Image provided by: University of Nebraska-Lincoln Libraries, Lincoln, NE
About The McCook tribune. (McCook, Neb.) 1886-1936 | View Entire Issue (Feb. 17, 1893)
S. M. COCHRAN & CO.,
ARE AGENT* FOIL THE CELEBRATED
Union Press Drills and
One Horse Hoe Drills,
WAGONS AND BUGGIES.
ALSO KEEP REPAIRS FOR ALL KI..DS OF MACHINERY.
Their prices on all goods are as low as the
S. M. COCHRAN & CO.,
■WMMt Dennison Street, .... ]lc< OltK, NEUKAKKA.
W. C. BTJLLAED & CO.
BED CEDAB. AND OAK POSTS.
BTU. J. WARREN. Manager.
B. <fc M. Meat Market.
FRESH AND SALT
TURKEYS, AC., AC.
F. S. WILCOX, Prop.
notary Public. Justice of the Peace.
S. ZEE. COZE_^TIZET,
LOANS AND INSURANCE.
Nebraska Farm Lands to Exchange for Eastern Property.
Collections a Specialty.
MCCOOX - - iTEBKASKA.
rT 1 1 n 40 TO 2000 ACRE TRACTS,
$5 TO $15 PER ACRE.
iST'Send stamp for Price List and Descriptive
Circular of Southwestern Nebraska to
AND STOCK RANCHES- S. H. COLVIN, McCOOk, Red Willoui Co., Neb.
DO YOU READ
The Leading Weekly in West
$1.50 A YEAR IN ADVANCE.
Ib-”* tVcd of whispers ami long for the foil
roice in- lead,
lliol 1 voice to strengthen and guide soul,
heart and head;
I an; i iit 1 of shadows that give but a promise
c» li lit:
The p::rp!o gleaming stretches its fingers far
down the night.
I am tired of starlight, filling the air with &
And i long for the noontide glare, the light, the
heat, the blaze:
I am so tired of groping in the valley of unrest.
And my heart’s blood star. Is stagnant between
the vale and the crest.
1 am tired of ail the vain deceptions of practi
The misunderstandings, the worry, the tur
moil—aye, and the strife;
More than all, I am sick of self, with all its
That burns in my heart like the flame of a fu
Speak, O voice divine, and bid this curious
heart be still;
Teach it to strive no more, to be satisfied with
For how vain is human longing when measured
by thy power!
Let contentment gild my lips and fill with
peace each lowly hour!
—Mary Inge Hoskins in New York Sun.
A SQUIRE’S ROMANCE.
Hop picking was always a gala time
at Pendexter farm.
Far away the golden haze hung over
the hills like a quivering veil; the bland
air was full of soft, subtle fragrance of
wild grapes ripening in the woods, and
wherever a dead tree or rude stone wall
afforded it a vantage ground, the silvery
tangles of clematis wove a lovely gar
land, and the masses of goldenrod and
purple fringed as^rs held up their clus
ters of dazzling L.oom. And in the hop
field merry voices echoed from morning
, Will Pendexter, walking up and down
the aisles of silver green leafage with
his hands behind his back, might have
reminded one of Boaz in the ancient
Scripture story—princely Boaz standing
in his harvest fields and giving a kind
glanco and pleasant word to every one.
“Isn't he handsome?” said little Fanny
Dix to Miss Morgan, the rector’s daugh
ter. Fanny was a pale little dress
maker, with an incipient cough, who.
had been recommended by her doctor to
spend a fortnight in the hopfields, and
Miss Morgan, whose mother had died of
consumption, picked hops every year on
principle, just as Judge Marier’s daugh
ters visited Long Branch. “And all the
handsomer since he has turned gray! I
do wonder why he never married.”
“Don't you know?” said Miss Morgan
“I can tell you, then,” said the rector’s
daughter, who dearly loved a morsel of
genuine romance. “Because his first
love jilted him.”
“As if any one would jilt Will Pen
dexter I” said incredulous Fanny.
“Oh, but he wasn’t Squire Pendexter
then—and all this happened 20 years
ago,” averred Miss Morgan, her flying
fingers never leaving off among the clus
ters of pale green hops. “That was be
fore he inherited Pendexter farm. H>
was only a poor young farmer then, with
his own living to make, and this was a
beautiful girl who was spending the sum
mer here. And they were engaged and
all—and the very night before the wed
ding she ran way with an Italian, one
Count Caprivi, who was singing on the
New York stage.”
Fanny drew a long breath.
“And what became of them?” said she.
“Oh, they went to Italy, where the
count expected to succeed to large es
tates, and I suppose they are there now.”
Fanny looked with secret awe at the
ruddy face and magnificent height of
Will Pendexter as he sauntered down
the green aisles of waving tendrils and
tremulous leaves, and almost wondered
to hear him ask Makala Bently about
her baby in the offhand, ordinary lan
guage of everyday life, and give lame
Billy Bartlett “Good day,” just as if
there had been no Countess Caprivi in
But Fanny Dix was but a girl yet.
She did not know how 20 years will
bridge over the darkest gulf in a human
life. There is no scar that will not heal
in 20 years. There is not a grave on
which grass will not grow—aye, and
daisies bloom—in 20 years.
“I do not know that we can take an
other hand, Simpson,” said Squire Pen
dexter meditatively. “The field is crowd
“What I thought, exactly, sir,’T said
the overseer respectfully. “But this
’ere is a pretty young slip of a girl, with
a feeble mother dragging along on her
arm. And a man don’t like to say ‘no’
to such! So I thought I'd just speak to
“Where are they?” said the squire,
rubbing the gold knob of his walking
cane against his nose, and Simpson knew
that the case of the forlorn strangers was
“Mother, don’t fret. Here comes the
gentleman now,” said a clear, soft toned
voice, and Squire Pendexter found him
self looking into a pair of wistful, deep
blue orbs—orbs that belonged to a slight,
beautiful girl dressed in faded fabric and
worn shoes, who was leaning against
the well curb. For while Simpson had
been gone on his errand of inquiry she
had drawn a bucket of clear, cold water
out of the sparkling depths of the well
and given her mother a drink out of the
silver hound gourd which always hung
"Sir,” without a moment's hesitation,
“might I have a lob of work in your hop
fields? We have come from the city—
mother .and I—there’s nothing to bo
picked up there, and my mother is ail
ing, and we thought the smell of the
hops might do her good. Please, sir,
we’d work cheap, if only we might sleep
in the barn and have a bit of something
to eat between whiles!” 5 ‘
“I don’t want you to work cheap.”
said the squire, assuming an aspect of
unwonted grufEness to cover the symj)a
thetic thrill in his voice. “I never
grudged money’s worth for good, honest
.work. As for the bam, my housekeeper
can put yon. up in one of the vacant back
chambers Over' the' kitchen, and therd's
always enough to eat at Pendexter farm.”
The woman, who had been sitting on
the mossy cattle trough, slowly lifted
her head here and pushed back her worn
“Where are we, Isora? Whither have
we come? I knew a man named Pender
ter once, who”
“Ye3,” said fno squire, who had given
a little start at the first sound of that
low contralto voice. “It was I, Clara
Caprivi! To think that fate should have
brought us together again after all these
The pale woman struggled to her feet
and clutched at her daughter’s slim,
“Let us go. Isora,” said she. “We—
we have made a mistake. Give me my
shawl. Quick! Let us go!”
“But, mother, why?” soothed the girl,
who scarcely as yet comprehended all
this byplay. “Don’t you hear what tht
gentleman says? We can have work here
and food and shelter. Mother, sit down
again! You are trembling all over!”
“I tell you, child, you don't know!’
said impatient Clara, possessed with a
sort of wild, unreasoning terror. “We—
we most go!”
“Clara,” said the squire, he himself as
suming the direction of affairs, “the
child is right. Let bygones be bygones.
You don't suppose I would turn you from
Clara looked into his face.
‘ ‘Have you forgiven me, then?” said she.
“Forgiven you? Yes, years and years
ago. Let us be friends again. Clara.”
For his heart ached to see how pale
and wan she was—how haggard were
her cheeks, and how like smouldering
fires the light burned in the sunken eyes.
She told him all that afternoon, while
pretty Isora was stripping the clustered
hops from the vines with a dozen girls as
pretty and as blooming as herself, how
her life had been an aimless wreck; how
Carlo Caprivi had been no count aftei
all, but a nameless pretender, with nei
ther honesty nor money; how he had left
her with the baby Isora on her hands to
shift as best she might for herself, and
was killed in a gambling brawl; how she
had struggled on for years constantly
feeling herself less able to wage unequal
warfare with the world.
“Clara,” said the squire, when she had
finished, “why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because I had wronged you so deep
ly,” she faltered.
“You might have known I would liave
been kind, even to Caprivi's child. Well,
it doesn’t matter now. You are here,
and you must stay here. Do you hear
me, Clara? Must! Bless my heart! You'll
grow strong in these country breezes,
and that pale girl of yours will get color
in her face.”
So they staid at the Pendexter farm,
and beautiful Isora Caprivi grew fairer
to look ujjon with every passing day.
“Clara,” said the blunt squire one day,
“that girl of yours is prettier than ever
“I know it, said Mme. Capnvi.
And as she spoke the words a pang of
jealousy struck sharply through her
heart. Yet was it not natural enough
that Squire Pendexter should take note
of Isora's opening loveliness?
And in her room that night Clara
wrestled with her own heart and con
“He will marry Isora,” she told her
self. “Isora is beautiful, and he is in
the prime of life—it is as it should be—
while I—I ana only a wreck, waiting on
the shore of time for the usual billow to
come and sweep me away. God bless his
noble heart! God bless my sweet sonled
girl! And God grant that they may he
happy together for many, many long and
The squire came to Mme. Caprivi the
next day with rather an emba rrasseu face.
“It is coming,” thought Clara; “I knew
“Clara,” said he, “I’ve a question to
She held out her hand with a smile.
“Ask it, then, freely,” she said gra
“Should I he making a fool of myself
if, at my age, I were to marry?”
“Yon would be doing the most proper
and natural thing in the world,” Clara
answered, still smiling, although her
heart seemed to stand still within her.
“Then, by Jove, I'll risk it,” said the
squire jubilantly. ‘ ‘Clara, will you have
me? Shall we begin our disjointed lives
over again, my girl?”
Mme. Caprivi grew pale, then red.
‘‘Halloo!” said Squire Pendexter, ‘ ‘have
I spoken too abruptly? Have you”
“No,” said Clara faintly. “But—but
I thought it was Isora that you loved.”
“Then you thought wrong,” said the
squire briskly. “I have never loved any
woman but you, C -a, and I never
So they were married quietly, and the
autumn of life shines softly over them
as the veiled sunlight hangs its golden
haze over the picked hopfields of Pen
And poor Clara is content at last.—
Jay Gould In Iceland.
Marie Jonreau writes me that when
she was traveling in Iceland she found
that of all our great countrymen the
only one who seemed to he familiar to
the Icelanders was Jay Gould. One of
the first questions her native guide asked
her on learning that she was from Amer
ica was: “You come from America. Per
haps. then, you know Jay Gould? And
has he really more money than he can
ever count?” Even far in the interior of
the island, where the people could speak
no English, they begged the guide to ask
her if she really knew or had' ever seen
the wonderful Croesus, who to them was
like some prince from the “Arabh.n
A Surprised Hau.
A Lewiston laundry clerk carried ter
ror to the heart of one customer the
•other day—a big man to whom he sent a
small-man's linen. When the customer
tried*to get into, that linen he thought
that ho had swelled up and sent for a
.doctor. It gave him a good scare, but,
Lord, how he talked when he came back
with it f )r his own!—Bangor Commer
MRS. BUCK TUPPEH.
My profession is that of civil engineer
After a very unsatisfactory year spent
in tho employ of certain mushroom rail
road companies I resolved to seek ft
shorter route to fortune by joining tho
throng that was just then rushing to the
river mines of tho southwest.
But, alas, for the best laid plans of an
unsophisticated tenderfootl Six months
later I found myself one day stranded in
a wretched little mining town without a
dollar in my pocket.
How I happened just then to meet and
make friends with Colonel Dingier it is
no part of my purjxjse to relate. Suffice
to say that when ho offered to send mo
75 miles into the country with a party
of men who were to take charge of one
of his ranches I accepted without demur.
There were five of us, with all i>ossible
diversity of character and bringing up.
Dennis O’Flaherty was a brilliant
young Irishman, the son of a New York
alderman. lie had broken with his fam
ily because of his disposition to flirt with
pretty girls rather than to “study for
orders,” as bad been intended.
Si Larkin's was a typical down easter,
big and rawboned, and until six months
ago had never been beyond the New
Hampshire hills. His very opposite was
Ross Harper, a dapper little fellow who,
in spite of his sombrero and brace of
pistols, looked very like one of the dum
mies that used to adorn the front of his
clothing store back in Cincinnati, but
for all that he was plucky and clear grit
to the backbone. Then there was Buck—
Just where he hailed from no one
ever seemed to know.
He seemed to bo a part of the wild
west himself, and his knowledge of its
bold, wicked ways was something mar
He had a playful habit of gallop
ing across the country, firing right and
left simultaneously, or of dashing un
heralded through shops and saloons on
his mustang. Buck was an inveterate
gambler, though something of a bungler
it seemed—at least bis earnings went
regularly into the hands of the faro bank
dealer at Waho.
One afternoon as Buck and I were re
turning from beyond the canyon, where
we had gone i/: search of some missing
cattle, we came upon the trail of a com
pany of horsemen.
From the broken lilts of saddle, cook
ing nt nsils and papers that were scat
tered about the gorge, it was evident
that there had been a runaway. As
reading matter was at a premium just
then, I was off in an instant and was
gathering up the papers, which proved
to be of recent date.
So absorbed did I become in their con
tents that it was some minutes before I
noticed that Buck also had dismounted
and was examining with great interest
something that he had picked up from
It proved to be the pi otograph of a
woman—a fine, oval face, the slightly
waving hair brushed simply back from
the low, broad forehead. The eyes, that
yon would have sworn were a clear gray,
seemed to look into your own with a
sweet, trustful expression. Several times
during the ride home Buck took the pic
ture from his blouse, regarding it with
an air of pleased ownership.
When I came into the house after put
ting away the horses, I found him busily
engaged in fastening the picture to the
smoked wall above the chimney piece.
“It ain’t no place for such,” he said,
nodding his head at the picture and
glancing apologetically about the room,
“but Buck Tupper's proud to give you
the best he’s got.”
Looking upon the matter as a great
joke, when the others came in I led them
to the picture, presenting them with
mock ceremony to Mrs. Buck Tupper.
The name seemed to tickle Buck’s fancy,
and he repeated it over and over to him
self with a pleased chuckle.
From that time “Mrs. Buck Tupper”
became a household word with us, but it
was not until some weeks after this that
we learned how much of a reality she
had become to the eccentric fellow. One
day, when one of his chums from Walio
was in the midst of a somewhat doubt
ful story. Buck had interrupted:
“Gimpsey, I don’t ’llow that's jest the
talk a right nice woman Hkes to listen
to,” glancing significantly at the face on
the wall. Gimpsey stopped, disconcert
ed and astonished, but he did not finish
the story. I think he went away believ
ing that Buck was a bit touched; indeed
I am not sure but that the rest of us
shared the opinion.
It was evident that for some reason a
radical change had taken place in him.
He went no more on his boisterous cru
sades, and on Sundays, when he ■was off
duty, I had found him several times try
ing to spell out the words in the little
Bible I had carried with me in my wan
For several weeks flaming hills had
been posted about announcing that there
was to be a great time at Waho on
Christmas eve. However, when I men
tioned it to Tupper he shook his head
“Naw, 1 did think some about it, but
Mrs. Buck Tapper"—looking up at the
picture with a half smile—“I ’Rowed if
she was here she’d rather I wouldn't."
Seeing that I was disposed to listen lie
went on: “I never had no bringin up, I
reckon, but I sort o’ felt from the first
as though that picture was a token, an
I says, some day you'll find that woman
herself, Buck Tapper. Of course I never
could bo iitten for such." sighing hum
bly, “but I made up my mind to be de
cent an squar' anyway.”
For more than a month we had been
annoyed by cattle thieves, but in spite of
the fact that we had been re-enforced by
a daring company of men. they con
tinued to elude us. One bright, moon
light night, however, we came down up
on a party of them. Our men at once
opened fire. At first they showed fight,
but as we far outnumbered them their
leader, with n signal to his men. put
spurs to his liorso and in a moment they
were galloping down the gorge, with
several of our party in pursuit.
They hart gone but » short distance
when a shot took effect, and the horse of
one oi the outlaws fell dead.
Larkins and I hurried forward to pre
vent the rider’s escape, hut as we luted
tho saddle, by which the rider hod boon
pinioned to tho ground, the long cloak
and broad sombrero fell back, disclosing
tho fact that our captive was a woman. (
At this moment ono of the men cams
galloping hack with the news that Buck
had been shot. This of course put an
end to the pursuit, and we hurried hack
to the ranch with the wounded man.
O'Flaherty and I took charge of him, i
while Harper was left in the outer room
to guard tho prisoner. From tho first it
was evident that Buck’s wounds were
fatal. Ho was conscious, however, though
his mind seemed to wonder at times.
“I reckon I'm goin shore,” he said
feebly. “I never was half decent; I
never knowetl how; but, J-im,” with fi
pitiful, pleading look, “if yon see Mrs.
Buck Tupper, I wisht you’d tell her—
I thought that the experience of these
months had effectually hardened me. bnt
this was too much, and on the pretense
of wishing to relieve Harper I left the
It was not until I was alone with the
woman that I looked at her. Then I wan
transfixed with astonishment. As she
sat there, the lamplight falling on her
cold, rigid face, it needed no second
glance to convince mo that she was the
original of Buck's picture.
This then was the angel of purity at
whose shrine the poor fellow had been
My first thought was he must never
know. And yet I reflected how much it
would mean to him to but see her face.
Going over to where she sat I hurriedly
told her the whole story.
“And you want me to go to him?” Her
face was cold and unfeeling, but there
was a singular sweetness in her voice.
“Yes, only that he thinks you are”
“I understand,” with a faint smile.
After explaining matters to O'Flaherty
I led her to tho bedside of tho dying man
and left them alone together.
When I returned some minutes later,
she sat beside him, and ho was holding
A change that I could not describe had
corn© over her countenance. There was
a subdued light that only tears can give
to a woman's face.
“You'll make a little pira'r for mo,” he
was saying pleadingly.
“Yes, little one,” very tenderly. "I
'llow you <lo feel broke up, but I never
jest knowed how, an the angels’d hear
such as you.”
The woman turned a hunted look upon
the rest of us, and then slipping from
her chair dropped upon her knees:
“Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keel).
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
At first the words seem to choke her.
hut there was something so solemn about
it all that I do not think it occurred tc
one of us that there was anything incon
gruous in the repetition of the childish
prayer at this moment.
Buck repeated the last words over after
"I pray the Lord my soul to take.
“Yes, I ’llow he will,” and he was
Of course we could not think now of
dealing with our prisoner, so, after a
hurried consultation, we put her on
Buck's pony, and Harper and I rode out
to the trail with her, and the last we saw
of Mrs. Buck Tupper she was vanishing
down the gorge in the gray morning
* » * -» ■» #
The following summer I returned to
Boston, and as the years slipped away
my western experience became gradual
ly an uncertain memory.
One evening late in December as I
was walking up Duane street my atten
tion was arrested by the sound of music
that came from the Salvation Army bar
racks across the street.
I have a friend in Jesus;
He’s everything to me;
He’s the fairest of ten thousand to my soul:
I crossed over and stood for a moment
in the crowd that surged about the door.
The singing had ceased, and a woman
was speaking. I could not see her face,
but her voice was a singularly musical
“Though your sins be as scarlet—do
you hear that?” she was saving. “Scarlet
—that means lilood—an the Bible says
no murderer can enter the kingdom. But
he can wash the murder out of your
heart, bless his name! He says, T will
make them white as snow.’ ”
Seized with a sudden curiosity, I
mounted one of the benches to get a
glimpse of the speaker’s face. A pale
face, with clear, gray eyes and waving,
brown hair—where had I seen it before?
What was the vague memory that for n
moment seemed only to tantalize me? I
had gone back through the years and
the same face—only younger and fuller
—was looking at me from the smoked
wall above the chimney piece.
“Mrs. Buck Tapper!” Involuntarily
the words came to my lips. At this mo
ment the woman’s eyes met my own. A
confused look overspread her face, and
she faltered in her speech. Could it be
that she knew me? No, but she had
seen the look of recognition in my face,
and recognition to a woman with such a
past must be always disturbing, I re
flected, as I stepped down and joined tin
“Who is she?” I questioned of a strap
ping fellow with a flaming badge upon
“That's Captain Mildred,” speaking
enthusiastically. "The devil hates that
woman, I tell you! Why, she’d go
through anything to get a poor wretch
out of liis clutches. Why, she's a”
But I did not wait to hear the rest.
Here, I mused, was a fit sequel to poor
Buck's lore story, and as I walked away
:he song floated out again, clear and tri
And sweeping up to glory.
To see his blessed fare.
Where rivers of delight forever roll,
lie's the lily of the valley—
The bright and morning star,
lie's the fairest of ten thousand to rny
■-MattieM. Biteler in Cincinnati Post.
Powered by Open ONI