Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 41, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 January 1909 — A FRONTIER YELLOW SCOOP [ARTICLE]

A FRONTIER YELLOW SCOOP

How Jack Stloe Was Killed Trylng to Make News.

The Linville Weekly Express had gone to press. Richard Vinton, an Ox ford graduate, was seeking a livelihood by pumping wisdom Into the quiet minds of the folk in and about the Missouri hamlet, but he set his best energies to the task. Week after week he filled up his editorial page with the product of a mind endowed to lea® mankind, but never a word of recognition had he received for It, save from an occasional exchange that stole his stuff and ran It in as original. Vinton had all the yearnings of a real journalist to do something to make people talk. But there wasn’t “anything doing” In Linville; there never had been. To Vinton’s discouraged soul it looked as if there never would be. He remarked this bitterly to Jack Stice, his printer, who. had blown 1» with the autumn winds, and stayed because he got three meals a day, a place to sleep and a few dollars a week for incidentals. Stice had seen all the wosld he wanted to, and more, and was content to settle down with Vinton, because Vinton let him talk all he wanted and never questioned the authenticity of his yarns. And if you were ever acquainted with the species you will know that their paradise lies in the discovery of a willing listener. “What we want is a fresh news story,” said the printer. “Of course,” said Vinton; “but how in the world are we going to get one If nothing ever happens?” “Make one." “I don’t like fakes,” remarked the editor, with dignity. “No more do I. Never could abide a pipe dream. Nobody but goslings uses ’em when they commence making copy. I mean to, get up something that’s genuine.”

The overland stage from Glasgow, due at Linville at midnight, was about to cross the Chariton river bridge when a masked man stepped from behind some timbers, and, leveling a gun at the driver, commanded him to halt. The horses were stopped. The experience was a new one to the driver, and he acted as though he wasn’t exactly clear as to what his obligations were in the premises. Pending theidecision he did nothing. The pas sengers peered out the windows, and asked what was the matter. It was a moonlight night and the highwayman and his gun stood out clear. The passengers were ordered to get out and line up oh the roadside. A man in uniform got out of the opposite door of the vehicle and went around behind it. He had something in his hand that sparkled In the moonlight. The highwayman did not see him. The other passengers obeyed instructions. The driver also got out of his box and stood in the line with bands uplifted. The robber stepped back a little to Inspect the line-up critically. The man In the uniform leveled his revolver and fired. Thp knight of the road turned two startled eyes In that direction, whirled around and fell to the ground. The man in the uniform went to the body, revolver in hand. “Close call for you, tenderfeet,” he said. “Lucky I was along.” All voiced approval. The highwayman was not dead, and they put him on top of the stage, none too gently, and proceeded. The man In uniform was congratulated by everybody, and stood the homage with dignity, as becomes a man above the common run. The wounded outlaw was taken to a doctor’s house, and a curious crowd followed in. When the black mask was removed from his eyes there were cries of astonishment by the townspeople. It was Vinton’s printer. There would have been talk of a lynching had not the death bullet done Its work. Execrating language fell from the lips of the excited spectators. It was a case of the viper warmed In the kind man’s bosom, they said. His evil looks had been mentally noted, some remarked, but they said they had never liked to mention it owing to respect for Vinton’s feelings. When Vinton arrived the dying man turned to him and whispered: “Good story.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed Vinton, “you didn’t do that to get a story?” A smile flitted over the agonized face. “I didn’t think about a soldier being along. Tell him I don’t hold it ag’ln him. Was just going to scare ’em a bit and send ’em back their property after paper came out. You’ll find ’head’ already ‘set’ —have to change It some—didn’t think about this. Better yet. Will make ’em talk. Good-by, old man; you was good to me. Glad to help you.” Vinton stood holding the dead man’s hand. The man In uniform touched him. “It’s the queerest thing I ever heard of In all my life.” “What?” asked Vinton, Instinctively moving away from the dying man. “The gun that fellow had wasn’t loaded. Say, what sort of guff was he handing out to you?” “He said he would forgive you,*' said Vinton, as he folded the chilling hands, pulled the sheet over the dead face and turned away.—Newspaperdom.