Marshal Brady woke up early, shot right out of bed. First, he put his boots on, then his chaps of shiny red.
He strapped a six-gun on each side until they felt just right. Then grabbed his Stetson, stuck it on, and pulled the hat down tight.
The marshal had an appetite. He liked his pancakes hot. He liked them shaped like Mickey Mouse with butter on the top.
The marshal was just six years old. His given name was John. But he insisted Marshal Brady was his name now on.
He shoveled down his hotcakes, then he hurried out the door. ‘Cuz rustlers stole the milk cow. They had robbed him to the core!
The marshal found a lonely rustler waiting for a fight. The scoundrel had four legs and paws, a bark without a bite.
The marshal tossed his lasso, and it cleared the rustler’s head. He pulled the rope, but not too tight, and locked him in the shed.
The marshal held a trial for that ole rustler in the jail. But the judge was not a hanging judge. He let him out on bail.
The rustler was relieved about as much as he could be. When the marshal opened up the door, the rustler bolted free.
The marshal’s day was over, but he’d kept the peace about. He had respect from everyone. The marshal’s name held clout.
He hurried home for supper, and he gobbled down his food—a sandwich and tomato soup, just right for a little dude.
His mother made him take a hot bath every single night. “There otta be a law!” the marshal said, “It just ain’t right.”
He said his prayers and hopped in bed and pulled the covers tight. Then closed his eyes and fell asleep before mom hit the light.
His mother sat beside him. Reached and kissed him on the head. She loved to see her little boy asleep in his warm bed.
Well, the marshal’s day is over, the bad guys on the run. Tomorrow is another day for this mother’s little son.
– Bryce Angell