PART 1: Fifty Feathers and One Terrified Cowboy

The first time Clara Whitmore discovered that the deadliest gunslinger in Arizona was afraid of chickens, she nearly laughed herself off the porch.

Jack “Blackjack” Mercer had faced twelve notorious outlaws, survived three ambushes, and once walked into a saloon filled with armed cattle thieves without so much as blinking.

Men twice his size crossed the street when they saw him coming.

But on a bright Tuesday morning in 1887, one enormous red rooster named General Washington sent Jack scrambling onto a water barrel, screaming like a schoolgirl.

“CLARA! GET THAT DEVIL AWAY FROM ME!”

Clara stood in the ranch yard, holding a basket of fresh eggs.

She blinked.

Then she looked at the rooster.

Then at her six-foot-two fiancé, who was standing on a barrel with both boots trembling.

“Jack Mercer,” she said slowly, “are you afraid of a chicken?”

“That ain’t a chicken. That’s a feathered criminal!”

General Washington crowed triumphantly.

Jack nearly fell off the barrel.

Clara laughed so hard she dropped two eggs.

Unfortunately for Jack, Clara Whitmore was not the sort of woman who could leave a discovery like that alone.

She was twenty-six, stubborn as a mule, and possessed a mischievous smile that had already gotten Jack into more trouble than any outlaw ever had.

Three days later, a wagon arrived at the Mercer ranch.

Jack watched from the porch as the driver unloaded wooden crates.

“What’s all that?” he asked.

Clara smiled sweetly.

“Wedding preparations.”

A suspicious clucking came from inside the first crate.

Jack went pale.

“Clara.”

“Yes, darling?”

“How many?”

“Fifty.”

Jack stared at her.

“FIFTY WHAT?”

At that exact moment, the driver opened a crate.

A rooster exploded out of it, flapping straight toward Jack’s face.

The most feared gunslinger in three counties dove through his own front door and slammed it shut.

Clara doubled over laughing.

“You said you wanted a big family!” she called.

“I MEANT CHILDREN!” Jack shouted from inside.

By sunset, the ranch had become a battlefield.

Chickens occupied the porch, the barn, the horse trough, and Jack’s favorite rocking chair.

One particularly aggressive rooster chased him around the outhouse for twenty minutes.

Another stole the sandwich from his hand.

And General Washington had apparently decided Jack’s boots were his personal enemies.

“Woman,” Jack announced that evening, standing on the kitchen table, “either those chickens leave or I do.”

Clara folded her arms.

“Then I suppose I’ll miss you.”

Jack stared at her.

She smiled.

He sighed.

“I hate being in love.”

But the laughter ended the following morning.

Sheriff Amos Briggs rode into the ranch yard with his horse covered in sweat.

“Jack! We got trouble!”

Jack stepped outside, carefully checking the ground for feathers.

“What kind?”

“The Dalton Creek Gang. Eight riders. They’ve been robbing payroll wagons all along the territory. Word is they’re coming through Mercy Ridge tomorrow.”

Jack’s expression hardened.

“Then we’ll be ready.”

“There’s something else,” the sheriff said. “They’ve heard about you. Their leader says he’s coming to prove Blackjack Mercer ain’t so dangerous after all.”

Jack rested one hand on his gun belt.

“Let him try.”

Behind him, General Washington crowed.

Jack jumped sideways into a fence.

The sheriff stared.

Clara covered her mouth.

“What in heaven’s name was that?” Amos asked.

“Nothing,” Jack muttered.

But by that afternoon, the entire town knew.

The blacksmith laughed until he dropped his hammer.

The saloon owner offered Jack a complimentary bowl of chicken soup.

And someone nailed a drawing of a terrified cowboy fleeing a rooster to the general store door.

Jack was furious.

“Clara, this has gone too far.”

For the first time, she didn’t laugh.

“Jack, I thought if you spent enough time around them, you’d stop being afraid.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me.”

He looked away.

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind moving through the cottonwood trees.

“When I was seven,” he finally said, “my grandfather kept a fighting rooster. Meanest creature you ever saw. It attacked me in the barn, knocked me into a grain bin, and I couldn’t get out.”

Clara’s smile disappeared.

“How long were you trapped?”

“All night.”

She stepped closer.

“Jack, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I’ve spent twenty years making sure nobody ever saw me frightened again.”

Clara gently took his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezed her fingers.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“No more chickens.”

Before she could answer, a distant explosion echoed from the direction of town.

Both turned.

Black smoke rose above Mercy Ridge.

A rider came galloping down the road, waving his hat.

“JACK! THE DALTON GANG’S HERE EARLY!”

Jack rushed toward his horse.

Then he stopped.

The ranch gate stood wide open.

All fifty chickens had escaped.

And they were marching directly down the road toward town.

Clara gasped.

“Oh, no.”

Jack stared at the advancing flock.

Then at the smoke rising above Mercy Ridge.

“Clara,” he whispered, “please tell me those birds aren’t following us.”

But the worst surprise was waiting in town.

Because when the Dalton Gang’s leader saw the first rooster strutting down Main Street, he stopped his horse, turned pale, and shouted something that made all seven of his men stare.

“GET THOSE THINGS AWAY FROM ME!”