everywhere, shortly. And for quite awhile, I figure. There's going to be a lot of killing going on before this thing is finally settled. That...and even worse... Uncle Thomas wiped his face and regathered his resolve to tell the boy the truth.

We're about to enter into a very dangerous, dark time, my boy. You're going to have to suck it all down and become a man way before you're due, and leave the toys and the games behind. It’s war. Your childhood, everyone's childhood is over. Cancelled. From now on you will be counted on to act as a grown man in the family, defending your homestead and the homeland. And above all else you must be prepared to defend your mother as you would your country. With honor.

John's young face darkened and he looked even more confused and concerned than before.

Here? Naaw? Well, I won't have to do any of that? Will I? You and Daddy will ‘whip their butts and send them runnin' back north!’ just like you always said, John reminded his Uncle.

Why was Uncle Thomas trying to scare him? Just weeks ago at the picnic he was laughing about the war with the others.

Uncle Thomas dropped his eyes momentarily from John's tender, fearful gaze, embarrassed now at the cursed bravado of foolish men full of drink, bragging in front of young children. Sure. That we'll do, boy...that we'll surely do...but just in case God's not on our side, I want you to have something very special to me.

With a fast spin Uncle Thomas swiftly drew the nickel-plated revolver out of his holster and then solemnly, trying to impart the sheer gravity of the gift, he presented it to the young boy very slowly and gently.

Me? is all that stumbled out of John's stunned open mouth.

This was no simple passing on of a special family heirloom. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding toward Georgia. It was only a matter of time before they arrived and everyone knew it. This gun would never protect this small boy and his genteel young mother from the monsters that were already unknowingly swooping down upon them both. The Colt was no more than symbolic rubbish; merely a temporary poultice placed upon a terminal cancer to assuage some of his own deep seeded guilt about leaving the helpless child and all of his loved ones behind to fend for themselves against the advancing dark fates alone. A trained Calvary officer, young John’s Uncle Thomas knew only too well what was really in store for them all.

But there was simply nothing else he could think to do about it. He had to go. Duty called and everyone had their own ‘burdens to bear’ in the coming months.

Years even, if one were to be brutally honest about it, he thought.

But still, Uncle Thomas couldn't have felt more culpable and it showed down deep into his guilty soul as he looked into the blameless, poignant eyes of his small nephew and he handed him the gun. I want you to have this. It’s part of a matching set, ivory handled, nickel-plated, forty-four caliber Navy Colt, 1860, newest model, very special, awarded to me by my men.

Thomas spun his other matching Colt up out of the other side of his holster. I'll keep ta'other. You'll know best what to do with it when the time comes, boy. You’re a natural. It shoots true, always keep her clean and she'll never let ya' down. I left all the ammo you'll ever need in the shed for ya'. Find a good place to stash it where only you know where it is. Understand? Thomas finished proudly.

John nodded his head but he was still completely dumbstruck. He could barely find the words. Mine? he finally croaked out like ‘Big Wart’.

Thomas tussled the small boy's sandy blonde hair. Yes my favorite nephew.

Your only nephew, John smiled up at him with great affection.

I'll be back to collect it...shortly, Thomas said as he gently shoved his small nephew away with a sad smile and John noticed that his favorite Uncle still looked so very worried. It is a matching set, after all, Thomas tried to nervously promise his own return as much to himself as to young John.

The sudden sharp crack and roll of a distant drum-shot made them snap their heads around so fast it was as if they had both been struck by the same bullet. From somewhere far off down the country road, the sound of thundering snare drums and lilting fifes began to resolve and reveal themselves behind the distant tree line.

The briskly invading martial music, made up of all sharp, jagged slashes of military precision was in stark counterpoint to the exquisite protective piano music that still hovered lovingly in the air here, lingering like a beautiful fragrance that enveloped this entire valley in its serene perfume.

Daddy? John squeaked in hushed surprise.

I told you he'd be by. He just happens to be bringing the entire Confederate Army with him son, that's all. Just like your daddy to make a bigger show of things than need be, don't ya' know. Being Quartermaster helps to persuade Generals I guess, Thomas grinned with some real disdain for his brother-in-law, his words dipped in acidic tones were matched by an icy-glare, all unseen and unnoticed by innocent young John.

Daddy! John cried out in sheer joy as he sprinted out of the field of wild flowers, away from his beloved Uncle and down the sloping hill, tucking his new gun into the back of his pants as he ran.

Mother! Mother!! It’s Daddy, Mother! Daddy's coming, John continued to yell as he ran down the hill, across the family farm and past its few slaves as they worked in the fields.

Watch it boy! an older slave and field hand barked as John stumbled across the freshly furrowed rows of corn. I just plowed this up in’here, you lil'rascal! he scolded.

Daddy's comin', Angus! My daddy’s comin'! John yelled back happily over his shoulder as he ran past the field-slaves.

Well. La di dah. Ain't we all soooo lucky? Massa done home again. Not for so long, me thinks. No sir, no sir. Not dis war. Maybe Massa don't come home from dis Waaar a'tall dis time! La di dah, indeed, Angus said louder than normal, bravely laughing out loud and winking proudly to another slave next to him, who laughed quietly under his own calloused hand, still afraid to be heard by anyone but family.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the comin’ of dis’lord, Angus sing-songed for the others to chuckle at.

But John couldn’t hear anything in his ears but the sound of his father's fife and drums getting closer, dancing around formerly in the air with the melody of his mother's beautiful, timeless music. He ran out of the rolling fields and sprinted straight through the vegetable garden at the back of the fine house and smack dab through the fresh mud of the newly watered garden in a single, squealing, gleeful dash by...

John Henry Holliday! the young house-slave Sophie Walton screamed at John as he bolted right by her, almost knocking her over. You know better than that! Look at these radishes now!! Your mother is going to have a conniption...

Sorry! Sorry Sophie!! It’s Daddy, my Daddy Sophie! Daddy's coming! John yelled as he ran through the small formal Tea Garden and up into the lovely house.

Mother, Mother!! John screamed as he ran inside, trailing a thick muddy trail behind him into the tiny, solarium.

There his mother, Alice Jane Holliday, dressed formally in silky blue satin and intricate white lace, sat regally at her grand piano, undisturbed, still serenely playing her beautifully enchanted music, lost in her own creative reverie when...

Mother! Mother! Daddy! Daddy's here! the tornado named John yelled as he swirled past her at full speed, and in one big swish of satin and petticoats his mother suddenly became airborne, snatched right off her protesting piano bench by her son.

Oh! John Henry!...I declare! his tiny mother shrieked at him as she landed daintily in her bare feet, her shoes left abandoned under the Grand. Protesting she was instantly pulled out of the music solarium by John in one continuous swoop-by of infectious enthusiasm.

It’s Daddy, Mother! Daddy! he finally made her understand as he pulled his giggling mother now willingly along in his wake. They both ran out the front door, down the steps of the big porch and up the flowered pathway to the frontage road at full speed. Mother and son got to the front gate just as the majestic cannons mounted on their thundering caissons started rolling by. The next regiment of smartly dressed soldiers in grey marched past their front gate with a seemingly limitless amount of young men and new equipment trailing far off behind them, undulating along like the slinking body of the great serpent of war itself.

Unseen by his wife and young son as yet, Captain Henry Burroughs Holliday, young John’s father and Alice’s dear husband, rode up alongside the boundary fence to his own small farm beside the endless line of marching foot soldiers.

He sat proudly atop his great, grey spotted Appaloosa. "Same linage as General Lee's famous Traveler," he'd endlessly boast to his men about his noble horse's bloodlines. "Same sire, same dam! But a better year at Blue Sulfur Springs according to Mr. Johnson, the breeder himself," he always made sure to add.

Pompous ass, they all thought of him as they marched by. He heard the whispers in the camp and he knew that they ridiculed him under their breaths as they rode by his warehouse while in training.

"Nothing wrong with a little envy, he always concluded in his own tent, alone at night. Aren't all great men always envied by their inferiors on their climb to the top?" he confidently soothed his bruised ego for sleep.

But on that very day when he saw his beloved wife and son running out to meet him, frantically searching for him in the endless river of men passing by, there in that special, gentle moment of time, all sense of pompousness and self-promotion drained right out of the always ambitious Captain Henry Burroughs Holliday's soul. His heart swelled with nothing but love and regret as he saw them, just the two of them, so small and delicate, huddled together against the brutal backdrop of war. The two most precious souls on earth to him were standing there together, barefoot and so innocent and waiting only for him to march by.

How was it even possible that any individual man deserved this amount of love in any one single lifetime when love seemed to be in such short supply in the world presently? he thought to himself both incredibly grateful and yet profoundly sad.

The only thing he could think or feel at that surging emotional moment was the enormity of the great loss to come for himself and his dear family. But it was even more than that he finally realized. For the first time the true reality of the scale and the depth of the immense sacrifice being asked of every single young man that passed him by, hit him full force on in a massive black tidal wave of conflicting emotions.

I have seen war before God knows! Two in fact! None of these brave boys have.

Before anyone could see saw how badly shaken he was, Henry quickly stabbed at his damp eyes with the back of his finely gloved hand, attempting to rein in his emotions and suppress the sobs that were trying to escape his throat. His Adam’s-apple hitched and danced against the grey flannel of his immaculate tunic's neck as he tried to choke it back down out of sight. He surely didn't want his men to see him like this, let alone his darling wife and young son, before regaining some kind of control over his raw emotions. For if he couldn't find the restraint, well, he would explode into tears right in front of them all, and then everything would be lost. He would simply melt there...at the feet of his family. It was imperative to show very little emotion if they were all going to get through this 'great wrenching apart'. Somehow Henry had to find the guts and fortitude for everyone's sake to finally ride off down that road.

Probably for a very long time. Maybe forever.

My God, he spoke to heaven in a whisper. Just look at them both. So innocent. How do we leave them behind, dear Lord? How can you ask that much of any of us?

The Captain took a deep breath and steeled himself. Regaining his composure, he spurred his great Appaloosa across the river of marching grey and rode quickly over to the other side of the road where his lovely wife and son still searched for any sign of him. Alice hadn't spotted him as yet and he smiled as he doffed his hat and covered his grateful heart with it, sneaking up on them both astride his exquisite Appaloosa.

Then Alice turned at just the right instant to catch a quick glimpse of her handsome, dashing husband as he cleared the obstructing tree line. There was no sneaking up on her now. Alice let out a shriek of such pure unbridled joy that she startled some of the green troops marching closest to her right out of their formation. The young cadets quickly recovered their wits and fell back into their marching positions, badly embarrassed now and continuously razzed and pounded with hazing insults for the next fifty miles, by their more seasoned comrades.

Mother and son both ran laughing toward the smiling Henry. My family, yelled the Captain as they ran up to Henry's side, with Alice now pulling a cheering John behind her for a change.

Ally girl, if you aren't a beautiful sight after so many horrible weeks of training. And you as well my son. I swear, look how you’ve grown in such a short time. I'm afraid to even dismount Ally girl, for fear I'll never mount again, he honestly sighed.

Alice leaned in and hugged her husband's leg in the stirrup.

I know my darling. If you stepped down, I am positively sure I would never let you go again. Not ever. Now, how would that look to everyone? she asked, not wanting or waiting for a real answer. Because I know, deep down in my heart, if given a second chance, every single mother and sweetheart of every one of these heroic young boys would do the exact same thing and stop them all from marching off on this...brave but foolish quest, if only...we all just could... she couldn't continue. Alice forced herself to smile, suppressing her tears but not the sadness as she gestured to all the doomed young men marching by.

Uncle Thomas had mounted by now and rode over to Alice and her family on his tall, dark Chestnut.

Goodbye to you dear sister. Write often. Persevere. You will survive this. Now that's an order! Hey John? Understand that order? Thomas beamed down at his nephew, who saluted smartly back up to him on his tall horse.

Yes sir...survive! John snapped back militarily.

Endure! fired off Thomas as his final command.

Endure! John ricocheted back.

Alice frowned down at her young future soldier and the shiny new nickel-plated pistol she spotted tucked away into the back of young John's trousers. She looked up angrily at her brother Thomas but then he blew her a loving kiss from atop his horse and smiled and any small blush of anger instantly melted away.

We shall all do our duty. It is the Holliday tradition, she stated bravely.

And the McKeys, Thomas added.

And the McKeys, Alice answered back proudly and with great emotions flooding over her. The two noblest of Southern families! These men mounted before her were the two most important men in her life, except for her young son, and they were both riding away into an uncertain future. Into the madness of war. Worse. Into the madness of a civil war.

Captain Henry leaned down from his saddle to caress his wife's lovely face with his bare hand, trying to soothe her pain and just to touch her one last time.

Life has never been fair about keeping us together, has it my love? he asked sweetly, softly.

Come home soon, she pleaded softly as she continued to embrace his leg, squeezing it even tighter in the stirrup.

There is no home without you, darling, the Captain said wistfully, then he leaned even further down out of his creaking saddle and set his jaw firmly to talk to this young son of his, a boy he loved dearly but nevertheless a boy who had almost always been a stranger to him somehow. Henry Holliday, you see, always wanted a little version of himself to raise and rambunctious little John was anything but that. No mirror image he.

This is it, son. You are the Master of the manor now, his father sternly intoned. Earn your place in this world and defend your station with honor, young sir!

Henry could see the small boy's bottom lip begin to tremble but this was no time to give in to his own emotions. He steeled himself again. I know...it’s not fair for all this to fall on one so young and innocent, but we are not alone in our sacrifices. It is war! We must all sacrifice. Every damn one of us! Every damn day! No changin' it now, not any of it. Study the classics, study hard, boy. And think five moves ahead in everything you do, not just in chess. And above all else, dear son, protect your priceless mother, here. Protect her even...with your very own life if need be. Honor is... everything.

Yes sir, John answered solemnly. His head was spinning. It was as if God himself had fallen out of heaven and onto horseback to deliver this Sermon on the Mount. Small John was very scared and his young mother could see it.

Now stop it, Alice demanded softly. All of you. No protecting is going to be needed here. If you men folk can't get on with other men folk in this world, then so be it. Ride on now and end it and end it to our favor and end it quickly, she pleaded. But you two listen to me and you listen good. You both are coming back down that road. Do you hear me? she froze each man with her deep soulful eyes. No matter what happens in this damnable war, you're both coming back down that road....to cheers. I swear. Do you hear me Henry Holliday and Thomas McKey? Alive! Both of you!

Alice had worked herself into such a tizzy that she suddenly was very angry, her face flushed red, her pulse racing.

Both men shared a knowing smile with each other. They knew and loved Alice's temper and wonderful inner strength, each in their own way. One as husband, one as brother. Same strong woman. With a conspiratorial nod between them, the dashing southern officers expertly wheeled their horses around to face Alice formally.

They respectfully doffed their hats and then with just a tap of the spur both, men's well-trained mounts simultaneously and chivalrously swung their heads down with a graceful bow to the lady.

Yes ma'am!! they answered back gallantly in unison, and with that they both reined their elegant horses back up.

Endure! Thomas commanded one last time to all.

With final waves and fistfuls of blown kisses, Henry and Thomas stoically galloped away from their family only to be quickly absorbed into the endless grey torrent of men and supplies that flowed away from the Holliday's plantation, moving north on the long dusty road, looking for a war to fight.

Finally losing sight of her husband and brother, Alice couldn't hold back her tears any longer and she began to sob at the sheer enormity of it all. She was completely overcome and terrified. She dropped her son's hand as she ran back towards the house. But she could only make it as far as the front gate where she fell down against it, her flowing tears blinding her in their intensity.

Young John waited quietly for several minutes, watching the endless line of soldiers march by, before he finally walked over, knelt down and reached out to take his sobbing mother's hand. John had never noticed how small and delicate her hands really were until now, compared to his own dirty paws. He was growing up everyday. It seemed he could almost feel himself stretching out, becoming more daily.

The thoughtful little boy looked deeply into his scared mother's sad, lost eyes and knew right then and there what he had to do and what he had to say. It all finally made sense to him in that first instant of adult clarity in his young life. In that unambiguous moment nine-year old John Henry Holliday became a young man way before his years should have allowed. Life was fair to no one, he would soon learn, but right now, his place in the world was finally as clear as a diamond to him.

Don't worry Mama, Young John said with a newfound inner courage. "I know that God will be awful busy protecting Daddy and Uncle Thomas in this war. So while he's busy doing that...I'll protect you. I swear.

2

And so the savage Civil War raged on month after brutal month and year bled away into bloody year as 1861 careened downhill like some unstoppable runaway caisson until it slammed into the crimson horrors of 1864. Fort Sumter was followed by Bull Run, Shiloh was followed by the cataclysmic bloodbath of Gettysburg and the years of great carnage and suffering mounted exponentially on both sides of the great slaughter as more and more men were poured into the ravenous meat-grinder of primitive, pitiless, brute force warfare.

Every bloody battle was fought with outdated 18th century linear concepts of battle because the brass knew it made it easier and faster to train the hundreds of thousands of green, volunteer troops that were so badly needed on both sides of the conflagration. As one line fired its musket volley on command, the next line would step up to take its place, until that line had fired and received, and so on. Each brave line quickly withdrawing to reload and then stepping up again, if still alive, only to repeat the deadly shuffling dance of death all over again. And again, and again and again…

Simple tactics to train novice troops quickly to be sure, but these outdated basic strategies were also the major factors that made the savagery inflicted upon both sides so severe as their up close, almost point-blank use of brutally efficient and accurate modern weapons continued to add daily to the horrific casualties. And the mounting hourly scores of the mangled and mortally wounded now soared into the hundreds of thousands on both sides, as death seemed to hover everywhere.

More often than not, one side would simply stumble upon the other, hastily line up in an opposing field or clearing and quickly open up on their enemy. With endless volleys of blinding musket fire and dense black gun smoke exploding in chaotic continuous waves from both sides, it was if mankind’s intrinsic compulsion for warlike insanity ever had a human face, this would be it. Every murderous volley would produce a sudden bright linear red mist of blood and splatter along the front ranks of each advancing line and then quickly fade away, only to bloom again when the next new line of fresh flesh advanced to take their place and absorb the next flying curtain of lead.

And with brother fighting brother and family fighting family, many times on opposing sides of the very same battle, some men even found themselves fighting blood-kin face to face, one bloodline finally extinguishing another's branch from their very own family tree, forever.

John's Uncle Thomas was in the thick of it all as he fought valiantly alongside his men in the Seventh Georgia in the Battles of Malvern Hill, Second Manassas and Sharpsburg.

While behind the lines, Capt. Henry Holliday, John's father, stayed safely in the rear of the conflict as Quartermaster, his war no less hideous though as his battles were fought with Richmond, requesting increasingly nonexistent supplies for his troops from quickly dwindling southern stores. It was his responsibility alone to feed, re-supply and re-arm thousands of starving people in besieged cities throughout the south.

War is cruel, maddening and all consuming in its very carnivorous nature and not every one of the hundreds of thousands that died in those savage bloody years died from gun or cannon fire, as uncounted multitudes of Southerners would simply pass away from simple starvation and dire, tragic neglect.

There is only so much to go around, it all weighed so heavily on Captain Henry's increasingly fragile soul.

Back home in Griffin, Georgia, the Holliday farm now lay in ruins. Years of war, neglect and scavenging had left everything grey and broken down. Big pieces were now missing from the puzzle that was the past. Thick, black columns of smoke boiled-up all along the horizon as the monstrous war crept closer everyday. The Home Front was quickly becoming just The Front.

The main road that passed by the Holliday homestead was a river of gray again. Only this time the gray, hopeless river bled south in rout. The constant flow of defeated rebel stragglers and the badly wounded were all trying to make their painful retreat away from the sounds of battle. They simply wanted to go back home. It was all over for sure, they all knew it by then, and yet the brutal persecution of the war still raged on just over on the other side of the glowing horizon.

The once lovely Alice Jane Holliday had become as ashen as her surroundings in the intervening years as she daintily tiptoed down the crumbling front porch of her once beautiful home with a shining tea service jingling melodically on its matching silver tray. She clutched it tightly in her delicate, frail hands, it was almost too heavy for her to manage by herself nowadays. Alice swung her torn, but still formal dress out of the way as she stooped down to serve hot tea to two wounded soldiers who had simply collapsed there at the bottom of the staircase, both shabby, breathless men unable to go even one foot further for the moment.

Here you gents go, nothing better than some nice hot tea to ease your pain. Oh, I know, I'll see if I can find a cookie or two, she chirped suddenly cheerful and hurried back up the steps and back inside the once great house.

Both soldiers spit out the hot tea just as soon as they took a drink of it...

Bitterroot and skunkweed? Drats! the lame Reb watched her for a moment. She's 'round the bend, son! Ah hell, look at her up in there. Fussin' around inside like nuthin's done changed down here, the oldest Reb said instantly sympathetic to poor frazzled Alice’s plight.

So no cookies then? the disappointed younger Reb with the face of a squashed toad whined nasally.

She's makin’ tea out of tree bark and roots, son, the old Reb answered. Look around you, idjit! You figger' anybody got anything left down here? 'Cept for their own southern civility and hospitality? That's all she's got left and God love her, she's given' us that!

Damn. My guts sure coulda' used that cookie, it was already expectin' it. Listen to it rumble’en down there. We ain't et' anythin' Satch, close ta' solid, since Richmond back, I figger... the young Reb complained. Cows eat better than we do. And as he rubbed his empty belly the young Reb soldier caught sight of Alice frantically searching around inside the haunted house, running back and forth in her tattered gown, searching for sweets that didn’t seem to exist anymore.

I can tell ya' what else I could use a taste of, the young Reb grinned as his wounded hand drifted down and started rubbing his crotch now instead of his empty rumbling belly.

He began watching Alice more intently, with hungry, almost predatory eyes, noticing her special porcelain beauty hidden under the soot. He saw the torn and tattered gown of hers and noticed the way that it exposed her pale flesh beneath it in small flashes of pink movement as she ran around frantically inside, searching for sweet cookies she could no longer find.

If 'en she's that crazy, she won't care if I take a poke. Probably wouldn't even remember it, Cooter reasoned out loud to no one in particular.

There'd be nuthin' to remember, of that I'm sure. Hate ta' break it to ya', Cooter...but you're packin' a derringer son, and that's the truth...but that don't matter 'cause you're not touching one hair on that good southern woman's head. Not a hair. Not no way, not no how, his partner threatened.

Says who, said Cooter as he stood up and towered over his prone and badly wounded sidekick. You? With that rotten leg stinkin' up ta' high heaven? There ain't much of ya' left Satch so don't go pushin' your luck with me if'en you plan on makin' it all the way back down to Tallahassee, a’fore you die, pops, which I figure you ain't gonna make anyhow. I s'pect I'm through takin' orders from anybody for the rest of my whole god damn natural life. You just sit back and watch, old man, I'm gonna take me a bite out of this sweet Georgia Peach by God!

You'll not! Satch yelled defiantly as he went for his musket but Cooter easily kicked it out of his partner’s weak hands, kneeled down and got right into Satch's bearded face, close enough to see the grey peppered in his stubble.

Don't fret Satch, not even Robert E. Lee hisself could order me and my 'little-pard' down here ta' stop now...not ones't we're both ready ta' go, if ya’ know what I mean? Cooter hissed with a sick, near toothless smile.

Hey, a calm young voice from behind startled them both.

The surprised Reb quickly stood up and turned around to find a silver tray being thrust into his chest. On it sat two feeble, crumbling cookies.

Now twelve-year-old John Henry Holliday was suddenly standing there behind him, shiny tray in hand and a confident smile on his young face. The sound of a Colt Navy .44 cocking under the silver tray and a slight poke to the Reb's crotch got his attention quick.

Go on, young John urged. Have a cookie, then leave. It'd be a shame to lose your balls in Georgia when you're so close to home Corporal, John nudged him again in his nuts and smiled.

Just a...goddamned kid, Cooter said stunned.

You are on my property and that woman is my mother. Watch your tongue, sir. One more time, please take a cookie and leave... John said evenly but this time he brought the Colt up in a lightning fast move and leveled it right between Cooter's eyes before he could even blink.

Now, John demanded coolly.

You'd be better off shootin' him in his balls kid, you'd have better luck at actually hittin' somethin' passin' for a brain," Satch chuckled from down below them.

So be it, John agreed and aimed immediately back down at Cooter's family jewels in a flash.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Don't help him Satch! Come on kid, put the gun down. Bet you don't even know what you're doing with that six shooter, Cooter pleaded.

Satch smiled up from the ground at the sheer brass of the young boy, bravely and defiantly standing before them both.

I'd say he knows exactly what he's doin', Cooter, Satch smiled up at the steely boy. "You've had lotsa' practice these last few years, haven't ya', young sir?

John took a brief glance down at Satch grinning up at him from the ground.

Too many to count, sir, John answered honestly with a sullen weariness beyond his years.

Satch could see into the dark depths of young John's deadly gaze. These weren't the eyes of a boy any longer that was for sure. This war had changed everyone....even the children.

Well come on then, Cooter, Satch demanded. Stop pissin' on yerself and help me up, you idjit! Ya' promise ta' git me all the way back home to be buried in Tallahassee and fer that I'll make sure you git back to yer wife and twelve brats with yer balls still ‘tached. God knows the South's gonna' be needin' a passel of more inbreeds like you brainless Krevoys if we ain't gonna' be workin' slaves in our fields no more.

The shaken Cooter reached down and helped his wounded partner up and both men started to stagger away together, back out onto the road to rejoin the river of the defeated.

Hey! John called after them.

Both Reb soldiers turned around apprehensively and looked back at the boy, Cooter pivoting just a little slower than Satch, still afraid of the possibility of a sudden bullet delivered by the snotty kid.

You both forgot your cookies, John said calmly without any trace of malice in his tone.

The two soldiers anxiously hobbled back over to him. They paused, unsure whether to grab them or not. But then John graciously nodded down at the tray again, with a faint smile and all suspicion evaporated between them. Both starving Rebs eagerly snatched up and ate their dry, crumbling cookies as if they were a delicacy from the court of King Louis XVI himself. Every crumb caught and savored.

I swear son, I don't know what difference it would have made if you had blown Krevoy's nuts off...you got e'nuff balls ta' go around fer all of us, Satch gushed. Ya' make me proud ta' be a Southerner again young man.

As you have made us all proud, good sir. Good morning then. Good luck to you both, Young John said politely and gave the faintest nod of his head.

Satch looked back with a sad smile as both men hobbled back out onto that road of pain. We'll need it son, he sighed and waved.

The two Rebs limped away and young John could finally let down his defenses and allow himself a deep sigh. It seemed like he'd been holding his breath the whole time. For over three long years now.

I would have shot this one, John thought alarmed. That was too close.

John quickly gave a short, soft whistle and waved his hand, signaling over to the dark huckleberry bushes just off to his side. Slowly and carefully, George, the head house-slave, stepped out of hiding with his double-barreled-shotgun still at the ready, but now a relieved happy smile creased his old face as well.

You are somethin' else, boy, George beamed proudly with a knowing chuckle. Smooth as buttermilk.

Nervous John was finally starting to calm down when a rickety milk-cart pulled by a lame white mule rolled up alongside and stopped short, right in front of them both.

John tried desperately to hide just how shaken he was from the recent confrontation and smiled.

What now? There ain't no more cookies left...he thought.

His young hands still trembled behind him with the cocked revolver in it. Slowly he uncocked it, easing the hammer back down.

Yes sir, how can I help you? young John asked politely.

The heavily bandaged driver was mute and couldn't or wouldn't answer back but just pointed to the back of the small, damaged wagon with his nonexistent thumb.

And when John walked around and looked into the rear of the fly