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CHAPTER II

JIMMY JONES went out to wake up hell that night shortly after dark. He saddled a horse, rode out behind the town, and then came charging down through the main street with a loud whooping, firing off his guns. When he got to the office of the Jasper Journal, he raised some Indian yells, put some bullets through the door, and then nailed a paper against it.

He went on, shooting into the night, ducked his horse down a lane, and turned back around the side of the town. No one noticed the sweating horse that was brought into the corral behind the Journal building; the townspeople were busily flocking to read the rather rudely written notice that had been nailed against the front door of the building:

NOTICE TO ALL CONCERNED:

IF THE JASPER JOURNAL RUNS THE

STORY ABOUT THE BURWELL MINE NEXT

SATURDAY, HELL IS GOING TO POP.

The notice was not signed. The letters apparently had been printed with a small brush and ink.

When Jimmy Jones returned to the office, he found a steady file of people passing, ordering copies of the paper of next Saturday. That was not all. Half a dozen storekeepers and other businessmen of the town determined to have advertisements in that issue of the Journal, since it was attracting such attention, and Jimmy Jones, multiplying the usual rates by five, took in enough advertising to fill the newspaper.

“How come such high prices, Mister Jones?” asked the owner of the biggest grocery store.

“Well,” said Jimmy Jones, “if you get money on Saturday and have to die on Sunday, you want a lot of hard cash to make up for your hurt feelings.”

This speech was passed around the town, rapidly. There was more than one inquiry as to the nature of the article about the Burwell mine, but Jimmy merely said: “We’re not going to print anything but the truth. The truth is always a lot worse than any sort of lying.”

This remark, also, went the rounds.

It was quite late that night before the line of special subscribers faded away, and Jimmy had a cup of coffee and a sandwich at a lunch counter with Parson.

“Now you’ve gone and raised the devil,” said Joe Parson. “You’ve set up a lot of talk, and, when the folks don’t find nothing but what your uncle’s written in that article, they’re going to tar and feather you.”

“I’ve made a good start,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got money in my pocket, and luck can give me a good finish. What did my uncle write about that mine? Anything exciting?”

“Money’s always exciting. But there’s nothing to his article. Except he mentions how Charlie Denham was killed.”

“Denham? Was he any relation of Ruth?”

“Father. He was out hunting with the two Burwells, and there was an accident with a gun during the trip. Denham shot himself by accident.”

“Accident? Little kids back East have accidents with guns. Men in this neck of the woods don’t have accidents.

Murder, Joe.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Parson grinned. “Besides, the Burwells carried Charlie Denham three miles to town to get him to a doctor, and Denham’s a big, heavy man, too.”

“They got to the doctor too late, didn’t they?” asked Jimmy Jones.

“Just too late. Denham died just before they reached town.”

“Too bad,” said the new editor-owner of the Jasper Journal. “I guessed that Denham would never get in alive.”

“You’re crazy, Jimmy. The reason Ruth Denham is so thick with Harry Burwell is because of the way Harry carried her father in on that three-mile trek. They say that old Sigmund Burwell was not much use, but Harry got that heavy man up on his shoulders and half ran with him all the way home.”

“Who tells that wonderful story?” asked Jimmy Jones.

“Why, the people all know it.”

“Who told them?”

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