Other Satirical Posts In This Series:

Lesson 2

Lesson 3

The gambler knew the story of the gunfight at The Crossing, but there was nothing to connect the youngster of that shooting with the immaculate New York financier.

The gambler had recieved his first hint that all was not as he had expected during the early part of the game. Kettleman played shrewdly and with icy control, and the gambler quickly grasped that he himself was being studied with cool calculated interest. As part of his scheme, the gambler delibertaley invited an accusation of cheating whenever a showdown developed between Kettleman and himself, but Kettleman ignored the opportunity, and the gambler grew worried.

Nothing was going as planned, and he began to realize that his opponent knew what he was trying to do, and was deliberately avoiding it. So anxious was he to lead Kettleman into an argument that his mind was not on the game, and suddenly he lost a large pot.

Suddenly, he looked at the table and realized that he himself had been cheated, with coolness and effontery. He had been stripped of more than six thousand dollars with the skill of a professional. His eyes lifted to Kettleman's.

"You have been looking for trouble," Kettleman said quietly. "I am offering it to you."

The gambler was nervous. He touched his toungue to his lips and felt the sweat beading his forehead.

"You are looking for trouble," Kettleman said. "Why?"

There was no one close by. "I am going to kill you," the gambler said.

"If you wish to leave the game, we can divide the pot, and I will forget what you have said."

It was there then - a way out. As a gambler he knew he should take it, but gambling was only a part of his business and he had his pride.

"I cannot I have been paid."

"There are other ways to make a living and you have chosen the wrong one. I am offering you your last chance. Get out."

"I gave my word. I took their money."

Kettleman had seemed almost negligent. "When you are ready, then."

The gambler stepped back quickly, overturning his chair. "If you say I cheat," he said loudly, "you are a liar!" And he grasped his gun.

Everybody saw him grasp the gun, everybody saw him start to draw it, and then he started coughing and there was blood on his shirt, blood dribbling down his chin, and on his face the realization of death.

Kettleman leaned over him. He looked down at the gambler and knew this man was only a step away from the man he was himself. "I didn't want to kill you," he said. "Who hired you?"

"Your wife," the gambler said. "And her father."

Kettleman realized then that he had known something like this would happen. He started to rise but the gambler caught his wrist. "I must know. Who are you?"

Kettleman hesitated. For the first time since that night he spoke of it. "I was the kid at The Crossing.

"God!" The gambler was excited. He started to rise, began to speak, and then he died.

Since death is certain, avoiding the thought of Death, makes you avoid Life itself (as they are two sides of the same coin)...

Learning to distance yourself from your roles...

It is given to few people in this world to disappear twice but, as he had succeeded once, the man known as James T. Kettleman was about to make his second attempt.

The country outside was invisible. The windows had steamed over, and the train moved as if through an endless tunnel. To Kettleman it did not matter, for he knew every foot of this roadbed and the surrounding country from descriptions which has come to his desk in New York.

The high plain was broken at intervals with long ridges and outcroppings of lava, and in the mountains there was marketable timber. When he began planning his second dissapearance, Kettleman had gone over all available reports and maps.

They were climbing steadily. Ahead were high mesas, more lava, and occasional ruins. Soon the train would slow for a long, steep grade. When that time came he would step off the train into the darkness.

His destination was familiar only from the description given him fifteen years ago, over a campfire, by a man who had often used the place for a hideout. When he left the train he would return to the oblivion from which he emerged fifteen years earlier.

Then James T. Kettleman would cease to exist.