1 July 4, 1880
"Look! That damned rascal is bringing his own coffin!" Senator Lance Falkland laid down his dueling pistol and turned toward the sound of crunching gravel. "By God, Pa," the senator's son Gaddis shouted again. "You got that editor right where you want him. That scoundrel can't back down now!" People in the center of the crowd, dressed colorfully for the holiday, began clearing a path as the farm wagon approached. The whooping and hollering fell off when the people could get a glimpse of the coffin. Hushed now, the crowd was stunned by the unexpected sight. Then murmurs followed in the wake of the wagon and its cargo. It wasn't even a respectable coffin. Just a plain pine box. Homemade. Some of the nails had even been bent by nervous hands. Yep, those scrub pine boards were hastily cut. Look at the rosin glisten in the sun.Worse than a pauper's coffin from the county court house. The wagon creaked up the hill, forcing a family to hastily pull aside their picnic plates and quilt on the ground. Blazoned across the sideboards of the wagon were large gold letters proclaiming "The Journal - We Tell the Truth". Editor Aaron Dunmore was driving the wagon himself. He used light flicks of a buggy whip to urge the ancient mule to the top of the hill. The sight of the editor, dressed in his best black suit, made the senator's son squeal in his grating high pitched voice. Gaddis Falkland shouted to the stunned crowd. "I hope he wrote hisself a good obituary!" This caused a man in the crowd to spit before remarking to a companion. "So this is what the senator meant when he invited everyone to come see the fireworks!" Editor Dunmore stepped from the wagon and pulled a polished box from under the buckboard. He opened the box and inspected the weapon he had purchased on the way to the holiday picnic.The dueling pistol was heavy, heavier than Dunmore had imagined it could be. His hand went clammy at the touch of the cold steel. Elegant engravings on the long barrel belittled its purpose as an object of death. Dunmore put a hand to his head, smoothing down some grey hair stirred by a sudden breeze. His permanently ink-stained fingers trembled. He nodded to his closest friend, the town druggist who had