Summary: A long, hot, dusty stagecoach ride home becomes a journey Joe Cartwright will never forget.<\/p>\n
Rating: M\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0Word count: 3200<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/strong>The Long Dusty Ride<\/strong><\/p>\n There are few things I loathe more than riding in a stagecoach. You’re crammed onto a hard, uncomfortable seat with strangers for hours on end. It’s hot, dusty, and every rut and stone in the road rattles your bones. And the boredom… though I still prefer it to being trapped in a forced conversation about banking, insurance, or some other equally dull subject.<\/p>\n Well, this time I had no choice but to take the stage. As it turned out, that journey was one I would remember for a very long time.<\/p>\n I’d been visiting some friends of mine, the Tanners. Morgan Tanner was in the process of building up a horse breeding operation, and he’d asked me to help him select a few animals.<\/p>\n Now I was on my way home, traveling by stagecoach because of a recently healed injury in my lower leg. Pa had made it a condition that I take the stage for the four-day trip instead of riding horseback.<\/p>\n The return trip was nothing like the quiet journey out. On the way there, I’d had the coach all to myself and passed the time reading dime novels or dozing. This time, four of us were squeezed into the cramped interior with barely enough room to stretch our legs and even less privacy.<\/p>\n “Sorry,” I apologized for what had to be the hundredth time as another deep rut in the road sent my knees crashing into those of the businessman sitting across from me. He shot me an irritated look, as though the rough ride was somehow my fault and not the result of our driver handling the team as if the devil himself were on his heels.<\/p>\n I’d disliked the fella from the moment he’d climbed aboard. I hadn’t even bothered remembering the man’s name. Dillon, Dolan, something like that. Dressed in a smart city suit, he kept looking at my worn boots and my favorite weathered green jacket with an air of superiority that was hard to miss.<\/p>\n None of the travelers seemed interested in chatting, so with a sigh, I wiped my sweaty brow on my sleeve and pulled my hat low over my face. Maybe I could get some sleep. Leaning back into my corner, one boot braced against the sidewall of the coach, I endured the relentless rocking and jolting of the ride. By tomorrow afternoon, we’d reach Virginia City, so I had already covered the greater part of the journey.<\/p>\n An elbow dug into my ribs.<\/p>\n “Watch it,” I muttered toward the fat, sweaty man seated beside me. The fellow took up nearly twice as much room as I did. Like me, he was headed for Virginia City, where he planned to attend the cattlemen’s convention. Every bump in the road made him spill a little farther over onto my side of the seat.<\/p>\n Across from him sat a German fella named Albert. He never let his guitar out of his sight, guarding it between his knees or clutching it against his chest. Throughout most of the trip, he stared out the window as though there was something worth seeing beyond the barren hills, scattered brush, and stunted trees. He rarely spoke, perhaps because his English wasn’t that good. In the evenings, he’d pull out a sketchbook to draw or quietly play some melancholy tune on his guitar.<\/p>\n The heat, the cigar smoke clinging to the businessman’s clothes, and the fumes from four less-than-fresh travelers created a memorable atmosphere inside the coach. Pulling back the curtains didn’t improve matters. Within seconds, the scorching air and fine dust from outside invaded the interior, settling over everything.<\/p>\n As a cowboy, I was used to unpleasant smells, and neither the cattleman nor the artist seemed particularly bothered by them. Only Dillon\u2014or Dolan, or whatever his name was\u2014looked ready to faint. Pale as a freshly bleached bedsheet, he kept a handkerchief pressed against his nose. Though the benches were padded with worn leather, I’d seen passengers lose their breakfast often enough. Thank God, everyone aboard this trip seemed to have a strong enough stomach.<\/p>\n Our driver, Charley Parker, was a character, like so many fellas out West. I’d met him on a couple of previous trips, and we got along well, despite his rough manners and his constant cursing.<\/p>\n Of all the Wells Fargo drivers, Charley was considered the most reliable. Small and tough, he was usually assigned to the most dangerous routes, and folks claimed that on night runs, he could tell by the sound of the wheels whether the stage was still on the road. He was quite young, not much over thirty, but he kept his nerve in any situation, whether Indians attacked or robbers tried to bushwhack the stage. He was quick with both rifle and whip and known for driving his team of horses to peak performance.<\/p>\n “Indianer!”<\/p>\n In one fell swoop, Albert’s horrified shout shattered the sleepy mood inside the coach.<\/p>\n I pushed my hat back from my eyes and pulled aside the heavy curtain.<\/p>\n Sure enough, four warriors armed with rifles were rapidly closing the distance, their nerve-racking war cries echoing across the rocky landscape. The shrill screams drowned out the rumble of the wheels and Charley’s curses, language that would’ve made even a hardened cowboy blush.<\/p>\n He cracked his whip, urging the horses to an insane speed while firing shots toward our attackers.<\/p>\n I leaned far out the window, searching for the Indians. There was only one left on my side. “Need any help, Charley?” I called as I yanked my revolver from its holster.<\/p>\n The passengers, pale and drenched in sweat, clung to the handholds with white knuckles. The stagecoach creaked and rattled, and I didn’t know how much longer it could endure the bone-jarring bouncing and swaying.<\/p>\n “Nah, I’ve got it!” our driver shouted. He fired one last shot, and the rider behind us toppled from his saddle.<\/p>\n “They’re falling back!” Albert croaked in a high-pitched voice as he watched the other side.<\/p>\n We all breathed a sigh of relief as the stagecoach began to slow. The businessman looked as though he were about to be sick, dabbing the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. Now I was the one sneering at him. Biting back a comment, I crossed my arms and leaned back into my corner.<\/p>\n “Short break! Changing horses!” Charley shouted as he pulled the team to a stop in front of the way station about half an hour later. We had ten minutes to stretch our legs while the exhausted team was unharnessed and replaced with fresh horses.<\/p>\n We climbed down from the stagecoach and took the opportunity to relieve ourselves and stretch our aching muscles. I pulled the cork from my canteen and took a long drink, grimacing as the lukewarm water trickled down my throat. Then I poured some over the back of my neck and strolled over to Charley, who was checking the harness. Despite the heat, he wore his bulky buffalo coat and battered hat.<\/p>\n “Great ride, Charley. And we’re on schedule!” I complimented him, squinting up at the sun hanging high in the cloudless sky. As a rule, these overland stagecoaches were several hours late.<\/p>\n “Yeah!” Charley laughed. He pulled a flat silver flask from his vest pocket, took a hearty swig, and offered it to me. “My coaches are always on time.”<\/p>\n With a grin, I turned my back to the others as I accepted the whiskey. Wells Fargo stagecoaches prohibited alcohol, cigars, and swearing.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Our stop for the night was the Red Creek Stage Station, a place familiar to me from earlier trips. The three buildings\u2014a stable, the main station house, and a shed\u2014had weathered, sun-bleached wooden fronts and were surrounded by a handful of cottonwoods that provided a little shade.<\/p>\n Exhausted to the bone, I climbed out of the stagecoach, my bad leg nearly giving way when my boots hit the ground. I stifled a groan. Sitting all day with my knees bent and no room to stretch had done nothing to help the injury, and I wondered if traveling on horseback might actually have been more comfortable. The only good thing was that there were beds at the stations, so I didn’t have to sleep on the floor.<\/p>\n “Baggage!” Charley called from atop the coach, jolting me out of my thoughts just in time to catch my bag.<\/p>\n “Thanks.”<\/p>\n Slipping the strap over my shoulder, I headed toward the station house.<\/p>\n I pushed open the squeaking door and stepped inside, followed by my fellow travelers. A long dining table with benches dominated the room. There was a stone fireplace, a cupboard full of dishes, and everything needed to accommodate overnight passengers. The station was messier than I had ever seen it. Dust coated the surfaces, sand lay across the floor, and the table was sticky, as though it hadn\u2019t been wiped down in weeks.<\/p>\n “Good to see you again, Joe. Been a while since you last stopped by,” old Tom greeted me, coming over while drying his hands on a rag and slapping me on the shoulder. “Supper’s ready. Make yourselves comfortable!”<\/p>\n With our stomachs growling, we gathered around the table. Supper\u2014beans and bacon, as always at these halfway stations\u2014was a quiet affair. Everyone was busy filling empty bellies and trying to claim as much bacon as possible.<\/p>\n Later, with supper finished and coffee cups in hand, Albert picked up his guitar and began to play. Charley leaned back in his chair, boots hooked over a bench, smoking a cigar, and taking the occasional sip of whiskey from his flask.<\/p>\n The cattle rancher and Dillon were busy with a game of Texas Hold’em poker.<\/p>\n When I finished my coffee, I stood, yawned, and stretched. Then I paused. If the beds looked anything like the rest of the way station, it was likely that bugs and fleas would have a feast on me. I figured old Tom Delaney, the station master, hadn’t changed the sheets in weeks.<\/p>\n I snatched up two of the blankets stacked on the credenza. It was a warm evening, and I had no desire to spend another night cooped up in a crowded room. Besides, the air outside sure was better than indoors after a supper of beans.<\/p>\n “Good night, folks! I’ll sleep outside under those trees.”<\/p>\n Charley tipped his flask toward me and gave me a wink. “Good choice. Sleep well, Joe. Don\u2019t let the coyotes gnaw on you.”<\/p>\n “I’d rather deal with coyotes than bugs!” With a chuckle, I stepped out of the building, heading over to one of the cottonwoods. There, I unbuckled my gun belt and let it fall beside my boots. After I’d spread one blanket out on a patch of soft-looking grass, I lay down and let my aching muscles relax.<\/p>\n A smile touched my lips as the sound of Albert’s guitar drifted from the station. He was playing “Early One Morning,” Adam’s favorite song, and before long, I found myself humming along. Somehow, it made me feel closer to home.<\/p>\n It was a relief to pull off my boots. The scar on my right calf was still swollen and tender, and the stiff leather rubbed against it whenever I walked. I massaged my lower leg in slow, soothing strokes. Then I pulled the blanket up to my chin and curled onto my side, the gentle strains of Albert’s guitar lulling me to sleep.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A sudden noise snapped me awake.<\/p>\n Propping myself up on one elbow, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, but the night was pitch-black. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. Straining to listen, I caught the faint rustle of something moving nearby. A rattlesnake looking for warmth in the cool night air? An Indian creeping up with a knife about to cut my throat?<\/p>\n The sound of Albert’s guitar had long since faded, replaced by a chorus of tree frogs.<\/p>\n My body tensed, my skin prickling. It wasn’t my imagination. Something was moving beside me, creeping through the grass. A twig snapped. I fumbled for my revolver\u2014it had to be here somewhere\u2014when a hand suddenly closed around my wrist, making me gasp.<\/p>\n “You won’t be needing that,” a voice whispered.<\/p>\n “What?” Startled and confused, I tried to sit up, but a hand against my chest pushed me back down.<\/p>\n “I figured you might enjoy a little relaxation after a long, hot, dusty stagecoach ride,” the voice whispered. A warm fingertip brushed my collarbone as lightly as a feather.<\/p>\n “Grace?” I whispered.<\/p>\n It had to be Grace. She was the station master’s daughter. I’d flirted with her a few times whenever the stage stopped here. She helped Tom with the laundry, kept the station running, and cooked for the travelers, though I hadn’t seen her all evening.<\/p>\n “I sure wouldn’t mind a little relaxation after the long and dusty ride,” I whispered with a smile, giving up any thought of resistance as a pleasant thrill ran through me. “I’m all yours.”<\/p>\n “On one condition,” the voice breathed close to my ear. “You must promise never to tell anyone about me. This must remain a secret.”<\/p>\n “Sure, I promise.” That went without saying. I knew how important a young woman’s reputation was, and I would never do anything to damage it.<\/p>\n I felt a warm body slip under my blanket and caught a whiff of chewing tobacco and whiskey. Frowning, I felt for the person beside me. My fingers touched bare skin. I explored further and found a slender waist and small, soft breasts. Grace moaned, arching her back and pressing herself against me as I caressed her naked body.<\/p>\n I slid my hand over the smooth curves of her hips and dipped between her legs.<\/p>\n “Wait,” Grace whispered. She propped herself up on one elbow, undoing my shirt buttons. Freeing me from my shirt, she ran her palm, calloused from work, down my chest. Her fingertips brushed my stomach and slid lower, beneath my waistband, sending shivers down my spine. Heat pooled in my groin, causing my shaft to swell.<\/p>\n Grace wasn\u2019t shy, as I had expected; she knew exactly what she wanted. With steady hands, she undid my belt and the buttons of my pants, making me tremble with anticipation. Eager, I lifted my hips as she pulled my trousers down over my butt.<\/p>\n A gas escaped me when she swung a leg over me and straddled my hip. My stiff muscles were forgotten, as was the pain in my leg when she lowered herself onto me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Exhausted, yet deeply satisfied, we lay side by side on our backs, my chest drenched in sweat while my racing heartbeat slowly calmed down.<\/p>\n “Better a rough ride in the soft grass than a long, hot, dusty trip in the coach, huh, cowboy?” Grace whispered, rolling away from me with a chuckle.<\/p>\n “Stay!” I stretched out my hand, trying to hold Grace back. My fingertips brushed bare skin one last time, then she was gone\u2014only the grass rustling beneath her feet remained.<\/p>\n I lay awake a while longer, staring up at the black night sky until my eyes finally closed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “Breakfast, cowboy!” Charley’s call woke me in the morning. “Hurry up. We’re on the road in thirty minutes!”<\/p>\n Yawning, I sat up and rubbed a hand over my face. Charley grinned at me. He was already fully dressed, standing at the station door, a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.<\/p>\n After a quick wash, I joined the others in the station. On the table sat a pan of sizzling bacon and the inevitable coffee, its strong, bitter smell filling the room. I sat down on the bench and eyed the dry-looking bread before placing a slice on my plate. It was stale, but with coffee and bacon, it would do.<\/p>\n We finished our breakfast in silence while Charley\u2019s cursing drifted in from outside; he was apparently struggling with one of the stubborn horses he was trying to hitch to the coach.<\/p>\n “We need to get going,” said Dillon, glancing at his pocket watch. The group rose to their feet, shuffling toward the door. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I stood and followed them outside, my bag in one hand and the half-finished cup of coffee in the other.<\/p>\n Tom Delaney was standing by the team of horses, holding the reins.<\/p>\n “Morning, Tom. Uh, I didn’t see Grace. Is she still here helping you run this place?”<\/p>\n “Grace?” Tom shook his head. “Nah, the girl got married and moved away a couple of months ago.”<\/p>\n I choked on my coffee. Tom let go of the horses and slapped my back until my coughing subsided.<\/p>\n “Married?” I croaked once I could breathe again. Had what happened last night been nothing but a dream?<\/p>\n “Yeah. Why’d you ask?” Tom Delaney studied me, brows drawn together.<\/p>\n “Uh, I thought I, uh, saw her,” I muttered into my cup.<\/p>\n Charley came over and winked at me as he stuffed a piece of chewing tobacco into his mouth. “Hurry up, men, time to get going!” he called. He opened the stagecoach door and made an inviting gesture. “Enjoy the comfort of the Wells Fargo stagecoach for another long, hot, dusty ride!”<\/p>\n I froze, staring at him with my mouth hanging open, eyes wide. Everything suddenly made sense: the not-so-deep voice, the lack of facial hair, the slender frame.<\/p>\n God, Charley was a woman! Charley had kept me company under my blanket last night!<\/p>\n I closed my mouth and climbed into the coach, still completely stunned.<\/p>\n Charley\u2019s raucous laughter echoed across the landscape as she climbed up onto the driver\u2019s seat and cracked the whip.<\/p>\n The last day of our journey had begun. By afternoon, we would reach Virginia City.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Hoss came to pick me up. He was already waiting with the buckboard in front of the Wells Fargo office when Charley brought the horses to a stop in the street.<\/p>\n Hoss yanked the door open as soon as the coach had come to a halt. He lifted me out, spinning me around and pulling me into a bear hug, a huge grin on his face.<\/p>\n “Hey, put me down,” I giggled.<\/p>\n “Baggage!” came the familiar call from above, and my bag came flying, landing in my arms with a thud.<\/p>\n “Thanks, Charley!” I winked at her, tipping the brim of my hat. “That was a great trip!”<\/p>\n “Great? You hate traveling by stagecoach,” Hoss muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That bumpy ride must\u2019ve shaken your brains loose.” He turned to carry my bag to the buckboard, puzzled by my good mood.<\/p>\n I followed Hoss and waved to Charley one last time. Her secret was safe with me. No one would ever learn that Charley was a woman.<\/p>\n The End.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Author’s notes:<\/p>\n Written in March 2026, edited in June 2026<\/p>\n The story was inspired by an article about Charley Parkhurst, a legendary stagecoach driver born in 1812. He was known for drinking, cursing, chewing tobacco, and gambling. Only after he died in 1879 was it discovered that he had been a woman and had probably given birth to a child. Charlotte spent her life successfully disguised as a male.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Episodes referenced:<\/p>\n Credit for a Kill (written by Frederick Louis Fox)<\/p>\n Judgement at Red Creek (written by Robert Sabaroff)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n