There are moments in life when we contemplate our relationships with relatives who are dearly departed. Some have passed on, leaving behind only memories. Others are dearly departed in a different sense. They are no longer married into the family. Yet their presence lingers in our stories, our recollections, and sometimes, in our affections.
This story is about one such family member, who dearly departed not through death, but through divorce—from my sister. For nearly eighteen years or more, he was a big part of our family. Long before the wedding, during their dating years, he was already woven into our daily lives. He would often spend the night at our house. More than a few times, he slept in my room just to be near her. He was older than both of us, and a farmer by trade. During the winter months, farming slowed down. During this time, he worked as a parts clerk at his father’s Chevrolet dealership in town.
Since I worked for him on the farm, I spent nearly as much time with him as my sister did. From sunrise to sunset, we toiled together—planting crops, moving irrigation pipe, working cattle, and hauling hay. He even pitched in at the Girl Scout Camp where my dad was the ranger. And that’s where this story takes place.
It was the summer of 1978. A flood had wiped out a water line. The line ran from a well to a storage tank at the Girl Scout Camp. Special piping was needed for repairs. My dad asked Benny to take me to Clinton, Oklahoma, to pick up the materials. I was thrilled when he handed me the keys to one of the camp’s state-owned ranger vehicles. For a brief moment, I thought, “Wow, I get to drive!” But then he said, “Give these to Benny—he’ll be the one driving.” Shucks.
Still, the outing promised a break from our usual routine. We set out just before noon, heading west on State Highway 152. As we neared the town of Eakly, an Oklahoma Highway Patrol car coming toward us slowed dramatically. The trooper gave us both a piercing look, as if trying to place us. After passing us, he glanced back as though deciding whether to turn around. Odd, we thought—we hadn’t been speeding or doing anything wrong.
A few miles farther west, another patrol car did the exact same thing. Now we were both feeling uneasy. We even pulled over to check the truck—maybe something was dragging, maybe we had a flat tire—but everything checked out.
Four more patrol units gave us the same strange treatment. By now we were more than a little paranoid. What were we missing? We hadn’t turned on the radio, thinking it wasn’t our place to use official equipment in the state-owned truck. If we had, we’d have had our answer.
When we finally returned to the Ranger’s Quarters with the piping, we were greeted with wide eyes and urgent questions. Turns out, there had been a prison break nearby. The escapees had stolen a state vehicle—same color, same model, same government-issued license plate as the one we were driving. No wonder the troopers were ready to pounce. If we had known, we would’ve waved our Girl Scout badges out the window. We would have done this for the entire ride, like waving a white flag.
That trip became one of the many memorable moments I shared with my once-brother-in-law Benny. It was the story told every holiday. And it got laughs no matter how many times it was heard. Benny was a close comrade through much of my youth and during family gatherings. It was hard to see him and my sister go their separate ways. Still, I understood and respected her reasons. Sometimes life and family change in ways you don’t expect. And sometimes, those changes, though painful, lead to something better.
But Benny—well, he’ll always be one of our dearly departed.
Next month, you will notice I won’t be posting daily. Don’t worry—some content will still show up, thanks to the magic of pre-scheduled posts. The reason for the slowdown? I’m finally getting a long-overdue back surgery.
It’s not a procedure I’m exactly excited about. There’s a good chance it’ll knock me off my usual rhythm for a while. That is, of course, if everything goes according to plan. But, there are plenty of ways it not happening:
I can experience a sudden, miraculous recovery and cancel the whole thing.
My insurance will decide it’s a luxury item and deny the claim.
The orderly will wheel me into the wrong operating room.
The doctor disappears right before showtime.
Or, I will be the one who disappears—just as the doctor walks in, ready to go.
Or, the operating table goes missing on the day of the surgery.
Benjamin’s Profile
My hope is that the surgery will go as planned. If so it will ease the constant, gnawing pain I feel. It affects me whether I’m walking, sitting, standing, or trying to sleep. The sharp, stabbing, burning sensations mostly travel down my left leg. Though, they sometimes jump to the right when they get bored. They’ve also been known to zap my arms and hands. This happens especially in the middle of the night. It leaves a tingling, numbing wake.
I still manage to write here and there. I try to sound semi-coherent. I cook the occasional meal. I do my best to avoid going completely coo-coo. This journey has been a slow burn, building over more than fifteen years of other health concerns.
Sometimes, I see people out in the world. They are screaming into the void. I think, Wow, what must it be like to be them? But then I look around at my home, my dog, and my better half. I realize they’re probably looking at me thinking the exact same thing.
Until then, I’ll keep doing what I do—telling stories, filing reports, and generally pretending everything is completely under control. I’ll keep you posted on the surgery prep as it unfolds. Yes, I’m still obsessively checking my doctors’ reviews on Healthgrades.com. So far, there are no red flags. There are just a few mildly worrying Yelp comments about cold hands and questionable playlist choices in the OR.
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie, three friends that protected Benji.
It was Three O’clock in the morning before the Doctor arrived at Benji’s home. The Doctor had been tied up delivering twin babies out in the country, 12 miles south of town. When he returned to his office, his night nurse instructed him to go to Benji’s house for an emergency. The Doctor hadn’t wasted any time. Benji’s parents led the Doctor down the hall to Benji’s room. Benji’s mother explained in detail to the Doctor. She shared that Benji has had a 106-degree temperature.
“I haven’t managed to get it to break. I have tried everything I know to use.”
The Doctor took a look at Benji, who was mumbling. Shining a light into Benji’s pupils, they were dilated and fixed, something the Doctor didn’t like. He took his temperature, and it read 107. He checked the inside of Benji’s mouth. He saw what looked like the start of mouth blisters caused by the temperature. Oddly, Benji’s ears were clear. The Doctor turned to Benji’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Roff.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal what it is. Is it is an allergic reaction to something the boy found in the forest? Possible. Is it a splinter infection we can’t see. Or it is a virus. Plenty of those are circulating these days. The important thing for us to do is get him cooled down.”
The Doctor instructed Benji’s mother to soak him in a bathtub filled with cold water and ice.
“He needs ice baths every hour. He’ll start fighting it. I would, too. But, we need to lower the temperature to at least 100. Then, we can give him some over-the-counter medication to help from there. Plus, while you are soaking him, be sure to watch his feet for thorns or splinters he has. Do the same with the legs, arms, and hands. Check any part of his body for that matter. We want to make sure he hasn’t got some foreign item infecting him.”
Madge, Benji’s mother, was quick to start running cold tap water into the tub. She emptied ice trays and sent Jake to the store to buy bags of ice. Benji’s temperature continued to rise. It climbed to 109. The Doctor was sitting in the kitchen. He had a cup of coffee. He said,
“I don’t like this one bit. If it goes up much further, we are going to have to put him in a hospital. I know it is costly and a ways from home. But, we need access to fluids and IVs that only a hospital can offer. Continue bathing him and try to see if we can lower the temperature.”
As Benji’s parents moved him from the bed to the bath, he talked about feral hogs. He also mentioned wildcats and bottomless pits. Benji’s mother asked her husband, Jake, if he had any idea what he was talking about. Jake, scratching his head, replied wearily,
“Not – A- Clue! I have never heard him talk of any of them, and we ain’t got that thing around here.”
Madge asked Jake if he had wandered into No Man’s Land and got the ideas from there. Jake replied,
“I don’t see how. All that is back there is old scrub brush and blackjack trees. Maybe a few bobcats and a coyote or two. Our cows won’t even go in there. The most he’d get if he went in there is dirty.”
Benji kept having visions of Bruiser standing in front of him. Bruiser was fighting off a feral hog. Oggy distracted a second hog. Then, Jackie barked at a third. Then, his vision went black. And a cold wash went over him. SPLASH! Next, he was in a cave. He heard a scream and looked around for its source. He felt the dogs surrounding him. Again, a Cold wash went over him, and it went dark again. SPLASH! Next, he was near the Bottomless Pit. He looked around and saw the straight-down drop-off. His stomach became unsettled. Then, another cold wash, SPLASH! He was at the clearing with his parents. This time, they were drying him off. Benji began struggling and squealing -––– yelling out,
“Oh, please tell me I didn’t fall into the Bottomless Pit! “
Madge and Jake, both happy that he was awake and the temperature appeared to have broken, called to him. Madge, hugging him, cried.
“Benji, Benji, can you hear us? You have been so sick, son.”
Jake wanted to know what Benji had been talking about. He asked,
“What is all this talk about? You mentioned feral hogs, wildcats, and bottomless pits. You had us all going for a minute. That must’ve been some dream!”
Benji said it wasn’t a dream; it happened. He knew it did. He wanted to know how are Bruiser, Oggy, and Jackie? Jake assured him they were fine. They had all been fed. They were sleeping on their pads by the door. They were being lazy. Benji asked if Bruiser had to have stitches. Jake laughed, asking,
“What are you talking about? Bruiser is fine; he has been playing with Oggy out in the front yard all afternoon. But I can tell they all three are missing you being out there with them.”
Benji couldn’t figure out how this could all be just a dream. It had to be real. It had to have been something he did. He stopped elaborating on the story. He was cautious because he didn’t want his parents to limit where he go. After a week of healing and receiving the Doctor’s approval, Benji was back to his regular habits. The Doctor suspected he must’ve had some spoiled food. The last thing Benji remembers eating before getting sick was canned Vienna Sausages. They had stayed in a pack in a locked car in the sun’s heat for some time. He and his pals were on the fringes of the yard, playing rescue. It required rations of sorts to get back to home base. So, Benji used cans of Vienna Sausages. He had been carrying them with him for a year or longer. He had left them in his backpack in locked cars throughout the summer and winter months. The Doctor guessed. Those things must have marinated well over sixty times. They probably tasted like prime rib to Benji. After a week and a half, Benji was back to his regular self, as were the dogs. Leading and trailing the youngster wherever he went.
Benji promised himself he had to know. He got down on one knee before leaving the house that day. He told Bruiser, Oggy, and Jackie,
“You guys don’t have to come with me. I know in my dream, if that was what it was, you almost got hurt badly. Especially you, Bruiser. It is okay if you want to stay home and sit this one out. I understand!”
The three pooches glanced at each other. It seemed like they were taking a moral inventory. Then they looked back at Benji. In unison, they all barked -––
“We’re in!”
They were all off to the Hollow that led to the area Benji called “No Man’s Land.”
This time, they got there early in the morning, just after 7:00 a.m. Benji called his trio of pals and said –––
“Here we go, guys! A, One, a two, and a three.”
With that, the four crossed the imaginary line Benji had always set for “No Man’s Land.” They hiked, scampering through underbrush and thick overgrowth for thirty minutes when they came to a clearing. One clearing matched where the feral hogs had attacked. But on this day, it was peaceful. No critters were around. His three dogs’ ears were all on alert. Their eyes scanning the trees around them, but they found nothing to be alarmed over. Benji sat on a log, Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie circled him for a pep talk.
“So far, so good. We’ve been enjoying our beef jerky up to this point, so here are your pieces.”
Benji looked east, feeling out of sequence with his dream. He saw the Bottomless Pits. He decided to walk over to the drop-off. As Bruiser, Oggy, and Jackie looked over the cliff at the water below, it was just like Benji’s dream. Now, Benji started to question whether he had a dream. How did I know what this would look like if I had never been here? He didn’t have an answer, but he still wanted to go further and see what was deeper inside.
As he and the three dogs crept through the brush, another clearing came. As Benji got to the center, he looked up, and there were Sandrock cliffs all around him. On one side was a cave. It seemed like the cave he had spent a night in with his three dogs. Had it been a dream, or was it real? He and the dogs walked up to the cave. It didn’t look as if anything had disturbed the soil in a very long time. No animals, no person, not even a bird. Which Benji thought to be odd.
Benji wanted to examine the watering hole where the Wildcat had been spotted the night of his ‘dream.’ When he got to it, he saw that it was clear as day and ice cold. It was a natural spring. You can drink from this Spring without getting ill. It was not contaminated. The Spring fed a creek; Benji looked at the creek flowing north. It was one of the few creeks in the county to do so. The creek is on his Dad’s farm. He always wondered where the creek water flowed from. Now he knew. And he knew it was Spring fed—another interesting fact.
Benji turned to take the path he and the dogs used to enter the opening. Surprising him, there stood an older man. He wore a white shirt with suspenders paired with pants tucked into knee-high boots and a floppy hat. Behind him stood a mule saddled.
“Young man, you lost?”
He asked.
“No, I don’t think so,”
Benji replied.
“This is on my father’s farm. I have never been brave enough to venture into these parts. I’m here to take a look around.”
The older man laughed.
“Well, my name is Elmer. I have lived out here in these parts all my life. And there ain’t nothing to be afraid of. But, this is the second time you’ve been here with your buddies. I helped you out of here the other night. I was afraid for all four of you. You and your dogs looked like you had stopped and eaten loco weed. That’s the devil, weed, boy; it will make your head spin.”
Benji, looking confused, asked Elmer,
“You said Loco Weed? What is that?”
Elmer rubbed his mule’s head. He propped his hat back on his head. He let out a breath. –
It looks like Polk Salad. That is what gets many people to mistake it for Polk. But it is LOCO. I’ve seen horses and cows do all kinds of crazy on the stuff. I tried to kill it all off my place. But it keeps finding its way back; birds, animals, and such have a way of replanting things.
Benji then asked,
“So, you helped me out of here? “
Elmer was quick to oblige –
“Yep, me and old Sara here; that’s my mule’s name. We were over here trying to find a couple of my hogs that got loose. They retreat to the Blackjack Trees and wallow in the cool soil. Anyway, we were trying to find our hogs, and we came across you guys trying to fight them. You thought they were some third-world alien implant. I got a big laugh out of that.”
Benji, scratching his head, looked at Elmer.
“I don’t remember that part, and I don’t remember meeting you.”
Elmer said he doubted that he would. He was surprised to see the boy back out there ever again. You were having a tough time. I have no idea what drove you to eat loco weed. Benji explained that he was trying to live off the land. He wanted to be a true backwoodsman. He thought he’d be eating something like Polk. He had never heard of loco weed. Elmer told me he’d know, and he’d be smart to stay clear of it. Benji said the dogs ate when Benji wrapped it around a Vienna Sausage.
Elmer said,
‘Now I have heard everything.’
Elmer explained to Benji he was in “No Man’s Land” all of two hours that night.
“I loaded you on old Sara. I took you down to your parents. I told them I found you and the dogs in the woods very sick. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do it again tonight. Benji said no, now that I know what I did, I won’t do it again. Thank you for talking to me.”
Elmer said your big dog there looks like he’s got into some briers. Benji looked, and it appeared just as it had when the injuries from the boars were inflicted on Bruiser. Benji said I need to get him home. He needed to take care of the injury. Benji also need to make sure the other two were okay. Benji thanked Elmer for telling him about what happened. Elmer flashed a peace sign to Benji and told him,
“Well, son, just you and I know. That is all that matters. Of course, these three friends of yours know, but they won’t say anything. Just remember to be careful about chasing make-believe.”
That night, Benji sat on the porch. A bandaged Bruiser rested at his feet. Oggy curled up on the welcome mat. Jackie sat beside him, her eyes watchful and wise. His father stepped outside.
“Heard some wild barking earlier. Everything okay?”
Benji smiled.
“Better than okay. Oggy warned us. Bruiser protected me. And Jackie brought us home.”
Jake scratched Bruiser’s ear.
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves three of the best dogs in the county!”
From that day on, every afternoon, the school bus came to a halt at 3:35. Three dogs waited at the gate. They were ready for the next trail, the next challenge, and the next memory to be made. Because no matter how wild the world became, Benji never hiked alone.
Sunrise sparkled through the trees, casting golden streaks through the ridge of the canyon as a new day began. The dogs had curled up around Benji during the long night after the wildcat screams. Sleep had eluded him, but at least their warmth had kept the cold at bay.
Jackie the Snake Fighter
Benji checked his backpack. Two cans of Vienna sausages. Two bottles of water. Not much, but enough if he rationed carefully. He didn’t know how long it would be before he saw civilization again. He jumped to his feet. He kicked dirt over the glowing embers of the fire. Then he spotted an old bucket lying in the grass. He fetched water from the same spot where he’d seen the wildcats drink and thoroughly doused the coals.
He whistled and called out,
“Okay, guys! Let’s find our way out of here!”
The dogs were now rested after the brutal meeting with the hogs the day before. They let out a few excited barks. They circled around him. They were ready.
“Jackie!”
Benji called out, his voice clear and hopeful.
“Let’s get going and take us home, girl!”
It was Jackie’s moment to lead.
She barked once, turned, and began moving with purpose down a faint trail. Her nose worked the ground like a compass, tracing the path with quiet certainty. She paused now and then to sniff, confirming her route, then pressed ahead.
Benji followed without hesitation.
“Good girl, Jackie. Take us home.”
As they retraced their steps, Benji noticed something he’d missed before. The chaos of the hog attack had distracted him from exploring further. Just east of where that meeting occurred, he saw something new. It was something he’d only ever heard described in hushed tones: the Bottomless Pits.
He turned to the dogs.
“Come on, guys. We’re close. I need to see this.”
He approached the edge of a steep cliff. It was seventy-five feet straight down to a deep, green pool below. The surface was fed by water trickling from the mouth of a sand rock ridge. “That’s a natural spring,” Benji murmured to himself, “surrounded by vegetation and carved into the canyon by wind and rain.” The erosion had shaped the space into something mysterious and timeless. There was no telling how far the pit actually went.
He stood there, staring into the depths. He imagined what happened to those who had entered “No Man’s Land” and never returned. No sane person would ever try a descent.
The dogs looked at each other, almost as if wondering whether this was going to turn into their next mission. They seemed relieved when Benji turned back and said, “Okay, Jackie. Take us on home.”
Their return journey was quieter, more deliberate. The woods themselves seemed to exhale—less ominous now, more at peace, as if the danger had passed.
Eventually, the familiar rise of Miller Hill came into view. Beyond it stood the barn, and flickering on the porch was the warm, welcome glow of a light. As they emerged from the tree line, Benji spotted people in the clearing. A search party—his father among them, his mother as well. They had been looking everywhere… except in the place no one dared go.
Benji’s dad stepped ahead quickly, his face a mix of relief and frustration.
“Son,”
he said,
“you knew that area was off-limits. No one goes back there. Why did you?”
Benji, still trembling slightly from nerves and exhaustion, answered quietly,
“I wasn’t looking for anything, really. But now I know what’s back there.”
His father narrowed his eyes.
“What? What did you find? No one ever comes back.”
Benji looked him in the eye.
“Feral hogs. Wildcats bigger than our dogs. And pits that look bottomless. I figure the people who disappeared… they didn’t make it out because they were walking in the dark. They either fell in—or the hogs got to them.”
The searchers stood silently for a moment, absorbing his words. Then came relief, and the reunions began.
Benji made a point to thank everyone who’d come looking for him. One by one. Then, he helped lift each of the dogs into the back of his father’s pickup. This time, he insisted they ride up front.
Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie settled into the cab like visiting royalty, each peering out the windows with pride and dignity. They had saved Benji, and he knew they deserved far more than a truck ride.
The truck rolled down the familiar dirt road toward home. Benji sat in the open bed under the early morning sun. He leaned back. He opened his last two cans of Vienna sausages. Then, he drank from one of his remaining bottles of water. He was there, alone in the quiet. The wind brushed his face. The trees grew smaller behind him. He finally relaxed.
He had made it out of No Man’s Land.
Benji would never forget what he found there. But even better, he wouldn’t forget how his three pals had worked together to take care of him. And when he got home he would tell his dad about the dogs doing the great things they did. He also wanted to repay his canine friends in some way. In Chapter 5, Benji repays them and that is how the story ends in an unexpected way.
How can this story end in any unexpected way? A boy and his dogs have made it out of No Man’s Land. They are safe, aren’t they? We all are, aren’t we? Or are we? What Chapter five holds will have you asking questions of your own. It looks like the dogs will still be looking for a tree or two come Chapter Five!
Let’s get back to our story. –– Benji stood in the middle of the woods, heart racing, with three feral hogs growling and snorting nearby. Jackie had lost the scent trail. She couldn’t find the way home. Benji had just thrown away his only peace offering: the beef jerky. The hogs tore through the jerky in seconds. Benji and the three dogs tried to figure out what direction to go. But, now those hogs had regained interest in something more satisfying—the boy.
Oggy circled and snapped at the first boar, trying to keep it distracted. Jackie stood stiff and alert. She barked furiously at the second one. Her tail was rigid and her fur was raised. She positioned herself between the beast and Benji.
Bruiser, Dad’s Shadow
But it was Bruiser who took the lead.
With a thunderous bark, he lunged at the second boar. The clash was brutal. Bruiser’s sheer size and strength gave him an edge. Still, the wild boar was enraged and dangerous. It slashed with its tusks.
Benji screamed,
“No! Bruiser!”
But Bruiser didn’t back down. He planted his feet and forced the boar back with muscle and fury. Oggy darted in to nip at the animal’s hind legs while Jackie’s relentless barking finally drove the creature into retreat.
Within moments, the two remaining boars, startled and overwhelmed, turned tail and vanished into the trees.
Bruiser limped back, a fresh gash on his shoulder. Benji dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around him, whispering,
“You saved us. You’re the bravest dog in the world.”
The three dogs surrounded Benji, panting heavily—not from fear, but from duty fulfilled. They had done their job.
The sun had dipped lower now, and the smell of distant cooking reminded Benji of home. He hoped Jackie would catch a scent that would guide them back—but no such luck.
They were still stuck in No Man’s Land.
Benji sighed and looked at his companions.
“Well, boys… looks like we’re gonna be here for a while. As well find a safe place to rest.”
The fading daylight painted the woods in long shadows. The path behind them had become a confusing tangle of trees and underbrush.
“I don’t know where we are,”
Benji admitted.
Oggy was licking his sore paws. Bruiser winced with every step. Jackie stood alert—ears perked, head rotating like a radar dish, listening for signs of danger.
Benji reached into his backpack and pulled out his trusty binoculars. Scanning the area, he spotted something—a cave etched into the canyon wall, not far off. It resembled an ancient hollow carved out of sandstone by the water long ago. If they can reach it safely, it can make a decent shelter for the night.
He pulled out a handkerchief. He tore it in half. He tied one piece to a high branch to mark the location.
Oggy took point. Bruiser limped beside Benji. Jackie stuck close this time and carefully marked her trail. They made their way to the cave.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the entrance. The cave was shallow and quiet, with no signs of animal tracks inside. It looked safe—for now.
Benji gathered dead wood from the forest floor and built a small fire at the cave’s entrance. As the flickering flames grew, casting dancing shadows, the four of them settled in.
But Benji had a surprise.
He hadn’t given all the food to the hogs. He had two cans of Vienna sausages tucked in his backpack. They were beneath a rolled-up poncho. His dad always said to keep them in case of emergencies.
He popped open a can. Instantly, three sets of ears perked up.
Benji smiled and shared the sausages with the dogs, eating slowly and grateful that they had something to eat. But he couldn’t help wondering: How are we going to get out of this mess?
As night fell, the forest faded into darkness. The stars lit up the sky, and the wind rustled the trees outside. The cave offered shelter from the breeze, and the dogs took turns keeping watch while Benji dozed beside the fire.
At around three in the morning, a sharp, blood-curdling scream echoed through the canyon.
All three dogs leaped up, growling and tense. Benji jolted awake. The fire had burned down to glowing coals.
Another scream—closer this time.
Benji grabbed a long stick and jabbed it into the embers, trying to spark a flame. The dogs stood bristling, their fur raised, eyes locked on the darkness beyond.
This is the most dangerous moment yet—except maybe for the hogs.
Benji fumbled through his backpack and found a small flashlight. He switched it on and swept the beam across the canyon.
There, near a shallow watering hole, stood two full-grown wildcats—the biggest Benji had ever seen. Easily 130 pounds each. But the barking, the firelight, and the beam of the flashlight startled them. They bolted, disappearing into the trees.
Benji sat back down, heart pounding. Sleep was impossible now.
Thinking to himself –––
Was something else out there?
Has anyone even started looking for him yet?
He’d never been gone this long.
He sighed and pulled the blanket around him tighter.
“When I get back,”
he whispered to himself
“I’m gonna be in big trouble. For good this time.”
But for now, he is still in No Man’s Land.
And he is lost.
They called it No Man’s Land for a reason. Legend has it, no man who ever entered those woods was seen again. That little detail? It’s something Benji overlooked when planning his latest adventure. Rumor has it. No search party will go in after him. No one’s willing to take the chance they will not come back either. So maybe Benji ought to start thinking about an extended stay. Is anyone even organizing a search? Or will they just do a flyover, check a few boxes, and call it good? Check back tomorrow as the story continues—because things in No Man’s Land are only getting stranger.
The trail that day led into Cottonwood Hollow. It was a deep gully nestled between two ridges. The area was thick with ancient trees and the scent of cool, damp earth. Benji had finally summoned the courage to enter what the kids around the farm called “No Man’s Land.”
Oggy Doggy, The Best Friend A Family Ever Had
Oggy darted ahead, barking sharply as he flushed out a covey of quail.
“Good boy!”
Benji laughed, breaking into a jog behind him.
Bruiser trotted beside him, his heavy paws crunching over dry leaves. Every time a twig snapped, his muscular body tensed. If the wind shifted, he was ready to protect until he decided there was no danger.
Jackie moved like a ghost, glancing back from time to time, her black-and-white tail swaying gently. She paused here and there to mark tree trunks, just in case they needed help finding the way back.
About halfway through the Hollow, Oggy let out a sharp yip and froze—body crouched low, fur bristling.
Benji halted.
“What is it, boy?”
Then he saw it. A feral boar was rooting near the creek bed. Its coarse hair rose. Its tusks caught the last golden light of the afternoon. Oggy growled, weaving left and right, trying to distract it.
Bruiser stepped in front of Benji and barked once—low and commanding. The boar noticed the big dog and paused, nostrils flaring.
“Back up… slowly,”
Benji whispered.
They had only taken a few steps when Jackie barked behind them. Benji spun around.
A second boar had crept up from the rear.
Trapped.
Benji’s heart pounded. Feral hogs? He’d never seen any this close to the farm before. His dad’s hogs were penned and docile. These? These had tusks. And just as panic set in, a third hog emerged from the brush, snorting and stomping.
Think, Benji. Think.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch of beef jerky—the snack he’d saved for later. Tearing it open, he waved a piece in the air.
The hogs’ heads turned toward the scent. Without wasting a second, Benji hurled the entire pouch as far as he can into the underbrush.
It worked.
All three hogs charged the pouch, squealing and shoving as they fought over the jerky.
Benji snapped his fingers. The dogs hustled back to his side, and together, they crept away.
But now, the sun was dipping low behind the ridge. Shadows stretched across the Hollow, and the light had grown dim. In the chaos, Benji had lost track of their path.
Everything looked the same.
He called softly,
“Jackie, take us home.”
Jackie trotted out, sniffing at nearby logs and bushes, searching for the scent trail she had left. But her markings were gone—wiped away. The boars, rubbing against the trunks and rolling in the undergrowth, had erased everything she’d left behind.
She circled wider, nose to the ground—but still, nothing.
Benji stood in the middle of the woods. Three feral hogs were still growling and grunting in the distance. They were gathered around a torn bag of jerky.
This wasn’t the bedtime story anyone wanted to hear. Was Benji going to stand there—or scoot?Benji doesn’t have beef jerky. What will he and his pals eat for supper if they have to spend the night in the woods?Check back tomorrow. Read Chapter Three to see if he finds his way out.Or will the boy and his dogs get hungry!
Bruiser, Oggy and Jackie, three friends that protected Benji.
Every day at exactly 3:35 p.m., the yellow school bus rumbled down the dusty country road. Its brakes squealed in protest. It stopped at the gate of the Miller farm. Waiting by the fence—tails wagging, ears alert—stood three loyal dogs: Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
Oggy, a wiry shepherd-collie mix, zipped back and forth like a bolt of lightning, always the first to move. Bruiser was a proud and imposing German shepherd. His stare could make thunder retreat. He sat like a sentry. His eyes were fixed on the distant tree line. Jackie was a small but wise rat terrier. She lay in the shade, her head tilted. It was as if she was listening to the wind for stories.
Benji stepped off the bus. His backpack bounced and his heart was full of energy. He called out,
“Who’s ready for a hike?”
The dogs barked in harmony. Their daily ritual had begun—school ended, and the adventure began.
The woods, hills, and winding creeks beyond the Miller farm stretched wild and untamed. They were alive with beauty and mystery. There was a kind of danger only country kids and creatures could sense. Benji’s father trusted the dogs with more than just companionship. They each had a job:
Oggy, ever eager, raced ahead to flush out snakes, spook wild hogs, or alert the team to anything unusual. Bruiser stayed at Benji’s side, calm and formidable—his job was protection. Jackie had a sharp nose and clever instincts. She always brought up the rear. She tracked every step and memorized the path home.
Together, they were more than a team. They were guardians: a boy and his dogs, bound by loyalty, instinct, and love.
They had explored nearly every trail across the farm. But there was one place they had never dared to enter.
Benji called it No Man’s Land.
Even the cattle avoided it. Horses snorted and veered away from its edges. Dense with tangled brush, towering trees, and sheer, jagged cliffs, it lay beyond the farthest bend of the creek. You couldn’t see more than a few yards into it, even when standing on the embankment across the water. It was as if the woods had secrets they weren’t ready to share.
Sometimes, the team would gather at that high bank and stare into the thicket. Benji would speak softly as if trying not to disturb whatever is listening.
“What’s back there?”
he’d wonder aloud.
“Nobody’s ever gone in. But one day, we’ll be brave enough to cross that creek and find out.”
He told the dogs his plan: the safest way in would be through Cottonwood Hollow. If they cut through the grove, they would reach No Man’s Land without being seen from the road—or the house.
Before they set off, a familiar sound echoed across the pasture—the dinner bell.
Its clang was sharp and sure, and the dogs didn’t need to be told twice. The four companions turned for home. They momentarily forgot their trail. The promise of a warm meal and kind voices led them back.
They didn’t cross into No Man’s Land that day.
But they would.
And when they did, they’d uncover something none of them would ever have imagined.
Those dogs need to be fed. And it’s a good thing Benji got them home in time for ‘supper.’ Check back for Chapter Two. We’ll find out if the Team gets brave enough to hike into No Man’s Land!
Meet the Trail Guardians: A Boy, Three Dogs, and the Adventures That Bind Them
In the quiet stretch of Oklahoma back-country, the hills roll gently. The wind carries the scent of cedar and earth. A school bus door creaks open every afternoon at 3:35 p.m. Out steps a boy named Benji. He is full of curiosity and grit. He loves the wild places that lie just beyond the fence line. But he’s not alone. Waiting faithfully at the gate are his three loyal companions—Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie.
To most folks, they’re just dogs. But to Benji—and anyone lucky enough to witness them in action—they’re guardians. Each has a purpose. Each with a soul as big as the land they roam.
Oggy is the scout. He is a lightning-fast border collie. His job is to stay out front. He sniffs out threats and leads the way with sharp instinct. Bruiser, the muscle-bound mastiff mix with a thunderous bark and a heart of gold, never strays from Benji’s side. He is the protector. And Jackie, the wise and steady golden retriever, always takes the rear. She remembers every twist and turn in the woods. She is the quiet navigator. She ensures they always find their way back home.
What begins as a simple after-school tradition—just a boy and his dogs hiking the countryside—becomes something far greater. These four face the untamed wilderness. They discover the secrets of the land. They defend each other against the dangers that lurk in the shadows. These include wild boars, treacherous terrain, and even the unpredictable spirit of nature itself.
But this story isn’t just about survival—it’s about trust and purpose. It’s about the powerful bond that exists between a child and the animals who would give anything to protect him. It’s about finding your place in the world, knowing your role, and honoring it with everything you’ve got. It’s about how the world can feel vast and uncertain. Having the right ones by your side can make all the difference.
The Trail Guardians is a heartwarming, adventurous tale set against the backdrop of rural America. It is perfect for readers who believe in the magic of animals. It also appeals to those who appreciate the courage of kids and the timeless rhythm of life in the country.
📅 Mark your calendars—Chapter One begins Tuesday, June 17th!
Watch for the first of five exciting chapters. Enjoy this engaging short read as we count down to the first day of summer!
Join Benji, Oggy, Bruiser, and Jackie on their journey. They explore wild places where memories are made. Loyalty is tested, and legends are born.
This is only the beginning.
The story is growing, the trails are calling, and the dogs are ready!
That just about does it, don’t it?Step Right up Come On In!
The Honorable Judge Bledsoe peered over his glasses, clearly unimpressed. “Mr. Rawlins, you understand this is a legal proceeding, not the Grand Ole Opry?”
“Yes, Your Honor,”
Said Henry Rawlins. He stood tall in his dusty boots and bolo tie. One hand rested on a weathered Bible. The other clutched a crumpled lyric sheet.
Across the courtroom, his soon-to-be ex-wife, Sherry Lynn, sat rigid in her seat, her lawyer whispering furiously in her ear. Henry’s lawyer had already given up and was sitting down, his face red, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
Henry cleared his throat.
“But if the court will allow, I’d like to offer my final statement in my own words. I would also like to include the words of a few gentlemen. They helped me understand what went wrong.”
A murmur passed through the courtroom.
Judge Bledsoe sighed.
“Mr. Rawlins, continue—briefly.”
Henry nodded, unfolding the page.
“Your Honor, I ain’t a lawyer. But I know pain, regret, and how a man can lose his way. And those feelings are best told not in legal briefs but in country songs. So I offer my case—in three verses and a broken heart.”
He stepped ahead.
“First, Vern Gosdin said it best: ‘That just about does it. That’ll just about kill it, won’t it?’ That’s what I said the day Sherry left. I came home to an empty house and a note by the coffee pot. Ten years of marriage, and it ended in one quiet goodbye.”
He turned to Sherry Lynn.
“I didn’t fight. I figured I’d already lost. And I didn’t blame her—not entirely. I hadn’t been easy to love.”
The courtroom was silent. Even the bailiff looked up from his crossword.
“Then,” Henry continued,
“I walked through what George Jones called ‘The Grand Tour.’ I opened the closet and saw her dresses hangin’ like ghosts. Our baby’s room still had the mobile spinnin’ slow. The smell of her perfume lingered like a memory that didn’t know how to leave.”
Judge Bledsoe adjusted in his seat, then motioned for him to finish.
“But, Your Honor, here’s the thing. I almost didn’t show up here today. I nearly signed the papers and walked away. But then I heard Randy Travis singing. He was singing ‘On the Other Hand… there’s a golden band.’ It reminded me of someone who would not understand.”
Henry looked again at Sherry Lynn, softer now.
“On one hand, I messed up. I got too comfortable. I stopped listening. I stopped holding her when she needed to be held. But on the other hand, I still believe in us. That golden band still means something to me. Maybe I’m a fool for sayin’ this here in court. I’d rather fight to fix it. I won’t stand here and let it all go to hell while quoting country songs.”
He folded the paper, tucked it into his jacket, and looked down.
“I rest my case.”
A pause. Then Judge Bledsoe leaned back in his chair.
“Well,”
he said slowly,
“I’ve been on this bench for twenty-three years. I’ve heard lawyers argue using everything from scripture to Shakespeare. But, I’ve never heard anyone use Vern Gosdin.”
The judge turned to Sherry Lynn.
“Mrs. Rawlins, do you still wish to continue with the divorce?”
She was silent for a moment. Her expression softened as she looked at Henry—looked at him—for the first time in months.
“I… I don’t know,”
She said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“But maybe we should talk. Not here. Somewhere real.”
Judge Bledsoe smiled faintly.
But, on the other hand…The George, Vern and Randy Plea.
🌈 How Braums Dairy Supported Pride — Weathered Criticism, Reaped Major Rewards
1. Context: Logo on Plaza Sponsorship
In June 2025, Braums Dairy was unexpectedly in the spotlight. It is a beloved Oklahoma-based chain of ice cream shops, fast-food restaurants, and grocery markets. Their logo appeared on promotional flyers for “Pride on the Plaza,” a local Pride celebration in Oklahoma City (1). It served as part of a broader “Live on the Plaza” sponsorship package.
2. Initial Backlash
Conservative commentator and former state lawmaker Gabe Woolley reacted to the logo’s appearance. He tweeted that he would boycott Braums for allegedly funding a drag event. (2). His claims quickly gained traction among right-leaning Oklahomans, prompting calls for political reaction to this perceived advocacy.
3. Rebuttal & Clarification
Soon, voices with marketing skill pushed back. Braums was not directly sponsoring the Pride party. Instead, they were supporting the venue’s broader summer programming. Further investigation revealed that their sponsorship covered the entire weekend. This included the LGBTQ+ event. Still, it was not explicitly targeted at Pride.
This nuance shifted the framing dramatically: what was initially cast as a partisan act became clear as simple venue support.
4. The Social Media Surge
After the dust settled, reactions flipped. Social media buzz exploded on TikTok:
“@Braums could not have ENGINEERED this kind of positive publicity if they tried #oklahoma #braums #braumsicecream #drama”(3)
Citizens applauded the company’s unintended but visible support, demonstrating powerful brand alignment.
5. Tangible Business Upside
This wave of exposure translated into real-world gains:
Brand lift & awareness: Braums featured in news cycles, social feeds, and community conversations—as a business unafraid to be inclusive.
Customer engagement: LGBTQ+ supporters and allies publicly shared plans to patronize Braums. As a result, many new customers discovered the brand. Community loyalty soared.
Earned PR: Local outlets like The Lost Ogle covered the story. They humorously defended Braums. They also criticized the boycott efforts (4).
It became a textbook example of inclusive marketing with unexpected ROI.
6. Takeaways for Brand Strategy
Insight Lesson
Intersectional sponsorships matter. Even general licensing contracts (e.g., “Live on the Plaza”) can effectively link your brand to meaningful causes.
Backlashes can pivot positively When critics amplify your message, clear and direct messaging helps turn controversy into resonance.
Public support matters TikTok, and community praise can vastly outperform first negative attention.
Organic PR beats paid media. Media coverage and word-of-mouth about your brand can have a lasting impact and longevity that outlasts short campaigns.
7. Conclusion
Braums experience offers a powerful case study for businesses. Even inadvertent support of social causes can yield significant goodwill. It also brings loyalty and profitability. Through smart, clear communication and customer engagement, you can transform backlash into business-building buzz.
Not the peace that lives only in headlines or history books—the grand treaties, the ceasefires, the official proclamations. I’m talking about the peace we build in our daily lives. This peace begins around kitchen tables. It is found in community meetings. It happens in the quiet moments when we choose to listen rather than shout.
What would it take to create a more peaceful world? That question sits heavy on my heart.
I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I believe peace isn’t something we wait for others to deliver. It’s something we shape, step by step, together. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with a plan. Its not a perfect plan, but it’s a real one. It’s something we can reach for and return to, like a compass in uncertain times.
Step One: Start With Listening
Peace begins with the willingness to hear someone else’s story—especially when it challenges our own. We don’t have to agree on everything, but we do have to care enough to listen.
Imagine what would change if we listened without preparing to argue back. If we asked “What is it like to be you?” and waited long enough for a real answer.
Step Two: Make Room for Justice
There can be no true peace where injustice lives unchecked. That means looking closely at the systems around us—schools, courts, hospitals, policing, housing—and asking, “Who is being left behind? Who is being harmed? And what can we do to fix it?”
Justice isn’t about blame. It’s about repair. Peace doesn’t ask us to forget the past. It asks us to heal from it—together.
Step Three: Practice Kindness Like It’s a Skill
We talk about kindness like it’s something we either have or don’t. But I think it’s more like a muscle. You build it every day—with patience, with humility, and with a little humor when things get hard.
Sometimes, peace looks like biting your tongue. Sometimes, it looks like reaching out. And sometimes, it’s just not walking away.
Step Four: Educate for Empathy
To give the next generation a better shot at peace, we must teach them differently. Not just math and reading—but empathy, conflict resolution, critical thinking, and how to talk across differences without losing our humanity.
We should teach history honestly, too—not just the polished parts, but the painful truths that still echo today. Healing begins with honesty.
Step Five: Be Brave Enough to Hope
Hope can be a radical thing. Especially when the news is bleak and the divisions feel endless. But hope is not weakness. It’s strength disguised as belief. It’s faith in what we can build, even if we haven’t seen it yet.
A plan for peace isn’t a single event. It’s not something we sign and file away. It’s a lifelong effort. It’s showing up, over and over, with open hands and an open heart.
We will never achieve a perfect peace. But if we can bring peace into one more conversation, one more neighborhood, one more generation—then it’s worth everything.
So here’s my plan. It starts with me. It starts with you. And it keeps going—as long as we keep walking ahead, one small, hopeful step at a time.
The most significant cultural threat to occur in my lifetime is occurring as I write today. It deals with our nations stability. The threat to our democracy doesn’t come from a single event—it happens every day. It happens when we ignore what’s unfolding in our city councils, our state legislatures, and in the halls of Congress. It happens when we assume that honorable people are safeguarding our federal institutions.
That complacency is how we arrived at the crisis point we face in 2025.
In the early 1970s, President Richard Nixon was implicated in one of the greatest political scandals in U.S. history: Watergate. His aides admitted to orchestrating a break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters. They attempted to steal information to sabotage a political opponent. The House of Representatives held impeachment hearings. Nixon was on the brink of being impeached. He resigned before the Senate took up the case. He was never prosecuted—pardoned instead by his successor, Gerald Ford. That decision set a precedent: presidents commit crimes without real consequence.
Had Nixon faced justice, we wouldn’t be watching the unraveling of the United States today. In 2025, we are witnessing a troubling surge of pro-white nationalist influence within our government. Supremacist ideologies are fueling misinformation campaigns and choking the truth that help heal and unite our country. This is one of the most perilous chapters in our nation’s history. It spells the end of the United States as we have known it.
Ulrich Groff I.
Ironically, the Groff family once fled an oppressive regime in the 1850s, seeking liberty and justice in America. Now, in a cruel twist of history, a direct descendant of Ulrich Groff I —faces a difficult consideration. Will he see himself returning to the very region his ancestors left in search of freedom. Or hope for a miracle. We must not allow the hard-won promises of our democracy to slip away through silence and inaction.
What the world—and especially the United States—needs now is love, sweet love. Not the kind that’s fleeting or sentimental. It should be the steady, courageous kind that listens more than it lectures. It seeks understanding over dominance. Our nation was once bound together by a shared belief in the promise of unity. Now, it is splintered by division. Mistrust and fear further divide us. Political rage, social distrust, and cultural isolation have made enemies of neighbors and strangers of friends.
But love, in its truest form, has the power to mend what anger tears apart. It begins with kindness in daily life—treating others with respect, even when they disagree with us. It grows in empathy—stepping into anothers shoes rather than judging them from afar. If we can choose love over fear, we can start to heal this fractured country. Hope must prevail over hate. Connection should be preferred over separation. This healing won’t happen overnight. It will occur heart by heart, one act at a time.
I received a question yesterday about the United States. They asked why so many people are up in arms over the current immigration raids taking place across the country. Especially after President Obama, during his term in office, removed over 3 million undocumented individuals. Many of whom they claimed never had a hearing.
I wanted to conduct some research to learn more about it for myself.
Understanding Immigration Enforcement: Obama vs. Trump
During his eight years in office (2009–2017), President Barack Obama led an administration that deported over 3 million noncitizens. These deportations were conducted through formal removal proceedings. A formal removal involves a legal process. This process results in a court order for deportation from the United States.
If we include “returns”, the total number of departures exceeds 5 million under the Obama administration. These returns are cases where individuals either voluntarily left the country or were denied entry at the border. They agreed to withdraw their application to enter. Many of those individuals were turned away at the border before ever entering the U.S. Because they were not formally admitted into the country, they were not entitled to a court hearing. These actions, while recorded as enforcement events, differ significantly from deportations after internal apprehensions.
It’s important to note that Obama’s enforcement focused heavily on border security. It prioritized the removal of individuals with serious criminal records. Despite this, he faced criticism from immigrant rights advocates for the high number of deportations. At the same time, Republicans attacked him for not doing enough to secure the border.
In contrast, the Trump administration adopted a far more aggressive and indiscriminate approach. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents under Trump routinely apprehended individuals from homes. They were also taken from workplaces, schools, churches, or even while walking with family. Many were detained without prompt access to legal counsel. They were transferred long distances from their communities. In some cases, they were deported without ever appearing before a judge. This represented a sharp departure from the enforcement priorities of earlier administrations.
It’s worth remembering that President Obama did not pursue mass interior deportations without due process. He implemented programs like DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals). These programs offer relief to specific undocumented individuals who were brought to the U.S. as children.
Obama never had to use the military. He deported nearly 8 million non-documented individuals. This includes those he sent back and others never allowed in through customs at airports, ports of entry and borders. He used the border patrol and immigration officials on a budget provided by Congress. Trump has spent more on advertising. He talks about what he is going to do or what he has done. This spending is more than any earlier administration spent deporting a person. He has had to send in the National Guard and Marines. As of this report, 118 immigrants have been apprehended in Los Angeles. It is true they will not get a hearing if their incarceration follows the path of others.
I want to thank the person who asked to stay anonymous for bringing this issue to our attention. It’s vital to understand the differences in immigration enforcement approaches. While no administration is perfect, how a President handles immigration reflects not just policy but a nation’s values.
In the summer of 1963, the hottest thing in the small town of Hickory Bluff wasn’t the weather—it was Mrs. Bonnie Ledbetter’s yard.
She’d just returned from a week in Florida. She unveiled her latest acquisition with grand ceremony. In one hand, she held a glass of instant iced tea. Her latest acquisition was a pair of bright pink plastic flamingos. They were staked proudly beside her birdbath like sentinels of suburbia.
“They’re classy,”
she declared.
“Very Palm Beach.”
This declaration ignited a cold war of lawn decor on Dogwood Lane.
Mr. Gilmore, her neighbor, responded with a gnome holding a fishing pole. Mrs. Thornton countered with a ceramic frog playing a banjo. By August, the entire block looked like a cross between a garden center clearance bin and a fever dream.
But it was eleven-year-old Joey Timmons who took things to the next level.
Armed with a flashlight, a wagon, and a deep appreciation for chaos, Joey launched what he called “Operation Lawn Flamingo.” On a moonless night, he crept from house to house, relocating Mrs. Ledbetter’s flamingos in increasingly absurd places. One was discovered straddling the mailbox. The other was found lounging in the birdbath, wearing doll sunglasses.
Mrs. Ledbetter was baffled but undeterred. She blamed squirrels.
Joey’s nightly missions escalated. The flamingos were soon photographed perched on the church steeple, tied to Mr. Gilmore’s TV antenna, and once—legend says—riding tandem on a neighbor’s Schwinn. Each time, they were quietly returned to the yard by sunrise.
But one morning, they were gone.
Panic swept Dogwood Lane. Mrs. Ledbetter posted hand-drawn fliers. Mr. Gilmore offered a $5 reward. The town paper ran a headline: “Fowl Play Suspected in Flamingo Heist.”
Days later, on Labor Day, the mystery was solved. A float in the town parade rolled by, sponsored by the hardware store. There they were—Bonnie’s flamingos—crowned with tinsel, waving from a kiddie pool atop a hay wagon.
Joey Timmons was soaked in sweat and joy. He rode behind them in a cowboy hat. He was grinning like a kid who had just outwitted the world.
Mrs. Ledbetter crossed her arms and muttered,
“Well, I suppose they are getting some sun.”
After the parade, she let Joey keep one of the flamingos. The other still stood guard in her yard until the day she died.
Joey’s been mayor of Hickory Bluff for twelve years now.
Some say he still keeps the flamingo in his office.
Chapter Ten: Stand Still, and the Dust Will Bury You
By dawn, the desert wind carried more than heat. It took silence—the kind that comes before thunder.
Chester Finch stood on the steps of the half-burned church at the edge of Serenity’s main street. His badge was pinned high and proud. His ribs ached. His coat was torn. But his eyes were sharp, and the ledger in his hands could end a dynasty.
The Marshal had pulled his moped from hiding and had it juiced up for duty. The Vespa GTS (300cc) moped shone as slick as the day it was new. It had US Marshal emblems on it and had been stowed inside the jail’s secret compartment. A hiding place that Chester designed the night he arrived in town.
Chester looked out over the gathering.
Wren was there, her arm in a sling, a rifle strapped across her back.
Petal stood beside her, bruised but alive, clutching a satchel full of Cain’s secrets.
Julep Jake leaned against the doorframe, sharpening his miniature whittled guillotine.
“A town’s only worth the blood it takes to keep it,”
He said.
“Reckon we’re due.”
Even Buck Harlan was the old stagecoach driver who hadn’t spoken more than ten words in a decade. He stood with a shotgun across his knees.
And behind him came the others—storekeepers, grooms, forgotten women, broken men.
Cain had ruled them. Gallow had hunted them.
But now –– now they remembered their names.
Chester raised his voice.
“I’m no savior. I’m no sheriff. I’m just the last man they sent when no one else would come.”
He held up the badge.
“But I say this badge still means something. Not because it’s brass. Not because the government gave it to me. But because I’m willin’ to bleed for it.”
He threw the ledgers down onto the church steps.
“These are Cain’s sins. Every payment, every name, every blackmail note, every fix. And when this town turns that over to the federal office, I just wired—they’re gonna come. Not with a whisper. With subpoenas and dogs.”
A beat of silence.
Then a single voice called out:
“And Gallow?”
Chester turned.
“He’ll come. Tonight, maybe. It could be sooner. He’ll bring fire.”
He looked to Wren.
“But fire don’t mean nothin’ if you’ve got water and grit.”
Wren nodded once.
“We stand.”
The townsfolk murmured.
Then they shouted.
Then they began to build.
Barricades. Traps. Makeshift outposts from overturned wagons and scrap wood. Petal turned the saloon into a war room. Julep Jake strung piano wire across alleys. Even the bell tower rang for the first time in years, warning off the vultures.
The Last Hour
Cain, watching from The Assembly, saw the town rise against him and knew he’d lost the crown.
He poured a final drink, set it aside, and vanished through a trapdoor in the fireplace, bound for nowhere.
The Arrival
Gallow came at sunset, just as expected.
He walked straight down the main street—unarmed, unhurried—like he owned time.
But this time, time fought back.
The first tripwire knocked him off balance. A spotlight lit him up. A warning shot clipped his boot.
He crouched, ready to vanish into shadow—until he saw Chester.
Standing in the street. Moped beside him. Rifle in hand.
“You’re outgunned,”
Gallow called.
“Nope,”
Chester said.
“I’m out-cowed.”
The townsfolk emerged—on roofs, behind crates, on balconies.
Gallow took a step. Then another.
Chester held firm.
And Wren, from the bell tower, raised her rifle.
The shot rang out.
Gallow stumbled. Not dead. Just marked.
He turned—bleeding, seething—and ran.
He vanished into the dust from which he’d come.
And the town never saw him again.
Epilogue: A New Kind of Quiet
Serenity changed.
The ledgers made it to Washington. Petal was deputized. Wren chose to stay and built the first real school the town had seen in thirty years. Julep Jake finally finished his guillotine and gave it to a museum in Tulsa.
As for Chester Finch?
He stayed, too.
He never left Serenity.
Not because he had to.
But sometimes, the worst places can create the most profound kind of peace.
Even if you get there on a moped.
The Town Called Serenity
A hero did not save it.
It was saved by the last man willing to stay when everyone else ran.
So the moped was hidden away in the jail’s secret spot—one no one else even knew existed. Good thing Chester made it out alive, or that Vespa would’ve turned into a time capsule! More importantly, this story is a great reminder: the bad guys never truly win.
Braddock Cain sat alone in The Assembly, a chessboard in front of him, half-played.
It was something he did when the whiskey wore off, and the world got too quiet. He played both sides of the board. He always made sure black lost.
Tonight, black wasn’t losing.
He moved a knight, sat back, and scowled.
The vault trap should have buried Finch and the girl. He’d received no word from Poke, which was unusual. Too unusual.
A low, sharp knock came at the door—three short raps.
Then silence.
His eyes narrowed.
“Enter,”
He growled.
The door creaked open, and the man who stepped inside wasn’t Poke. Wasn’t anyone from Serenity? His clothes were clean, military-cut. His boots were dustless. He didn’t wear a hat—but his shadow felt longer than the room allowed.
“Mr. Cain,”
The stranger said.
“I presume.”
Cain stood, hand already on the grip of his pistol.
“You don’t walk into this room without an invitation.”
“I didn’t walk,”
The man replied.
“I arrived.”
He stepped ahead and set a file down on Cain’s table. The name ASHWOOD was stamped in red across the top.
Cain didn’t move to open it.
“You’re Gallow,”
He said flatly.
“That’s what they used to call me,”
The man replied.
“In certain circles. Not the ones you buy into.”
Cain sat back slowly.
“What do you want?”
Gallow smiled faintly.
“Let’s call it… clarity. You’ve grown fat on rot, Cain. But rot attracts insects. I’m here to burn the carcass clean.”
Cain let out a cold laugh.
“You think you can walk into my town and—”
Gallow was suddenly in front of him.
Cain hadn’t even seen the movement.
A knife gleamed under Cain’s chin.
“I don’t think,”
Gallow whispered.
“I replace. You’ve become a liability to men far above either of us. The vault was never your property. The tapes, the ledgers, the names—you were supposed to manage them, not flaunt them.”
Cain’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re not just here for Finch.”
“I’m not here for Finch at all,”
Gallow said softly.
“He’s just a broken piece. You’re the engine.”
He pulled the knife away and tucked it back into his sleeve.
“I won’t kill you tonight. That would be –– premature. But I will leave you with a choice.”
Gallow tapped the Ashwood file.
“Burn this. Leave town. Or wait for me to come back.”
Then he was gone.
Cain sat still for a long time, listening to the echo of Gallow’s departure. When his hand finally moved, it wasn’t for his gun.
It was for the bottle.
Elsewhere in Serenity
Poke’s body was found behind the saloon—face down, no bullet wound, no blood.
Just two coins were placed over his eyes.
Wren and Chester stood over him in silence.
“Gallow’s here,”
Wren said.
“And he’s not working for Cain. He’s cleaning the house.”
Chester looked toward the west horizon, where dust clouds rolled in from the direction of the rail line.
He pulled the badge from his coat and stared at it.
“Time to decide,”
He muttered.
“Do I play Marshal—or outlaw?”
Well now, Gallow is certainly making his presence known! And Cain clearly has a big decision to make—but will he actually leave town? If so, he better start packing snacks for the road. But if he’s thinking about staying, he’ll want to give Jonathan Lawson a call. He should secure himself a Colonial Penn Life Insurance policy. It’s unfortunate Poke didn’t think ahead. Maybe those two coins over his eyes are enough to cover a plot in the nearest potter’s field.
As for Marshal Chester Finch, he’s defied the odds and made it to Chapter Ten. And it looks like this final chapter will finally answer the big mystery: the moped. Where has it been? Who hid it? Why wasn’t it tampered with? What was it originally bought for? And when did Chester decide it would be his official Marshal’s ride?
All of this—and more—will be revealed in Chapter Ten. ~ WE Hope ~
The blast had sealed the main vault door and collapsed part of the tunnel behind them. Smoke choked the air. Brick and metal groaned under stress. Chester blinked through blood and dust, pulling Wren up from the rubble.
“You alright?”
He asked, coughing.
“Been worse,”
Wren muttered, cradling her left arm.
“Dislocated, not broken. I’ll pop it back.”
Chester pulled out a penlight and scanned the room.
“No exit. That was the only way in.”
Wren smiled through the pain.
“You thought it was.”
She limped to the far wall. A section of decorative tiling was there—old, Spanish-style. It jutted out from the stone like it didn’t belong. She knocked three times in a rhythm that echoed deeper than it should have.
A hollow click responded.
“Cain didn’t build the vault himself. He took it from a man who did. The original owner had escape routes.”
She traced a tile shaped like a broken star and twisted it counterclockwise. With a faint hiss, the tile wall slid inward, revealing a narrow stone chute, half-collapsed and riddled with centipedes.
Chester stared into the black.
“I don’t suppose you brought rope,”
He said.
“Nope.”
“Alright then,”
He grunted, and they vanished into the dark.
In the Streets Above
Petal stood at her shop counter grinding roots when the front door exploded inward.
She ducked instinctively, drawing her old revolver, but it was too late.
Two men in black tactical gear moved in fast, grabbed her arms, and yanked her across the counter. The third figure entered last—calm, silent.
Mr. Gallow.
He picked up a vial from the shelf, sniffed it, and set it down.
“I’ve read your name,”
He said, voice flat.
“You’re a known associate of Wren. Harboring her. Aiding a rogue federal.”
Petal spat blood and smiled.
“You got a badge?”
“No. I have jurisdiction.”
He signaled.
The men dragged her out.
They disappeared down the street. Julep Jake watched from his cell window. He was whittling a miniature guillotine from an old broom handle.
“And now the harvest begins,”
He muttered.
The Long Climb
Chester and Wren emerged two hours later through a rusted maintenance grate behind the abandoned Serenity Theater. They were scratched, covered in brick dust, and exhausted—but alive.
Wren wiped grime from her face.
“He set us up. Knew we were coming.”
Chester nodded grimly.
“Means we rattled him.”
She held up the two ledgers she’d saved—one in each hand.
“He loses if these go public.”
Chester took them, tucking them into his coat.
“Then let’s make sure they do.”
Suddenly—gunfire cracked in the distance. Three pops.
Wren froze.
“That was near Petal’s.”
Chester’s face hardened.
“We’re not the only ones he’s playing.”
They moved quickly down the alleys. Even as they ran, Wren stopped cold. She saw the mark scorched onto the alley wall: a circle with a horizontal line through it.
She grabbed Chester’s arm.
“That’s not Cain’s symbol.”
“What is it?”
Wren’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“It’s Gallow’s.”
Chester turned, scanning the rooftops.
“Then we’re out of time.”
What exactly did the symbol mean? Chester had the answer—or at least a regulation book with the answer—tucked away in the saddlebags on his moped. The problem? He didn’t bring it with him. And it’s too far to walk back now. Truth is, he hasn’t laid eyes on that moped since he rolled into town. So, is it hidden so well that he forgot where it is? Or is he protecting a strategic location he’s not ready to reveal? With only two chapters left, the Marshal better get moving!
Two nights later, Chester and Wren moved through the back alleys of Serenity like smoke.
The plan was simple: infiltrate the vault below The Assembly using the abandoned mine shaft Wren had mapped out. Inside, Cain kept more than just gold and guns—he kept records. Blackmail. Ledgers. Evidence.
Evidence that could break him!
Wren led them to a rusted grate hidden behind the collapsed ruins of an old hardware store. Beneath it: a shaft covered in rotted boards and bad intentions.
“Down there?”
Chester asked.
“Unless you’d rather try the front door.”
They climbed down slowly, their boots sinking into decades of dust and discarded bones. Lantern light flickered over graffiti scratched into the stone. Old names. Gang signs. Some symbols are older than either of them recognized.
They crawled through two hundred yards of tight rock. They ducked under fallen beams and crossed a flooded tunnel chest-deep in cold water. Finally, they came to a narrow corridor with smooth brick walls.
“This was built after the mine closed,”
Chester said.
“Cain built it,”
Wren confirmed.
“To smuggle in shipments during the lockdown years. It goes straight to his vault room.”
Chester’s hand rested on his revolver.
“We go in quiet. No guns unless we’re cornered.”
They reached the door—an iron-bound, reinforced, and sealed structure with an old code lock. Wren pulled a tiny folded paper from her coat.
“Petal gave me this,”
She said.
“It’s the combination. She wrote it down after Cain got drunk and showed off.”
Chester raised an eyebrow.
“I’m beginning to like that woman.”
Wren punched in the numbers. The lock hissed. The door creaked open.
Inside, the vault glimmered like a serpent’s nest: stacks of cash, boxes of documents, safes within safes.
But the prize wasn’t money.
It was the black books.
Wren went for the ledgers. Chester opened a crate and pulled out a collection of old film reels labeled with names—judges, mayors, even a U.S. senator.
“This is it,”
He whispered.
“This is Cain’s Kingdom in a box!“
“This is Cain’s kingdom in a box.”
But then, from behind them—a faint click.
Wren froze.
“Did you hear—”
Chester tackled her just as the explosion hit.
The vault door slammed shut.
Dust and debris rained down. A trap. It had been rigged.
From above, in a hidden observation room, Braddock Cain watched through a spyglass.
He turned to Poke and said,
“Let them cook. They wanted into my house. Now they can die in it.”
But neither he—nor Chester—knew that Wren had already mapped another way out.
And worse, Mr. Gallow had just entered Serenity.
Cain’s Kingdom In A Box? Sounds like evidence that sews up this case! But, now Mr. Gallow is in town, and this brings a whole new suggestion for more trouble. Or a solution. It is too early to tell. Maybe Mr Gallow came for the moped. What if the Marshal’s service issued the moped to Chester, and they want it back?
benandsteve.com 