Changing times 1884

From H.P. Waite's Collection of McCook Tribune Stories

Joseph Menard

A tragic Cowboy death; June 12, 1884 -- A cowboy, Jacob Van Meter by name, was thrown from his horse on Sappa Creek, in Kansas, last week and died in Benkelman, where he was taken to receive medical attention. He had fallen under his horse on his head and shoulders. He sustained a fractured skull and concussion of the brain.

The news of another sad accident reaches us from the west -- this time from Culbertson. The victim was a young man by the name of Charles Sunday. As he was riding after a cow his horse's foot caught in a lariat rope and he was thrown violently to the earth. He fell on his head and died without regaining consciousness. He was 18 years old, and only three weeks the West.

These accidents illustrate one of the hazards that beset the life of the cowboy, to which many young men are attracted by reading stories of western adventures. To an Easterner -- even to one who is farm-bred, but who is accustomed to the comforts and luxuries of a home in an older community -- what seems in prospect romantically alluring, becomes both physically and mentally intolerable. Few who come to this wild region looking for the exhilarating pleasures they expect to enjoy, find that of which they are in search. After suffering the pangs of homesickness, which inflict the keenest anguish from which the boy who has been the member of a happy family since his birth can suffer and survive, he who has been lured so far from an environment with which he has been familiar, embraces the first opportunity to return to the haunts of his childhood. One venture into a realm so different from that in which he had spent his days is usually sufficient. The West will probably not see him again.

Only those who are born and reared on the range, who have known the feel of a saddle since they were able to sit alone, who have held the reins over a horse's head from the time their small hands could grasp them, who have lived all of their years among cattle, can appreciate the majestic grandeur of the prairies. They need not have been taught in schools to be able to see the beauties of the hills, of the wind-ripped grasses, of the scudding clouds, of the sweeping thunderstorm. They need know nothing about music to be able to hear the songs of meadow-larks and mocking birds. To them the scent of the sage is as pleasant as is the odor of the rose to more cultivated tastes. To them, the star-studded sky on a cloudless night is the source of as much wonder and speculation as it is to an astronomer. They are acquainted, too with the tragedies of the prairies (these do not frighten them, for they are men of courage), which transform into shrines the places where their companions have been overtaken by death.

A Thirst for Human Contact; July 10, 1884 -- A large proportion of the population; attends church -- both morning and (especially) evening services -- not necessarily because of religious fervor (though we have among us many who are church-minded), but rather because of desire for human companionship. Many young men, away from home environment for the first time, have no place to spend their time when they are not at work, except the bare and cheerless cubicle--unheated in winter and unbearable hot in summer -- uncarpeted -- lighted by a kerosene lamp -- furnished only with a bed and a small stand for a tin washbasin and pitcher -- in some rooming house or hotel. It is not strange the mediocre offerings of the McCook Dramatic Club are well attended. It is not strange the cowboy who comes in from the range three or four times a year amuses himself by getting drunk, and, when he becomes so boisterously hilarious that he is ejected from the saloon, rides at break-neck-speed through the streets, yelling at the top of his voice, tries his marksmanship on the street lights, or even, as recently happened, shoots through the door of the place from which he was expelled, and when he has sufficient encouragement, spends the night vociferously and uproariously, discharging the revolver, with which he is invariable armed, to the consternation of the authorities, and to the terror of the peaceable inclined inhabitants of the village.

In the country, existence is even drabber than it is in town. The claim dwellings are miserable shacks -- board shanties that are scarcely shelters from the elements -- dug-outs -- dark holes in canyon banks -- at best sod houses which, even when they are shared, as they sometimes are, with mice and snakes, are warm in winter and cool in summer. Their furnishings are home-made and rudely fashioned -- the bed of poles (when poles can be had), or of dressed lumber, set into or against the walls -- or perhaps no bed at all -- a goods box for a table -- stools or benches in lieu of chairs -- a cook stove, the only boughten article in the single-room, which is the house.

If the household includes a woman, the walls are probably covered with newspapers, and the window (or windows if there is more than one) curtained. If the house is set not too far from one of the winding trails, the wagons of the homesteaders have traced across the prairie, the occupants may see an occasional wayfarer -- possible one a day -- but possible (depending on the distance from town) only one a week -- or more than likely, even less frequently.

Leisure Time; July 10, 1884 -- The Dramatic Club, which was organized a few weeks ago, gave a performance in Menard's Opera Hall this week. The members, considering their inexperience, gave a good account of themselves, and the offering enjoyed a satisfactory patronage. While it would seem the citizens of the community could keep themselves fully employed in subduing this wild land and making it a fitter place to live, they yearn insatiably for pleasure and amusement. Indeed, there is little except work -- while there is plenty of that -- to occupy them. Probably that is the reason they embrace every opportunity that seems to offer them relaxation. Of course there is no public library. There are books in private libraries. The pioneers, while not lacking intelligence, have adventurous rather than intellectual proclivities. Not a dozen daily papers, all told, are taken and read in this town. Less than half a dozen families subscribe for any one of the few monthly magazines that are published in the United States today. The local paper, which prints on its inner sheets a summary of general happenings, and on its outer pages, a resume of domestic events--most of which its readers are already informed -- is practically the only medium for the dissemination of news.

For a certain limited number of those seeking relief from ennui, there are the poker games, which however, can be indulged in only once a month -- usually a day or two after the arrival of the pay car -- not because gambling is confined to the railroad boys, as most of them are circumspect in their behavior as is the average man -- but because business is as largely dependent upon the railroad. Indeed, all public events designed to catch the dollar are arranged to take place as soon as possible after the monthly distribution of the pay checks by the railroad.

Just this week on the railroad, a flat car was blown out onto the main track just as a work train was coming into the yards. The engine was pushing four flat cars loaded with men. The head car struck the derelict, which raised up and slid over it. One killed -- several severely injured.

More diversion -- McCook vs Indianola; June 26, 1884 -- A race was run on the local track this afternoon, between an Indianola horse and a McCook horse. The latter won. The result was the source of a great dissatisfaction to the Indianola sportsmen, who had bet heavily on their favorite, which they thought would surely win. The losers assuaged their grief at the saloon, the place where the winners chose to celebrate their victory.

A number of fights were prevented only by the intervention of those who were able to maintain their mental equilibrium.

An otherwise peaceably disposed crowd was transformed into a disorderly drunken mob.