In Las Vegas John was a dentist - the last time with an office, tools, drill, chair tilting back. The last time he filled teeth with gold, gently coaxed them into alignment with metal, swelling wood, silk. Billy Leonard was his friend, a goldsmith, a jeweller, not yet a stagerobber and murdering bandit.

They coughed. Even in dry desert, hot-springs nearby. John lost his patients, moved across the tracks. It was the first and last time he owned his own establishment. The Holliday Saloon. Falling out with colleagues, patrons, he abandoned it. Virgil never understood why he had no friends.

Years: 1878 - 1879
Dust coats everything, seeping through doors, windows, falling from clothes, inhabiting the air. There is no escape. It floats on the surface of the water in John's ewer. He feels it in his teeth. It must surely coat his shredded lungs. Perhaps it seals them, dries the rot within them.

Horses, carriages, wagons throw up clouds that obscure the other side of the street from John's window. Water is expensive; must be carried in by wagon, but dust is such a problem the mayoral committee agrees to sprinkle the streets each day. John and the Earps gamble for water rights.

Years: 1880 - 1882
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