Here is a sneak peek of a first draft from my forthcoming novel about Desert Steve..
There was a knock on his door, which made him jump. The mornings were slow here at the church, and his pastor’s office was a place of refuge. He would read and study for the next Sunday’s Sermon, go over the list of prayer requests and people in need. In the afternoons, he would go make visits to his parishioners. He took off Fridays and Saturdays, both to rest from his calling and to help out around the farm. Of course, Saturday nights often found him back at his study, going over the sermon for the next day. Increasingly, however, he was choosing to do that on Saturday afternoon, so he could spend Saturday evenings with
“Come on in!”
The door opened, and Poppy McKinnon came in. Poppy was the proprietor of Poppy’s Saloon, a bar and restaurant on Main Street. Steve was surprised to see him—he had never taken him for a religious man.
“Pastor Steve, do you have a moment?”
He seemed nervous. If he had taken his hat off (as he should have, being indoors), Steve imagined he would be holding it with both hands at his waist, fidgeting with it.
“Mr. McKinnon, nice to see you this morning. Please, come on in and have a seat.” He indicated one of two chairs placed in front of the desk. Steve got up and came around and took the other chair, turning it first, so they could face each other. Steve had been told at the Seminary that a pastor must not think of oneself as a “boss,” but as a “servant-leader.” Take opportunities to show that, they told him. He found that sitting in his chair, with a desk between him and one of his parishioners, placed a distance between the two that was not commensurate with a shepherd caring for his flock.
“Thank you, pastor.” Poppy sat down and finally removed his hat, placing in on his lap. “You can call me Poppy. Everyone does.”
“Very well, Poppy. What can I do for you?”
“Well, sir, it is a bit of a delicate matter, and I hope you can hear me out—“
“—Of course I will—“
“—and understand my concern. I…I…” he paused ands wriggled in his seat as if he could not get comfortable.
Steve smiled. “It’s okay, Poppy. I am here to listen and understand and serve the community of parishioners. Whatever you have to say, I will hear you.”
Poppy nodded. “Thank you. Pastor. Thank you.” He took a deep breath. “You know I own a bar on Main, yes?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, okay. I been running the place for nigh on thirty years now—before we was even a town! As you might know, I make money from the food I serve and the liquor I sell.”
“And, as I recall, prostitution a few years ago before the sheriff shut you down.”
Poppy reddened. “Yes, an unfortunate miscalculation by me, succumbing to the pressure from a…ah…a certain constituency.”
Steve nodded. “We all make mistakes.”
[ppp_patron_only level=”1″]
“And it was over ten years ago.”
Steve didn’t respond—it didn’t matter how long ago. Sin was sin. Poppy continued.
“Anyway, alcohol is where I make the most money. And…well, I don’t wanna tell you how to do your job…”
Steve had an idea where this was going. “Go on.”
“Well, Pastor, shucks, I’m just gonna say it. Your sermons on the evils of alcohol could cost me money. I know you’re new here—“
“I grew up in this town, Poppy.”
“Yes. Yes, I know. But as our pastor, you are new. And I don’t know what they learned you in Seminary school, and wouldn’t presume—“
“Say your say, Mr. McKinnon.”
“Very well. I came to ask you to stop including so many comments about the evils of alcohol. I understand that our town drunks—and we both know who I’m talking about—might need to hear that message. But they aren’t sitting in the pews. Sir.” He seemed relieved he had gotten it out.
“Well, Poppy, I do appreciate you coming to talk to me. In kind, I would not presume to tell you how to run your business. But I would ask you to consider other ways to make money. Alcohol is a scourge on our society. It leads to arguments, loss of self-control, sexual impropriety—all acts that are against the fruits of the Spirit and, if you prefer a secular reason, causes violence, even murder, divorce, and all sorts of societal problems.”
“But…but not everyone acts like that. Most of my customers just have a drink or two after work and head home to families! They are good people.”
Steve shook his head. “It is an evil and unnecessary vice. No one would be less healthy or less kind if they never had alcohol. ‘Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess, but be filled with the Spirit!’”
Poppy leaned forward. “But that’s my point. Most people do not drink in excess. Isn’t that what it means?” He sat back, embarrassed. “I can’t say I knows much about the scriptures, though my momma read ‘em to me when I was young. But you just quoted—“
“Yes, I know what I said. But alcohol always eventually leads to improper behavior. And I have walked past your place at night—it seems like the majority are quite drunk!”
Poppy sighed and looked off, through the window. Theology was way out of his wheelhouse, and he did not know what to say. “But…what about someone in the Bible telling someone to drink wine? I don’t know where it is, but someone told me it was there.”
Steve smiled. “The apostle Paul told Timothy to drink a little wine for his stomach. As a medicine—they didn’t have medicines back then like we do now.” He tried to soften his voice. “Look, Poppy. It isn’t your fault you are in this spot. Previous pastors did not preach the word as they should have. The road is narrow! It takes discipline. But this town—indeed, this country!—would be better off if we had no alcohol. I doubt our drunkard politicians will ever prohibit it, but they should!”
Poppy’s face turned red, and he gritted his teeth.
“Do you have more to say?” Steve asked.
“Yes.” He took another deep breath—more like an angry puff this time. “Your job is to preach and run the church for the people who care about that sort of thing. It isn’t to put people out of business for selling something that is perfectly legal!”
“God doesn’t care whether it’s illegal or not. Sin is sin.
“I just think you need to stick to the Bible things and praying for people and teaching about Jesus, and let us businessmen do what we do without interference from you! I’m part of this community, too!”
Steve held his temper. Not always easy, he got angry at such blind stubbornness. “Mr. McKinnon, it is my job to care for the souls in this community, which means keeping them from sin. Part of that is to keep them away from alcohol, gambling, and prostitution. Scripture is clear.”
Poppy looked down, then back up at Steve, shaking his head. “I think you’ve lost your way and power has gone to your head.” He stood up. “I tried to have a civil talk, but you are too stubborn.”
Being called stubborn really made Steve mad. He had heard it many times. It wasn’t stubbornness—it was firm integrity! He was merely following God’s ways!
“I am sorry you feel that way, Mr. McKinnon. But your motivation for coming here was money—another root of sin! My motivation is to protect my flock from the evils that exist all around them in the world.” He stood to face Poppy. “Choose mammon and alcohol if you wish, but that is not God’s way, and I will never stop preaching against its dangers! It is God’s will!”
Poppy held Steve’s eyes for a moment, then slammed his hat back on and headed for the door. “You have not heard the last of me, Pastor. It’s not right what you are doing.” He left, slamming the door behind him.
Steve stood for a moment, shaking his head. It wasn’t the first complaint he’d had. “Just doing God’s work here.” He returned to his desk.
Desert. Sun. Sand. No roads or human settlements within fifty miles in any direction. The perfect place to found a town?
That’s what Steve Ragsdale believed. So he and his wife bundled up their four kids in their 1915 Ford Model T, bought a local prospector’s shack and well, and built a fuel station (50-gallon drum), a repair garage, and café. He advertised “Free food on days the sun doesn’t shine” and “No drunks, no dogs—we prefer dogs.” He was the owner, sheriff, rockhound, author, naturalist, desert guide, and Santa Claus at Christmas.
He became one of the local “desert rats” and earned the moniker “Desert Steve.” Along the way, he became part of history: the Colorado Aqueduct, the construction of the first State and National highways, the invention of prepaid healthcare, General Patton and World War II, the largest iron mine in the United States, flying saucer sightings, murder, and much more.
Based on a true story, this is the tale of a quirky, clever, and bold man who pursued a dream, wrote bad poetry, and found ways to survive when many would have perished or packed it in.
Discover more from Markus McDowell, author
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