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(Copyright.)
Gangs of yeggmen were invading the
freight yards of San Andora. There
was war—real war—the yeggmen on
one side and the employees on the
other. A man’s life was cheaper than
a barrel of apples in San Andora at
that time, for the yeggman has neith
er code nor conscience. He gives no
quarter, and he gets none.
Four men met in the office of Yard
master O’Curran. They had met there
the previous evening, joking with the
grim humor of men whose lives are
suspended on a hair between two
worlds.
Tonight there was no humor in their
grimuess. Tonight there were four of
them. The previous night there had
been six.
Tom Clarkson, brother and chief as
sistant of the chief, snapped the maga
zine of his automatic into place and ex
pressed the sentiment of them all.
‘ There's only one way to beat these
murderers,,” he said, ‘‘and that is, if
you see your man before he sees you,
shoot him first and warn him after.”
“ ’Tis the only way,” agreed Yard
master O’Curran, “and 'tis the plan I
shall use myself if I get into anything.
My brother Martin is on his way home,
an’ I want his welcome to be more
fitting than a funeral.”
The two Clarksons turned in quick
surprise to the big yardmaster.
“That’s good news, Tim." said the
chief; “when do you expect him?”
“Within the week,” answered O’Cur
ran, smiling happily.
Tom Clarkson put out a hearty hand.
‘‘It’s a long and lonely trail he’s been
on, Tim,” said he. “I hope he doesn’t
bear any grudge against me for his
starting on it.”
“Never a grudge did Martin bear in
his life. I know you were rivals in
pretty near everything, and by some
luck you generally managed to beat
him, but I reckon the winner felt
more enmity than the loser, even when
you beat him for the girl."
A momentary frown showed that
the elder O'Curran at least felt that
there was some cause for grudge.
A wet mist was drifting over the
yards as the men sought their vari
ous patrols. No man was more glad
than Tom Clarkson that Martin O’Cur
ran was coming home, for it was when
he had married the girl both had court
ed that .Martin had left San Andora on
his aimless, restless tramp; but the
elder brother's attitude toward him de
pressed him in spite of himself.
He was aroused to the need of
watchfulness by the sound of a scuf
fle at the end of a box car, and as he
advanced with drawn pistol, a man
with a bludgeon in his hand sprang to
ward him.
He fired. He fired with the intent
and skill that takes no chances. A sur
prised, frightened sob gasped from the
stricken man’s lungs. For a second
he stood upright, then sank to the
ground—dead.
From beyond the car came the sound
of tleeing footsteps. Clarkson sprang
past the inert figure and stumbled over
another man slowly struggling to his
feet between the rails. He was evi
dently dazed, and Clarkson, still work
ing on the principle of taking no
chances, snapped a pair of handcuffs
on him before he could recover.
“All right, bo,” said the man re
signedly. “You can’t prove nothin’ oh
me mor n trespass. Did you get the
guy you fired at?”
“You bet I did. It’s the only way
to make sure of you murdering
thieves.”
"Huh! Then I guess there’ll be
somebody to pay an' no brimstone hot.
He warn’t no yegg.”
“He made a pretty good imitation
of one when he came for me with his
club.”
The yeggman laughed sardonically.
“Say, bo,” he said, “I reckon you shot
the yardmaster's brother. That’s who
he said he was. He clubbed me on the
head w hen I tried to make him go in
with us.”
The sickening horror of that minute,
and the ordeal of the next few days
wrote haggard lines upon the face of
Tom Clarkson.
Sad of soul, he went back to duty,
and the big yardmaster, Tim O'Curran,
with a pitiful ache in his heart, read
and reread the letter in which his
brother had told him that his fit of
wanderlust had passed and he was
coming home.
Two days after the funeral Tom
stepped softly into the yardmaster's
office and closed the door after him.
The yardmaster, bending unseeingly
over some papers, looked up as the
shadow fell across the light.
“Tim,” said Clarkson, "I don’t know
exactly what I've come to say, but
somehow 1 want to add my sorrow to
yours and to know’ that you bear me
no enmity.”
O Curran stared at him with hard
eyes and grimly set lips without say- |
ing a word, and Clarkson knew that
the hope that he had felt was vain;
but pity for the sorrow he had brought
was in his heart.
“1 hope you bear me no enmity,
Tim,' he said gently.
The thin, grim line of O'Curran's
lips parted. He spoke in his low, rich,
Irish voice, with the faint suggestion
of brogue.
“ Tis the family feud, Tom,” said
he. "1 guess tis the family feud. Me
an’ Martin, an you an' Jim have been
arrayed against each other since we
were in knee pants, an’ I guess we
shall be till one of us ends the feud
lOiever. Me an Jim, the two eldest,
were pretty even matched, an’ it was
more a game of give an’ take.
“But Martin was a soft an- gentle
kind, an’ you beat him at pretty near
everything. Finally you beat him out
for the woman he loved as only the j
tender heart of him could love, an'
that sent him wandering on his lonely
quest for peace.
“Whether 'twas peace or strength
he found, I don't know, an' now I nev
er will know; but he was coming
home. You knew he was coming, an’
whether you feared an’ hated him I’ll
never know that either, but you met
him—an' you killed him. 'Twas the
feud, conscious or unconscious. ’Twas
still the feud.
“Do I bear you enmity? Listen! I j
hate the air you breathe an’ the
ground you walk on. 1 hate the
.Clothes you wear an’ the food you eat.
1
Tou bested him always, an tnen you
killed him, an' I hate you till the soul
of me aches with hatred of you an’ of
your brother. Aa' so 1 will till the end
of the feud.”
That night the soft snow lost itself
in the wet misery of rain-drenched sur
faces as it vainly tried to cover the
harsh outlines of things, and black
thoughts were stirred in the mind of
Tim O’Curran by the distorted mem
ories of the years.
The next morning Tom Clarkson
was found in the northwest corner of
the freightyard, a thin film of snow
jeweling the blackness of his clothes
and glazing his face.
It was the chief who found him—
his brother. He was sitting on the
ground, propped against a flat-car
wheel, his head thrown back and his
dead eyes staring into space, as though
anxiously following the flight of his de
parted spirit.
An ugly dent marred the fine out
line of his forehead, brutally sufficient
for its murderous purpose.
The chief dropped onto his knees
and ripped the stiff gloves from the
6tiff fingers, trying, with something ol
hysteria, to chafe life back into the
loved hand. Then he ripped open
overcoat, coat, vest, and shirts—but
beyond the cold flesh the heart was
still forever.
The crunching of heavy footsteps
aroused him, and he turned the agony
of his strong face to the eyes of Tim
O’Curran, the yardmaster. At the
sight of it the black vengeance died
from the heart of Tim O’Curran like
a small fire of hate before a deluge ol
pity. The sorrow of the grief-strick
en man leaped straight to the sorrow
of O’Curran's own grief-stricken heart.
The quickened memory of his own
anguish wrapped itself around the
anguish of his enemy and bound him
closer than kin or love.
He ran forward, white as the dead
face, and in his heart he wished that
God would end his grief and remorse
with annihilation. Tenderly Clark
son let the stiffening form rest against
the wheel and arose.
“The yeggmen have got him, Tim,
he said hoarsely, grateful for the pale
sympathy of O’Curran's face. O’Cur
ran, in desperate hope, bent down tc
the lifeless clay, from which he knew
the life had gone six hours before.
“’Twas a cruel deed,” he muttered
“ ’Twas a cruel deed,” but his fast
falling tears would not warm back the
life his own hand had taken. Togethei
they carried him to the freight shed.
The O'Curran and the Clarkson plots
were side by side, and two days later
they laid him beside the man whom he
had sent on the journey so short a
while before him.
But the spirit of tragedy still hov
ered over the freightyard of San An
dora, for Tim O’Curran knew that this
was not the end of the feud.
With bent head he stood by his
brother’s grave and fought the matter
out w-ith his soul.
At length he found strength for the
resolve he would make.
“ ’Twas a cruel vengeance I took for
the life of you, Martin,” he muttered,
“but ’tis the grief of the living an’ not
the ghost of the dead that has haunted
me ever since—the grief of the woman
your true heart loved, an’ the grief of
the strong man that I saw like a little
child. I can feel the love an’ the ache
nf hpart for did I not feel it for
yourself. An‘ now his is added to m>
own.
“ ’Twas a cruel an’ a senseless feud,
made in my own miud as it is borne
in my own heart, an’ 'tis myself only
can end it. So I will go to Jim Clark
son an’ 1 will say:
“ ‘My pity has eaten the heart out
of my revenge, but ’tis by the mercy
of God. So now, end the feud, but do
it by the way of the lawr, an’ so gain
ease for your grief an’ rest for my
soul.’ ”
He knelt for a moment by the grave,
then, arising, turned to go, and. bright
er than the moonlight, looking Into his
own were the eyes of Jim Clarkson.
Snow began to sift through the still
air. For an eternity they stood and
stared into each other’s eyes. Finally
Clarkson spoke.
“So it was you who killed my broth
er,” he said.
“Jim,” said O'Curran, “I was crazy
with grief for the poor boy coming
home. As for the dead, Jim, ’tis but a
little hastening on the road; but for
yourself my heart has broken itself
over your sorrow', an’ my spirit has
brooded over yours as a mother try
ing to comfort a child, and ’tw-as the
punishment of God that I could give
you no comfort. So now. take me, an'
end the feud an' ease your grief.”
“I will end the feud,” said Clarkson
quietly. “Pity has eaten the heart out
of my revenge, too. and over these
graves let us end the feud.”
With wonderful gentleness he took
the hand of O'Curran. The snow fell
softly, white and clinging, as the
benison of heaven.
A SERMON ON NOAH.
Ma text dis in on1 in' Breddern. am
took from de Holy Writ, wherein we
read how Noah made de Ark an’
fashioned it; he built de Ark ob
gopher wood, an' used a eubit rule,
while all de knockers sat eroun* an’
cussed him fo’ a fool; de local anvil
chorus, dey jes’ sat eroun’ an’ spat
terbaccer juice upon his wood, an’
mocked him jes’ lak dat, an’ sez
“Whafoah yo' makin’ dis hyah boat
foah on dry lan’? Yo’-all a-thinkin’
maybe, dat yo’-ll's a sailah man?”
But Noah paid no ‘tenshun, ner al
lowed he heard dem croaks, but jes’
minded his own business, lak all good
and proper folks; when dey read de
weddah fo’cast—“Mild; continnered
warm an’ fair,” ole Noah went on
buildin', an’ allowed He didn’t care.
But one day de weddah shifted; de
barometer done fall, an’ de rain came
down in torrents rained fo’ fo'ty days
—dat’s all; an' de knockers an’ de
croakers drowned jes’ lak so many
rats, which -was jes’ what dey had
commin' nothing’ lef’ excep' dey hats.’
An’ de moral ob dis story, Breddern,
hit am writ quite plain, dat whenevah
knockers tell yo’ dey ain’t gwine ter
be no rain, jes' go ahead lak Noah,
an’ don’t let ’em get yo’ goat, an’ some
day you’ll have lak Noah, de bgges’
show' afloat.
Top prices paid for turkeys at the
creamery. Call us up.—Ravenna
Creamery Co., Loup City, Nebr.
Affinities are becoming so common
place they are seldom able to creep
into the headlines.
For Sale: A nice lot of Indian
Runner ducks for a short time at 75c
each—Mrs. John Warrick. Phone 7014.
—■———n———
An African Christmas
Henry M. Stanley, dispatched by a
New York newspaper, arrived in Zanzi
bar Jan. G, 1871, and trekked off into the
African wilderness a couple of months
later. He discovered Dr. Livingstone,
the lost missionary, on Friday. Nov.
10, at Ujiji, on the eastern shore of the
great lake Tanganyika, 23G days after
setting out.
Early in December he had returned
to Ujiji with the doctor, after a cruise
up the lake. On the 20th the rainy sea
son was ushered in with heavy rains,
thunder and hailstorms, an* the ther
mometer fell to GO degrees F That
evening Stanley went down with the
fourth spell of fever since his arrival.
However, he picked up rapidly.
“Christmas came,” he wrote, “and
the doctor and I resolved upon the
blessed and time honored day being
kept as we keep it in Anglo-Saxon
lands'—with a feast such as Ujiji could
furnish us. The fever had quite gone
from me the night before, and on
Christmas morning, though exceeding
ly weak, I was up and dressed and lec
turing Ferajji, the cook, upon the Im
portance of the day to white men and
endenvoring to instil into the mind of
the sleek and pampered animal some
cunning secrets of the culinary art.
Fat. broad tailed sheep, goats, zogga
and pombe, eggs, fresh milk, plantains,
singwe, cornflower, fish, onions, sweet
potatoes, etc., were procured In tue
Ujiji market and from good old Moeni
Kheri. But. alas for my weakness!
Ferajji spoiled the roast and our cus
tard was burned—the dinner was a
failure. That the fat brained rascal
escaped a thrashing was due only to
my inability to lift my hands for pun
ishment, but my looks were dreadful
and alarming and capable of annihilat
ing any one except Ferajji. The stu
pid, hardheaded cook only chuckled,
and I believe he had the subsequent
gratification of eating the pies, custard
and roast that his carelessness had
spoiled for European palates.”
THE MISTLETOE.
With Christmas cheer the hall is bright,
At friendly feud with winter’s cold;
There’s many a merry game tonight
For maids and men, and young and old;
And winter sends for their delight
The holly with its crimson glow.
And paler than the glistening snow
The mistletoe, the mistletoe.
The mistletoe, the mistletoe!
The wan and wanton mistletoe!
Chance comer to our festal eves.
Dear crimson breasted holly sprite!
Thee. Robin, too, the hall receives.
Unbidden, whom our hearts Invite.
And, perched among the crumply leaves.
He cocks his head and sings "Hullo!”
The mistletoe, the mistletoe
Hangs up above, but what’s below?
Oh, what's below the mistletoe?
The mistletoe, the mistletoe!
A kindly custom sanctions bliss
That's ta’en beneath the wanton bough.
Who laughs so low? Why, here it is!
Look, Jenny, where I have you now!
Dear bashful eyes, sweet Ups—a kiss!
Ah, cheeks can mock the holly's glow!
For what’s below the mistletoe?
Ah, ha! Why, it ie Cupid O!
Ah, ha! Below the mistletoe
’Tis Cupid O, ’tis Cupid O!
—Temple Bar.
Does Your Auto
Need Repairs
Bring the machine to this garage and it will
be fixed up satisfactorily, as we have one of
the best repair men in the county and guar
antee every piece of work turned out to be
entirely satisfactory in every respect.
Auto Repairing
The fastest and best cars are used in our livery
service, together with competent drivers and
at reasonable prices.
Agent for the
HUPMOBILE
W. R. HENKENS
ROCKVILLE, NEBRASKA
SECURE A FARM IN THE
NORTH PLATTE VALLEY
THE NORTH PLATT EVALLEY, frequently called the
“Scottsbluff country,” is making a more wonderful showing
every year in its production of irrigated crops—sugar beets,
alfalfa, potatoes, wheat and oats; it is becoming one of the rich
est localities fro breeding and fattening of live stock. Many
Government irrigated holdings of 1G0 acres are being reduced
to 80 acres, making it possible for land seekers to secure 80
acre tracks ir»igated under the reliable system of the Govern
ment on terms that will never again be duplicated. All we can
ask is that you visit the Valley and let our agents put you in
touch with reliable firms. Ask about the crop tonnage, the in
creased population, and note the general prosperity; this will
tell you what advance in land values you may expect there in
the next five years.
Or, write me for the Burlington’s new publica
! tion, “North Platte Valley.” Let me help you go
'I there and see for yourself this locality which is the
' and see this locality which is the talk of the West.
S. B. HOWARD, IMMIGRATION AGENT,
1004 Farnam Street, Omaha, Nebraska.
Irish Bull.
O’Brien's boy Danny lost two base
ball bats. O’Brien in a day or two
supplied the youngster with a third,
but accompanied the presentation
v*ith this warning: “Now see here,
Danny, if yez lose this wan loike yez
did the others, O’ill take it an’
break it over yer head, so Oi will.”—
Boston Transcript.
The Heart Lived In.
Faber has said. “A man’s heart gets
cold It he does not keep It warm by
living in 1L" Love to others is not a
matter of mere outflowing Impulse. It
must be purposeful and steadfast if
there is to be real warmth in it Only
the neart that is lived in and used
draws others close to its hearth lire.
CLEAN-UP SALE
As I do not wish to carry over any holiday goods
another season, I am making special prices on
everything in the store until January 1, 1916.
TOYS, DOLLS, CHINA, GLASS AND
ENAMEL WARE, TOILET ARTICLES
AND BOOKS AND GAMES.
Another Big Shipment of China
ware Will Arrive in a Day or Two
A NICE LINE OF FRESH CANDIES
ALWAYS IN STOCK
Remember the place
Grow’s Variety Store
DAR GROW, Proprietor
A 42-PIECE DINNER
SET FREE
to the person buying the largest bill of
merchandise at our store
Friday, December 24th
One sack of flour can be included in all
orders for this prize. Sugar by the
sack not included.
Candy and Nut Special
We have a special offering in Candy and
Nuts. Don’t forget to ask about it.
C. C. COOPER