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1952.
The New York winter clung to the streets like debt—thick, stubborn, and biting. James RienHeart sat in a second-floor office above a silent, near-bankrupt printer in Brooklyn. The air reeked of ink, stale tobacco, and failure.
But to James, it smelled like an opportunity.
The printer—Golden Crest Publications—had been a once-proud operation supplying paperback romance and adventure serials. Now, it was drowning in unpaid orders, dusty stockpiles, and outdated machinery. Most saw a dying business.
James saw a seedling.
Golden Crest had three things going for it: nationwide logistics contracts still under government terms, a rare multi-city distribution license, and its low-cost press. It wasn't glamorous—but it was real, and more importantly, it was legal infrastructure.
He didn't want a vanity press. He wanted control.
James, through IronTree Capital and a pair of shell buyers, began purchasing its debt quietly throughout 1951. When the final auction happened in March 1952, his bid won without raising suspicion. No one batted an eye at the anonymous investor who bought the place for pennies on the dollar.
He renamed it Stone River Publishing.
The rebrand wasn't just cosmetic—it was symbolic. Stone for permanence. River for constant flow. It would become the silent artery through which stories travelled, copyrights secured, and authors made immortal.
But James didn't rush to publish novels yet. He wasn't ready. Not until Stone River had reliable editors, typesetters, and distribution revived. He spent the rest of the year rebuilding the internal systems.
Hiring wasn't about resumes—it was about trust.
He brought in veterans, Jewish refugees, and college dropouts—people willing to work, who wanted something new. Many thought they were just rebuilding a small printing company. James never corrected them.
Behind closed doors, he was drafting his 5-year expansion plan:
Acquire low-cost serial story rights.
Build artist teams to create comics for children.
Experiment with pulp-style science fiction under pseudonyms.
Prepare an internal legal team to handle copyright extensions.
And above all—buy time until capital is strong enough to make bold moves.
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By late 1953, Stone River was profitable. Not by much, but enough to keep investors from poking around.
That was when James made his first intellectual property play.
A small-time mystery writer named Daniel Roscoe was dying of cancer. His pulp detective character, Marshal Graves, had sold well during the war, but Roscoe had no family and no leverage. James approached him with an offer: $8,000 cash, full health coverage, and lifetime royalties of 2% on every reprint.
Roscoe agreed in a week.
James now owned Marshal Graves—a full catalogue of 20 short novels, 8 standalone stories, and a character with enough American grit to rival Sherlock Holmes if handled correctly.
More importantly, Stone River now had a house IP. Something no rival publisher could republish or steal.
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In the spring of 1954, James turned to a different battlefield—comics.
At the time, the industry was in chaos. Senate hearings on juvenile delinquency had crippled many companies. Horror and crime comics were being gutted. James saw a vacuum forming—and he intended to fill it.
He created an internal division: Cinder Press Comics.
Its first title: Sentinel: War-Born Defender, a patriotic superhero wrapped in World War II trauma, inspired by veterans and made for boys who still played with GI Joe toys.
The artwork was gritty and minimalist. The storytelling? Sharp and clean.
Sales were modest at first. But schools liked it. Veteran groups supported it. And more importantly, parents didn't hate it.
James was building something safe—but memorable.
By year's end, Sentinel had sold over 60,000 copies across four states. The money wasn't much, but the infrastructure was evolving.
Stone River had become more than a publisher. It was an IP factory in disguise.
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Still, James knew what he truly needed: capital.
Enough to stop crawling and begin buying names that mattered.
By 1955, his Wall Street circle had grown deeper. Leonard Adler had introduced him to media lawyers and copyright specialists. Through one, James learned about early negotiations involving Tolkien's works in the U.S. market.
It wasn't time yet.
James made a note: Approach Tolkien rights no earlier than 1957–58, after Stone River expansion and post-film revenue framework.
Instead, he focused on public domain strategy.
He greenlit internal reimaginings of old epics—Beowulf, King Arthur, Journey to the West, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea—but with new characters, new lore, and long-form serialization. He instructed all writers: "If it's public domain, we own the new version forever."
And it worked.
Stone River became known for "literary reboots" that didn't violate the law but stayed legally defendable. James ensured every character, title, and world was filed under U.S. copyright.
This wasn't business anymore.
It was a fortress being built in the shape of stories.
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By Christmas 1955, James stood alone in his Brooklyn office again, now upgraded with a secretary, two phones, and a new oak desk. He looked out the frosted window at the quiet streets below.
Stone River was stable.
IronTree was solvent.
Marshal Graves was getting a comic adaptation.
Sentinel was getting a radio special.
And in his drawer, locked behind a false bottom, was a folder labelled:
Phase Two: Hollywood, 1956–1963
Inside it, the target: 20th Century Fox.
He wasn't ready yet. But he would be.
One story at a time.