Steamboat Creek

Pastor Colquhoun and his bevy of assistants had been playing daily to large crowds in Steamboat Creek since the rain arrived three weeks ago. The day I sought refuge from the downpour at his bedraggled venue, I was greeted at the entrance by a stewardess rattling an offertory box. I made an appropriate contribution and entered the packed marquee to encounter the acrid fug of an abattoir’s lairage. The stench of unwashed bodies was so vile that members of the congregation ducked outside now and again, risking a soaking for a lungful of fresh air.

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Back in 1846, Steamboat Creek attracted itinerant prospectors heading for Stephen’s Pass, via Truckee Meadows, all hoping to cross the Sierra Nevada before winter. The promise of gold and stories of untold riches lured us there from across the continent in our thousands. We were desperate souls to a man and after months of navigating harsh terrain we missed our sweet-hearts even more than the taste of home cooking. 

   Pastor Colquhoun understood human frailties and dispatched his dainty assistants to distract us with coy smiles. I waited with others hoping for a brief moment of attention when his beguiling coterie circulated amongst us, collecting tokens of our appreciation. 

Meanwhile, in return for donations to his righteous cause, Colquhoun prayed for our safe passage over the lofty granite peaks. He excelled at invoking the Lord in thunderous tones and delivered fiery sermons warning about the evils of “the demon drink,’ and promoted an oath of abstinence for the sake of our salvation. I had much in common with my fellow adventurers, but two attributes distinguished me; I could hold my drink and went unarmed.

   A man nearby said: ‘The pastor can’t stay away from towns like Steamboat.’ 

His immediate neighbour said, ‘He acts like he’s untouchable, don’t he?’

   ‘Are you taking the Son of God over them mountains?’ 

   ‘I can’t afford to take the son of God with me anymore.’

   ‘What about your church subscriptions?’

   ‘I’ve been making offerings every day.’

   ‘I expect you’ll be covered, then.’

   ‘An umbrella’d be more use.’

   ‘Better still a canoe.’

   ‘Have you witnessed such a place for rain, stranger?’

I’d been watching the pastor when he spoke and turning said, ‘I’ve just arrived, so I’m unfamiliar with the climate here.’

   ‘Well, it beats all the weather I’ve ever seen before.’

I nodded. 

   An enormous man with an ankle-length waxed duster appeared in the tent’s entrance. He removed his hat to chase off the rain and raked a clawed hand through his lank hair and thick beard. Even without his hat, he was head and shoulders above the average height. His deep-set, smouldering eyes scanned the crowd in the marquee as if assessing potential challengers. He clocked the pastor, replaced his hat and edged closer to the front.

   The pastor spotted the stranger working his way through the congregation and his nostrils flared. The stranger narrowed his eyes and fixed his gaze on Colquhoun as he approached him. Words failed the pastor and his jaw flapped loose like a drooping sole under a worn out shoe. He stopped the sermon and stared at the intruder. There was no sound within the tent. All eyes watched the confrontation unfold in frozen moments. Those in the giant’s path to the pulpit withdrew like the biblical waters of the red sea. When he reached the pastor, he turned to face the congregation. His face was expressionless and, after a rasping cough, he held out his hands.

   ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the man holding this service today is an imposter. He holds no papers of divinity from any recognised institution or college. It’s obvious that he has only committed to memory a few passages from the good-book to lend credibility to his fraudulent sermons. This creature posing as a church minister is not only illiterate but is also wanted by the law in the states of Colorado, Utah and Nevada.’

   ‘Lies! Lies!’ cried the pastor, thumbing through his opened bible.

   ‘The most recent charges involved girls as young as eleven entrusted to his care who he violated while clothed as of a man of God.’

A moan washed through the assembly like a tidal-bore surging against the current. 

   ‘No, it’s him,’ the pastor said, choking. ‘This is the devil made flesh before you.’

   ‘Let’s hang the monster,’ said a man below the pulpit, turning to address the congregation.

   ‘Not three weeks before this, they ran him out of Holbrook Junction after they caught him “in flagrante” with a goat. Yes, gentlemen, I said, with a goat.’

   ‘I’ll shoot the monstrosity myself,’ said a man, rising at the rear of the marquee, drawing a pistol and firing it above the pulpit. I backed away from the agitated horde, ducked under the canvas, and left the marquee for the hotel across the street.

# 

An exchange of gunfire occurred within the mighty canvas structure, accompanied by screams, yelps, and curses. A dozen exits appeared as people caught within the enclosure hacked and slashed their way through the canvas walls. People poured forth like the water draining from a kitchen colander. Colquhoun’s flock trampled over each other in their panic; women screamed, the elderly stumbled, and the infirm were crushed underfoot in the mud; awful injuries were inevitable in the selfish chaos that ensued. 

#

Once I’d reached safety within the hotel’s vestibule, I turned to face the marquee and witnessed it collapse like an emphysemic lung; its tattered canvas walls deflating and settling on the ground amongst splintered uprights, shattered ridge-poles and useless guy-ropes. 

   When I entered the hotel’s saloon, the giant man in the battered duster was leaning forward with his hands placed flat on the mahogany bar. He was talking to the proprietor as I wandered over and ordered a whisky. I lay my money down on the polished surface, but the barman pushed it back.

   ‘This one’s on the Mr Delaney,’ he said, nodding in the giant’s direction.

Mr Delaney raised his glass to me and sipped his liquor. He then resumed his conversation with the manager, regaining his composure after his incendiary rhetoric.         

   Soon afterwards, men were piling through the doorway, mud-splattered, swearing under their breath and nursing their wounds. They’d hounded the pastor out of town and others were hunting him down.

   ‘How come you had information about the bible-basher?’

   ‘Information?’ said Delaney.

   ‘When were you in Holbrook Junction?’

   ‘Holbrook Junction?’

   ‘How come you knew all that dirt on him?’

   ‘You mean the Pastor Colquhoun?’

   ‘Yes.’ I said. ‘It sounds like you were in Holbrook Junction too.’

   ‘I’ve never been to Holbrook Junction and doubt he has either.’

I sipped my whiskey. ‘Well, where was it you knew him?’

   ‘I never laid eyes on the pastor before today.’

   ‘You never heard of him?’

Delaney tipped back his shot glass and finished his drink. 

There was silence in the room. The bewildered survivors looked at each other. They furrowed their brows and shrugged. One man laughed out loud. Then another. The entire room fell about in laughter. Someone bought Delaney a drink.

The End