Jacob Spitzer, a wiry crop farmer of 49, is
no stranger to hateful bitterness. His emotional temperament is of the
volatile type which focuses on one incident, clinging to it, and mulling it
over again and again. The memory will become something larger and more
fictional than the original incident until action must be taken. This is
why he now finds himself waiting on gravel and dirt.
Garrett Randall, a barrel-chested oil baron
of 51, is no stranger to the envy of others. His emotional temperament is
of the type which never forgives a slight to his person. Even a small,
flippant remark cuts deep, but if the slight is an inflammatory accusation
against his moral structure, then action must be taken. This is why he
now finds himself stepping onto gravel and dirt.
It was 25 years ago when two friends sat
down for an amiable game of cards. Both men were newly established within
the farming community of the area, Spitzer with several acres of crop land and
Randall with a nearly equal amount of land for cattle rearing. As the
night and the game wore on, the betting increased alongside the liquor
consumption. It soon became apparent to both players who was on a winning
streak and who was on the losing end.
Randall should have gratefully accepted his
winnings and called it a night, but the liquor enhanced the thrill of the game.
Spitzer should have gracefully accepted his losings and called it a
night, but the liquor impaired his better judgment. Even after betting
and losing all of his coin, Spitzer suggested one final hand, offering up an
acre of land which had proven useless in growing crops. Randall eagerly
agreed and commenced shuffling and distributing the cards.
Garrett Randall walked away that night with
intoxicated bravado and an extra acre of land for his cattle. Jacob
Spitzer walked away that night with less land and an inkling of intoxicated
suspicions. While their friendship wasn't completely damaged by this
outcome, the two men slowly began to drift their separate ways, only meeting by
occasional chance. The damage wasn't complete until Randall, while
excavating an area for a man-made pond, struck oil and proceeded to collect
wealth beyond dreams from this newly won acre. It was then the suspicions
of underhanded dealing Spitzer had experienced after the card game developed
into an intense grudge.
Jacob Spitzer nursed this grudge day after
day, week after week, month after month, and year after year until he finally
cracked under the strain. With little warning, and even less ceremony, he
accused Randall of being a nefarious cheat and challenged the oil baron to a
duel. Randall, with his temperament, couldn't let this offensive
accusation pass, readily agreeing to the challenge. The time and place
were quickly arranged, leading both men to the gravel and dirt road where they
now stand.
No words are exchanged in the heat of the
late morning. Sweat clings to furrowed brows as tense hands wait.
Wait for the agreed upon signal to draw and put an end to what each man
considers to be an unforgivable situation. Just when animosity is about
to break its silent restraint, it happens. The ringing of the noon bell
from a nearby town echoes across the fields and two former friends fire all
their contempt at one another.
Two long days pass before the remains of
Jacob Spitzer and Garrett Randall are discovered among the gravel and dirt.
Local knowledge of the men, accompanied by the pistols clutched in dead
hands, sufficiently answer all questions. The residents of the nearby
town stop to mourn, but soon go about their daily lives, occasionally shaking
their heads and remarking how nothing good ever happens on Devils Gulch Rd.
Be Well, Readers, and
Freak Out,
