The black ink smudged every time Bradley pressed too tight on the page. He could care less. I'm the great Bradley "Swift Hands" Calliou, he mused. One day it'll be my name on this here paper being smudged.

The horses in the stables were restless. They wanted to head out and graze. But Bradley was so engrossed in the Alabama Bugle story about how Buffalo Bill scalped a Cheyenne warrior—that was the very same indian that killed Custer in the Battle of the Little Bighorn—he didn't have time to take care of a bunch of whining ninnies. He set down the paper to get a sip of tea. He had a pint-sized frame with dirt smeared across his milk-white face. There was no facial hair on his baby-smooth skin and he had an arrow-point nose. His dark black hair and blacker-than-night eyes made him look more like an undertaker than a rancher.

Bradley stood motionless for a few moments; transfixed on the pitcher of tea. I don't want this anymore, he thought. Damn it all to hell! He swiped at the pitcher of tea with his hand, flinging it across the stables. It shattered to pieces and splashed all over the ground. He then released the horses and headed inside his home.

Walking straight to his room, he had gathered some supplies, rations, and his six-shooter, when a man almost identical in appearance to him knocked on his bedroom door. "Hey son, I got some good news," his pa said, "I got that banker's job in . . . " looking down upon Bradley's bed, "what are you packing?"

Bradley stared down at the bed and his belongings. "We talked about this pa," Bradley said, while he shoved the last of his supplies in his bag.

"Yeah, we did, and you said you weren't going," his pa said, as he shook his head with his arms and palms up.

"I changed my mind pa. You know I'm the best damned player in this here county. But there's no action here pa." He put his pack over his shoulder and grabbed his six-shooter.

"It's a hard life son," his pa said with a disgusted undertone. "You're better than those damned saloons."

Bradley finally looked up at him, "Don't worry pa, I'll be fine. Don't worry yourself, alright." With that he walked out and headed for the stables.

Sitting in front of the fire, Bradley occasionally gazed up at the stars. He thought about how he would make it big. He had been dealing cards since he was a kid. Now at twenty-two he wanted to put his skills to the test. He had won the county games every year since he was sixteen, but in all that time he never really played any one of real importance or fame.

For the past two years he'd been practicing with a Colt six-shooter. He bought it with his prize money he had won that year; considering personal protection, no one could really go anywhere without one. Everyone knew the law of the land was kill or be killed; at least that's what Bradley read about in all his papers and magazines. Someone was always trying to pick a fight with him. He figured his youthful looks didn't help any; Along with his friends making fun of him by calling him "Bradley the Kid". After he brandished the new pistol he earned, they stopped that altogether. That first thrill of power with his new piece gave him a real rush.

After a few weeks, Bradley ended up in a saloon at Fort Griffin, Texas. He would play at various saloons along the way to have an income. There was not much excitement, just the average low-lifes and drunkards he would encounter.

The midnight oil burned a hole in any fool who decided to stroll in with their green. Dirty wasn't the word to describe such filthy establishments. For each table there were piles of coins and money, watches and souvenirs, cards, and the hands that held them. Bradley sat himself down to enjoy a shot of some fine bourbon whiskey. Well, at least the thought of fine warmed him; piss water was more like it. He looked over his shoulder to one corner of the saloon where there was an obviously important poker game in progress. "What's going on over there?" he asked the bartender.

"That there is a poker game the likes of which this here saloon has never seen," said the bartender. "See that lanky feller in the dark black suit? That there is the infamous Doc Holliday. Best to steer clear. He's a cold man they say."

Disregarding the warning, Bradley stepped out of his seat with drink in hand and headed for the small crowd. He got through to see that three people were playing poker. He could tell by the discard pile it was western style poker, his favorite. He waited to see who would win the hand before he would invite himself into the game. Bradley prided himself on his gaming etiquette.

A few moments later Mr. Holliday lain down four aces. The crowd went buck wild. One of the men that was playing slammed a fist to the table and walked out while Doc Holliday grabbed all the green and coins with leather-gloved hands.

The other man at the table was sweating profusely and smelled like he just walked out of a pig farm. He was Ed Bailey. The one they call the town bully on account that he was used to getting his way.

Bradley stepped up to the infamous Doc Holliday, "Got time for another game, Mr. Holliday sir."

In a southern Georgian accent, "Oh please, call me Doc," Doc said. "And yes, I do. But you don't look old enough to be my cousin," he said with a twisted sneer. Some of the crowd chuckled.

Bradley looked into Doc's lifeless eyes; for the first time in a long time Bradley felt intimidated. He had read stories about the infamous Doc Holliday for years. He knew it was not the time to be tough or sarcastic. But he also didn't want to pass up this opportunity, or back down for that matter. This was his chance for some fame, and with his years of experience at card games, especially his favorite being western poker, he dared to believe he could take this rogue outlaw.

When Bradley pushed his hand down a deep pocket in his jacket, Doc swiftly placed his hand over the gun on his hip. It seemed the small crowd gasped at once. Bradley slowly pulled out his secret stash of dough. It was his life savings from all the prize money over the years and it was as thick as his fist. Everyone went wide-eyed; some were even licking their lips. Everyone except for Doc. No, Bradley was smart enough to know that this amount of money was chump change to the rich and playful Doc Holliday.

"Is this old enough for ya . . . " Bradley said with a youthful assurance in his tone—though he wasn't sure if it was wise to use Doc's name so nonchalantly, but he went for it anyway—"Doc?"

Doc sat there bewildered for a second at the audacity of this youngster. He exposed a crooked smile. "What's your name youngster?" Doc asked.

"The name's Bradley . . ." he thought for a moment, "Swift Hands Calliou. I come out of Alabama."

"Never heard a ya," Doc said prismatically.

Bradley knew there was no turning back now.

"Are we gonna ask twenty questions or play?" Ed Bailey said irritably.

"Well now Ed, is that anger I hear?" Doc said with sarcasm.

Ed gave him a nasty look.

Bradley could see the tension build and made a bold move. He put all his cash down on the pot and grabbed the deck, "Western Poker is it." Before anyone could say anything he began to shuffle. Doc was about to say something when his attention was thwarted by the remarkable shuffling techniques Bradley was using. He shuffled the deck with a fluid efficiency only the great deck masters could have had and passed out the cards in no time. Ed was not impressed, but Doc was tickled to death.

As the game wore on Doc had won five hands followed by Bradley's four. Ed had only won one hand. Bradley noticed that Ed was cheating by looking through the discards. This was expressly forbidden in western poker. Doc already gave him a warning and was about to give him another one. But Bradley figured that since Ed's cheating hadn't really helped him, why ruin a good thing.

Bradley observed that Ed kept his right hand under the table most of the games. His curiosity peaked even more when he noticed Doc's hand never left his hip gun.

"Now Ed," Doc started, "did I or did I not say in our last hand—"

"Oh to hell with you, you damned quack," Ed screamed. "You're both in it together ain'tcha," as he pointed at both Bradley and Doc.

"How dare you," Bradley retorted. Accusations of hustling were clear disrespect for any kind of etiquette of the game and this made Bradley angry; especially since it had been Ed who was cheating the whole game. "You're the one with your arm under the table the whole game."

In a flash Ed pulled out his gun and pistol whipped Bradley right on the forehead. Bradley was knocked off his chair. In the background he could see some people backing away or rustling in their chairs. "I won't be talked down to by no smartass kid," Ed said. "Ya hear me?" He pointed his gun at Bradley's face.

With blood trickling down his forehead and a bit dazed Bradley slowly got himself up. He noticed that while he was being yelled at by Ed, Doc had positioned himself right behind him with a shiny metal object in his left hand. Ed holstered his pistol and turned to sit back down. It took one second for Ed's intestines to be all over the poker table. Ed gasped for a moment then slumped to the floor. Bradley saw Doc stand over the twitching, lifeless body that had been Ed Bailey and heard him say, "I told you not to look at the discards Ed. Now yer dead, Ed." He chuckled to himself as the tasteless joke hung in the air.

A man behind Doc had unholstered his pistol. "Get down Doc!" Bradley yelled. Doc dropped and Bradley quick-drew his Colt, unloading three bullets square into the man's chest. Bradley's mouth opened wide and he dropped to his knees in shock.

Everyone in the saloon seemed to disappear in the shadows and some acted like they couldn't see or hear. Doc gathered up all the winnings and picked Bradley up off the floor, "Come on kid, we gotta go, now!"

After they rode for about two miles out of town Bradley and Doc stopped to compose themselves and make sure no one was following them. Bradley sat down on the grass. He pulled out his Colt and looked at it blankly. Doc stood over him.

"First time you killed a man kid?"

"Yes."

Doc tightened his lips and moved them to his right while looking left. "Look kid, you're an outlaw like me now. You got all the stuff. Just stick with me and we can make a lot of money and fulfill our wildest dreams."

"No, you're wrong Doc. I just killed a man. I'm going home."