〖❝ʀᴜɴᴏғғ❞〗

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     "Virgil and Morgan Earp were shot last night," was the only thing you could hear in the saloon that morning. He'd already had a bad day. He started it with a coughing fit that woke him up an hour earlier than normal (they'd been getting worse lately), and he spilled coffee on his suit vest. The latter would have been fine, but it meant that he'd have to walk back upstairs to change, and that was quite the chore for Doc Holliday's lungs.

        So there he sat, slightly out of breath and even slightlier pissed. It didn't help that he'd heard the news at least 50 times, after Wyatt told him over a cup of coffee. The man had a sweet tooth, and had put at least three sugar cubes into his cup. Doc silently wondered when his teeth would fall out of his face, and if he'd be alive to put them back in. He sipped on his new brew and stared at his book, the Latin version of The Odssey. He didn't read much though, his mind was anywhere else but on the words adorning the page.

        There was new news. He could hear it just barely. A cowboy, maybe. Must be talking to another, hushed and in a very secretive tone.

        "Yeah that's right, Frank and Ike are gonna ambush 'em any minute now," they said, loud enough for Doc to ovehear. Idiots, he thought to himself. It took a minute for him to process that information, but as soon as he did his eyes widened and he shot up.

        Coughing once into his handkerchief, he paid the cashier and walked out as fast as he could manage and headed down to the stables.

        He met the buckskin mare of his with soft hands, taking care to brush her before he put on the tack. He may be in a hurry, but he wouldn't abandon his horsemanship (which he'd perfected at a very young age) and cause discomfort to his faster counterpart, Sunday Silence.

        Soon enough, he was on his way to the train station, urging Sunday on, letting his reins drop. Although the jostling would have been uncomfortable any other day, his mind was elsewhere, mostly worrying that he would arrive too late.

        Taking the shortcut to the station was a bad decision from the start, but Doc purposely ignored it. A little cottontail rabbit darted in front of Sunday Silence from the wheatgrass, stopping her in her tracks.

        Doc was thrown headfirst over Sunday's head, and he hit the ground with a sickening thud. Perhaps if he'd been paying attention to exactly what he was doing instead of being elsewhere, he would have caught the saddle-horn in time to stop his fall, but it was too late now.

        He lay in the grass unconscious, and if anyone had been around to see, they could have heard him struggling for air yards away. Sunday Silence grazed peacefully near her owner. Time would not stop for Doc Holliday, no matter how hard he wished it would.

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        Lina woke up with a start, the boom of a gunshot echoing in her head. The dream wasn't really that scary, just perplexing. She could see the shooter, but she couldn't make out their face. It was just a senseless blob of a dirty olive color.

        She got up, abandoning the idea of sleeping any longer, and put the kettle on. She glanced out of the window, then at the pocket watch she kept in her jewelry box. It was at least two hours before she had to do anything downstairs, so she had time to sit near her window and enjoy the sunrise.

        She had been doing just that, when she watched Doc Holliday gallop out of Tombstone like he was fleeing gunmen himself. She was surprised to see just how spry he actually was, concerning his condition, and she watched with quaint amusement, sipping her tea.

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        "Hey Mattie! Where's Wyatt?" Frank yelled, startling the woman, who was probably halfway high on laudanum.

        "Right behind you, Stillwell," Wyatt yelled back, eerily calm, considering what he was about to do. Frank only turned about halfway around before Wyatt cut him down with a double-barreled shotgun. He crumpled to the ground like a puppet that just lost the hand controlling it.

        Ike turned around too, but dropped his arm and fell to his knees. Smart decision for a man who's parents were probably first cousins. Virgil waved as the train slowly chugged away.

        Ike was on his knees, begging for mercy like the scum he was. Wyatt simply cut his cheek with his spur, an act that was more embarrassing than hurtful, like being slapped instead of punched. He simply reminded Ike of who was inferior.

note: hey guys, i know i said i'd get this chapter out a while back, but shit happens and i've been very busy the past couple weeks. hope you like this new chapt, it'd mean a lot to me if you'd vote and comment. i love seeing you guys' feedback and responding to your comments. it makes my day. peace out nature scouts <3