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MONTY'S UNDOING

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Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Feb 17, 1904

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 30, No. 7.

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MONTY'S UNDOING.

By M. S. Johnson

[Rev. M. S. Johnson, in Union Signal.]
"MONTY's dead!" These were the startling words of a freighter, as he turned out, driving perilously near the cliff's edge, to give room for the stage to pass.
"What? You don't say!" exclaimed the stage driver, reining in the restive bronchos and throwing on the brake.
"Yes, shot himself with a little 'twenty-two.'"
"When?"
"'Bout two hours ago. I just come from there. His widder's all broke up."
"Poor Monty!" said the rough rider, the mist gathering in his eyes. "I was afeared of this."
Seated on a box by his side, I drew from the driver the story of Monty's undoing.
Mr. Montgomery, or, as he was familiarly known, "Monty," had been a well-to-do ranchman. The rich, level bottom lands of his ranch stretched far along on either side of the river; his herds roamed over the adjacent mesas and slopes miles away to the very crest of the divide. A wife and two daughters gave sunlight and cheer to his simple, but comfortable dwelling, and the snow-clad peaks of the Rockies looked down benignantly upon a happy home.
Then a saloon was opened in a log-house near the frontier post-office. One winter evening Mr. Montgomery dropped in to see what was going on. Before leaving he was induced to take a drink. A few evenings later he went in again, and again he took a glass with a neighbor. He watched a game of cards and felt the excitement as the stakes were won. Soon he, too, was drinking and gambling like the rest.
The long winter wore away, and the busy season came on, but he neglected his ranch. Things went from bad to worse, money was scarce and he borrowed money, mortgaging his ranch. Mr. Montgomery was losing his grip, every one could see that.
"An' last trip up," said the driver, "he told me, if it wasn't fur his belief in a futur' he'd blow his brains out. Poor Monty, he was a good fellow," and my companion on the box wiped his moist eyes, stuffed the red bandana into his pocket—beside a quart flask now almost drained—cracked the whip over the lead team, and on we rolled across the bridge and past the ranch, where the happiness of another home had been wrecked by the home's worst enemy—the saloon.