Steamboat Dispatch
A Crime Serial
By Our Special Saranac Lake Correspondent
In Chapter Four of Steamboat Dispatch: A Crime Serial, titled “The Guide’s Eye,” seasoned local guide Nathaniel Collins becomes wary of a mysterious new arrival, Quinn, whose polished demeanor and calculating eyes suggest hidden motives. While guiding Quinn on a fishing trip to Mountain Pond, Collins senses that Quinn’s intentions go beyond recreation. He connects Quinn’s presence to the growing influence of the Steamboat Pirate Syndicate and their strange music, which has attracted curious outsiders to the area. As the day unfolds, Collins realizes Quinn is searching for something deeper, and he resolves to keep a close watch on him.
Chapter Five: A Gathering Storm
Nathaniel Collins awoke the next morning with a sense of unease that clung to him like the morning mist over Chateaugay Lake. He couldn’t shake the images from the previous day—the way Quinn’s eyes darted around Mountain Pond, the subtle tension in his shoulders as if he were bracing for something. Collins had seen men like Quinn before, men who carried secrets like a weight on their backs, always looking over their shoulder for the shadows that followed them.
The morning light was just starting to break over the mountains as Collins set out for Merrill. The town was quiet, the usual hum of activity subdued as if the very air was holding its breath. The streets were empty save for a few early risers, and even they seemed to move with a cautious slowness, as if not wanting to disturb whatever was lurking just beneath the surface.
As he made his way to the general store, Collins couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in the town. The new music and art that had started to seep into Merrill’s culture, brought by the Steamboat Pirates and their gatherings, were beginning to take root. Where once the town had been defined by its connection to the land—the woods, the lake, the mountains—now there was a new energy in the air, a restlessness that made the old-timers uneasy.
He found Quinn sitting on the porch of the store, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance. The man looked like he hadn’t slept, dark circles under his eyes, his clothes a little more rumpled than they had been the day before. But his eyes were sharp, and when he saw Collins approach, there was a flicker of recognition—maybe even respect.
“Morning, Collins,” Quinn said, his voice rough from the smoke.
“Morning,” Collins replied, taking a seat beside him. The two men sat in silence for a while, watching as the town slowly came to life. A few people passed by, nodding their greetings, but no one stopped to talk. There was a tension in the air, something unspoken but understood by everyone.
“What’s got you up so early?” Collins finally asked, though he had a pretty good idea.
Quinn took a long drag on his cigarette before answering. “Just thinking,” he said. “About the lake, the people here. It’s different, you know? There’s something…alive about this place.”
Collins nodded, though he wasn’t sure he agreed. The lake was alive, yes, but not in the way Quinn seemed to think. There was a wildness here, an ancient spirit that had been around long before the Steamboat Pirates and their music. The land had its own rhythm, its own music, and it didn’t take kindly to outsiders trying to change that.
“You spend enough time out here, you start to see things,” Collins said, his voice low. “Things most folks don’t notice.”
Quinn turned to look at him, his expression unreadable. “Like what?”
“Like the way the wind moves through the trees, or how the water changes color just before a storm. The lake has its moods, and if you’re not careful, it’ll turn on you.”
Quinn didn’t respond, just nodded slowly, as if he were processing the information. Collins could see the wheels turning in the man’s mind, trying to fit the pieces together. It was clear now that Quinn wasn’t just here for the fishing or the scenery. He was searching for something—something that had drawn him to Chateaugay Lake, to the Steamboat Pirates, and to Charles Ives.
Collins had seen Ives the night before, after the hootenanny. The young composer had been a mess, still buzzing with the energy of the music and the strange encounter with the Wendigo spirit. Ives had been rambling, talking about the sounds he’d heard, the way the music had filled him up and spilled out in those wild, frenzied yelps. It was clear the boy was onto something, something powerful and dangerous.
“Ives is the key, isn’t he?” Collins asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Quinn looked at him sharply, but didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he flicked his cigarette away and stood up, brushing the ash from his coat. “Ives is…important,” he said carefully. “He’s got a gift, something that’s going to change the way people think about music, about art. But it’s more than that. There’s something here, in this place, that’s been waiting to be uncovered. I think Ives is the one who’s going to do it.”
Collins didn’t like the sound of that. There were things in these woods, in this lake, that were better left buried. The old stories, the legends of spirits and creatures that had been here long before the settlers arrived—they weren’t just stories. Collins knew that, and he suspected Quinn did too, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
“Whatever you’re looking for, you’d best be careful,” Collins said, standing up to face Quinn. “This place doesn’t take kindly to outsiders digging around in its secrets.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded and gave Collins a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The two men parted ways then, Collins heading back to his cabin while Quinn wandered off towards the lake. As he walked, Collins couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming—something big, something that would change Merrill and Chateaugay Lake forever.
The fishing trip the next day was uneventful, at least on the surface. Collins and Quinn made their way up the Coolaw Road to Mountain Pond, the crisp morning air filling their lungs as they hiked through the woods. They cast their lines in the still waters, catching a few small trout, but there was no joy in it. Quinn was distracted, his mind elsewhere, and Collins could sense the man’s frustration growing with each passing hour.
They returned to Merrill in the late afternoon, the sun dipping low in the sky. As they reached the edge of town, Collins finally broke the silence.
“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for,” he said, his voice firm. “Not here, not like this.”
Quinn stopped in his tracks, turning to face Collins. There was a flash of anger in his eyes, but it quickly faded, replaced by something else—resignation, maybe. “We’ll see,” he said quietly, before turning and walking away.
Collins watched him go, feeling a chill run down his spine. He knew Quinn wouldn’t give up, that he’d keep digging until he found whatever it was that had brought him here. And when he did, it wouldn’t just be Quinn who paid the price.
As Collins made his way back to his cabin, he couldn’t help but feel that the gathering storm he’d sensed was closer than ever. The lake was stirring, the old spirits restless, and when they finally awoke, there would be no going back.
To be continued in next week’s edition of the Steamboat Dispatch…
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?