Doc Holliday startled awake, his dream still vivid in his fevered mind. He blinked slowly, too weak to do more for his eyelids seemed far too heavy for his sick and fragile body. He coughed twice and then forced himself to stop, aware that it did little to ease the feeling of drowning as Consumption ate away at his lungs. As he slowly took in his surroundings he noticed a glass of water being held in front of him, his eyes travelling up the offering arm to the concerned, friendly blue eyes of his only true friend.
"Wyatt?"
"You fell asleep."
"Had the strangest of dreams."
"Not a good one though. Was about to wake you from it."
"No. Not good... but revealing."
A silence descended, broken only by the sound of another man suffering in the tiny ward of the Glenwood Sanatorium. Doc realised that Wyatt was waiting for him to continue: that he would never presume upon their friendship for the contents of that dream. He would allow Doc the dignity of deciding if he wanted to share those private fears that emanated as dreams and nightmares. It occurred to Doc that this was the only man he could share his dreams with, and he was saddened that he had learned this far too late, when his life was almost over.
"Dreamt you were foolish enough to be called out by Johnny Ringo, and that you accepted his challenge."
Wyatt gave a wry grin and Doc fancied that he was remembering those last few months in Tombstone where they had ridden hell bent on meting out justice to the Cowboys. Ringo had been one of the leaders of the Cowboys; a quiet but deadly man with a cold demeanour that hid the aching hole in his soul from having seen too much in his short life. They were so much alike, both educated men, both living close to death, both empty vessels praying to be filled with the love and compassion of others but finding that nothing seemed to take away that soul-deep ache.
"How did I do? Against Ringo?"
Doc gave a wry grin, fighting back a cough and accepting a sip of water before continuing.
"You and I both know you could never beat him to the draw. He's fast, and deadly. Almost as fast and deadly as I."
"So I lost."
"You never met him. I deceived you... met him in your place. Said I'd be his huckleberry."
Wyatt stared down at him, intrigued, but Doc did not need to hear the question that crossed the expressive face. He knew what Wyatt wanted to know.
"I beat him. I killed him."
"Why?"
They both knew that his question had nothing to do with the actual shoot-out but Doc's reason for taking his place. The piercing blue eyes held Doc's, refusing to give way.
"Why Doc?"
To explain why his dream sent him in Wyatt's place would feel like a deathbed confession, sealing his fate for all eternity, and then Doc realised how very close to death he was. His lungs were full of fluid; he was drowning slowly in his own blood with every breath so hard to take. His fragile frame would shudder from racking coughs that brought pink froth to his lips, filling his mouth with the metallic taste of his own blood.
"I'm dying--"
"Why, Doc? Why did you face him for me?"
"Because you're the only friend I have."
"There. It wasn't so hard to admit we're friends."
Doc trembled as a warm hand gripped his own, his heart expanding at the solidity of this welcome contact.
The scrubland of the Sierra Madre plateau passed by unnoticed as Ringo slowly made his way east towards New Mexico. He had no idea of where he was headed but then it really did not matter where he went. All he knew for certain was that he was starting over, leaving behind the pain of his old life in Tombstone. He let his horse set the pace, no longer in a hurry to reach the end of his life.
As the horse plodded along, John Peters Ringold let his thoughts drift back to the past few months, reliving the war between his friends and the Earps. Grief overwhelmed him as he dwelt, once more, on the good friends he had lost; Curly Bill Brocious, Ike and Billy Clanton, and yet it was the death of a stranger, an actor called Fabian, that had hit him hardest. The man had brought a little light into his life, reminding him that there was more to life than guns and vengeance, that there could be beauty too. He recalled every word of the Shakespearean soliloquy, his thoughts echoing Curly Bill's as he admired the pretty man who conveyed those words with such eloquence. Too many men had died... and for nothing. Too many lives, both the innocent like Fabian and the guilty like Morgan Earp, had been wasted - including his own - but Ringo knew he had been given the chance to rectify that.
Both Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday had accused him of murdering Wyatt's younger brother, Morgan. However, this was one crime that he had been innocent of, though he did know the name of the murderer and wondered if Curly Bill had confessed before his death. The Earp's rampage had ended just over a month back, neither man having succeeded in finding him, and the fact that they had stopped looking made him wonder if they had learned the truth eventually.
He thought back to the events of a few days ago. Was it good fortune or had God finally smiled upon him that day in West Turkey Creek Canyon. He had been waiting by the big black oak for his new travelling companions - Buckskin Frank Leslie, George Crossman and William "Billy the Kid" Claiborne - but Billy had got himself into trouble sending Crossman out to fetch him. He'd been a little angry with Billy, having wanted a small respite from the violence and conflict and had sent Crossman back with a message that he'd come soon enough.
It only struck him that day, how very similar he and Crossman were in build and looks. Not quite the same as looking into a mirror but they were both tall men, both green of eye and brown haired though Crossman bore no moustache. He still did not understand why Crossman had chosen to try and kill him soon after, firing at him from a distance. The bullet had whizzed by, grazing his ear and thumping into the great oak behind him. He had ducked, drawing his gun and searching for the ambusher, not realising at the time that it was a man he thought to call his friend.
Ringo recalled hearing the man sneaking through the undergrowth, coming up behind him and he was surprised when he saw it was Crossman. He knew he should have shot the man right away but confusion had held him until it was too late. Crossman had leapt forward and they had grappled, Ringo's gun held between their bodies. He had felt the hot end of the barrel beneath his chin and fought furiously to push it aside.
The gun went off, Crossman's head jerking back as the bullet hit him in the temple.
They had sunk to the ground together, blood splattering over both of them, and Ringo had laid the body down, pushing it away from him. Why? Had Crossman decided to try and make a name for himself by bragging about being the one to kill Johnny Ringo, famous gunfighter? Or was there another reason? Perhaps it had something to do with that fight they had over that pretty senorita last night. He dragged one hand through his hair as he looked down at a man who resembled him even more in death.
That is when it struck Ringo that he had been given a chance to end this miserable existence of hatred, death and carnage that seemed to follow him everywhere, brought on by the mere mention of his name. Would it be so hard to believe that he had been the one to die in this place? He reached a decision, knelt down and began to strip the clothes from the dead man. With trembling fingers, he took off his gunbelt, boots, and then his shirt and pants.
Ringo dressed quickly, pulling on baggy tan pants, brown shirt and a buckskin jacket, and then he pulled his dark clothes onto the body lying stretched before him. He fancied he could hear someone coming and quickly buckled on the gunbelt, not realising until much later that he had put the gunbelt on upside down. A noise in the thicket made him jump, his heart racing and with a growing horror of being discovered, he realised there was one more thing he had to do. He took out a pocketknife and sliced off a little of the man's scalp, hoping no one would notice. He quickly fashioned it into a moustache and stuck it over the man's upper lip, knowing the quickly drying blood would hold it fast.
With one last appraisal, Ringo pulled on the man's tan boots but realised he had no time left to return the favour, leaving Crossman lying on the ground, his dark boots and hat close by. Ringo felt the bile rise as he looked at a man who no longer bore just a passing resemblance to himself. Only the closest of friends would not be fooled, fully aware that this man was not John Peters Ringold, but most of his close friends were dead. Billy was unlikely to care, and Leslie was astute enough to figure it out and keep his mouth shut anyway.
With one last parting stroke of his own horse, Ringo turned his back on all his worldly possessions and raced to where he could knew Crossman would have left his horse.
That brought him back to the present, and he wondered if his ruse had worked. For so long he had believed that God had forsaken him and he offered a silent prayer asking for both forgiveness and compassion, hoping this time that God was listening. He had wanted an end to the miserable existence of Johnny Ringo, had wanted to be someone else. He wanted a new name, and he wanted to be starting over with a new life away from all the violence.
Ringo stared off to the horizon, hoping that he was leaving his old life far behind.
Wyatt Earp dropped into a chair by Doc's bedside and reached over for the deck of cards lying on the small cabinet. He shuffled them expertly and dealt a hand. They played in silence until Doc could stand it no more. He knew Wyatt had something of importance to say and that he was trying to think of a way to say it.
"I may be dying but I doubt anything you say is going to spare me the misery of lingering around a little longer."
"Johnny Ringo's dead."
"How?"
"They say he killed himself, out north of Tombstone."
"They certain it's him?"
"As certain as they can be. Body was wearing his clothes, holding his gun, even had his horse standing close by."
Doc nodded, knowing how a man was often known only by those material possessions that he would never part with except under duress. It had to be Ringo.
"Fellow by the name of John Yost found him lying in the crotch of a big black oak. They buried him a few feet away, figured he'd been lying there a day or more, and it weren't worth bringing back what was left to Tombstone to bury."
"So he finally found his revenge on God... for being born... by taking his own life."
Doc felt sadness filling him, his eyes smarting as tears welled up from deep inside. He considered mentioning that, in his dream, his last sight of Johnny Ringo was his lifeless form lying beneath an old black oak tree, head pillowed between two massive roots.
"Doc?... John?"
Doc looked up on hearing his true name and smiled into the caring blue eyes. He had believed he and Ringo were so much alike but now he realised that he had something that Ringo could never find; a friend who had filled some of the empty holes in his soul.
"Tired."
"Then I'll go. Let you sleep some more. I'll come by again tomorrow."
Doc closed his eyes, listening to the receding footsteps. His own forever sleep was close at hand, maybe only days away, but he knew he could meet it with dignity. After all, if the Bible was right then death was just another means of starting over.
Epilogue:
The tired horse and man came into town, forsaking the saloon with a grim determination to avoid liquor should he be granted this new chance for life. He rode over to the livery and handed the man enough money to feed and rub down his horse and then he walked slowly to the small hotel. Within minutes he was stretched out on the bed in the pleasantly clean room that he had rented for a few days. Sleep came quickly but, for once, he was not plagued by nightmares.
The next day, Ringo made his way to the bathhouse, soaking away the long ride and scrubbing the trail dust from his hair. He sauntered along to the barber's store afterwards, closing his eyes as the Barber met his request by scraping off the week's growth of beard. An image of George Crossman came to him, and he pondered on it for a moment before making another decision.
"Take off the moustache too."
The Barber paused, giving him a look that asked if he had heard right before carefully swiping the razor over Ringo's top lip. When the man stepped back, Ringo sat upright and stared into the mirror, seeing a face that seemed far younger than he had anticipated. He glanced up and saw his clean but ragged hair.
"Reckon you can trim that too?"
"Certainly, Sir."
Ringo ignored the man's banter and picked up the newspaper left for customers to peruse while they waited. The Obituary column caught his eye and he read quickly, his heart hammering in his chest, first in fear but then in growing happiness as he read his own.
John "Ringo" Ringold, May 3, 1850 - July 13, 1882.
"By the way. I didn't catch your name."
Ringo had found plenty of time to ponder over a new name though he had yet to find one he could be comfortable with. However, until now, it had seemed a bad omen to choose one when he had only hoped that he might get the chance to use it. He thought about the handsome actor who had brought a little culture and pleasure into his life for those few minutes back in Tombstone, and realised he had a way of letting that man live again.
"Fabian. John Fabian."
God had answered his prayer and, with a lighter step than he had felt since boyhood, Ringo stepped through the doorway, eager to be starting over in a new life.
THE END