By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026 June 8, 2026
Chapter One
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The Telegram
The trouble began on a Tuesday.
Deputy U.S. Marshal Chester Finch had never cared for Tuesdays.
Monday at least possessed ambition.
Friday had hope.
Saturday had purpose.
Tuesday simply appeared each week without apology and lingered far longer than necessary.
On this particular Tuesday, Finch was seated on the front porch of the federal office in Serenity attempting to determine whether a cloud over the western horizon resembled a horse or a baked potato.
He was leaning toward potato.
That was when the telegraph operator appeared.
The man looked exhausted.
This was unusual.
Telegraph operators generally spent most of their day sitting down.
“Marshal Finch!”
the man shouted.
Finch looked up.
“The federal government again?”
“No.”
“The railroad?”
“No.”
“The widow Patterson’s missing cat?”
“We found that three months ago.”
Finch nodded.
“Good cat.”
The operator handed him a folded telegram.
“It came marked urgent.”
Finch sighed.
Nothing marked urgent had ever improved his day.
He unfolded the paper.
The message was brief.
URGENT. SITUATION OUT OF CONTROL. LOCAL AUTHORITIES OVERWHELMED. REQUEST IMMEDIATE FEDERAL ASSISTANCE. DUSTBUCKET JUNCTION.
There was no signature.
No explanation.
No details whatsoever.
Finch read it twice.
Then once more.
He turned the paper upside down.
Nothing appeared.
“Helpful,”
he muttered.
The operator shifted nervously.
“What do you think it means?”
Finch folded the telegram.
“It means somebody has failed to provide important information.”
The operator nodded.
“That seems fair.”
Finch stood and stretched.
The joints in his back produced sounds generally associated with old furniture.
A small crowd had gathered nearby.
News traveled quickly in Serenity.
Especially news that wasn’t anyone’s business.
“Where you headed, Marshal?”
asked a merchant.
“Dustbucket Junction.”
The merchant’s face paled.
A woman gasped.
One man removed his hat.
Another whispered a brief prayer.
Finch frowned.
“What?”
The merchant leaned forward.
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
The crowd exchanged nervous looks.
Nobody answered.
Finally an old rancher spoke.
“I heard things.”
“What things?”
The rancher lowered his voice.
“Strange things.”
Finch waited.
The rancher swallowed hard.
“Bird things.”
Silence followed.
Finch blinked.
The rancher nodded solemnly.
“Bird things.”
Finch stared for several seconds.
Then he carefully placed the telegram into his pocket.
“That is the least useful information I have ever received.”
The crowd nodded.
It was still apparently enough to worry them.
An hour later Finch packed his saddlebags.
By midafternoon he was ready to leave.
He swung a leg over the cherry-red moped.
The beacon light atop the rear luggage rack spun proudly.
The siren gave a short cheerful wail.
Children immediately appeared.
This happened every time.
Finch reached into the basket mounted to the handlebars.
He withdrew several pieces of hard candy.
The children cheered.
The first peppermint struck a fence post.
The second hit a barrel.
The third narrowly missed a passing dog.
The children scattered for cover.
Finch considered the exchange a complete success.
He started the engine.
The little machine coughed.
Sputtered.
Then settled into its familiar puttering rhythm.
The crowd waved.
Finch tipped his hat.
And slowly rolled west toward Dustbucket Junction.
Toward a mystery.
Toward trouble.
Toward something no one seemed willing to explain.
As evening settled across the prairie, a warm wind carried something unusual across the road ahead.
A single feather.
White.
Small.
Harmless.
It drifted lazily through the air and landed on the front fender of the moped.
Finch glanced down at it.
Then continued riding.
Had he looked up, he might have noticed hundreds more feathers drifting on the horizon.
Instead he disappeared into the sunset.
Completely unaware that Dustbucket Junction was waiting.
And that somewhere ahead, a group of mothercluckers was preparing to make history.
