Free The Great Plains by Nicole Alexander Page A

interrogation, signs, numbers, and so forth. Line after line of type, metal blocks cut into letters, words and sentences created to be imposed and printed from.
    â€˜Hearst is using publicity stunts to swell circulation and the advertising. Why, there are more advertisements than stories.’ Edmund passed his father the month-old New York newspaper. ‘We should be expanding.’ His voice competed with the clickety-clack of the linotype.
    William Randolf Hearst had been in the newspaper business for sixteen years, starting first at his father’s San Francisco Examiner and employing talented writers such as Mark Twain and Jack London. Edmund had watched his meteoric rise with a mixture of jealousy and admiration. ‘So where would you like to relocate to?’ Aloysius enquired. This was not the first time they’d had such a conversation.
    â€˜Truly?’ Edmund replied. ‘Beyond America. England perhaps, or Australia.’
    Aloysius couldn’t hide his amusement. ‘You’ve grown ambitious, Edmund, but I think it’s best for a person to stick to what they know, in their own country. You would have to move east, source a potential paper, preferably one that was failing, and hope you could turn it around.’ The national financial crisis of 1893 had affected everyone, including the Wade family. They’d had money invested with one of the five banks in the city that had failed and had been forced to virtually close down the plantation when cotton prices dropped below five cents a pound. ‘But, by all means, if you can find an appropriate newspaper and a financier for the business, I won’t stand in your way, Edmund.’
    They watched as Brian moved a line of letter matrixes to a mould where molten lead was injected. The line was then ejected and the matrices distributed automatically into the magazine funnels above the keyboard, ready for use again. It was a far cry from the days of the manual typesetting machine. Aloysius could now print thousands of pages a day and newspapers were no longer restricted to eight pages.
    â€˜Since Hearst purchased the New York Morning Journal last year he’s been in a head-to-head circulation war with Joseph Pulitzer of the New York World .’
    â€˜He’s a canny operator,’ Aloysius replied, ‘I’ll give him that.’ He flicked open the paper. There were stories of municipal and financial corruption, clever cartoons and opinion pieces on the government of the day. However, it was the book section that caught his attention. Wynema: A Child of the Forest written by a Creek Indian woman, although published almost two years ago, was mentioned in an opinion piece. Aloysius had read the work on publication, hopeful of gaining some perspective into Philomena’s life. It had not eased his regret.
    Edmund peered over his shoulder. ‘I thought we were talking about expansion.’
    â€˜You were talking expansion,’ Aloysius countered. ‘I have enough businesses here to keep me gainfully employed.’ Folding the paper, he dropped it in a waste bin. Dallas, like the rest of the country, was still recovering from the recent panic and business was tough. Hundreds of people had left the city, the lumber and flour markets had all but vanished, cotton was yet to improve and soup kitchens still fed hundreds daily.
    â€˜I wouldn’t go east. I was thinking of heading north, maybe Kansas or even to Oklahoma.’
    â€˜What?’ Aloysius had never considered his youngest to be the adventurous type. ‘The Unassigned Lands?’
    â€˜They’re not unassigned anymore, Father.’
    â€˜I know that,’ he replied irritably, ‘but every outlaw in the country has been holed up there for years,’ Aloysius argued. ‘Those lands are right in the middle of Indian territory.’
    â€˜That won’t last. The land run of ’89 saw thousands of homesteaders stake a land