Welcome back, Charmy’s Army fans! In today’s hilarious entry of our 12-part Old West saga, Gooser Dadburn is still trying to maintain his dignity at the Coffee Saloon in Canyon City. Trying to set the record straight about his mission, Gooser explains to the lady at the counter that he’s tracking down an outlaw who took the life of a young girl’s father. But the dramatic moment takes a wildly funny turn when she panics and screams, “HOLY MACCA NOODLE! ARE YOU GONNA KILL HIM?!?” Outraged by the accusation, Gooser angrily snaps back, demanding to know why in tarnation she would say something so barbaric when his whole goal is to bring the murderer to trial. Caught off guard by her own saloon etiquette blunder, the lady covers her mouth before sheepishly rephrasing her question to fit modern sensibilities: “…ARE YOU GONNA UNALIVE HIM?!?”

Gooser rubbed his temple right above the strap of his eyepatch, letting out a long, wheezing sigh that sounded like a leaky steam locomotive. “Unalive him?” he muttered, leaning heavily against the pine counter. “Is that what we’re callin’ it nowadays? Back in my day, we called it ‘bringing a lowdown scoundrel to the gallows,’ but sure, let’s go with ‘unaliving’ if it keeps your delicate ears from burning.”

The lady in the blue dress smoothed out the ruffled collar of her blouse and straightened her pink hair bow, trying to regain her composure. “Well, you must forgive a girl for being jumpy,” she said, leaning in closer. “Canyon City doesn’t get many serious trackers through here. Usually, it’s just drifters or folks looking for the stagecoach to Justice. If you’re really hunting a cold-blooded murderer, you’re going to need all the help you can get. What does this fella look like? Maybe I’ve seen him pass through town.”

Gooser perked up, his single exposed eye flashing with renewed purpose. He reached into his vest, pulled out the cracked silver pocket watch young Clementine had handed him, and set it on the bar.

“Well, now that you mention it,” Gooser said, crossing his upper arms and putting on his best detective voice, “the kid gave me a real thorough description before we hit the trail. He’s a mean-looking cuss. Shifty. The kind of guy who looks like he hasn’t washed his face since the territorial gold rush.”

Charmy, who was leaning against the counter next to Gooser sipping a mug of sarsaparilla, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, she said he wears a dark, wide-brimmed slouch hat pulled down real low over his eyes—so low you can barely see his forehead.”

“Right,” Gooser added, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “And under that hat, he’s got long, greasy dark hair hanging all the way down past his shoulders. Needs a haircut worse than a sheep in mid-July.”

Directly to the right of the lady, sitting on the very next barstool, a dark-haired man in a dark slouch hat slowly froze mid-sip. His hand trembled slightly around his coffee mug.

“Go on,” the lady said, nodding intently as she pictured the villain. “What else?”

“Well,” Charmy chimed in, squinting into the dim saloon lighting as if visualizing a ‘Wanted’ poster, “he’s wearing a sleeveless grey vest right over a light blue collared shirt. Real dusty-like. Got reddish, leathery skin on his hands and arms, like he’s been spending way too much time hiding out in the desert sun.”

The man on the barstool shifted his weight nervously. He looked down at his own arms. Sleeveless grey vest? Check. Light blue shirt? Check. Reddish, leathery skin? Check.

“And his face!” Gooser chimed in, raising a finger. “Clementine said he’s got a perpetual scowl carved right into his jaw. Long, dark hair framing a face that looks like it was slapped by a mule. He never looks anybody straight in the eye—just sits there sideways at the bar, staring out from under his hat like a rattlesnake waiting to strike.”

The shifty man sitting two inches away from the lady’s elbow slowly began to sweat. A single bead of perspiration rolled down his dark fringe and dripped straight into his coffee mug.

“Goodness,” the lady whispered, her eyes wide with concern. “He sounds positively terrifying! Is there anything else distinctive about him?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Gooser declared dramatically, leaning over the counter so far his large red nose nearly touched the wood. “He’s got deep-treaded riding boots that leave heavy tracks in the mud, he smells like stale tobacco and trail dust, and he has a bad habit of sitting completely still until someone mentions the law—at which point his left eyebrow starts twitching like a dying grasshopper!”

The man on the stool twitched his left eyebrow violently.

Very, very quietly, without making a single sound, the mysterious stranger began to lower his heels to the floorboards. He slid his coffee mug back an inch at a time. Then, crouching down so low his hat barely cleared the counter, he began to crab-walk sideways toward the shadowed hallway leading to the alley exit.

“Yep,” Charmy said, taking another sip of sarsaparilla. “If you see a fella wearing a grey vest over a blue shirt, with long dark hair, a dark hat, a permanent scowl, sitting right next to a lady in a blue dress…”

Charmy paused.

He slowly turned his head to the right.

He looked at the lady. Then he looked at the empty barstool right beside her.

Where a dark-hatted, long-haired man in a grey vest had been sitting just five seconds ago, there was now only a half-filled mug of lukewarm coffee and a faint whiff of trail dust.

Charmy blinked. “Uh… Gooser?”

“Not now, Charmy, I’m painting a picture,” Gooser snapped, waving his hand. “So anyway, lady, if this grey-vested, long-haired fella ever sits down next to you—”

“Gooser!” Charmy yelled, shoving his shoulder. “Look at the stool!”

Gooser stopped mid-sentence and squinted his single eye at the empty seat. “What about it? It’s a stool. A fine piece of local pine work, though knowing this town, it probably goes ‘in the shop’ every Tuesday.”

“No, Gooser!” the lady gasped, turning around in her seat and pointing toward the back exit, where a dark silhouette was currently sprinting full-speed into the sunlit alleyway. “The man who was sitting right next to me! He had long dark hair! He had a dark hat! He was wearing a grey vest over a blue shirt!”

Gooser stared at the open back door, then at the empty mug, then back at Charmy. The gears in his head turned with a loud, metaphorical clunk.

“HOLY MACCA NOODLE!” Gooser roared, his face flushing as red as a ripe tomato. “THAT WAS HIM! HE WAS SITTING RIGHT THERE THE WHOLE TIME!”

“He was practically leaning on my shoulder!” the lady squeaked, clutching her chest.

“Why didn’t you say somethin’ earlier?!” Gooser yelled at Charmy.

“I was describing him!” Charmy shouted back. “I didn’t realize I was reading his live description off his back!”

Gooser didn’t waste another second. He grabbed his cowboy hat, yanked it down over his ears, and leapt over the saloon counter with all the grace of a bowling ball dropped from a second-story window. “He’s escaping! And I mean really escaping this time! Nobody out-escapes Gooser Dadburn!”

Spurs clinking like mad, Gooser burst through the rear doors into the alleyway, determined not to let the killer vanish into the badlands—setting the stage for an explosive desert pursuit in Chapter 5!

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