Momence High School - Monesse Yearbook (Momence, IL)

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♦JUNIOR YEAR ROOK. 19 its your treat then,” and lounging out of the door, the Texan proceeded toward Hk :ce where Jack had just dismounted. “ir Pard,” he called, “its my treat, come over and have one with me.” j;a : rned slowly, his face set and his eyes gleaming somberly from the heavy brows. E mean that,” he asked. ‘ said the other, his hand shifting easily to his hip. you dog, take that.” A puff of smoke, a flash and two shots rang out together. J i : stood there, a grim smile on his face, a clean cut hole in his hat, watching the Texan » half turned and fell a huddled heap in the dust. ” ere was a sudden rush from the saloon and in an instant the two were surrounded by a c v e of angry men. s ’ said one, “this is murder.” “Aye, but he was warned,” muttered a man on the out- ssi :s Jack stood, the still smoking revolver in his hand and said, “I gave you all warning a : am ready to take the consequences.” ard said the post master, “you had no reason.” “ r eason! man!” turning fiercely upon him. “Read that and tell me if 1 was not justified.” 1 :h a swift gesture he thrust a worn letter, the letter he had given him a long before, into 5 hand. Yes, read it,” murmured the crowd, as they pushed close. Unfolding the letter, the post ister began:—“For months I have heard nothing from you, and now I write again at your d address. Again you have tailed. Oh, Jack, how could you, after promising so faithfully : eep from the cursed stuff, and Jack, my heart is broken, for our baby boy is dead. Died ecause I could not get medicine and food and fire for him, and you were the cause. You! 1 ! May God forgive you for I never can, and I pray you may suffer as you have made us 5 ffer. God helping me I will never look on your face again. Remember that you have giv- en up all a man holds most dear, wife, home and child, for that cursed stuff.”— He paused and looked around, a hoarse murmur arose, and the crowd parted leaving a lane, down which Jack walked to where his horse was standing, and vaulting lightly into the sad¬ dle, rode slowly away toward the fast darkening foot hills.

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i8 JUNIOR YEAR ROOK. He had started when he thot that the mail would be in in the morning, and there might be some word from Dollie, though he had not written for months and she was not sure of his ad¬ dress, but still the bare possibility of getting one of Dollie’s letters was worth waiting for. He gave his horse in charge of the stable boy, and walked to the door and entered the room he had left such a short time before. “Hello, Jack, back again?” Called a dark browed man lounging against a table, watching a game of poker. “Have a—and some one watching Jack’s face, nudged him fiercely,—“a game of poker with me,” he asked turning to the fellow who had nudged him, “can’t a fellow ask another fellow to have a quiet game without you putting your elbow in, hey?” Jack shook his head and passed on up stairs to bed where he tossed and turned till time for break¬ fast. After making a hasty toilet, he made his way to the dining room, where a few men sti ll re¬ mained at the tables. To break the silence, one of the men, the express agent, store-keeper and postmaster combined, drawled out. “Say, pard, they’s a letter fer you, came the other day, with orders to hold it if you were here and forward it if you had left. I wasn’t sure so I held it.” Pushing away his plate, Jack rose and followed the post master, perhaps the letter was from Dollie. She had never failed him yet. The man found the letter he sought, he handed it out with the remark, “It was big enough to be a Christmas present, providing it wasn’t a dun.” With a quick throb at his heart, Jack recognized Dollie’s writing. Thrusting the letter in his pocket, he went to the barn, saddled his horse and rode straight toward the sunrise, for he felt he must have no curious eyes watching him as he read her letter. A hot August sun beating down on the tin roofs of Gulch Town and the whizzing song of the locust was the only sound. The streets were deserted with the exception of a pack of dogs lying in the shade of the store, and three horses with drooping head and hanging bridle reins, standing in front of the saloon, waiting for their masters, who had gone to quench their thirst or get greater one. With much laughter and passing of coarse jokes the men came out side, accompanied by the whole male population of the place. “Oh, say,” one of the cow boys exclaimed, turning to the bar tender, who stood in a “heavy villain” attitude in the doorway. “Member that Jack Derwent, who is going to fill the first person with lead that asks him to drink?” “Yep, what of him?” “Well, the foreman of the U. U. is he, with about forty or fifty men under him. And let me tell you, he is a bad man to fool with, so if I have any regard for my car¬ cass, I wouldn’t ask him to drink. See!” When the round August moon rose, the out riders of the U. U. came trooping in town, and the men from Dixon’s trail heard and the a—h outfit scenting fun or scrap, both dear to the soul of the cow puncher, came in as the evening advanced, until the barroom was filled with a reckless turbulent crowd of men, that feared neither God nor the Devil. “They lived with death before their eyes and died with their boots on,” as one of them expressed it. Some one proposed drinks and eager and thirsty they lined to the bar, tossing aside cigar¬ ettes and cigars. One of the men glancing toward the door chuckled. “Say, boys,” he said, with a slow Tex¬ an drawl, “here comes the foreman of the U. U. Ask him to join us?” “Not on your life,” was the quick reply. “I proprose to live awhile longer.” “The man that asks me to drink, dies,” quoted a second. “Oh, shucks! That’s all a bluff, bet the drinks to the crowd, he’ll come like a lamb.” “Ask and see.”

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2 © ♦JUNIOR YEAR ROOK. AT TWILIGHT. PRIZE POEM BY HELEN GRAY. The golden sunset’s clouds are dimmed The sky is cold and gray, Prom nowhere rise the cool night winds, So fades the weary day. The hurrying clouds go by above Like tired flocks to the fold, Save some small islands faintly tinged. By the sun’s last rays of gold. The weary cattle low at the gate Awaiting the milkmaid’s call. The sleepy birds stir in their nests. Then darkness covers all. So fades the uncertain light of day So tired, so faint, to sleep, The wearying noise and din all sink To quiet, sweet and deep. It happened in a crowded car in Chicago. Tired women were sitting un¬ comfortably crowded, and tired men were standing. All were in an ill humor. The car swung rapidly around a curve and one of the men who had been standing, a very ordinary citizen, found himself suddenly seated in a lady’s lap. He rose at once, and politely lifting his hat, said, “I beg your pardon, I, am a foreigner.” No one caught the force of his remarks, but the countenances of all speedily changed when he explained, ‘‘You see, I am a Laplander.”