THE DUELIST'S TRAGEDY

Jack and Cole were both awake long before sunrise, as both of them were nervous about the duel. Cole knew that Jack had nothing to lose and would have no problem gunning him down. In contrast, Cole had a lot of respect for Jack's father, and he thought that if he killed Jack, he would be dishonoring John Marston's memory. Still, Cole realized that Jack was arrogant and needed to be taught a lesson. He knew that this duel had to go perfectly or he could lose his life.

Jack hooked his gun belt around his waist and placed the revolver back in the holster. He was a little hung over from the previous night's party, but he wouldn't let that stand in the way of taking down his new adversary. Jack still didn't know exactly who Cole was, but he was determined to take him down. Marstons never backed down from a challenge.

An hour later, Jack and Cole emerged from their respective homes, completely prepared for the duel. Jack wore his hat low so as to give an ominous appearance, and he glared up at Cole as the two approached the dueling location right in front of the bank. Cole wore a white button-up shirt, blue Levi jeans, a jet black duster, and a black cowboy hat. His gun, an authentic 1873 Colt Single Action Army revolver, hung on his left side, unusual for a gunman.

Noticing this, Jack remarked, "I ain't never killed a lefty before."

"Well you're not killing me today, boy," Cole retorted in a low but unsettled voice.

"You sure about that?" Jack asked. "Ever heard of Edgar Ross? I killed him in a duel not too long ago! I sure as hell can kill you."

"Edgar Ross? That government man from Blackwater? I heard someone killed him at Rio Del Toro. Not surprised it was you. Why'd you do it?"

"Stop wastin' my time and let's get this duel over with. I got places to be."

"You mean people to rob? I'd hate to keep you from that," Cole remarked sarcastically. "But tell you what, I'll give you one chance to back out. Trust me, boy, you can't win a duel against me. Especially with that hangover you're likely suffering from after last night."

Jack laughed. "Who do you think you are, anyway? Landon Ricketts?"

"No, Jack. I told you, I'm just a stranger. When we're done here, you'll probably forget about me. So I take it that you still want to go through with the duel?"

"Ain't it obvious?" Jack asked.

"Alright, your funeral." Dozens of Chuparosa residents gathered around as Jack and Cole prepared to draw. Unbeknownst to Jack, Cole had been involved in several duels prior to this one. Bets were passed around as to who would win the duel, the son of John Marston or one of Chuparosa's most popular characters. While Jack's breathing was labored, Cole breathed calmly and completely relaxed his mind, mentally preparing for the draw. He noticed Jack's breathing and felt almost sorry for the inexperienced gunman.

After waiting the standard five seconds, the two men drew their weapons. Although Cole was left-handed, he was much quicker to the draw. The moment that Jack pulled his revolver out of its holster, Cole was firing his. A single shot was sent from the barrel of Cole's revolver to the top of Jack's gun. The gun flew out of Jack's hand and landed in the dirt fifteen feet away. A small dent marked where the bullet had scraped against the gun, but otherwise the gun was still usable. Jack shook his sore but otherwise uninjured wrist and looked at Cole in complete shock.

"I told you, Jack. You never had a chance," Cole said, still aiming his gun at Jack. The crowd dispersed as Jack stared at Cole confoundedly.

"Who are you?" Jack asked again.

Cole put his revolver back in its holster. "My name is Cole Ricketts. You've obviously heard of my father. He taught me everything I know."

"Wait...our fathers...they...they knew each other..." Jack stammered. He walked over to his revolver, picked it up, and put it back in the holster.

"That's right. Frankly, I'm shocked that such a great man raised a piece of shit like you. You're a terrible gunman, your morals are far too loose, and you need a lot of work before you can call yourself a man. You're a pitiful excuse for a human being, Jack Marston, and I knew that the moment you came to Chuparosa."

"My father played a big role in makin' me who I am now. He tried to set a good example for me, but I knew his outlaw life better than I knew his good life. His outlaw influence, Uncle Dutch's influence, and everyone else we used to run with made me who I am."

"No. That's where you're wrong, Jack. We all make our own choices in life. Sometimes we do base these choices off of the way we were raised or the people that surrounded us, but in the end the responsibility falls squarely on our shoulders. You won't be a man until you realize that."

"Will you just listen to me?" Jack asked angrily. "I wasn't finished. The government also had a hand in influencing my life; they attacked our farm and killed my father in cold blood. That's why I killed Edgar Ross; I wanted revenge. I would've done it sooner, except my Ma needed me. She was sick. I laid her to rest almost a week ago, and that was the final straw for me."

"Jack...I had no idea your father died that way. What happened?"

"Edgar Ross sent over about fifty soldiers three years ago, not even a week after they told him that he could come home. They killed Uncle, a family friend, pretty quickly. He was a brave man. He died protecting our family. Then after we held off more soldiers Pa sent Ma and me away on a horse and told us he would catch up. Both of us knew he wouldn't. About a minute later we heard a lot of gunshots, so we rode back to the ranch and..." Jack paused and gasped, getting his emotions under control. "He was dead. Full of lead, covered in blood. He tried to kill 'em all, but it was too much for him."

"Good God," Cole remarked, shaking his head. "I never knew. It's no wonder you killed Edgar Ross. I probably would have done the same thing if that had happened to my father."

"How did your father die?" Jack asked. "Last I heard, Landon had moved back to America and was still alive."

"He was, up until about a month ago. He moved to Chicago while John was in Mexico, and he was working on an autobiography. I was living in Chuparosa at the time, but we sent letters to each other nearly every day. Then the letters just stopped comin', and a while later I read in the paper that my father was dead."

"What was it like growin' up with Landon Ricketts?" Jack asked.

Cole chuckled. "You know, Jack, you're reminding me of them boys from the newspaper. But I feel more comfortable talkin' to you, if only barely, so I'll tell you. It was...adventurous, to say the least. We lived in Blackwater when I was a kid. It wasn't as big then as it is now; they were just barely starting to build the courthouse when I was living there. The roads weren't even paved yet. Think of it as a slightly bigger version of Armadillo, if you've ever been there.

"Did you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No, I was an only child. Guess that's why I always did better on my own. Anyway, so we lived in Blackwater. We held school in the church back then. My mother stayed at home and my father was kind of a vigilante, of sorts."

"What do you mean?"

"He kind of served up his own type of justice, you know? He obeyed the laws, paid his taxes and all, but his way of justice wasn't always the way that actual lawmen practiced. My father had a much happier trigger finger than most other lawmen, and that sometimes got him into trouble. He was arrested once for it, but he was acquitted by three different juries on account of how popular he was. He wasn't exactly popular with my mother, though. She didn't like his line of work, and they fought all the time. She showered me with pretty much anything I wanted to compensate for that lack of a spark, until I started going down the same path as Pa. We were gone a lot and she worried a lot."

"What do you think was the worst fight he was ever in?" Jack asked curiously.

"That would be his fight with the Butcher Brothers. That was probably around 1895 or 1896. I was sixteen or seventeen, and actually I was involved in that. My father started teaching me how to shoot when I was about three years old, believe it or not. I was just a tiny kind and he gave me one of those pistols with the barrel sawed off so I could carry it.

"Anyway, the Butcher Brothers rode into town dragging a hostage on a rope. They wanted to hang him on the courthouse, so they did. Poor bastard was near death by the time my father and I reached the scene. We had a house on Main Street, but it was a couple blocks from the courthouse. My father shot the rope from about fifty yards away, and it was a direct hit. We both took cover and started fighting the Butcher Brothers. It was a good-sized gang, maybe twenty, thirty men. My father told me to run back home and said he would take care of it. I ran back home and a bunch of lawmen ran past me to the scene. Within five minutes, it was all over. Four lawmen died, but all of the Butcher Brothers gang were killed and my father had not a scratch on him. My father got a lot of the credit for this."

"When did you come to Mexico?" Jack asked.

"I think I told you before, it was about ten years ago. We moved to California, away from West Elizabeth and New Austin, but the newspapers were still knockin' on our door, wantin' to interview my father. Some of them wanted to interview me. We got tired of those vultures, and Pa got a bad case of itchy trigger finger, so we decided we wanted to move to Mexico. Ma didn't like that, though, so we didn't move until she died. Pa came to Chuparosa and met your father a few years later."

"Were you livin' in Chuparosa when my father was here?" Jack asked.

"Sadly, no. I was living in Mexico City at the time. I wanted to be independent from my father. I wish I could have met him, though; my father spoke very well of him. He said he sometimes gave John a hard time, but he actually cared about him a lot. He told me that John was the most skilled gunman he had ever met."

"So how did you end up in Chuparosa?" Jack asked.

"After John left Mexico, my father decided to move back to America. It happened right after John helped my father liberate some political prisoners. He crossed the border and never crossed back over. He moved to Chicago and started writing an autobiography of his life. I left Mexico City when Reyes's rebels stormed the capital, soon after my father left Chuparosa. It was leave or be killed in that godforsaken rebellion. At first I moved to Plainview and tried oil mining, but that didn't work out and I moved back to this hellhole. The rebellion was over by then and Reyes was in power, but now we're closer than ever to fightin' a new revolution."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked.

"My father told me that your father helped Abraham Reyes kill several important people involved with the Mexican government. Because of this, Reyes was able to seize power in Mexico City. The official story is that our former president fled the scene of the battle, but one of my friends down here told me he saw Reyes kill Sanchez in cold blood. Sanchez was in the process of surrendering, but Reyes wouldn't allow it and instead shot him in the back of the head.

"After Reyes seized power, he made all these promises to lead Mexico into a new golden age. But now, the country's in deeper debt than it was under Sanchez. Sanchez wasn't the greatest, but I'd rather choose him as president than Reyes on any day. Reyes isn't a politician; he's a tyrant, a horrible man who will ruin Mexico. There is a rebellion force out there that's trying to gain ground, but I doubt anything will come of it. Reyes has too much power."

"Why would my father help a tyrant to power?" Jack asked.

"Reyes helped John capture Javier Escuella and kill Bill Williamson, so he helped John a great deal. But John had no idea that Reyes would end up like this. Nobody could have known. If Reyes has one good quality, it's his silver tongue. He's charismatic enough that if he tells you he's going to kill you, you'll lean forward into the barrel of his gun and wait patiently for him to pull the trigger."

Just when Cole finished speaking, four army soldiers approached the two men. "Hey gringo! We've come for you!" one of them said, moving toward Jack.

"Me? Why me?" Jack asked. Cole stepped between the two of them and stared the soldier down.

"Que quieres con mi amigo?" Cole asked.

"Presidente Reyes nos dijo que le trajera a el," the soldier responded. "Hazte a un lado."

"Por que queire hablar con el?" Cole asked.

"No se. Dile que venga con nosotros."

"Jack, Reyes wants to see you," Cole said.

"What? What the hell would he want with me?" Jack asked. "I've never even met him! How would he even know who I am and where I was?"

"The president has his ways," the soldier piped in. "Now please come quickly and quietly."

"You best not keep him waiting," Cole said. "Good luck, Jack. You'll need it."

"I don't need luck. I'm a Marston," Jack bragged.

Cole scoffed. "Whatever you say, Jack."

"Vamonos!" the soldier said to Jack. Jack took one last look at Cole, then followed the soldiers to a small wagon parked just south of Chuparosa. One of the soldiers politely helped Jack into the wagon and they started for Mexico City.