In today’s uproarious chapter—and the grand finale to our 12-part Old West storyline—Gooser Dadburn finds himself in yet another hilarious misunderstanding at the Canyon City Coffee Saloon. Leaning over the counter, Gooser casually asks Sarsaparilla Sally what she does for a living. When Sally coyly explains that she’s a “bar belle” who hangs out in saloons to “provide company for a fee,” Gooser’s eyes light up with pure, unadulterated relief. Believing he has just discovered the ultimate solution to his logistical problems, Gooser excitedly proclaims that he is in dire need of her services! Sally, batting her eyelashes, assumes romance is in the air and purrs that she can fit him in. But the entire mood crashes into a brick wall when Gooser gleefully drops the punchline: “COOL! I NEED YOU TO BABYSIT GRETCHEN.” As young Gretchen pipes up to point out that Sally is definitely not a babysitter, Gooser waves it off with signature frontier logic: “It’s okay. You’re not a baby”—earning him a death glare from Sally sharp enough to cut through solid iron!

The silence that settled over the polished pine counter of the Coffee Saloon was heavy enough to drop an anvil through the floorboards.

Sarsaparilla Sally’s left eye began to twitch violently beneath her carefully styled bangs. The delicate blue ribbon in her hair seemed to vibrate with sheer, unbridled fury. Her hands, resting flat against the bar, gripped the edge of the wood so tightly that the varnish groaned.

“A… babysitter,” Sally said, her voice dropping to a low, icy hiss that could have frozen a kettle of boiling water mid-whistle. “You sat there, looked me up and down, heard me describe my professional occupation as a refined, charming, conversational companion of the frontier… and you thought to yourself, ‘Yes, this woman looks like someone who changes diapers and wipes porridge off toddlers’ faces’?”

“Well, now hold on, Sally, don’t sell yourself short!” Gooser beamed, oblivious to the storm clouds gathering directly above his cowboy hat. He took off his hat with two of his hands, wiped his brow with a third, and tapped the bar with the fourth. “I didn’t say diaper duty! Look at Gretchen here! She’s way past the porridge stage. She’s fully ambulatory, she feeds herself, and she only occasionally cleans her boots on the saloon curtains. It’s an easy gig! You just gotta sit with her, make sure she doesn’t wander into a rattlesnake nest, and keep her occupied while I ride out into the badlands to apprehend a ruthless killer!”

Gretchen, standing a foot away in her oversized brown trail coat and dusty slouch hat, let out a sharp scoff that sounded like a dry twig snapping in two. She folded her arms across her chest, glaring up at Gooser with the kind of icy, no-nonsense stare usually reserved for hanging judges.

“Gooser,” Gretchen said, her voice deadpan and razor-sharp. “I hired you. I am paying you with my father’s silver-plated pocket watch. I am the client. You do not hire a babysitter for the person who is paying your wages.”

“Client or not, Gretchen, you are twelve years old!” Gooser barked back, spinning around to face her. “Frontier regulations clearly state that minors tracking bloodthirsty desperadoes through scorching desert canyons must be accompanied by an adult, or at least someone who can reach the top shelf of the dry goods store without a ladder!”

“I don’t need a ladder, Gooser. I have a Winchester repeating rifle,” Gretchen replied flatly, tapping the walnut stock of the long gun strapped securely to her shoulder. “And unlike you, I have two working eyes, I have never run face-first into an adobe wall while ‘escaping,’ and I don’t try to eat hot beans out of a loaded firearm.”

“That wall had a tactical advantage!” Gooser shouted, his large red nose glowing with indignation. “And the Goon is an unappreciated marvel of modern culinary ballistics! Besides, out in the badlands, it isn’t just about shooting straight. It’s about grit! Experience! Knowing how to negotiate with corrupt sheriffs!”

“You didn’t negotiate with the Sheriff,” Gretchen pointed out, raising an eyebrow. “He tried to charge you an eight-dollar administrative fee just to look at his holding cell, and you almost set your own hat on fire trying to leave the room.”

Sally tapped her foot against the brass rail of the bar, clearing her throat with a loud, theatrical cough. “Excuse me! If you two are done debating the legal competencies of a child with a firearm, I would like to remind you that I charge by the hour! And my hourly rate does not cover babysitting, child psychology, or mediating domestic disputes between a half-blind tracker and a pint-sized bounty hunter!”

Gooser turned back to Sally, offering her his most charming, lopsided grin. “Sally, please. Think of it as community service with a modest stipend! All you gotta do is keep her inside the saloon, teach her how to knit a doily or whatever it is you ladies do in town, and make sure she doesn’t go chasing after the killer while I do the heavy lifting.”

“Teach me to knit?!” Gretchen gasped, stepping onto the rung of a barstool so she could look Sally and Gooser dead in the face. “I don’t want to knit doilies! I want justice! The man who murdered my father left boot prints heading straight through Dead Man’s Pass. While you two have been standing here arguing over fees, terminology, and town ordinances, that scoundrel is putting miles between himself and the gallows!”

Sally looked at Gretchen, her stern glare softening just a fraction as she took in the girl’s fierce determination. “Listen to me, honey. Revenge is a dirty business. The men out in those hills aren’t like the folks in Canyon City. They don’t settle things with tumbleweed races or horseshoe tosses. They’re mean, they’re desperate, and they don’t care if you’re twelve years old.”

“I don’t want revenge,” Gretchen said firmly, her jaw set like granite. “I told Gooser from the start: my father believed in the law. He built our homestead on the promise that this territory had rules. If we just shoot that man in the desert, we’re no better than he is. I want him brought back alive. I want him to stand before a jury, hear the charges against him, and face a proper trial.”

Gooser looked down at the young girl, feeling a sudden, rare wave of solemn respect wash over his eccentric spirit. For all his comedic bluster, his ridiculous inventions, and his terrible sense of direction, Gooser knew that this brave little girl had more true grit in her pinky finger than the entire town of Canyon City combined.

“See, Sally?” Gooser said softly, placing one of his hands on Gretchen’s shoulder. “She’s not just some kid looking for trouble. She’s fighting for something real. That’s why I can’t let her ride into an ambush. If anything happened to her out on that trail, I’d never be able to look at myself in a saloon mirror again—patch or no patch.”

Sally let out a long, heavy breath, looking back and forth between the eccentric ant tracker and the determined young girl. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head with a weary smile.

“You two are completely out of your minds,” Sally sighed, reaching under the counter and pulling out a heavy, leather-wrapped canteen. She set it on the bar with a solid thud. “Take this. It’s fresh spring water with a little lemon juice. The heat in Dead Man’s Pass will bake your brains if you aren’t careful.”

Gooser gasped, his single blue eye widening. “Sally… does this mean you’ll watch her?!”

“No, you big dummy!” Sally laughed, throwing a bar towel at his head. “It means I’m telling you to take her with you! If you leave this girl behind, she’s just going to steal a horse, ride past you in the desert, and catch the killer herself while you’re still trying to figure out which end of the Goon to eat out of!”

Gretchen smirked, adjusting her hat brim. “She’s not wrong, Gooser.”

Gooser caught the bar towel, dusting off his cowboy hat before placing it firmly back onto his head. He looked down at Gretchen, then over at Sally, and finally out the front window of the Coffee Saloon toward the jagged red canyons rising against the desert horizon.

“Well,” Gooser said, adjusting his eyepatch and cracking all four sets of knuckles. “I suppose if the client insists on field supervision, who am I to argue? Saddle up, Gretchen. The trail is getting cold, but justice doesn’t take a nap.”

Gretchen hopped down from the stool, checking the lever on her rifle with a satisfying clack-clack. “Right behind you, Gooser. Try not to run into any cacti on the way out.”

As the pair turned toward the swinging doors, Sally leaned over the counter, calling out one last piece of frontier advice: “Hey, Gooser!”

Gooser paused at the threshold. “Yeah, Sally?”

“When you bring that killer back to town… make sure you don’t let the Sheriff charge you a parking fee for your horse!”

Gooser gave a sharp, confident two-finger salute from beneath his hat brim. With the midday sun blazing down and the open badlands stretching out before them, Gooser Dadburn and young Gretchen Vance rode out of Canyon City together—heading straight into the heart of the Old West to finish what they started and bring a murderer to true, lawful justice.

The Moral of the Story

And so concludes our epic 12-part frontier saga! Through knife fights, accidental wall collisions, flaming pistol whips, hybrid eating utensils, corrupt town clerks, heavily armed kindergartners, and literal towns named Justice, our journey through the Old West leaves us with one timeless, undeniable moral:

True justice isn’t found in a lawman’s bribe ledger, a shiny gold star, or the barrel of a six-shooter. True justice is carried in the hearts of those brave enough to seek the truth, stand up for what’s right, and navigate a world full of nonsense with a steady hand, a loyal partner, and the common sense never to hire a bar belle as a babysitter.

Support Charmy’s Army on Patreon!

That’s a wrap on our massive 12-part Old West storyline! Bringing this entire adventure to life—from the initial comic strips and custom artwork to each expanded story blog—has been an absolute labor of love, requiring endless hours of scripting, hand-inking, coloring, and countless pots of fresh coffee.

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