On the
train from Medicine Lodge to Attica, the deputy sheriff had some man
to give this girl a letter from him, telling her to meet him at Wellington.
The girl's father lived at Attica, and an older sister of her's met us. I
could see the sister was not a good woman, and she took Cora to a room
and exchanged the modest hat and dress for a showy hat and elaborate
silk dress; and when I saw her it almost broke my heart. I said to her:
"Oh, Cora, all my work to save you is in vain." I had rather have seen
her drop dead, and I grieved all the way home. From Attica she went to
Wellington, instead of Olathe, Kansas, where she was to enter this home.
James Dobson was sheriff of Barber County and his brother kept a
saloon in Kiowa, the first saloon I ever smashed.
I heard no good news of Cora for some years; she led a bad life.
Five years later, through a W. C. T. U. lecturer, I heard that she was
married and living in Colorado; and she was an efficient worker as a W.
C. T. U. woman; among fallen women. She told of her past life and of a
Mrs. Nation visiting her. This woman said it was so incredible to believe
that Cora could have been so bad, and had taken a human life, that she
was anxious to see the place in Kiowa and to see Cora's prison cell and
myself. I was then in Oklahoma, and I certainly rejoiced over this news
from her I had learned to love. I saw in this wayward girl certain qualities
that would be a power for good, if once God could have His way
with her life.
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