Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 22, 2026
The sun rose over Gotebo with an unusual silence.
No screaming.
No overturned wagons.
No missing laundry.
And perhaps most suspicious of all…
No goats standing on rooftops.
Marshal Chester Finch squinted over the handlebars of his cherry-red moped.
“George,” he said.
George Jones wagged his tail.
“I don’t trust it.”
George barked once.
Neither did he.
For nearly three weeks, Gotebo had been under siege by the infamous Spence Gang.
Six hundred goats.
Led by the legendary Old Pete.
A billy goat so ancient his beard dragged the ground and whose horns had been carved over generations with mysterious symbols, tally marks, and what appeared to be a recipe for peach cobbler.
Some said Old Pete was descended from the outlaw Pete Spence.
Others claimed he was Pete Spence.
Reincarnated.
With hooves.
Marshal Finch refused to take an official position.
Mostly because there wasn’t a checkbox for that in the regulation handbook.
Then, at precisely 8:17 a.m., Old Pete walked into town.
Alone.
No army.
No fanfare.
No smell.
This last fact caused Powder Puff to faint.
“Impossible!” cried Powder Puff.
The self-proclaimed most handsome goat in Oklahoma collapsed dramatically into a horse trough.
The townsfolk rushed to Old Pete.
The old goat climbed atop a feed barrel.
Cleared his throat.
And gave one final speech.
It consisted of:
“Maaaa.”
A pause.
“Maaaaaa.”
Then a longer pause.
“Maaa.”
No one understood.
Except Mrs. Hargrove, retired schoolteacher.
She dabbed her eyes.
“He says,” she whispered,
“The goats are tired.”
Everyone stared.
“He says they fought because they were afraid.”
More tears.
“He says perhaps descendants of outlaws don’t have to live like outlaws forever.”
Marshal Finch removed his hat.
George whimpered softly.
Even Powder Puff stopped admiring his reflection.
For nearly thirty seconds.
A personal record.
Old Pete slowly climbed down.
He approached Chester.
Looked him directly in the eyes.
Then nudged something toward him.
A tiny object.
Wrapped in cloth.
Inside was an old silver pocket watch.
The cover was engraved:
P.S. 1881.
Alongside it was a note.
Written in surprisingly neat handwriting.
It read:
EVERY GANG NEEDS A MAN WHO SHOWS UP.
EVEN IF HE RIDES A MOPED.
TAKE CARE OF THEM.
— OLD PETE
Marshal Finch looked up.
Old Pete had already begun walking west.
Toward the hills.
Toward the setting sun.
Toward whatever waits for outlaw goats at the end of the trail.
No one ever saw him again.
There were rumors.
A rancher claimed he saw a huge billy goat silhouetted on a ridge during a thunderstorm.
A trucker swore a goat with magnificent horns helped him change a tire near Tombstone.
Someone in Arizona insisted Old Pete stole a bag of oranges and paid for them with a silver dollar minted in 1880.
No one could prove any of it.
But nobody could prove it didn’t happen either.
As for the Spence Gang?
They disbanded.
Most retired.
Some took up lawn care.
Others became therapy goats.
Powder Puff began charging admission to smell him.
It failed.
Spectacularly.
Marshal Finch mounted his moped.
George climbed into the side basket.
The marshal tucked Old Pete’s watch into his shirt pocket.
He looked back one last time at Gotebo.
“George.”
George barked.
“I think we’ve finally solved one.”
George tilted his head.
“Or at least survived it.”
That counted too.
The moped sputtered.
Coughed.
Backfired loudly enough to scare three chickens in the next county.
And Marshal Chester Finch rode off toward whatever ridiculous crisis awaited him next.
Because somewhere…
there was always another telegram.
Groff Media ©2026 benandsteve.com Truth Endures
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