By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 21, 2026
Powder Puff and The 49
Marshal Chester Finch had encountered many odors during his career.
Dynamite.
Wet dogs.
The county jail after chili night.
A moonshine still exploding inside a barber shop.
But nothing—and he meant absolutely nothing—prepared him for Powder Puff.
The goat emerged from behind Old Pete just after sunrise.
He was magnificent.
His coat was snowy white.
His horns curved elegantly.
His beard flowed like a frontier preacher.
And he smelled as though something had crawled into another something, died, and been buried inside a gym sock soaked in onions.
Chester immediately covered his nose.
“Sweet mercy!”
George Jones let out a yelp and rolled down a small hill.
The Gotebo Goat Ropers backed away.
JD yelling
“Don’t use a good rope on that bastard! You’ll ruin it. Never get the smell out of it!”
Even Old Pete took three cautious steps to the side.
“That’s Powder Puff,”
JD explained.
“Who in God’s name named him that?”
“My wife.”
“Why?”
“She hates irony.”
Powder Puff proudly strutted forward.
And then the wind shifted.
Three townspeople fainted.
One horse attempted to file for relocation.
The church bell rang all by itself.
Chester pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around his face.
“I’ve smelled chemical fires that were more pleasant.”
JD nodded.
“He’s not fixed.”
“I gathered that.”
“No,”
JD said.
“You gathered him.”
Unfortunately, Powder Puff’s smell was not the town’s greatest concern.
The goats were disappearing.
One.
Then another.
Then three more.
Always at night.
Always smaller goats.
Always gone without a trace.
Old Pete had noticed.
The Spence Gang had noticed.
And now 597 remaining goats were becoming increasingly irritable.
They gathered on the hillsides.
They stared at passing wagons.
They glared at children.
They chewed fences aggressively.
One goat kicked a mailbox completely off its post.
The town was on edge.
Chester assembled the town council.
“This isn’t random.”
Mrs. Crenshaw nodded.
“The goats think somebody’s eating them.”
“Nonsense,”
Chester said.
Everyone stared at him.
Then JD slowly raised a hand.
“Well…”
Chester frowned.
“Well what?”
JD coughed.
“There was a Pow Wow over in Carnegie.”
“So?”
“And old Earl McGinty may have had a .49.”
“A .49?”
“Forty-nine people.”
Chester blinked.
“No.”
JD nodded.
“They ran out of brisket.”
“No.”
“They needed meat.”
“Absolutely not.”
JD removed his hat.
“Some boys might’ve borrowed…”
He paused.
“…six goats.”
“Borrowed?”
“They didn’t bring them back.”
Chester slowly stood.
“I am a Deputy United States Marshal.”
“Yes.”
“I have investigated train robberies.”
“Yes.”
“I have pursued murderers.”
“Yes.”
“I have never before uttered the sentence…”
He rubbed his temples.
“…’Did somebody steal goats for barbecue after a Pow Wow?'”
The room was silent.
George Jones barked once.
Even he couldn’t believe it.
Word spread.
Unfortunately.
Not among the townspeople.
Among the goats.
Nobody knew how.
Perhaps a sympathetic sheep.
Possibly a traitorous donkey.
Maybe Powder Puff overheard somebody while stinking up Carnegie.
Whatever the reason—
the goats learned the truth.
And they were furious.
That evening Old Pete summoned the herd.
Hundreds gathered beneath the moon.
Powder Puff stood beside him.
Unfortunately downwind.
The moon itself seemed to retreat behind a cloud.
Old Pete stomped.
The goats stomped.
Old Pete bleated.
The goats answered.
Powder Puff bleated.
Half the herd staggered backward coughing.
Old Pete glared.
Powder Puff looked hurt.
Meanwhile Chester sat alone outside town.
George Jones beside him.
“I didn’t approve this.”
George whined.
“Nobody should be eating town evidence.”
George barked.
“Especially not after a Pow Wow.”
George barked louder.
Chester sighed.
“I’m afraid something terrible is coming.”
At that moment—
A rider on a horse arrived.
“Marshal something terrible is coming!”
Marshal Finch asked what?
The rider said
“I don’t know but I could smell it on my way into town!”
from somewhere on the hills— there stood Powder Puff.
Then came a sound.
Not a bleat.
Not a growl.
Not even Powder Puff after eating wild onions.
It was singing.
Hundreds of goats.
Together.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The melody drifted across the prairie.
Chester froze.
Because somehow…
somewhere…
they had learned the tune to:
“Have You Seen My Chicken?”
George Jones lifted his head.
His collar speaker crackled.
And began playing the song too.
The goats sang louder.
Old Pete raised his head toward the stars.
And Powder Puff—
standing proudly beside him—
let loose a smell so terrible…
that three coyotes surrendered themselves to the Gotebo Goat Ropers.
Marshal Finch removed his glasses.
“George…”
George whimpered.
“I have a feeling…”
He looked toward the hills.
“…the goats are planning something.”
Far off in the darkness, Old Pete’s eyes glowed.
And beside him stood Powder Puff.
Smelly.
Proud.
And somehow looking entirely too pleased with himself.
The Goat War was about to become personal.
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!
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