The old cast-iron bell sitting in the center of the Oakhaven town square hadn’t been rung in anger since the railroad dispute of 1912
The Iron Bell of Oakhaven
The old cast-iron bell sitting in the center of the Oakhaven town square hadn’t been rung in anger since the railroad dispute of 1912. But on a scorching August afternoon, the heavy clang of iron against iron echoed down Main Street, dragging every resident out of their porches and storefronts.
At the center of the uproar were Roy Gallagher and Wayne Higgins, two lifelong grain elevator operators whose families had shared a loading dock for four decades. The dispute wasn’t about land or water this time—it was about a rusty, antique 1946 International KB-5 grain truck that both men claimed as part of an abandoned estate sale.
Roy, a wiry man with a permanent squint and a grease-stained ball cap, stood with his boots planted firmly on the running board of the vintage truck. Wayne, broader and carrying a belly built on decades of diner coffee and pie, stood six feet away, jabbing a thick finger in Roy’s direction.
“I put the winning bid down at the county clerk’s office at eight o’clock this morning, Roy!” Wayne shouted, his face purple from the heat and rage. “That flatbed belongs to the Co-op now, and since I manage the Co-op, it sits in my yard!”
“You can take your Co-op papers and wrap fish with ’em!” Roy fired back, slamming his palm against the faded green door of the truck. “Old man Henderson promised that truck to my daddy back in ’88 over a game of checkers. A verbal agreement in this town outlasts a piece of paper written by some crooked lawyer twenty miles away!”
The crowd of neighbors gathered around the old general store, murmuring and shifting their weight in the dust. Nobody stepped in; in Oakhaven, a feud between Roy and Wayne was better entertainment than Saturday night television.
Wayne took a menacing step forward, his hands curling into heavy fists. “Get off that truck, Roy, before I haul you off myself and toss you into the horse trough.”
“Try it, you overinflated tick!” Roy snarled, reaching behind the truck seat and pulling out a heavy, three-foot iron crank handle. “I built this valley with these hands, and I ain’t backing down for a store-manager masquerading as a farmer!”
Wayne lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the truck bed, and the two men locked into a furious struggle right there in the glaring midday sun, shouting curses that brought the local stray dogs barking from three blocks away…
The sudden, deafening POP of a blown tire cut right through the screaming match.
The front-left tire of the vintage International truck, baked by decades of sun and suddenly subjected to the violent shaking of two grown men fighting on its chassis, blew out with the force of a small shotgun blast. The entire truck dropped six inches to the left, catching Roy and Wayne entirely off guard.
Roy lost his footing on the slick running board and tumbled backward into a pile of empty wooden produce crates, sending splintered wood flying everywhere. Wayne stumbled forward, tripping over the flatbed’s rear fender and landing hard belly-first into a massive, open sack of locally grown feed corn that some merchant had left on the curb.
For five seconds, the street was dead silent, save for the hissing air leaking from the shredded tire.
Then, a cloud of yellow corn dust settled over Wayne, coating his red face, sweaty hair, and plaid shirt until he looked like a ghost carved out of chicken feed. From the splintered crates, Roy groaned, his hat rolling into the gutter, revealing a head covered entirely in golden corn husks and wood chips.
The crowd of neighbors burst into a roaring, collective wave of laughter. Even the local stray dogs stopped barking.
Wayne spat a mouthful of corn dust out into the dirt, wiping his eyes with his forearm. He looked over at Roy, who was slowly untangling his boot from a broken crate, looking like a drowned rat in a grain bin.
Roy looked back at Wayne, letting out a wheezing, reluctant chuckle that quickly turned into a full-blown belly laugh.
“Well,” Roy coughed, wiping his eyes. “Looks like neither of us is driving her home today.”
Wayne pushed himself up out of the yellow corn pile, groaning as his lower back popped. He dusted his chest off, sending a yellow fog into the air. “Guess not. That tire’s shot anyway.”
Wayne walked over slowly, extending a dusty, corn-covered hand down to his old rival. Roy stared at it for a second, took it, and let Wayne pull him up out of the wreckage.
“Town council’s been wanting a centerpiece for the upcoming harvest festival,” Wayne muttered, looking down at the listing, flat-tired antique truck. “We could park it right by the square. Put a sign on it.”
Roy smirked, brushing wood shavings off his shoulder. “As long as my family’s name is painted bigger than the Co-op’s logo on the driver’s side door.”
“Deal,” Wayne sighed, turning toward the diner. “Now come on. You’re buying the coffee, seeing as you wrecked my favorite shirt with your crate-diving stunt.”
