By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 20, 2026
Marshal Finch and the Legend of Old Pete
The road into Gotebo looked ordinary.
That should have been Chester Finch’s first warning.
His cherry-red moped sputtered along at a heroic twenty-two miles per hour, its emergency beacon lazily rotating while a cloud of dust followed behind. Beside him trotted George Jones, his loyal hound, who was already regretting every life decision that had led him to western Oklahoma.
Ahead, the hills moved.
Not metaphorically.
Actually moved.
Chester slowed his moped.
The hills stopped.
He adjusted his spectacles.
The hills blinked.
“Oh, George,”
Chester whispered.
George whimpered.
Because the hills were goats.
Hundreds of them.
Standing perfectly still on the ridges overlooking town.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somehow managing to look judgmental.
The town square was deserted except for the members of the Gotebo Goat Ropers, who huddled behind overturned wagons.
JD pointed toward the hills.
“They’ve been up there all morning.”
“They move?” Chester asked.
“No.”
“They attack?”
“No.”
“They eat anything?”
“Everything.”
Chester nodded.
“That’s generally what goats do.”
JD leaned closer.
“These are different.”
He pointed toward the center ridge.
There, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, stood the largest billy goat Chester Finch had ever seen.
The creature was massive.
His beard blew dramatically in the wind despite there being no wind.
One horn appeared chipped.
The other looked polished.
And hanging around his neck was something that looked suspiciously like an old silver pocket watch.
The townspeople removed their hats.
“That’s Old Pete.”
Chester squinted.
“You named him?”
“We didn’t.”
“He named himself.”
Chester blinked.
“Goats can’t do that.”
Nobody answered.
Because at that moment Old Pete stamped one hoof.
A smaller goat trotted down the hill carrying a piece of cardboard in its mouth.
The goat dropped it at Chester’s feet.
Written in surprisingly neat lettering:
SURRENDER TOWN.
RETURN ALL TOMATOES.
MORE SALT LICKS.
SIGNED, OLD PETE
Chester read the note twice.
Then three times.
Then turned it upside down.
George Jones sniffed it.
“George,” Chester said.
George sneezed.
“I don’t suppose you can explain this?”
George looked away.
Which Chester interpreted as a no.
That evening the townspeople gathered in the church basement.
Old Mrs. Crenshaw stood.
“My grandfather swore these goats descended from the herd of outlaw Pete Spence.”
“Impossible,” Chester said.
“The old ranch was in Arizona.”
Mrs. Crenshaw nodded.
“Some say Old Pete is his descendant.”
Another man stood.
“Some say he’s the reincarnation of Pete Spence.”
A third man adjusted his overalls.
“My cousin Earl says Pete Spence never died at all.”
“He became a goat.”
Chester slowly removed his glasses.
Cleaned them.
Put them back on.
“I have arrested thieves.”
Everyone nodded.
“I have arrested kidnappers.”
More nodding.
“I once arrested a man who claimed he was married to a weather vane.”
Murmurs of appreciation.
“But I have never…”
He paused.
“…investigated the possibility that an outlaw from Tombstone returned as livestock.”
The room fell silent.
George Jones barked.
Everyone looked at him.
“I think George agrees with me,” Chester said.
George barked again.
“No?”
Later that night Chester camped outside town.
At exactly midnight he awoke.
Something was standing over him.
He opened one eye.
Old Pete.
The giant billy goat stared down at him.
Neither moved.
Neither blinked.
Finally Chester sat up.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking.”
Old Pete chewed something thoughtfully.
“If you really are Pete Spence…”
The goat snorted.
“…then you’re awfully hairy.”
Old Pete snorted louder.
Then—
to Chester’s horror—
the goat turned.
Walked away.
And with one hoof scratched something into the dirt.
Chester hurried over with his lantern.
There in the moonlight were four words:
I KNOW WHERE MORGAN HID IT
Chester stared.
Morgan.
As in Morgan Earp.
He slowly looked up.
Old Pete was gone.
Only hoofprints remained.
And one silver pocket watch.
Ticking.
Chester picked it up.
Inside the lid was an inscription:
TOMBSTONE
1882
Chester swallowed hard.
George Jones growled.
Far away on the ridge, hundreds of goat eyes glimmered in the darkness.
And somewhere among them, Old Pete laughed.
Or coughed.
With goats, it was difficult to tell.
Next Chapter: Marshal Finch and the Secret of the Silver Pocket Watch
Will Old Pete reveal a century-old mystery?
Did Morgan Earp hide something before his death?
And why have the goats begun digging holes all over Gotebo?
To Be Continued… cluck, cluck, cluck.
Stories concerning our Moped Riding Hero always appear at High Noon Arizona Time. Where the sun is high, the desert is hot, and time never changes!
