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My granddaddy was a coal miner for most of his life. He was brought up by a poor farming family from Bel Air, Maryland. By the time he turned seventeen, he scrammed out of that little town in the back forty faster than a bat outta hell. Headin' towards Pennsylvania. He left in search of something better...
By 1842, he was holdin' a solid job at a coal factory outside of Pittsburgh. He was an overseer of sorts. Made sure people were doing their duties. When the first shots of the Civil War rang out in 1861, my grandfather was a married fellow with a couple of kids. One of those kids was my father. Life was simple. Until the feud began...
It's tough to pinpoint when the fighting started. But two things can be said for certain. The struggle has always been concerning a stretch of land in the western quarter of my ranch. Michael Charleston claims that that acreage is rightfully his. I disagree. This feud has bled its poison into multiple generations of our families. Bloodshed is the only response.
Rat! I had some kind of a feelin'. I just knew I'd find you out here tonight. Trespassing on my land.
Your land?! You lying, yellow-bellied poacher! You know damn well that this here stretch of grass is of my grandfather's name. Now you scurry on outta here. Lest you want me to fetch the sheriff. Why I oughta...
Nature takes its best jab at ending the everlasting feud by trapping the two enemies under a gigantic oak tree.
Good Lord! I think my legs are broken!
I can't feel my toes! I can't feel my gosh danged toes!
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