While the carpenters worked on getting the newspaper office ready, Magnate Lawson and Ms. Winona thought it was a good time to walk the beat, Winona getting stories, and the Magnate making advertising deals. They left the press room in good hands with the newly hired press operator D. Ancell.

Ancell was an easy hire. Not only did he serve the Union Army and veteran of the Civil War, he was good at anything mechanical. He’d used Baron Anderson and the Tycoon as references.

“If it’s made of metal,” the Baron said, “has moving parts, and requires precision and grease, Mr. Ancell has my upmost recommendation.”

The Tycoon concurred. “I put Mr. Ancell on my payroll and he works independently and on demand. The man could make a train out of a rusty pocket watch.”

This was why he worked so well for the Daily Iowegian. Ms. Winona worked hard all day getting the paper ready for print, and D. Ancell worked hard all night getting it ready for the newsstands.

As for delivery to the streets, all Ms. Winona had to do was pay a visit to Ms. Tina, and the next day aspiring “newsboys” were on her doorstep at 5 a.m. ready to go to work. By 8 a.m. they’d returned to Magnate Lawson with bags full of pennies and nickels. They called it the 8 a.m. jingle.

* * * * *

After delivering the herd to the Demry Stockyard the Baron noticed his buckskin was favoring it’s right rear foot.

“Must have happened when the herd started milling at the creek crossing,” Foreman Wright said.

“Seems logical,” the Baron said. “I better take him to Doc Lain.”

Doc D. Lain was not only the community veterinarian, but, as the Baron put it, “since our town doctor is a slobbering drunk and as worthless as nipples on a boar hog,” if something ailed the Baron, Doc Lain knew enough about anatomy and biology to seek his advice.

Doc Lain set up his veterinarian clinic at the stockyard where his services were mostly needed. When the Baron walked his limping horse inside the vet barn, the doc knew exactly what to do. He applied the remedy and wrapped the ankle and put the horse in a stall, and gave the Baron a loaner horse.

“How have you been feeling?” The doc asked the Baron.

“Dealing with that same ache,” the Baron said.

“Where’s it hurting?”

“Everywhere.”

Doc Lain laughed. “Well, sir, there’s only one remedy for that.”

“And that is?”

“Retirement.”

The Baron huffed. “That only happens when they take me to the undertaker.”

“Well, in that case all I can recommend is a swig of bourbon before bedtime.”

“Well Doc,” the Baron said. “My flask doesn’t operate on a fixed time schedule.”

* * * * *

The ladies of the Baptist Women’s League were on pins and needles waiting for the arrival of visiting pastor, the Reverend M. Stine. The devout of Centerville gathered for his fire and brimstone, and were unanimous in their decision to make him a permanent fixture as the leader of their church.

“I have been made aware,” the Reverend said, “of the need for revival in this community. The plague of liquor touching the lips of men who are supposed to be loved and admired.”

“Amen!” Was shouted from the congregation. Heads nodded and “Yes! Yes!” And more spirited “yeses” continuously followed.

“If we can’t persuade them with words and scripture,” The reverend continued, “then we must also try to convince them by example.”

The ladies of the Baptist Women’s League sat in the front pew, absorbed and enamored.

“And our womenfolk,” the reverend pounded his fist on the pulpit, “you must wear more conservative clothing. The neck closed. Dresses long. And no bright colors! All the attention must be given to the Holy Spirit and not to your vanity!”

The “amens” in the church had never been louder.

That afternoon Reverend Stine rode his horse about the community, introducing himself to those who yet hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him. When he crossed paths with Baron Anderson at the Talbot sawmill, the two men walked together, the reverend giving him pretty much the same sermon that he’d given that morning.

“I hear everything you’re saying, Reverend,” the Baron said. He stood and nodded in contemplation, then reached inside his coat and pulled out his flask and unscrewed the cap. “Yes, I can see how that plan might work.” He took a quick pull from the flask then handed it to the reverend. “Like a snort?”

The reverend’s eyes widened then softened, and he looked both ways around him, then back at the flask and smiled. “Don’t mind.”

As Reverend Stine tipped back the flask Baron Anderson patted him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna fit in just fine around here, Reverend.”