(* Born John Henry Holliday in Georgia in 1851, "Doc Holliday", known for a mean disposition and an ungovernable temper. A weakling from Tuberculosis, he was known to have been in 8 gun fights, he shot several people, fatally killing 4. Holliday died in 1887 at age 36, they say he laughed when he lay in his death bed and realized he was about to die peacefully.* ) Many miles from where the great John Henry Holiday had been shot by the natorious Jesse James, a trio of outlaws drew up there winded horses near a creek. Jesse James turned in his saddle looking back on the deer trail they'd just ridden hard on, a crocked grin came to his lips. His brother Frank allowed his horse to ease down into the creek for a much needed drink. The third rider, a man riding a blue eyed black and white mustang pinto brought up the rear, whirling his mount to double check there back trail. A pair of six guns tied down on his hips, and a rifle at his knee. "Nice job North, we've seen the end of Doc Holiday. Now on to kill Earp. He'll never see it coming either." Jesse smirked wicked. The young cowboy aboard the pinto horse nodded in reply, his coal grey eyes dark as he looked back at the trail they'd ridden on before letting his horse down into the creek bed for a drink. "I think I'll ride back into town for a drink, and make sure you hit to kill." North leaned down to fill his canteen in the creek. Pressing his lips unhappily, Jesse reached over and shoved the younger man off his horse and into the water with a splash. Furious North got up in the water and yanked Jesse off his horse and a brawl broke out between the two, Frank James sat by, watching. (Cue anyone, but beware, North is my property.)