Before Tombstone, Holliday was in Texas

Doc Holliday rang in the New Year in Dallas on Jan. 1, 1875 by shooting a fellow gambler.

With a powerful planter and war hero for a father, John Henry Holliday had a lot to live up to. Not only was Major Holliday top dog in the county, he also had commanded Fannin’s Avengers, a company of Georgia volunteers, in the Mexican War.

But the boy’s world collapsed when his mother passed away in 1866, a calamity compounded by the sudden intrusion of an uninvited stepmother. Little John never forgave his father for remarrying and spent his teenage years punishing the widower for the betrayal.

Sent to Baltimore to study dentistry, young Holliday learned a lot more than how to pull teeth. Prowling the dockside dives that infested the harbor town, he developed an insatiable thirst for liquor and games of chance.

A licensed dentist at the age of 20, Holliday opened an office in Atlanta but feeling out of sorts consulted a local physician. The diagnosis took his breath away. The cause of Holliday’s nagging cough was an terminal case of tuberculosis.

Told a drier climate might buy him another year or two, the doomed dentist bought a one-way ticket west. Departing Atlanta without so much as a word to family and friends, he rode the train to the end of the line, which in early 1874 happened to be Dallas, Texas. Doc, as he was known by then, went through the motions of resuming his dental practice while gravitating toward the gambling joints that lined Main Street. A natural genius at poker, he raked in enough cash to make ends meet and gave up his legitimate livelihood altogether. When any day could be his last, the melancholy young man saw no future in living for tomorrow.

The New Year’s Day shooting landed Holliday in jail, but he quickly posted bail and skipped town. Beating a Dallas posse to the Red River, he hid out in the Indian Territory before taking temporary refuge at Jacksboro.

Dressing the part of a gentleman gambler, the immaculate Georgian favored gray suits and brightly colored shirts. Beneath the dapper attire, however, he was a walking arsenal. Packing a pair of pistols, one on the right hip and another in a shoulder holster, he also carried a sheath knife in his breast pocket.

Killings were so common in rough-and-tumble Jacksboro that the stranger’s first offense hardly raised an eyebrow. But the second slaying in May 1876 prompted an immediate change of address since the U.S. Army hated to lose soldiers in private combat. This time Holliday did not stop until he reached Denver, Colorado.

During his Rocky Mountain retreat, Doc did his best not to attract attention and even adopted an alias. But a low profile was not his style, and he ultimately blew his cover by practically decapitating a poker opponent with his ever-ready knife.

Outdistancing yet another posse, Holliday returned to Texas by way of New Mexico and took up residence at the notorious Flats outside Fort Griffin. At this West Texas oasis for card sharks and cutthroats, he met in 1877 the lawman who became his one and only friend.

Soon after Wyatt Earp left town, the hot-tempered Southerner gutted a disgruntled customer that dared to question his integrity. Breaking with tradition, Doc stood his ground, insisting he had acted in self-defense, and went quietly off to jail.

In a matter of minutes, Holliday regretted the decision because it only took that long for a lynch mob to gather in the street. Just when it looked like he would not have to wait for the tuberculosis to run its course, a resourceful girlfriend rushed to the rescue.

Cleverly setting fire to a barn, Big Nosed Kate broke her true love out of the hoosegow while the vigilantes battled the blaze. Holliday bid Texas a not so fond farewell as he rode north to Dodge City.

At the Kansas cowtown in September 1878, Doc saved Earp from a back-alley ambush. A year and a half later, he followed his pal to Tombstone and the legendary fireworks at the O.K. Corral in 1881.

The next year, Holliday along with the Earp brothers vacated the Arizona Territory. Knocking around the Colorado boomtowns, Doc added several more notches to his fast gun but never saw the inside of a prison cell.

Fourteen years after receiving the medical death sentence, the incurable disease and a fondness for whiskey finally caught up with hard-living Holliday. A bedridden invalid, he lingered in a deep coma for weeks.

Doc Holliday startled the sickroom spectators on Nov. 8, 1887 by suddenly opening his eyes and demanding a drink. He downed a tumbler of whiskey, smiled faintly and said in his Dixie drawl, “This is funny.”

N

Best wishes for a Happy New Year to my loyal readers and the many newspapers that have carried “This Week in Texas History” all these years.