The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

The crowd swayed nervously and glanced at one another. I took a step forward, then another, unable to stop myself. Was this the moment? Something was happening, that was for sure. But why was I stepping up for a rejuvenating tonic? I was young already, and I hadn’t lived long enough to experience struggles with rheumatism, or any other similar condition. Still, I edged forward, all manner of scenes from Dead-Eye Dan swimming before my eyes.

Just as I reached the front of the crowd, a man in a black suit pushed past me. At his approach, Beauregard Thompson beamed. “A brave soul,” he called out, pulling the man toward him. Thompson reached into a crate on the wagon and pulled out a thick brown bottle. “It is as I suspected. Rattlesnake Junction, Colorado, has more than its share of brave souls eager to better themselves. Now what may I call you, brave soul?”

“Theodore,” the man said.

Dr. Thompson held the bottle toward the man, who took a deep breath. Instantly, he recoiled and began coughing. Dr. Thompson pulled the bottle away.

“Now Theodore,” he said, “your reaction to this tonic might be strong, but let me remind you—cod liver oil, milk of magnesia, they aren’t much to smell either, are they? But, oh, the trust we invest in those elixirs! The tonic I hold here has the bona-fide stamp of approval of a dozen doctors from Colorado clear to the Mississippi River. It’s an all-natural, original recipe that tastes like sunshine. Guaranteed to please, or your money back.” He leaned toward the crowd and winked. “That’s a lifetime guarantee. Now, how many bottles will you be taking home today?”

He held out the bottle again, and the man in the hat shrugged his shoulders. But instead of holding out money, the man snatched the bottle from Dr. Beauregard Thompson’s hand, uncorked it, and guzzled a long swig.

Dr. Thompson’s eyes widened. He had obviously not been prepared for anyone to actually drink the product.

A hush spread over the crowd, every eye fixed on brave Theodore. Dr. Beauregard J. Thompson began to look a little concerned. He turned and signaled to the boy, who immediately began straightening items in the back of the wagon.

Meanwhile, Theodore lowered the bottle and swiped a hand across his mouth. More breathless anticipation. Then— and I could hardly believe what I was seeing—Theodore’s chest appeared to swell, his shoulders broadened, and he appeared to grow an inch—or two! —in front of our very eyes. Was it an illusion? The crowd gasped and took a collective step backward. What a change was here! We waited for what would happen next.

There was another change, but not what I expected. Theodore grimaced and belched once, loudly. Then, a second time. Even louder. Both hands shot down to his guts, and he dropped the bottle. It shattered on the ground, spraying brown liquid over the shoe-tops of those in the front row.

The crowd gasped again. Theodore, whose expression might have been described as murderous, had he not been occupied with the mighty adventure taking place in his nether regions, twitched. He belched again, then raced up the steps into the general store. We all watched as the front door clattered shut behind him.

Another hush settled over the crowd. Then, the silence exploded with a collection of our handiest frontier insults.

“You’re a quack, Thompson!” a woman in front of me shouted.

“Nothing but a charlatan,” came the cry from a man behind me.

There was another shout from behind me, something to do with the devil. Thompson—whose credibility as a doctor I was beginning to seriously doubt—ducked as a collection of produce sailed over his head and splattered against the neatly-lettered white sheet.

“Well, folks, I’ll take that as a ‘we’ll-think-about-it,’” Thompson called out from the back of the wagon. “I thank you for your time, and we’ll see you later. Take care!”

With that, Beauregard Thompson leaped onto the wagon seat and drew up the reins. Without a backward glance, he snapped the reins and whizzed down South Street. His getaway had been so abrupt, however, that the boy was left standing in the middle of the street, holding the final crate he had been loading onto the wagon. His eyes widened as his only ride out of town left him in the dust.

Though in other towns, that might have been the end of it, we Junctionites were particularly vengeful. A whole passel of folks turned and raced after the fleeing wagon. The vegetables continued to fly and quite a few stray dogs joined the mob. I could feel them nipping at my heels, snapping up stray tomatoes, and weaving in and out of my path as we pursued the wagon for a good half mile out of town. I didn’t really know why I was running, but it sure felt good to be a part of the action for a change.

Finally, as Dr. Thompson’s wagon rattled across the bridge over Rattlesnake Creek, the crowd lost its zip and folks began to drift away. Only when the wagon was gone from sight amongst the trees did I stop running entirely. I shook my head and turned to trudge back to town. I was buzzing inside at having an actual story to tell, but wondering who I might tell it to. I had still yet to muster the gumption for anything resembling a career in mischief. Remember Dead-Eye Dan?

It was only when I arrived at my front gate that I was struck by the keen memory of the molasses I was supposed to be bringing home. At the same time, I was surprised by a voice I couldn’t quite locate.

“Psst. Over here.” The voice was coming from the shadows under our porch.

I’m not sure what possessed me to creep closer, but I did. Perhaps those Dead-Eye Dan stories had been working on me more than I thought. I ducked down and discovered a boy about my age, tall and reedy like a stalk of wheat, with a shock of red hair. A wooden crate sat on the ground beside him. His eyes shifted nervously between me and the town square in the distance. Wait a minute—red hair, faded corduroy overalls, buckskin coat?

“Hold on a second. You were up on the wagon with that quack doctor. He left you behind,” I said.

The boy unfolded himself from under the porch and thrust out his hand. “Tumbleweed Thompson,” he said. “Brave adventurer, high plains drifter, and erstwhile gold miner.” He leaned closer and cocked one eyebrow. “What’s yours?”

“Um…Eugene Appleton.”

“Pleased to meet you, Eugene. Pardon the interruption, but I’m looking for a good hiding spot until the fire dies down. Catch my meaning?” He gestured to the crate. “You mind if I sit here a spell until Pa comes back for me?”

I gaped. “Hide out?” My eyes swung to the front door, picturing the hickory switch lurking just beyond it. “Uh…yeah, but not here.”

“How about we go down the street?”

“Oh, I get it,” he said. “You’re a skeptic.”

“No, that’s not it.” The front curtain rustled, and I saw Ma’s face appear in the window. I could feel the moment slipping away. But instead of starting up the steps, I waited. Maybe it was because of the remarkable backflip I had just seen him perform. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the voice of Dead-Eye Dan calling to me.

“Pay no mind to all that back there. Some folks ain’t got a strong enough constitution for our tonic.” He flashed a freckled grin, “I think you’re scared of what might happen if you take a swig. Afraid of a little adventure, are ya?” He leaned forward and jabbed me in the chest. “Are ya yellow-bellied?”

“No way. I ain’t yellow-bellied,” I said.

He plucked a bottle from the crate. “Then go on,” he said, uncorking the bottle and holding it out. “Take a swig. Prove you’re not a chicken.”

Well that did it. Nobody called Eugene Appleton a chicken. Well, some did, but that’s another matter. I surely wasn’t going to stand for it now. I snatched the bottle and brought it close.

Suddenly, from over my shoulder, a voice broke the spell.

“Eugene Cornelius Appleton, whatever kept you? I’ve got dough in the mixing bowl, and those cookies aren’t going to bake themselves. Give me that molasses.”

Tumbleweed vanished into the bushes, and my jaw flopped open as I turned toward the porch. I could only watch with a mixture of curiosity and horror as Ma stomped down the steps. She yanked the bottle out of my hand, turned and disappeared into the house.

As the door slammed, I could hear the excited chatter of a group of women whose afternoon-long wish for Ruth Appleton’s prize-winning ginger snap cookies was about to be fulfilled.

With one distinct alteration to the recipe.

The rest of the afternoon pretty much took care of itself. Suffice it to say there was quite a path beaten to and from our outhouse that afternoon. I believe all twelve women made use of the facilities.

Ma and Pa went snooping and quickly put together what had happened that Saturday afternoon. Ma could summon no compassion for the devious scheme of Dr. Beauregard Thompson, but the thought of a school-aged boy like Tumbleweed caught up in “the unfortunate influence of a lost soul” was another story. Her decision to pour out every last bottle in that crate was her way of nudging the tonic salesman toward more honest work.

Over the weeks that followed, I found myself wishing for a good swig of that tonic in the hopes it might drown out the sting of the hickory switch. We’d become reacquainted in a hurry. I still couldn’t bring myself to feel regret for what happened that afternoon. Of course, if I’d have played it safe, I might not have seen Tumbleweed again. And what happened with the keelboat and the raccoon, and what happened after that with the outlaws, would never have come to pass. But there’s time enough to tell all that.