|
|
"A Fistful of Thorns"
Excerpts
"He 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-blond fellow nearly dead with consumption and at the same time the most skillful gambler and nerviest, speediest, deadliest man with a six-gun I ever knew. The truth of it is, there was nothing in his soul but iron." Wyatt Earp about his friend, Doc Holliday.
"On a rash impulse and mistaken assessment of Holliday's condition, the young gunman jerked his Remington. Just as its long barrel cleared leather, he felt what was to be the last physical sensation in this life, a thunderous impact to his chest. A single slug from Doc's Maiden Aunt mushroomed through his sternum tearing an almond size chunk out of his pulmonary artery. His face froze in stunned surprise and with unseeing eyes and a feeble pawing effort at his shirt front, he tried to get a look at the fatal wound. The room spun and he was swallowed in silence as he crashed to the floor. His foolhardy life was used up in less than four minutes as it pumped swiftly out of him."
"In unspoken fact, Kate realized that but for John Henry's tuberculosis, they never would have met. As a consequence, she constantly struggled with the guilt feelings that came from her being secretly thankful for the disease that had brought them together knowing at the same time it was killing him. So, she salved her conscience by devotedly praying daily for his recovery but fearful he might actually get well and return to Georgia without her."
"To Doc, Kate presented an inscrutable mixture of iron and velvet. Of little girl and woman. Of reason and hysteria. Of tenderness and cruelty. Of lady and slut. Of wickedness and contrition. He would say that she had the mind of a panther and tongue of a scorpion. Kate was tough, independent, resilient and as fearless as Holliday and her granite will was every bit as unshakable as his."
"It was generally agreed that in Kate, Doc had met his match. She shared his cynicism, biting wit and was equally as volatile. She could almost out-cuss him which was going some because Doc's gift of profanity–even marveled at by Wyatt–was not to be easily surpassed. His was an artful product of intelligence melded to fierce aggressiveness. Hers was born of passion and usually fueled by 90 proof bust-head. Whatever gentility she had been born with had worn off. Her years of servicing some of the toughest, most violent men in the west, had left her hard and calloused beyond her years. In her veins ran the fiery, contentious blood of her Magyar ancestors. Her temper could flare as hot as Doc's and was nearly as lethal. But where hers was loud and volcanic, and, usually short lived, his was a quiet sort that would smolder white hot until extinguished by retribution. No one who knew them doubted that they had rewarded each other with their weaknesses.
|
|
|
