unction of these
frontier papers seemed unimportant to him, I began to argue the point,
and finally, thoroughly aroused, described the possibilities which grew
in my own mind as I discussed them. There was a tremendous job for the
frontier newspaper to do, I pointed out. Did he know the extent of this
great homestead movement and the future it promised? True, the frontier
papers were small in size, but they could become a power in the
development of this raw country.

"How?" he demanded.

I think I fully realized it for the first time myself then. "As a medium
of cooperation," I told him.

He got up and walked to the window, hands in pockets, and looked out
over the prairie. Then he turned around. "But the development of this
country is a gigantic enterprise," he protested. "It would require the
backing of corporations and millions of dollars. In fact, it's too big
for any organization but the government to tackle. It's no job for a
woman." His eyes twinkled as he contrasted my diminutive size with the
great expanse of undeveloped plains. "What could you do?"

"Of course it's big," I admitted, "and the settlers do need lots of
money. But they need cooperation, too. Their own strength, acting
together, counts more than you know. And a newspaper could be made a
voice for these people."

"Utopian," he decided.

Bill appeared at the door to tell him that "The stage has been a-waitin'
ten minutes, now."

He handed me his card, shook hands and rushed out. I looked at the card:
"Halbert Donovan and Company, Brokers, Investment Bankers, New York
City." The fact that such men were coming into the country, looking it
over, presaged development. Not only the eyes of the landseekers but
those of industry and finance were turning west.

I stared after the stagecoach until it was swallowed up in distance. My
own phrases kept coming back to me. There was a job to be done, a job
for a frontier newspaper, and soon the McClure _Press_ would be a thing
of the past--as soon as the homesteaders had made proof. Slowly an idea
was taking shape.

I slammed the print-shop door shut, mounted Pinto and loped home. I
turned the horse loose to graze and walked into the shack. With my back
against the door in a defensive attitude I said abruptly, "I'm going to
start a newspaper on the reservation."

Ida Mary slowly put down the bread knife. "But where are you going to
get the money?" she asked practically.

"I don't know, yet. I have