When Blood Flowed as Water: A First Tale of Old Tombstone

By B. A. Braxton

Ride into Tombstone, Arizona Territory with Wyatt Earp and his brothers to face off with Frank and Tom McLaury and Billy and Ike Clanton once again. This two-book historical fiction piece is based on B. A. Braxton’s effort to sift through all of the factual and fictional information available on the gunfight at the O. K. Corral. B. A. answers questions such as did Wyatt Earp wear a steel vest? Who fired the first shot at the O. K. Corral shootout? Did the fight start over a woman, political ambitions, or something else? Had some of the combatants at the street fight been unarmed? Who got hit and who didn’t? Who died? The questions are endless and some may never be answered. Perhaps that’s why it took B. A. over five years to complete this work.

Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Bat Masterson, Johnny Ringo, Curly Bill Brocius, Virgil Earp, the McLaurys, the Clantons, and a host of others come to life in this epic tale. So hang up your Peacemaker and your slouch hat for a few hours and sit down to a mighty interesting read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. A. Braxton
• Release date: Dec 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463606995

B. A. Braxton

B. A. was born in Bridgeton, New Jersey and on a Friday the thirteenth for those who spook easily. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1981 with a bachelor’s degree in Natural Science, and with clusters in sociology, writing, and advanced writing courses. In 1987 she graduated from Fairleigh S. Dickinson Jr. College of Dental Medicine with a doctorate in general dentistry.Regardless of the paths that she has taken academically, B. A. has always continued to write. Her first books were written while she was in the seventh grade. Using classmates as characters seemed to put the books in high demand, and even as adults, those friends still ask to read them. By the ninth grade, she’d completed her first novel and although it was pretty bad, she was—and still is—extremely proud of that accomplishment. B. A. writes general fiction, mysteries, and historical fiction. Regardless of what else she has done in her life or how much the practice has been discouraged, writing has always been and always will be the center of her life.B.A. has been married since 1983 and has two children, a son and a daughter, and an aging cat named Salem. She first moved to Michigan in 1988. Her hobbies include hiking, kayaking, exercising on her beloved elliptical trainer, painting with oils, healthy cooking and baking, researching topics for stories, and being proud of her children’s many and varied accomplishments. She loves listening to any kind of music, especially if the lyrics are terrific, and learning as much as she can about people—their mannerisms, the way they speak, what they do, and why they do it. And she also loves watching western television series, especially those from the fifties and sixties. Her favorites are the early Gunsmoke episodes with Chester Goode in them, and that special father-son bond found in The Rifleman. Another favorite is the series The Virginian. The pilot for Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman is one of the most credible depictions of the nineteenth century American west that she has ever seen on celluloid, and several grimly realistic episodes from the first and second seasons are favorites of hers. And lately, Hell on Wheels is more than enough to satisfy her taste for the wild west.

Book preview

Chapter One: Legendary

Chapter Two: Time Is Money

Chapter Three: Half a Man

Chapter Four: Equal Skill at Cookin’ and Killin’

Chapter Five: Behan Will Come Through

Chapter Six: My Shirts Are Gonna Be Made of Silk

Chapter Seven: I Could Handle Her Attention

Chapter Eight: A Killer with a Hair-Trigger

Chapter Nine: A Comedy of Errors

Chapter Ten: You Won’t Last Long out Here

Chapter Eleven: It’s You They Don’t Favor, Wyatt

Chapter Twelve: Business Don’t Know No Friends

Chapter Thirteen: A Very Bloody Affair

Chapter Fourteen: Any Takers?

Chapter Fifteen: I’ll Never Forget Family

Chapter Sixteen: Ease Off

Chapter Seventeen: Touch That Prairie Pony, and You’re a Dead Man

Chapter Eighteen: The Man Building the Goddamn Door!

Chapter Nineteen: Billy Leonard

Chapter Twenty: The Day I Watch You Die

Chapter Twenty-One: A Fool Stunt like That

Chapter Twenty-Two: Shot in the Dark

Chapter Twenty-Three: Too Bad Bullets Can’t Bounce off a Coward

Chapter Twenty-Four: Dumb Bastards

Chapter Twenty-Five: How’s Johnny?

Chapter Twenty-Six: You’re an Ass, Wyatt, and You Know It

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Pushing the Truth a Little

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Pestered, Prodded, and Put Upon

Chapter Twenty-Nine: He Kept the Coffee Coming

Chapter Thirty: You’re Nothing but a Messenger Boy

Chapter Thirty-One: In Three Short Days

Chapter Thirty-Two: Deadliest Son

Chapter Thirty-Three: A Man-for-Man

Chapter Thirty-Four: Nobody Can Get That Far That Fast on a Dead Horse

Chapter Thirty-Five: You’ll Fight

Chapter Thirty-Six: Somebody’s Gonna Die Today

Chapter Thirty-Seven: You’ve Gotta Gun. Use It.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Now That, My Friend, Is a Mystery

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Calls for Blood

Chapter Forty: A Laughingstock

Chapter Forty-One: Hold! I Don’t Want That!

Chapter Forty-Two: You’ll Answer for What You’ve Done

CHAPTER ONE: Legendary

Friday, February 25, 1881

Warren Earp—Wyatt’s youngest brother

Slapping Luke Short was one of the dumbest things Charlie Storms ever did. And it occurred while dozens of folks were hearing the owl hoot at the Oriental Saloon, a two-bit house on the corner of Fifth and Allen Streets in the silver mining town of Tombstone. Charlie’s lapse in judgment did, however, prove advantageous to my brother, Wyatt. During dangerous situations, Wyatt never seemed to get injured. His own skill with a gun had a lot to do with that, of course, but a scientific fact also helped him. So the way Luke responded to Charlie’s foolhardiness on the twenty-fifth of February was a major reason why Wyatt’s imposing presence grew legendary.

I liked Luke Short. Luke only stood five feet tall, but instead of being bitter about his shortcomings, he embraced the hand he’d been dealt. His diminutive size invited tumult, of course, which was why he relied on a snub-nosed Colt .45 to right the way. Not many folks were better at using a revolver, save for the cowboys Johnny Ringo and Curly Bill Brocius, who apparently had been born with a lead chucker in each hand.

Things had been calm in the Oriental for most of the day. Easy-going Buckskin Frank Leslie was plying his trade in the grog shop behind the most expensive bar in town. From that vantage point, Leslie passed out drinks as fast as he could prepare them, while the tinkle of glasses and light conversation was sometimes loud enough to rival the musicians playing a variety of tunes on an upright piano and a secondhand fiddle. Scarborough Fair was one of the songs they performed, with the fiddler dressed in a black suit and matching bow-knotted tie, while the piano player donned checkered pants, a shiny vest and a white shirt with gray garters fastened around each arm.

Beautiful music and furnishings with elaborate ornamentations were staples of the Oriental Saloon. Ornate, crystal chandeliers with twenty-eight burners hung from the ceiling with kerosene lamps glowing yellow and bright enough to show the way through clouds of gray stogie smoke. Lavish Brussels carpets covered the floor, their deep maroon color interrupted only by shiny, silver spittoons and dropped towels. Even the bar was made of solid mahogany and trimmed with brass; it was so long, one end could be seen from the adjoining gambling room. The Epitaph once described the many colored crystals on the bar as being sprinkled on it like a December iceling in the sunshine. Mirrors lined the walls beside paintings of women wearing next to nothing and displayed in gilded frames. Interspersed among those were objects paying homage to the craft of silver mining.

Jim Vizina, the owner of the establishment, rented the bar and restaurant to Milt Joyce. The restaurant was highfalutin with very fine eats served there. Anything from passenger pigeon and canvasback duck to rattlesnake could be prepared anyway you desired. The food wasn’t as fancy as the fare they served at the Russ House or the Grand Hotel, but once the Oriental’s pots started simmering on stoves and its ovens were filled with all variety of fluff-duffs, the delectable aromas made it hard to think of anything else except eating.

Bartholomew Masterson—or Bat as most people called him—was sitting at a table holding a bottle of imported sherry in one hand and a pretty young miss in the other. At midnight, Luke Short had taken over for Bat as faro banker. A gifted dealer, pasteboard and ivory had been a part of Luke’s life for years and tonight he played each deck through to the hock every fifteen minutes. Money in the form of chips called checks generously flowed among the players and the house alike.

As he dealt the cards out of a springboard box with a stalking tiger painted on the side, Luke managed to keep an eye on the board and on the bets while making sure that the coffin driver accounted for each card drawn. Georgie Parsons, whose career read like a braggart’s dream—mining speculator, writer, former banker, licensed attorney, and occasional faro master—was taking a turn with the abacus-like casekeep, so we all knew that the tallies were being recorded accurately. Parsons had many eccentricities, but there was no question that he was an intelligent man. Playful and silly but always aware, Georgie had taken his boots and socks off just to run his toes through the luxurious carpet as he worked, and I’d swear he was doused with a cologne flowery enough for a woman.

Around the faro table the mood was low-key, but even strait-laced Luke Short couldn’t avoid getting stiff and frothy when Charlie Storms staggered in from the February chill at around half past one. At first Charlie was content to stand over by the crystal-laden bar, pestering a barmaid and demanding that Buckskin Frank provide him with the kinds of beverages—like gin fizzes and fine wines—that he knew the Oriental didn’t serve. For twenty-six varieties of imported wines, six-year-old Kentucky apple brandy, English ale or scotch, Julius Kelly’s was the place to go. The Crystal Palace was ideal if you were hankering for expensive liquors, something more than old crow, squirrel or McBryan, and Napa Nick and his attractive, dark-haired partner would deal all the faro you could stand. Instead of moving on, though, Charlie settled for a bottle of champagne and an Irish-accented apology from Milt Joyce.

When Charlie sat down with his bottle to play faro, everyone in the room knew that trouble would be forthcoming. If Charlie got unruly, bartender Buckskin Frank Leslie—who also happened to be a Cosmopolitan Hotel owner and a former scout who’d worked with the likes of Al Sieber and Tom Horn—would’ve had the authority to arrest him on the Oriental’s premises by order of the town council, so we took comfort in that. But Charlie chose a less obvious way of creating havoc as his bloodshot eyes stared Luke down. After holding up the game to buy forty dollars worth of chips, Charlie then made a point of studying the casekeep for several minutes before placing all of the chips he’d purchased on the six of spades. Another five minutes or so was consumed by Charlie trying to decide whether or not to place a copper on top of the chips to reverse his bet.

Luke perused the faro table even while dealing pasteboards because he always tried to detect telltale signs of horsehair or thread being used to move the coppers around. The room was generously filled and a dozen punters were still playing the game at two in the morning. After examining the board, Luke put his attention back on the shoe housing the cards in front of him. I was the croup overseeing the game and George Parsons was the coffin driver.

All bets down, gentlemen, Luke said with an easy authority; even his whispers commanded attention. All the punters heeded his request except for Charlie, whose right hand kept drifting across the edge of the oval, baize-covered gaming table and toward the shiny copper token resting on his checks.

Take your hand away from the board, Charlie, or I’ll be obliged to have you forfeit the checks you’ve got on six, Luke growled, a twitching mustache accentuating his thin, sour face.

I bar this bet for a turn, Charlie announced, his voice pleading.

It’s too late for that, Luke said. I’m drawing cards.

Being an older man with flyaway, silvery-white hair, Charlie Storms loved to boast about his exploits; living to be almost sixty out here meant that a man was either good at dodging diseases or was sufficiently skilled with a gun. Charlie could lay claim to both. The clothes he wore were fancy, but dirty. After days of binge-drinking, his cotton trousers were riddled with smudges and lint, his dress shirt had stains and rings around the neck and sleeves, his brogans were scuffed, and his hat was crumpled enough to have been slept on. The only thing Charlie had that appeared fresh was a brown, silk handkerchief sticking out of a breast pocket.

In contrast, everything Luke was wearing looked neat and clean. He had on a gray ascot tie with pointed wings and a diamond stickpin, charcoal trousers, a matching, cutaway jacket, a mostly gray, jacquard vest, and a white dress shirt with a high-stand collar. Highly polished, black leather lace-up shoes covered his feet. Luke always looked like a dandy.

Charlie finally leaned away from the board to let Luke get on with the game. After filling a tall, fluted wine glass with champagne from the bottle beside his roving hand, Charlie drank the glass dry. With forty dollars worth of chips on the board and a copper resting on top, he needed a drink to ease the pain of losing four sawbucks when Luke declared, Four is the loser, six is the winner.

I wanted to take my copper off the board ’cause the dealing box is rigged, Luke! Charlie said, and patrons quickly cleared the space between Charlie and Luke; bullets couldn’t distinguish bystanders from fools. Accusing an honest banker of cheating was the worst insult there was, and Charlie knew it. You’ve gotta be playing both ends against the middle to be winning that much.

Luke paused to shoot a hard glance at Charlie, squinting from tobacco smoke smarting his eyes and from the sting of animosity. Ten others have bets on the table, and you’re the only one complaining, Luke said as he drew the next two pasteboards, refusing to hold up the game for a whining drunk. Kicking like a bay steer, you are.

Maybe the other players aren’t as familiar with tinhorn blacklegs, Charlie retorted.

Luke grinned under his dark mustache as he shook his head. The highly-detailed, carved oak wainscoting on the wall behind him seemed to brighten his derisive smile. The bigger the mouth, the more attractive it looks when shut, he quipped, inspiring Charlie’s right hand to drop under the table, probably to rest against a .45; there was a gun ordinance in town, but most folks regarded it as a suggestion rather than the law.

When the last turn ended, the winners pocketed the money they had coming and so did the house. Then Luke gave the cards a good shuffling, had a random punter cut them, and drew the soda card. And even though Charlie’s hand was beside a gun, Luke never reached for his; Tombstone’s ninth ordinance made exceptions of gamblers, allowing them permits to carry weapons inside the city limits because of their dangerous professions. Tonight was an excellent example of why gambling men were allowed to arm themselves.

There was a rumor that a woman had come between Luke and Charlie in Dodge City. And Charlie’s behavior tonight, so willing to draw down over a game of chance, otherwise made no sense at all. Perhaps Milt Joyce, who rather enjoyed disrupting the Oriental’s business whenever possible, was behind this. You see Milt wanted to pocket the gaming concession profits by trying to run the renters—Wyatt Earp, Lou Rickabaugh, Bill Harris, and William Crownover Parker, Jr.—out of business.

Rather than pulling a gun, Charlie instead took out a pair of dress gloves and used them to slap Luke hard across the face. Everyone who saw it happen gasped collectively, and only the distant sounds of conversations going on in the adjacent barroom, the click, click, click of a roulette wheel coming to rest, and the numbered, ivory balls spinning in a keno cage filled the room. The piano and fiddle players had ended their repertoire with Alouette almost an hour ago, although Je te plumerai le cou and the sound of the slap still resonated in my head.

Bat Masterson thought it wise to intervene, so he stepped over and slipped his cane between Charlie and Luke. Then Bat put his right hand over Charlie’s revolver to take it out of play. Seeing Bat’s bright, blue eyes and gentle smile under a carefully trimmed mustache was what everyone needed to calm down.

Come on, Bat said, sounding warm and friendly as he took Charlie’s gun away. Masterson was usually a dedicated jokester, but he’d realized early on that this situation was far from funny. Take it easy, Charlie. It’s only a game. Bat put a hand against Charlie’s back and led him away from the table. Luke runs a square game.

Square is a word that Charlie doesn’t understand, Luke observed, using a couple of fingers to rub the place where Charlie’s gloves had hit him. His games are as crooked as a sidewinder in a cactus patch. When Charlie offered Luke a fistfight, Bat held him back.

Throw in the sponge now, Charlie, Bat said. Get some sleep.

I am tired, Charlie admitted.

Come on, Bat said, patting Charlie on the shoulder but not relinquishing his gun. Let me walk you to your room. Bat only glanced at Luke’s scowling face once before moving on. Never had one of Luke’s faro games been so handily disrupted as it had been today, and Charlie managed to do it by using an otherwise harmless pair of gentleman’s gloves.

CHAPTER TWO: Time Is Money

Friday, February 25, 1881

Warren Earp

When Bat returned from walking Charlie down to the San Jose House, Luke Short, George Parsons, and I were taking a break from the faro table. George had suggested standing out on the boardwalk to get away from the stuffy, smelly air inside, which included the usual mix of tobacco, horse urine, bitters, hay, and burning gas from the gaslight sconces beside the door, not to mention the flowery scent that Georgie had on. Luke was trying to talk George out of retiring to his cabin on Fitch and Fourth for the night. I guess the air outside was a little too clean because Luke pulled rolled, Bull Durham smokes from his breast pocket to pass around.

How-do, Warren? George? Bat said as Luke offered me one of his expensive smokes. Gladly I accepted the tailor-made and then held it to my nose for a moment before lighting it up.

Thanks for putting Charlie to bed, I said. He’s a mean drunk.

He is, Bat agreed, using the cane in his hand to help him step up onto the boardwalk as I struck a matchstick against one of the porch posts to light my cigarette. Bat had needed a cane ever since a soldier named Melvin King shot him and the bullet shattered his hip. Like most hip wounds, it never did heal right.

George snickered as he nodded his head while yawning big. One dull day, he said. That’s all I’m hoping for. Strong light was coming from the bowl-shaped gas burners hanging along the outside wall of the establishment. In it I spotted a black stink bug lumbering up the side of the building and toward the brightness. Luke and George followed my gaze.

It’ll never be dull while Charlie’s in town, Luke muttered, taking the cigarette from his mouth to tap off the ashes. Then with a flick of his wrist, he knocked the stink bug off the wall. Before the creature had a chance to spray us, Luke squashed it with the toe of his shoe. What remained was a deep brown smear with two quivering legs. Foolishness follows Charlie around. I never get so booze blind that my actions get my ass shot off. You, Warren?

I couldn’t if I tried, I said. My brothers are like mammies, always pestering me to behave myself.

Luke looked down at his leather shoes and chuckled enough to make his shoulders rock; it would take a month of Sundays to get the musty smell of stink bug off the right one. Who’s the bigger nag, Virge or Wyatt?

Virgil, for sure, I said, and then paused when I noticed Charlie Storms stumbling down the street. A pack of stray dogs trotted along about fifteen feet in front of him with their tongues dangling from the sides of their mouths. They were yelping and nipping playfully at each other’s necks. Unlike me, they didn’t seem to pay Charlie any mind at all as he floundered along. Virge has got nagging down to a science, I continued. He should’ve been a woman.

Maybe he is, Luke retorted. Does he sit down to pee? Does he nag you at the slightest provocation? Is he jealous of everything you ever look at, including good-looking horses and shapely whiskey bottles? Bat and Georgie laughed heartily, but I didn’t join in; I was too distracted by Charlie to take my eyes off him for long.

If Virge heard you talking like that, he’d knock you out, Bat said, those beautiful, light blue eyes of his twinkling under long, curling eyelashes that the ladies adored.

‘Adversity is the first path to truth,’ Luke reasoned, taking a long drag on his cigarette and then expelling the smoke slowly and thoughtfully, as a learned scholar would.

George Parsons grinned. Lord Byron said that, he explained to those of us who weren’t quite as literate as he.

Even a highfalutin lord like Byron would get his ass shot off in Tombstone, Bat said. Money and position won’t stop a bullet. Wyatt should take note of that.

The group of mongrels paused to fight over a pile of discarded chicken bones as a lone coyote howled mournfully way up in the hills. All six dogs on Fifth Street just had to join the chorus while snarling and trying to yank the best bones away from one another.

Speaking of adversity being the path to truth, I said after taking a drag from my cigarette, Charlie Storms is on the path back to us. Luke, Bat, and Georgie followed my gaze northward.

As long as he keeps on moving, there won’t be any trouble, Luke said, glancing at his watch. If he gives me anymore shit, though, I won’t be responsible for what happens.

Bat sighed as he hooked the cane over his left arm so that he could lift the Derby from his head. After smoothing his hair back, he pressed the hat back down into place again; any man who wore a Derby on Allen Street was either as shy of brains as a terrapin was of feathers, or had a craw jammed full of sand and fighting tallow. I’ll talk to Charlie again.

Talk…, Luke muttered. If your talking had worked, he wouldn’t be coming at me right now.

Charlie’s just walking down the street, I said in his defense. Maybe he’s going to join another faro game. When I shrugged my shoulders, the ashes on the tip of my smoke fell onto the boardwalk.

Luke nodded as he plucked the stogy he’d been chewing on more than smoking from his fingers. He better be, he said as he turned to walk inside the Oriental. Come on, Georgie. They’ve got to be drawing down to the hock by now. Only this time leave your boots by the door so the punters don’t trip over them.

Right, George said, going through the café door ahead of Luke.

Just as we heard the first of Georgie’s boots drop to the floor, Charlie Storms stepped up on the boardwalk and grabbed Luke by the scruff of the neck and the seat of the pants. Charlie hauled Luke down into the street like a man would handle a boy. Although Charlie was twice Luke’s age, he was also twice Luke’s size, so manhandling the twenty-six-year-old was easy. There was a scuffle and lots of cursing from both men.

At first the mongrels in the street thought it was all great fun and started jumping around and yipping with delight. It was dark and the confusion was great for everyone, but I had no trouble at all recognizing a Colt when I saw one. When Charlie pulled the gun out of his pocket (which, I might add, was the dumbest thing he ever did), Luke did what he had to do. So anxious to be the first on the trigger, Charlie squeezed off a shot before aiming, probably hoping he’d get lucky, but all it did was cause the dogs to scatter. Before Charlie was able to fire again, Luke grabbed his own gun and got two rounds off in rapid succession.

Unlike Charlie’s wild shot, each of Luke’s bullets hit its intended target. Charlie accepted both and then staggered about six feet away. As his body fell and before his face hit the dirt, Charlie just kept on pulling the trigger until hitting the ground jarred the Colt out of his hands. It was a miracle that those three stray bullets hadn’t hit anyone. Even after the danger had been quelled, Georgie, Bat and I stood back in horror as we watched the woolen clothes Charlie was wearing burn bright in the crisp, dark air. Luke had shot Charlie at such close range, the discharge had set his clothes on fire. George Parsons used his coat to smother the flames engulfing Charlie’s clothes; since George had taken off a boot, he only had one on to stamp out the blaze.

I’d heard folks refer to Luke Short as ‘the undertaker’s friend’ because he usually shot a man where it didn’t show. As Charlie lay there bleeding and burning, Luke took the time to reload his short-barreled .45. Afterward, Luke slipped the Model P back in a pocket and then tried in vain to brush gunpowder off the cuff of his white dress shirt. Some men like living and others are more partial to dying, he said almost philosophically. I guess tonight was as good as any for Charlie to buck out.

Are you hit, Luke? I asked as several men rushed out into the street from the adjoining businesses to see what all the shooting was about.

No, not a scratch, he said, and then checked his watch again. Charlie couldn’t do a goddamned thing right. When Luke looked at me, he didn’t seem at all bothered by the way things had played out. Pasteboards are waiting for me inside.

The sheriff should be called, I said, letting what was left of my cigarette drop.

Let him come, Luke said. I’ll be inside. Time is money, and I’m wasting plenty standing out here. Charlie’s a friend of Bat’s, and for that I’m sorry. But Bat had this hardship coming for picking some of the damnedest people for friends. And with that, Luke turned and sauntered back inside to deal the next game.

CHAPTER THREE: Half a Man

Monday, February 28, 1881

Sherman McMaster—Earp informant

Galeyville was a small mining town built on the picturesque, eastern slope of the blue Chiricahua Mountains and on the rim of the San Simon Valley. Located less than sixty miles from Tombstone, a lot of its residents either worked in the mines or the smelter. They were honorable, hardworking people who had bills to pay and families to feed.

Many cattle and horse rustlers resided in Galeyville, too, relying on a penchant for money to justify their cavalier attitude toward stealing from the Mexican rancheros south of the border to maintain their livelihoods. Thieves and desperadoes routinely gravitated to isolated hamlets like this one. And the townsfolk didn’t mind as long as cheap beef came in that kept their plates filled and the prices low. These cowboys, who wouldn’t think twice about robbing and killing their Spanish-speaking neighbors, would never dream of disturbing the citizens here in this small, Arizona community.

Rustlers and smugglers were content to patronize the whiskey mills and bordellos here and spend the money they’d stolen. I could write a fascinating windy about the crowd with me in Babcock’s Saloon, no doubt scheming to gather every head of cattle to be found without vent brands. Meanwhile, other cowboys would lighten the loads of the stages, which hauled silver from Tombstone, quartz from Contention, and copper from Bisbee. For now, nearly a dozen bandits drank, engaged in casual conversation, played lively card games, and shared the painted cats who were still making themselves available well after sunrise.

It wasn’t unusual to see the surprisingly ambulatory lunger, Doc Holliday, talking excitedly to Billy Leonard. Doc’s Georgia drawl stood out even in a place where men with southern accents abounded. What separated Doc from the rest was the way in which he spoke, showing everyone how a man from a refined family and of good breeding comported himself. Indeed, he was a proud, southern gentleman who just happened to have a volatile temper and a hair trigger.

If you added health issues to Doc’s long list of faults—respiratory problems that left him with an eerie indifference toward death—you could see why he was a dangerous man. Most of us couldn’t even talk to Doc without eliciting an argument from him over what usually amounted to nonsense. Billy Leonard was the exception, and to an even larger extent Wyatt Earp was, too. Bill and Wyatt never seemed to find Doc obnoxious or offensive, but maybe that was because they were so often that way themselves. The rest of us could only stomach the annoyingly opinionated Doc Holliday in small doses.

Eager, broad-shouldered Billy Clanton was standing at the end of the bar and pestering Curly Bill Brocius about how to do some trick with a revolver. I guess the boy was still too young to realize that tricks were no way to keep you alive in a fight. Inevitably, the discussion led to that unfortunate incident between Brocius and Marshal Fred White back in October when Curly Bill accidentally shot and killed the lawman. Just like everything else, young Clanton only seemed to hear the tale the way he wanted to, with Curly murdering White and now showing absolutely no remorse over it. In actuality, Brocius had been acquitted of any wrongdoing by the sworn testimony of none other than Wyatt and Morgan Earp, and by White himself before he passed on. Regardless of that,

Reviews for When Blood Flowed as Water

[danielledomville · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is incredibly written with great dialogue and old west vocabulary. It's fascinating how each chapter is narrated by a different person in the story. Very descriptive and fun to read. I absolutely love Tombstone historical fiction. And this story delivers to even the pickiest of Tombstone lovers!! If you adore Tombstone historical fiction, you MUST read this!!