Newspaper Article in “The Demomire Dispatch”, February 7th, 1867 – “A Perilous Pilferage” By Cassandra Love
Amidst the perilous passes and ghostly mists that swathe the Mountains of Mist, a stagecoach journey took a harrowing turn into lawlessness. On January 30th, in the waning light of a winter’s day, passengers aboard the Demomire-bound stagecoach were thrust into a maelstrom of gunfire and fear. The assault, executed with a precision that belied the assailants’ hidden faces, resulted in grave injuries and the untimely demise of one Emmett Doyle.
Travelers included notable prospector Grady Hanlon; myself, Cassandra Love, correspondent for The Demomire Dispatch; Alonzo Fernado, a flamboyant actor en route to open his new theatre, located in the old Krause playhouse; the strong, stoic and widowed, Margot LaRue; academic seeker Rose Dropwater; and the elusive Angus Brodie. The coach was helmed by seasoned driver Clayton Arnett.
The ambush unfolded as the coach navigated the serpentine trails etched into the mountainside. Without warning, shots rang out, splintering wood and shattering the relative peace. Arnett’s efforts to protect his charge were met with violence, leaving him with wounds to both flesh and pride.
In a macabre twist, it became apparent that Doyle was not merely an unfortunate casualty but the quarry of a vendetta that culminated in cold blood. Before his execution, the brigands forcibly unearthed an iron-bound box from beneath the carriage—a repository whose contents remain as enigmatic as their motivations.
The aftermath saw shaken survivors grappling with the trauma of their ordeal. Injuries were attended to by local physician Dr. Thaddeus Crane upon our arrival in Demomire.
For now, we can only speculate on the identities and ambitions of those who cast their dark cloud over our mountain pass. Yet one thing remains certain: safety and security along our vital trade routes have been compromised—a fact that will not be taken lightly by those who seek to preserve order within our burgeoning frontier town.
Inquiries persist, as do our efforts to unravel this web of intrigue. Rest assured, dear readers, you shall be informed every step of the way.
Cassandra Love navigated the bustling streets of Demomire, her boots clicking assertively on the cobblestone as she made her way to the offices of The Demomire Dispatch. She clutched the latest draft of her article—a recounting of the stagecoach robbery that had left a stain of violence on the otherwise picturesque journey she had from Philadelphia.
The Dispatch’s building stood at the corner of Main and Brierly, its facade adorned with ornate ironwork that suggested both grandeur and the industrious spirit within. As she entered, the churning and clanking of printing presses greeted her, a symphony of mechanical progress that she had certainly never seen before.
Horace Goodwin, owner and editor-in-chief, stood amidst a flurry of activity, overseeing the production line with a discerning eye. Unlike most towns where electricity was still a dream of the future, Demomire harnessed its power with aplomb. The printing presses operated with an efficiency and speed that would be envied by any metropolitan publication back East.
Cassandra approached Horace, her article in hand. “Mr. Goodwin,” she called out over the din.
Horace turned, his eyes lighting up as he recognized his new hire. “Miss Love! Splendid timing.” He gestured to a quieter corner of the room where they could talk.
As they settled in front of a window overlooking the printing floor, Cassandra couldn’t help but marvel at how seamlessly women worked alongside men here—typesetting, operating machinery, and contributing to discussions about layout and content.
“I have it here—the piece on the robbery,” Cassandra said, extending her draft toward Horace.
Horace Goodwin guided Cassandra Love through a maze of desks where journalists bent over their work like acolytes in fervent prayer. The clatter of the presses softened as he opened the door to his office, a sanctum of polished wood and leather-bound volumes that spoke of his commitment to the truth.
“Please, have a seat,” Horace gestured to a chair across from his cluttered desk, littered with papers and the occasional half-smoked cigar.
Cassandra settled into the chair, her posture upright, betraying none of the unease that tugged at her thoughts. Horace took the article from her outstretched hand and scanned it with an editor’s keen eye. She watched him read, noting the slight nod of approval, the thoughtful hum at a particularly well-turned phrase.
“This is good work, Miss Love,” Horace finally said, setting the paper down. “Your account is vivid—captures the dread and shock of the incident.”
Cassandra’s lips curled into a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Goodwin. I aim to provide nothing less than the stark reality of events.”
Horace leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He tented his fingers, peering at Cassandra with an expectant gaze that seemed to cut through the lingering fog of her recent trauma. “Any more leads on this story? What’s your next move?”
Cassandra paused, her mind a whirlwind of possibilities. The robbery had opened a Pandora’s box of questions, each clamoring for her attention. “I’ve got a few,” she began, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “There’s more to unearth about Emmett Doyle’s past, that’s for sure.”
Horace nodded, a flicker of intrigue passing over his features.
Cassandra continued, “I intend to visit Dr. Crane. He treated our injuries after the robbery and might have insights into Doyle’s death—anything he noticed that seemed out of place.”
“Crane’s a good man,” Horace agreed. “He might be able to shed some light on this dark business.”
“And then there’s Clayton Arnett,” she added, “the driver,” her voice carrying a hint of determination. “He knows more than he lets on—the way he tried to shield that box…….”
“Arnett’s been driving coaches for years,” Horace said with a furrowed brow. “He’s seen all sorts come and go through Demomire.”
Cassandra gave a small nod, Horace stood up, his hands flat on the desk as he regarded her with a mixture of admiration and concern. “Be cautious, Miss Love. This town has its share of secrets, and not everyone takes kindly to them being dragged into the light. Demomire is unlike any place you’ve likely worked before. Here, your voice will carry as far as any man’s. We’re a town that values merit above all—your thoughts, your words, they hold weight if they prove their worth.”
Cassandra absorbed this with a nod. Equality was an ideal she held dear but had rarely seen in practice back East.
“But,” Horace continued, his tone shifting to one of caution, “there are things you ought to be wary of in our town. The Sentinels… they are not like other lawmen you may be accustomed to. They have their own codes, their own way of handling things.”
“The Sentinels?” Cassandra queried, recalling vague mentions from townsfolk but nothing concrete.
“They’ve been here since Demomire’s founding—protectors they refer to themselves as,” Horace explained. “While we at The Dispatch strive for transparency and accountability, the Sentinels operate under veils of secrecy. There may come times when what we report may… clash with their methods.”
Understanding dawned on Cassandra; journalism was often a dance around sensitivities and power plays she was well versed in navigating.
“Rest assured,” she replied with confidence that did not waver, “I’m no stranger to balancing on tightropes of discretion and truth.”
“Good, good,” Horace replied, “We have so far managed to keep out of their way, and from what I have heard, that’s a good thing.” he smiled at Cassandra and his eyes shifted to the window, watching the early evening light cast long shadows across the floor before turning back to Cassandra. “Also, there’s a new sheriff in town—Silas McPherson,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that hinted at deeper currents beneath the surface. “He’s not like the others we’ve had before; he comes with credentials and a backing that suggest he’s more than just a lawman.”
Cassandra leaned forward, intrigued. Her journalistic instincts honed in on the potential layers of this information. A new sheriff often meant new stories—perhaps ones that had been overlooked or buried.
Horace continued, “He’s sharp, maybe too sharp for some folks’ comfort here. I believe he’s aware of… complexities within Demomire that most would prefer to keep shrouded.” He tapped his fingers on the desk, a rhythm to his thoughts. “I want you to get close to him and see what he knows. His insights could be invaluable for our readers—and for your work.”
Cassandra nodded thoughtfully. A source within law enforcement could indeed prove to be a wellspring of information. She made a mental note to arrange an encounter with Sheriff McPherson. Besides, she could be quite partial to a bit of lawman.
“Finally, not to overwhelm you Miss Love, but here is your next story,”
Horace slid a collection of papers across the desk, the topmost sheet catching the light and casting a long shadow across the mahogany surface. Cassandra reached out, her fingers brushing over the documents as she pulled them closer. She rifled through them, her eyes scanning the headlines and snippets of information.
“It’s about the caretaker’s disappearance from Blackwood Manor,” Horace said, his voice low and even. Cassandra arched an eyebrow, her interest piqued. Disappearances were not uncommon in a place like Demomire, where secrets seemed to be as plentiful as the gold once was. But Horace’s tone suggested this was no ordinary vanishing act.
“There’s a pattern to the way people disappear around here,” Horace continued, leaning back in his chair. “Most of them drift into town looking for a new start, find their luck runs out, and they slip away just as quietly. But this—” he tapped the paper”—this is different.”
Cassandra nodded thoughtfully as she read the detailed account of the caretaker who had been entrusted with the upkeep of Blackwood Manor. A man known for his punctuality and routine had simply failed to appear one morning. No signs of struggle, no farewell notes—just an eerie silence where his presence used to be.
“Different how?” Cassandra asked, her gaze still fixed on the folio of papers.
Horace drummed his fingers on the desk before answering. “The others— had some form of contact with folk in town before they disappeared. But this caretaker? It’s as if he vanished into thin air.”
Cassandra folded one corner of the top paper—a habit when a particular detail caught her investigative instincts. She looked up at Horace with a determined glint in her eyes.
“I’ll look into it,” she said firmly.
Horace gave her an approving nod. “I knew you were the right one for this,” he said with a semblance of a smile.
As Cassandra gathered the papers and tucked them under her arm, she felt that familiar surge of adrenaline—the hunt for truth was on, and she relished the chase that awaited her in Demomire’s shadowy corners.
Horace moved in his chair again, the groan of the leather punctuating the momentary lull in their conversation. He peered at Cassandra with a hint of concern knitting his brow. “Miss Love, if you don’t mind my asking, where have you taken up residence since your arrival? I hope the accommodations are to your liking.”
Cassandra shifted in her seat, her fingers absentmindedly smoothing the edge of her notepad. “I’m staying at the Ortiz Hotel for the time being,” she replied, the mention of the place drawing a slight arch from her eyebrow. “It’s… quite something.”
“The Ortiz?” Horace echoed, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Well, that’s a far cry from roughing it. The place is more luxurious than any hotel has a right to be in these parts.”
A smile flickered across Cassandra’s lips, an acknowledgment of the hotel’s reputation for opulence and its soothing hot springs that were said to wash away more than just the physical weariness of travel.
“Yes, it is rather grand,” she conceded. “But I’ve always believed that a clear mind and rested body are essential for good work. The Ortiz certainly caters to that philosophy.”
Horace nodded appreciatively. “Of course, of course,” he said with a chuckle. “But I must say, it isn’t often we have someone of your caliber joining our little community here in Demomire. We should make sure you’re settled properly.”
Cassandra listened as Horace expressed his intention to find her suitable accommodation—a place she could call her own while she pursued the myriad stories that Demomire seemed to offer.
“I did consider offering you a room at The Lusty Corral when you first arrived,” Horace admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Lizzy Thornton runs a decent establishment there, but I thought better of it. You seem like someone who appreciates her privacy and space to think.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Cassandra said with a nod of gratitude. The saloon would have been convenient but bustling with life and noise—not ideal for someone who spent their days chasing leads and their nights immersed in writing.
“I’ll see what I can do about finding you a place,” Horace continued, his tone resolute. “Someone with your talents should be comfortable—helps keep the mind sharp.”
Cassandra felt a surge of appreciation for Horace’s thoughtfulness.
“Thank you, Mr. Goodwin,” she said sincerely. “I’m sure whatever you find will be more than suitable.”
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