From the Diary of Garret John McEwan
October 3, 1879
In the Vicinity of Scully, California. Weather cooler.
In the midst of settling the matter of the displaced Coloreds from the encampment, Marcus received a telegram from Scully saying the stagecoach, with gold bound for Alder Creek’s bank, had been robbed.
A Mr. LeFeau, private security man for the bank, had arrived that very morning to confer with Mr. Jonathan Barker, the Boston banker from Fiduciary Holdings and Trust, and so we found ourselves pressed to find the missing stage and stolen gold. We tried to wire back to Scully for further details, but Leonard Bolton, who runs the telegraph in addition to being unelected Mayor, said the lines had just gone down, probably cut by Indians.
Having no decent alternatives, Marcus, myself, Ben, Carter, and Mr. LeFeau set out for Scully ourselves to see if we could find more insight into this matter.
Mr. LeFeau gives me an uncomfortable feeling. He has a hybrid accent—half Cajun, half English—and dresses like a big city undertaker. He sits a horse like one, too, and I am sure his backside was red by the time we arrived in Scully. There is something shifty about his eyes, and he carries himself like a man accustomed to getting his own way. I can’t see a weapon on him, which strikes me as odd for a security man. I have to presume if the bank hired him to protect their gold, they knew what they were doing, but I can’t say the man puts me at my ease.
We are bedding for the night here, with the intention of picking up the trail of the man who sent the telegram on first light, for there are inconsistencies in the story we have unearthed so far, not least of which being that the man who gave the report was treated for gunshot but claims the stage was robbed by Indians, a patent falsehood unless they were apostate Indians. Even Ben, who is only half blood, will use no firearms.