Chapter One
Pretty near everyone in Rattlesnake Junction acquired at least one memorable Tumbleweed Thompson story that misadventured summer. Myself, I’ve got a pocketful. Matter of fact, the yarns I acquired have served me quite nicely as I’ve pulled them out and sorted through them in my days since. Of all the scrapes involving me and Tumbleweed, I reckon the best place to start would be the one involving the tonic. After all, it’s the one that brought us together. So that’s where I’ll begin.
It was the summer of my twelfth year, and I was itching for something to happen. We’d arrived in Rattlesnake Junction, Colorado four years earlier, and I’d watched the town grow up around me, buildings hammered together, all manner of ranchers, miners, and grizzled cowpokes kicking up dust as they rode through town with tales of cattle drives and silver strikes.
Of course, all this was happening while Eugene Appleton— that would be me—was watching from the front porch. It seemed if I so much as thought about wading into the wild waters of frontier life, Ma would be on me in a flash. Even today, I can picture her hickory-handled switch resting in the corner of the kitchen, exerting its singular, terrifying influence on me. Just the sight of it was enough to make my hind parts ache. All the derring-do I’d experienced to that point was courtesy of Dead-Eye Dan, frontier Marshall and crackerjack marksman, the hero of a whole set of dime novels to which I was keenly devoted. Contrasted to Dead-Eye Dan’s exploits, my real life was as dry as a gulch.
Now, before I wander too deep into my own story, I reckon I should orient you a bit. Rattlesnake Junction—my own little corner of God’s green earth—sprang nearly whole out of the earth in one leap, like so many frontier establishments, on account of the mining industry. In our case, it was silver. The way I heard tell, about twenty years back or so, a drifter named Jim-Jay Johnson came wandering down out of the Rocky Mountain foothills, fell asleep under the stars, with nothing but a rock for his pillow and his grizzled gray beard for a blanket, and woke up to discover the boulder he’d been sleeping on was the biggest chunk of silver you ever did see. Jim-Jay jumped. Jim-Jay hollered. And then, Jim-Jay got rich.
Turns out, it’s hard to keep a thing like that a secret. Soon, a whole slew of people started poking around for their own silver claim, setting up shotgun shacks, and tussling over territory. There were scrapes and the usual disagreements, but eventually enough of them had settled down into a life here that they figured they ought to name their little town. Wouldn’t you know it, ole’ Jim-Jay Johnson himself provided the name, in his last act as a living soul. One Sunday morning a few years after his first silver strike, he was a-wandering about a mile outside of town when he felt himself growing weary. He laid down next to a creek that ran in a northwesterly direction. Again, only a rock for his pillow, and his fine prospector’s beard for a blanket.
When he awoke this time, it wasn’t silver he discovered, but rattlers. Seventeen prairie rattlesnakes, to be exact. They were crawling all over the bank, the rocks, and of course, Jim-Jay Johnson. One had even made a nest in his beard. Well, when Jim-Jay saw the collection of rattlers, he wasted no time in beating a path back to town, snakes and all. He arrived in the grassy plot in the dead center of town and stood there like a prophet of the Lord in all his glory, snakes dangling from every part of him, and proclaimed in a thunderous voice, “There’s rattlers in them there waters!” Then, he dropped dead right there. On account of all the rattler bites, I guess.
Once they’d gotten Jim-Jay Johnson’s body taken care of, they did two things: First, they planted a stately young elm tree on the very spot he’d expired. Then, they named the creek Rattlesnake Creek. It didn’t take long for the name Rattlesnake Junction to stick, on account of how the creek intersects the San Pedro River just outside of town. We’ve got pretty much everything any frontier town would have, including a church, Mount Carmel Church, pastored by Elijah Appleton, my Pa.
And now, having gotten the background details taken care of, I suppose I can return to the spot where my story and Rattlesnake Junction’s story intersect.
It was early June, easily the most stifling Saturday afternoon of the young summer. I was desperate for a way to avoid another three hours stuck at home assisting Ma during her town sewing circle meeting. But, how? Of honest escape plans, I had precious few options. And Ma could sniff out a fib a mile away. So there I was, facing down a summer afternoon trapped inside with Ma’s sewing circle. The quilts created by her weekly gatherings of wives and widows would be sold at the Turner County Fair in August, with the proceeds benefiting a variety of charitable projects throughout the Colorado frontier. Which was fine, but I couldn’t stand another moment squashed into that stuffy living room with a dozen women, listening to Mrs. Bradbury drone on about the symptoms of her gout. Cleaning the privy out back was strike two. And Ma suggesting I help serve the tea—while I wore her blue gingham apron—was the last straw. I prayed no boys would see me.
So when Ma proclaimed herself in need of a bottle of molasses for her prize- winning ginger snap cookies, I sprang into action.
“I’d be happy to grab that molasses, Ma,” I said.
She fixed me with a suspicious look. See what I meant about sniffing out an opportunity for action?
I whipped off the apron and leapt for the doorknob, aiming to exit before her usual litany of commandments. Moses only gave the Israelites ten of them. I should have been so lucky.
“There and back, lickety split,” Ma said, wagging her wooden spoon at me. “No chin-wagging, lolly-gagging, or loitering, you hear me?”
My eyes instinctively shifted to the hickory switch. I cranked the knob and nearly plowed into Widow Springfield in the doorway.
“Afternoon, Eugene,” she said, eyes pinched in a friendly smile behind round glasses, her gray hair pulled into a wispy bun. “You going out?”
“Oh, just an errand for Ma. Haven’t seen you around the past few Saturdays.”
“I had a few things to take care of at home,” she said. “Those leaky windows don’t patch themselves, you know.” She paused and reached into her handbag. “Got something for you.”
I held out my palm and accepted the peppermint stick she placed there, before stuffing Ma’s money into the front pocket of my pants and ducking out the door.
With the scent of freedom in my nostrils, I leapt off the porch, bolted past the lilac bushes, and jogged up the street. Our house lay a stone’s throw from the corner of South Street and the town green. Thus, we were usually on the edge of any excitement that passed through town. So that’s where I pointed myself. Molasses and the general store could wait.
I rounded the first bend in the circle and stopped short. A swaggering, golden voice rang out across the square like a railroad mallet colliding with solid iron.
“My good friends, let me ask you one simple question on this glorious Saturday afternoon. Are you weary in body and brain? Is there a hitch in your giddy-up? Is your life panning for gold but coming up empty? If your answer is yes, then come on down and step right up! In my right hand, I hold the fountain of youth: Dr. Beauregard J. Thompson’s rejuvenating, intoxicating, sure-to-be motivating Sunshine Swirl Youth Tonic. Guaranteed to pep up any poopy prognosis you encounter in your life.”
I crept forward to the edge of a small crowd gathered in front of the general store. Elbowing my way into their midst, I caught sight of the shiny, black frame of a high-sided wagon. It was drawn by a pair of horses hitched in front of the store. Atop the wagon’s bed stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fringed, buck-skin coat. Wavy blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders, and he grinned from behind an equally blonde and equally wavy mustache.
Behind this dramatic-looking man, a white bed sheet was stretched between two wooden posts, each affixed to one corner of the wagon’s rear bench. The name of the product was painted on the sheet in a flamboyant red script.
Dr. Beauregard J. Thompson hopped down from the wagon. “But don’t take my word for it. Behold a demonstration of the awesome powers of this youth tonic. Behind me, you will see my son, a mere boy of twelve, who seems by all outward appearances to be completely ordinary. Observe.”
He turned and raised an arm. A tall, slender boy stepped off the wagon onto the horses, one foot on the back of each. His buck-skin coat matched the man’s, and he wore a pair of faded corduroy overalls, a white shirt and black string tie. His head was dwarfed by a comically large brown cowboy hat. He doffed the hat to the crowd, revealing an unruly shock of red hair.
“As I mentioned, completely ordinary. And yet, this lad has been weaned on my Sunshine Swirl Youth Tonic since he first was at his mother’s side. You will now see how this marvelous elixir has given him abilities unlike any other. You will be amazed,” he pronounced firmly. He turned toward the boy. “Go ahead!” he called.
The crowd fell silent, every eye trained on the boy atop the horses. He held his arms straight out to either side for balance, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, then stepped to one side. He now stood entirely on the back of the horse on the left. Eyes trained on the crowd, the boy crouched low, knees nearly touching his chin. A second passed, then another. Then, the boy leapt high into the air and flipped over backwards, hat tumbling from his head as he hurtled toward the ground upside down. At the last moment, the boy twisted and righted himself, his feet hitting the ground with a thud as he landed.
The crowd gasped, then burst into wild applause. The boy grinned and bowed, then clambered back onto the wagon, where he wiped his forehead with a rag.
Beauregard Thompson stepped into view again. “Now that you’ve seen what this tonic can do, who might be brave enough to purchase a bottle?” he called out. “Who will have the courage, the gumption, to experience the invigorating effects of this magical brew?” Then, his gaze fell square on me. “What about you, young man? Might you be ready to take the step into manhood?”
