He smells like blood and opium and whiskey, and underneath that something sickly sweet, like rotten fruit. That's what starvation—and death—smells like.

He is so thin and frail now, almost gaunt in his appearance, almost skeletal. He used to be so lean and strong, a strapping young man that the local women called “ruggedly handsome”, but you couldn't tell it was the same man now.

His current accommodations, a small, musty, cramped room above a motel-saloon, although somewhat depressing, have also been converted into somewhat of a shrine to him: his .38-caliber, nickel-plated, pearl-handled, double-action 1877 model Colt Lightning hangs on one bedpost, and his trusty Bowie knife, in a faded leather sheath, hangs from the other.

His hand-tailored black hat with the hand-curled brim hangs over the bed, on the wall, like some folks would hang a picture of Jesus. 

Right now, he was lying there wishing he'd been closer to Jesus.

But it's too late now....

What were Doc Holliday's final days really like? Was Kate with him until the very end? Would their love endure the passage of time and live on?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story, although based on real people and events, has been somewhat fictionalized for dramatic effect. I apologize for my lack of authenticity, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.