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Charlie Russell’s stagecoach…
I polish it with pride;
and every little now and then
I hop aboard and ride.
I found it in an art store
in Nebraska years ago.
Since then, I guess I've ridden
a million miles or so.
Sometimes I go to Deadwood;
sometimes to Pryor Creek.
I hitch a ride on Russell's coach
a couple times a week.
I can almost hear the passenger
and driver on the coach,
talking to each other
each time that I approach.
For sure, I hear the coach wheels
creakin' 'neath the load;
and I can smell the heavy dust
rising from the road.
Six horses strain to hold the coach
from hurling down the hill.
It never does. The driver reins
the six of them with skill.
So real, the figures in the coach -
a lady and three men --
that when you take a seat inside,
they come to life again.
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The geezer spins a windy
and the lady feels disgust
at the tales the coot is spinning
and the way the varmint cussed.
When suddenly some bandits
from the painting on the wall,
block the road, wave their guns,
and threaten one and all.
They empty all our pockets
and take the lady's broach;
then rifle through the carpetbags
strapped upon the coach.
The bandits leave us penniless;
but though we felt distressed,
things perk up the farther that
we travel through the west.
I wonder if old Charlie knew
when sculpting it in wax,
just how many passengers
would follow in his tracks;
or that the coach, when forged in brass,
would ride the range again,
transporting back in time and place,
a myriad of men.
Bette Wolf Duncan
Copyright 1999
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