Here is a first draft scene from my upcoming novel, a historical fiction story about Desert Steve, a quirky man who founded a town in the California desert in the 1920s.
He dismounted from his horse and tied her to a post near the dance area. He took the spurs off his boots and placed them in a saddlebag, along with the pistol his dad had given him for his 16th birthday. These dances weren’t common, but they always held one like this on the first Saturday of spring, weather permitting. They cleared out an area back behind city hall, built a puncheon floor, and set up a few tents, tables, and chairs around it. The dance floor was a new addition, in the past, they had simply spread a few large wagon sheets over the ground.
There was always a local band—usually with guitar, upright bass, fiddle, and percussion. They played some of the popular music of the day, though Steve rarely recognized any of the songs. His family was not musical, although his parents often read books, magazines, and newspapers. His mom used to read poetry to him when he was younger, but as a young man in his late teens, he was no longer interested. His only other exposure to music, besides these dances, were the hymns they sang in church, and accompanied by instruments. He did love those hymns.
Not that he wasn’t interested in poetry—he loved it, and had even written some of his own, though he had never shown any of it to anyone. Some of it was about life on a farm, or animals and how they were treated by people, sometimes about politics, but he also wrote some hymn lyrics. He thought maybe someday he’d find someone who was musical and maybe set them to a tune.
“Hey, Steve! Let’s get a drink!”
It was his best friend, Roman, part of the Smithson clan who had ranches on the east side of town, out towards the Cherokee lowlands. They’d been in school together since they were kids.
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“Let’s do it, Roman!” They headed towards the makeshift bar.
“I saw Lydia here earlier,” Roman said. “She was dancing with Clint.”
Steve frowned. “So?”
Roman laughed. “Just thought you might like to know. If you’re gonna punch him in the face, let me know, I want to watch.”
“We’re not courting. I haven’t even taken her on a date. She can dance with whomever she wants.”
“Yeah, but I know you don’t like it.” Roman punched him in the arm.
Steve didn’t reply. But Roman was right, he’s been sweet on Lydia since her family moved into town two years ago. They were friendly, but he hadn’t gotten up the courage to move beyond that. And since he was headed to seminary, they’re probably was no reason to.
They arrived at the bar. Roman ordered a glass of whiskey for himself and a sarsparilla for Steve. They found a table and sat down where they could watch the dance floor. Steve scanned the floor but didn’t see Lydia or Clint. Wait. There was Clint, over at another table, chatting up a woman. It was not Lydia, to Steve’s relief.
“So what are you gonna do when we finish up with her schooling?”
Steve looked at him. “I’m not sure. I could stay and work on the farm, but being younger than Charlie, I’ll never inherit it. I’d have to eventually start my own farm. So I thought of other ideas. Maybe join the army. Maybe go to seminary.”
“Seminary? I know you mentioned that before, but What kind of life would that be?”
“What kind of life?” Steve frowned. “Just the most noble calling one could have?”
Steve suspected that Roman was a bit jealous of The possibility of Steve getting out of Coffeyville. Roman, was the only son with four sisters. He’d be stuck at his dads farm, helping him out, and then taking over once his dad was too old. He had no other path. Though he acted like it, he was really too afraid to venture out of what he knew.
“Where are you going to preach when you’re done? Back here?”
“We’ll see. Maybe back here. Maybe I’ll go to Texas, they say there’s lots of new towns, and new churches are springing up everywhere. Or maybe Colorado.”
“Hello boys!” A voice said from behind them. Steve jumped. It was Lydia. She looked down at Steve, standing beside him. “Evening, Steve.”
Her smile was beautiful. He doffed his hat. “Good evening, Lydia.”
“Hey, Steve was just telling me he wanted to dance with you.”
Steve whipped his head around at Roman to give him a steely stare. Damn him.
“Did he now?” Her tone said she didn’t believe him, and knew what was going on, but she still had a smile. She looked into Steve’s eyes. “That would be wonderful.” She held out her hand.
Steve darted his eyes at Roman again, then stood and smiled and took Phebe’s hand. The band was playing “Twilight Thoughts” by Mazurka, a popular dancing tune for couples. Steve was nervous dancing with Lydia, but because of his interest in her, not because of his dancing ability. His mom had taught him well a few years ago when he became of an age to become a suitor.
They stepped up onto the rough-hewn log dance floor. Steve placed his hands appropriately on the girl, and they began dancing.
“I don’t like this new puncheon floor,” Lydia said. “It wears out my dancing shoes too quickly!”
“Do you dance a lot?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I love dancing! Almost as much as I love cooking!”
“I remember the stew you made for Antonio’s birthday last month. Quite tasty!”
“Thank you. ” There were a few moments of silence, and then Lydia spoke again. “So what are your plans after schooling? Still thinking about the army? Or the seminary?”
”I’m leaning towards the seminary.”
“I think that’s wonderful. A man in the pulpit, making the world a better place.” The smile left her face. “If so, when would you leave?”
“Next month. Evanston, Illinois.
“Oh, that’s wonderful! I have never been farther than Independence! But I really want to travel. I don’t want to stay in Coffeyville for my whole life.”
Steve smiled. He felt the same way, even though he did love it here. “Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, pretty much anywhere.” She tossed her head, her lovely brown hair cascading around her shoulders. “But I would really like to go west. Maybe Arizona or even California.”
“That sounds exciting, but what would you do? How will you decide where to go?” People had often told Steve that he was always practical, and down to earth. That he was not much of a romantic, or a free thinker. He didn’t see anything wrong with that. But he had his romantic side!
“Well, I suppose that depends on who I marry.” She gave a little awkward laugh. “Not that I have any suitors.”
An awkward silence followed, and Steve was not sure what to say. If he was bolder…
The song stopped and Lydia pulled away from him slightly, still holding his hand. “ If you go away, when will you be back? Would you write to me?”
His heart fluttered a little. “Sure, I’d write you. And I’ll be back for Christmas. And then over the summer. The whole program is only two years.”
“Good. I would write you in return. We should stay in touch, do you think?” The band started playing a polka— Steve thought it was called “Redowa,” but he wasn’t sure. He thought it was a new tune.
“Oh, Steve, I love polkas! Do you know how to dance to polkas? I can teach you?”
The answer was yes, and they continue to dance. Steve could not stop the grin from his face.
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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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