Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives by Sarah J. McNeal

Charley Parkhurst

Charley Parkhurst was a stagecoach driver. So, needless to say, Charley spent long days traveling through thunderstorms and other miserable weather and battled bandits determined to rob the passengers while hauling upwards of 18 people packed into the wobbly old wooden box.

Charley handled the reins with expertise despite missing one eye. Allegedly, Charley managed to cross a raging river just before the bridge collapsed, was able to halt a runaway coach while being dragged through the brush, and once shot an outlaw who tried to hold up the stage. Eventually, the rough life Charley led caused a bad case of rheumatism to set in and forced Charley to give up driving and take up a life of ranching and lumbering. Pankhurst’s last days were spent alone in a cabin before dying of cancer in 1879. Saddened, friends came to prepare the body for the funeral, and then Charley’s ordinary existence took on a strange turn.

As the doctor started to undress Charley’s body, he discovered that one of the best stagecoach drivers in California had an unusual secret—Charley was a woman. Documents show that Charley registered for the 1868 election. So, One-Eyed Charley might have been the first woman to vote in California.

Tom Smith

People may imagine the Old West was an anything goes place when it came to guns, but towns like Abilene, Kansas actually had very strict rules when it came to firearms. One of the man who enforced these laws was Marshal Tom Smith. Legend has it Tom was involved in the accidental death of a teen and turned in his badge and headed west. During his travels, Smith cleaned up towns like Kit Carson, Colorado and Bear River City, Wyoming, but it was when he showed up in Abilene that he really came to fame.

The town was full of disorderly Texas cowboys who enjoyed games like “Harass the Citizen” and “Burn Down the Jail.” Fed up with these unruly cattle-punching criminals, Abilene’s officials hired Smith and turned him loose on the cowpokes.

Riding out on his horse Silverheels, Smith enforced the town’s most unpopular law: No guns inside city limits. As one might imagine, many of the cowboys grew irritated with this regulation, and on two separate occasions, the obnoxious cowboys challenged Marshal Smith to take their pistols. Smith happily obliged them. When pistol-packing thugs got tough, Smith just knocked them out cold.

Despite his extraordinary fighting skills, Smith couldn’t manuver his way out of every situation. On November 2, 1870, he armed himself and went after the wanted murderer Andrew McConnell. When he showed up at McConnell’s house, the suspect shot the marshal in the chest. As Smith fired back, another outlaw named Moses Miles rushed Smith and almost completely decapitated him with an axe.

The killers were caught and sent to prison. Smith was buried in the local cemetery, leaving the town without a lawman—until a man named Wild Bill Hickok rode into town.

Orrin Porter Rockwell

Orrin Porter earned the name of the “Destroying Angel” because, it was said, he murdered 100 men. The body count was probably lower, but still, Orrin certainly knew how to fill a few graves. Born in Massachusetts, Rockwell traveled to Missouri where he became one of the first Mormon converts and founder Joseph Smith’s personal bodyguard. Rockwell was what you might call a “prayer warrior,” and when Gov. Lilburn Boggs ordered all Mormons out of Missouri, Rockwell allegedly tried to show him the light—the one at the end of the tunnel. Now I just want to say this reminds me of “the Swede” in the TV series “Hell On Wheels.” Just sayin’…

Anyway, Rockwell was jailed for his attempted “conversion” of Governor Boggs, but was released after a year behind bars. As soon as his boots hit the ground on the outside of that jail, he quickly made his way to Nauvoo, Illinois, where things took a Biblical turn. Like a scene taken from the Old Testament, Joseph Smith happy to see Rockwell again, gave him a special blessing. Smith declared no one could harm the gunman so long as he never cut his hair. Just like Samson, this Latter-day Saint disobeyed his boss—just once, supposedly to fashion his long hair into a wig for a woman who’d lost her hair.

Even though Rockwell may have had a soft side, but he wasn’t afraid to kill in the name of the Lord. After Smith’s arrest and assassination in 1844, Rockwell took revenge on Frank Worrell, the militiaman who was supposed to guard the prophet. Later, when Brigham Young moved the church to Salt Lake City, Rockwell was appointed the town’s marshal.

In 1857, President James Buchannan tried to forcibly replace Young as Utah’s governor with a non-Mormon. Infuriated, American Moses ordered Rockwell to torment incoming troops. Rockwell, obedient to the orders given, killed two men who were trying to supply them. It took 20 years before the gunman Rockwell was charged, but by then, it was of no consequence. The Destroying Angel had died an old man in his bed.

Sarah J. McNeal is a multi-published author of several genres including time travel, paranormal, western and historical fiction. She is a retired ER and Critical Care nurse who lives in North Carolina with her four-legged children, Lily, the Golden Retriever and Liberty, the cat. Besides her devotion to writing, she also has a great love of music and plays several instruments including violin, bagpipes, guitar and harmonica. Her books and short stories may be found at Prairie Rose Publications and its imprints Painted Pony Books, and Fire Star Press. Some of her fantasy and paranormal books may also be found at Publishing by Rebecca Vickery and Victory Tales Press. She welcomes you to her website and social media:

Website 

My Amazon Author’s Page

Facebook

Twitter

The Wildings

Fantasy and Dreams Blog

Sweethearts of the West

Prairie Rose Publications Blog

The Stagecoach

The Stagecoach

Those stylish, elegant coaches of yesteryear are so nostalgic, romantic, cozy and quaint. Or perhaps it’s our imagination that makes them so appealing. 

The term Stagecoach came about because of the ‘coaches’ that carried passengers along a route in ‘stages’. Stagecoaches could be anything from buckboard wagons to elaborate ‘coaches.’ As long as they were used for public transportation and ran a regularly scheduled route, they were considered stagecoaches. Depending on the route, the number of regular passengers, the weather, and the distance, the coaches would vary, as would the number of horses or mules. Four was the usual number, but six-team coaches were not uncommon, especially for the larger, ‘overland’ stages, and the smaller, shorter coaches and routes were usually pulled by two horses. The average speed was five to twelve miles and hour.

Despite close quarters, long, bumpy and dusty roads, and threats of Indian or outlaw attacks, stagecoaches flourished and were widely used, even after the railroads crossed the nation.  The term stationwagon came about when long wagons boasting three wide bench seats came into service for the specific role of carrying passengers to and from railroad stations.      

In most vehicles, passengers were provided an average of 15 inches each, and sat with their knees dovetailed with the traveler across from them, and depending on other cargo the stage was carrying, passengers often had to hold their luggage on their laps. Etiquette, and/or, passenger behavior was strictly enforced. Wells Fargo had this list of rules posted:

·  Abstinence from liquor is requested, but if you must drink share the bottle. To do otherwise makes you appear selfish and unneighborly.

·  If ladies are present, gentlemen are urged to forego smoking cigars and pipes as the odor of same is repugnant to the gentler sex. Chewing tobacco is permitted, but spit with the wind, not against it.

·  Gentlemen must refrain from the use of rough language in the presence of ladies and children.

·  Buffalo robes are provided for your comfort in cold weather. Hogging robes will not be tolerated and the offender will be made to ride with the driver.

·  Don't snore loudly while sleeping or use your fellow passenger's shoulder for a pillow; he or she may not understand and friction may result.

·  Firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies. Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals as the sound riles the horses.

·  In the event of runaway horses remain calm. Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indians and hungry coyotes.

·  Forbidden topics of conversation are: stagecoach robberies and Indian uprisings.

·  Gents guilty of unchivalrous behavior toward lady passengers will be put off the stage. It's a long walk back. A word to the wise is sufficient.

Fares varied, not only due to distance, but class as well.

First class meant you rode all the way.

Second class meant you had to walk at bad places along the road.

Third class meant you had to push the coach when needed, especially on hilly terrain.

Depending on the schedule, stagecoaches would travel all night, stopping only for fresh horses and quick meals. When an overnight stay was included, the coach often arrived around midnight, and left again by six the following morning. Passengers were encouraged to pack food provisions and they were also told not to grease their hair before traveling because dust would stick to it.

  

Stagecoaches came to an end around 1915, when motor buses took the place of the horse-drawn coaches.

I’ve ridden in a few ‘tourist’ stagecoaches, and the short rides were fun, but I must admit I prefer modern transportation options. However, my heroines—and heroes—do not have that option. Here’s the short clip from a story that will be released in November from Harlequin Historicals. (Title yet to be determined)

Wyoming Territory

November 1877

The bitter wind that had trampled upon the leather curtains covering the stage windows and snuck beneath the buffalo robe now piled on the hard seat could easily have stolen her breath away, but Constance Jennings’s first glimpse of her destination already had her lungs locked tight. Pinning her quivering bottom lip between her teeth, she glanced over her shoulder, half-hoping the other passenger—an aging pastor who’d conversed pleasantly during the last leg of her journey—would indicate this wasn’t their stop after all.

No such luck. Reverend Stillman smiled kindly as he waved a hand for her to climb down the steps.

The trip had been long and cold, and days of sitting left her legs stiff and her knees popping. As her dress boots hit the dirt street, tremors seized her toes, and then traveled, snaked their way all the way to her scalp until every hair follicle tingled.

Had she completely lost her senses back in New York?

A gust of unrelenting Wyoming wind caught on her head-dress. The covering had once been stylish, but was now as tired and worn as the rest of traveling suit. She grabbed the curled straw brim to keep the wind from stealing the hat, and gulped at the swelling in her throat.

Which one was he? Ashton Kramer—the man who’d ordered a bride.

www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com