Doc Holliday Must Die.

Doc walked down the boardwalk and pushed open the batwing doors of the Bullshead saloon. Typical trail end saloon. Shabby elegance redolent of stale beer and manure. Several cowboys were at the bar drinking beer. The faro dealer sat at his box with a whisky drummer and a trail boss.

Of course there was a poker game in the large table in the middle of the floor.

Doc walked up to the bar and situated himself at the turn so his back was mostly towards the wall. Best to be careful. The bartender drifted over and cocked an eyebrow.

“Beer please” Doc said. No reason to start too fast. The night was young. “Question friend. The owner around?” “Thompson or Coe?” “Either would do.”

The bartender nodded over at a well dressed burly man sitting by himself at a corner table.  “That’s Thompson over there.” “Thank you kindly.”

Doc walked over to the table and waited respectfully until Ben Thompson looked up.

“Evening Mr. Thompson. My name is John Holliday. I wondered if I might ask you a question.”

“Sure. Light and set. You name seems familiar. Do I know you?”

“I don’t know if you do. I have a question. I heard at the hotel that you own this building and there is an office at the side of the building with a separate entrance.  I wonder if I might rent it. I am a dentist and I want to try to set up a practice.”

“Well the town could use a dentist that is the plain truth. We can work something out I suppose. Let me talk to Coe my partner and we will see. But I don’t see a problem.”

Suddenly the doors swung open and a young gunman stood in the door. You knew he was a gunman and not a cowboy because of the way his gun belt set with matching Colts. He smelled of death.

“Damn. Just what I need” said Thompson. “What do you mean?” “That’s John Wesley Hardin. I hope I don’t have to kill him tonight.”