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oom: room 25
After talking with Jack the night of the bonfire, Doc spends the next day recovering from his hangover and sugar rush -- too much rum and way too many rum soaked marshmallows will do that to you -- by taking it easy and keeping the alcohol content to a minimum, as well as working outside in the stables, getting everything in a sort of order, as best he can.
He counts out a stack of coins after taking a glance at his tab, working in the stables helps to pay for the room and the fact that things back home don't cost that much helps somewhat, and then sets them on the Bar. Once they're gone, he asks Bar if he can borrow some more books, and after a moment, he heads upstairs with the stack of them.
The lamps make it easy to read by and Doc settles in a chair next to the bed, after setting the books on the floor next to him. There's already a small stack on the bedside table -- poetry by authors both his time and not, plays -- and another few on the bed -- tales of the Old West, collections of cowboy songs and trail calls. There is a different stack by the chair.
Biographies on William Henry McCarty, alias William H. Bonney, alias William Antrim.
Also known as Billy the Kid.
The book in question, the book in his hands, however, is a bit more personal.
The Authentic Life Of Billy, the Kid by one Sheriff Patrick Garrett. Published in 1882, less than a year after the 'war' was finally over, it was a fictionalized telling of the life and times of one of the West's greatest outlaws and his gang.
Doc pours himself a glass of the rum from the cask in the corner of his room -- which was now safely back in his room after the party -- and then sits in the chair and reads the back of the book, the summary, and then opens it to the first chapter.
Curiousity gets the best of him, quickly. He finds himself thumbing through the book as the dates roll on, the only part he's interested in is one part he should probably not be reading, but he can't not know. There aren't many details and he's not sure what's been turned into fiction and what hasn't. With the way Garrett writes it, Bill and the gang were hardened criminals, ruthless outlaws who took pleasure in killing and had no problems with cutting a man down where he stood, or stabbing old friends in the back.
Ironic, that Garrett had been the one to leave the gang. Said he was going to open up an eating house. Instead, he became the governor's new best friend and was on their trail.
Doc drinks as he thinks of that.
The book tells him more than he wants to know about it, but still not enough. There's not a clear location. No clear details on how it happens.
But there is a date.
He reaches for a pencil and a piece of paper off the bedside table and writes it carefully.
August 23, 1880.
Staring at it makes him shiver a little, so he tucks it into the page and then closes the book, and sets it aside before he walks over to the desk and reaches into his vest for his cigarette case. While he smokes, he fills the flask that Bill -- Pardy, that is -- gave him for Christmas, and he smirks a little at the prarie dog on it. He fills it with the rum and then tucks it back into his jacket, before he drops into the chair at the desk.
There is still hope in him. After all, what Jack had said was simple. Now that Doc knew what was coming, he could try and change it...
...if that was the right thing to do.
He has notes to write.
He counts out a stack of coins after taking a glance at his tab, working in the stables helps to pay for the room and the fact that things back home don't cost that much helps somewhat, and then sets them on the Bar. Once they're gone, he asks Bar if he can borrow some more books, and after a moment, he heads upstairs with the stack of them.
The lamps make it easy to read by and Doc settles in a chair next to the bed, after setting the books on the floor next to him. There's already a small stack on the bedside table -- poetry by authors both his time and not, plays -- and another few on the bed -- tales of the Old West, collections of cowboy songs and trail calls. There is a different stack by the chair.
Biographies on William Henry McCarty, alias William H. Bonney, alias William Antrim.
Also known as Billy the Kid.
The book in question, the book in his hands, however, is a bit more personal.
The Authentic Life Of Billy, the Kid by one Sheriff Patrick Garrett. Published in 1882, less than a year after the 'war' was finally over, it was a fictionalized telling of the life and times of one of the West's greatest outlaws and his gang.
Doc pours himself a glass of the rum from the cask in the corner of his room -- which was now safely back in his room after the party -- and then sits in the chair and reads the back of the book, the summary, and then opens it to the first chapter.
Curiousity gets the best of him, quickly. He finds himself thumbing through the book as the dates roll on, the only part he's interested in is one part he should probably not be reading, but he can't not know. There aren't many details and he's not sure what's been turned into fiction and what hasn't. With the way Garrett writes it, Bill and the gang were hardened criminals, ruthless outlaws who took pleasure in killing and had no problems with cutting a man down where he stood, or stabbing old friends in the back.
Ironic, that Garrett had been the one to leave the gang. Said he was going to open up an eating house. Instead, he became the governor's new best friend and was on their trail.
Doc drinks as he thinks of that.
The book tells him more than he wants to know about it, but still not enough. There's not a clear location. No clear details on how it happens.
But there is a date.
He reaches for a pencil and a piece of paper off the bedside table and writes it carefully.
August 23, 1880.
Staring at it makes him shiver a little, so he tucks it into the page and then closes the book, and sets it aside before he walks over to the desk and reaches into his vest for his cigarette case. While he smokes, he fills the flask that Bill -- Pardy, that is -- gave him for Christmas, and he smirks a little at the prarie dog on it. He fills it with the rum and then tucks it back into his jacket, before he drops into the chair at the desk.
There is still hope in him. After all, what Jack had said was simple. Now that Doc knew what was coming, he could try and change it...
...if that was the right thing to do.
He has notes to write.