The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

I jumped, sending my well-thumbed copy of the latest Dead- Eye Dan novel tumbling onto the floor. “Sorry, Ma,” I mumbled, nudging the book behind the counter with my foot.

She scowled. “If you spent a little less time on those dime novels of yours, you might see yourself make some advances in Miss Wimberly’s schoolroom.”

I nodded. How to explain it? Since the molasses mix-up a few weeks earlier, my daily supply of Dead-Eye Dan had increased to a frenzied level. It was Soul Itch—a restlessness which often found me at the edge of town, staring up in awe at the towering, snow-capped Rockies in the distance.

I blamed Tumbleweed. I began to imagine his red hair and reedy figure everywhere around town, the promise of adventure blowing in his wake. But as the days rolled on, I had yet to actually set eyes on him again.

On this particular Friday, the hot Colorado winds had brought a bank of thunderhead clouds which promised a whopper of a storm. Following the sewing circle’s digestive outburst, Ma had roped me into another of her social projects: providing quality reading material to the residents of Rattlesnake Junction. So while Ma hung curtains and measured for shelves in the corner of the Grubstake Hotel, I sneaked glimpses at my book and tried to scratch my Soul Itch with a heaping helping of Dead-Eye Dan.

I located the copy of Little Women. “Right here, Ma. Now d’ya think I could finish up?” I held my breath.

Ma sighed. “You’re so distracted, I suppose you’ll be no more use to me here anyway. She brushed a cobweb from her hair. “Home for supper, Eugene, you hear?”

I thrust the book at Ma, grabbed my satchel, and dashed across the lobby and down the front steps. A thousand scents whirled around me. Even the normally nauseating aromas of sawdust, horse manure, and sweat were all made glorious by the sheer fact that I was outside to smell them. I started down the front steps as if in a trance. The afternoon lay spread before me like a picnic lunch. I wandered along, feeling the pull of the San Pedro River’s cool blue water. Did I have time for a trip before supper? Instinctively, I drifted down the narrow alley beside the hotel, turning at the back of the building and pointing myself toward the river. I could almost imagine the sound of the swirling eddies, the spray of whitewater against my bare toes.

I hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when I froze. Up ahead, behind one of the other buildings, two men were engaged in a heated argument. One was Wendell Jenkins, the town barber. The other man, a total stranger, was as tall and thick in the shoulders as a mature oak, with a black bushy beard. He bent over Wendell, finger thrust in his face, eyes flashing. Though they were fifty paces or more away, I caught every one of the large man’s words.

“Don’t act all high and mighty, Silas,” he boomed. “You’ve heard what we came for, and we ain’t leaving until we get it. Are you in or are you out?”

I crept backward into the shadow of the hotel, listening intently. Wendell leaned forward and jabbed a finger back into the larger man’s chest. “You’ve already gotten your answer, Berger,” he said firmly. “And I ain’t afraid of you. Now get.”

The bearded man’s eyes widened, and he swatted Wendell’s finger aside. “We’ll be seeing each other before too long, Silas, don’t you worry about that,” he barked, “This is going to happen, with or without you.” He pushed past Wendell and vanished around the corner of the building. Wendell watched him leave, then re-tied the strings on his apron and walked the other direction, toward his barbershop, limping as he left.

With the coast clear, I let out a long breath. I wasn’t sure what I had just witnessed, but I was glad neither of the men had witnessed me witnessing them. I didn’t know much about Wendell, save the fact that he sat in the pew behind us in church each Sunday, and Ma kept his pockets filled with a regular supply of butterscotch discs. I had heard he was a Civil War veteran; maybe that was the source of his limp. He was a mild-mannered guy, and as far as I could tell, an upstanding member of society. None of that explained why he would be mixed up with a rough-looking character like the one he had called Berger. And why had Berger called him Silas?

After the conversation I had just witnessed, the alley suddenly seemed dangerous. I doubled back toward the town green and yanked out my shirttails, wandering up North Street past the rooming houses that provided temporary lodging for miners and other transients who drifted through Rattlesnake Junction until their luck ran out. The Rocky Mountain foothills were nearly in view as I passed in front of the last rooming house on the street. A voice caught my ear, raised in full-throated song:

A figure bent over a garbage bin beside the front steps of the rooming house, pulling items from the pile and stuffing them into a burlap sack strung over his shoulder. He wore denim overalls and a flannel shirt, shaggy red hair skirting the rim of his collar. Upon seeing me, the figure straightened up and tossed the sack jauntily over his shoulder.

“Sea shanty,” he said, grinning. As he did, I noticed a small gap between his front teeth which I hadn’t seen the last time.

“Whaling song, to be exact. Picked it up in Nantucket a year or so back. Makes the work go faster.” He paused. “It’s Eugene, right?”

“Yup. What are you doing?” I asked.

“This is where they keep the garbage,” he said.

“I mean, what are you still doing here, in Rattlesnake Junction?”

“Pa decided he’s sick of getting rotten vegetables pelted at him every other week from the tonic business. So he shaved off the moustache and got himself work in the mines. Silver mining is as good a way to get rich as what we used to do. We’ve had plenty of odd jobs since Ma left.”

“Your Ma’s gone?”

He flushed slightly. “Yeah, but you don’t want to hear about all that.” He thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got a room upstairs, and we’ll stay as long as the mine work is good. I’m raiding the garbage because Bingo has to eat, doesn’t she, Gene?”

“Dad found her last week on the way back from the mines. Gentle as a kitten. And loyal, too.” Tumbleweed crouched beside the steps and waved me to join him. I ducked down, the smell of garbage wafting from the burlap sack. There was a rustling in the darkness. Tumbleweed reached into the sack, drew out the gnawed remains of a tomato, and held it out. A burst of fur flashed into view and attached itself to the tomato. Tumbleweed released his grip, and a young raccoon was now visible, small paws wrapped around the fruit while its tiny teeth tore at the skin.

“Dainty, ain’t she? I think she was the runt of the litter,” he said, rubbing a knuckle against her jaw.

I edged backward. “Aren’t they nocturnal?”

“No, I think they’re some kind of rodent,” he said.

“I mean, don’t they only come out at night?”

“Oh. Nah, she’s fine. Go on,” he said, gesturing.

“You want me to pet her?” I asked.

“Sure.” He moved aside, and I reached out a hand. The raccoon lifted her head and studied me with two round eyes, a blob of juice dribbling from her furry chin. I ruffled the fur atop her head.

“Ha,” I said. “She’s kind of cute after all.”

Suddenly, Bingo raised a paw. Five claws appeared. Without warning, she wrapped her paws around my wrist and sank her needle-sharp teeth into the meat of my palm. I yelped and pulled my hand back, but Bingo hung on, letting out a long, slow yowl as she clung to me.

“She’s got you now,” Tumbleweed howled. “Love at first sight.”

“Get her off,” I cried. “I need this hand.”

“Don’t pull, whatever you do,” he said. “I said stop pulling, Gene. You’ve got to relax.”

“Then, what?” I asked. “What?” My palm throbbed.

Bingo appeared to be smirking, if that was even possible.

“Hurry!” I said.

Tumbleweed plunged his hand into his garbage sack and removed a strip of uncooked bacon. He dangled it in front of Bingo’s tiny black nose. She removed her teeth from my palm and raised her head to look at the bacon, paws still wrapped around my wrist. Tumbleweed lowered the bacon to the ground. Bingo’s eyes followed it. At last she released her grip on my arm and dropped to the ground.

“I told you she was loyal,” Tumbleweed said, snickering.

“Loyal?” I asked, nursing my wound. “She’s deadly.”

“Nothing of the sort,” he said. “Like I said, she likes you.” He brushed his hands on his overalls. “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “I’ll be back for you around supper time, okay?” Bingo leapt for Tumbleweed’s arm, grabbing hold of his shirtsleeve and yowling in despair. Tumbleweed patted her head again and pried her loose, dropping a morsel of bacon onto the ground beside her. She dragged the food back under the stairs, yowling one last time as she disappeared.

“Man, what a girl,” Tumbleweed said, standing and swinging his sack over his shoulder. “She’d follow me anywhere, I swear.”

“No kidding,” I said, flexing my hand.

“I’ve got to stash this,” Tumbleweed said. “Be right back.” He dashed up the stairs, slamming the front door behind him, and returned an instant later. “Now then,” he said. “Freedom.” He tossed an arm around my shoulder, and we sauntered toward the town green. “Tell me a tale, Eugene,” he said. “What sort of mischief have you found to occupy yourself of late?”

I wracked my brain for something juicy to impress him. “That molasses thing was sure terrific. I mean, my parents weren’t too happy about it—” I trailed off. Something in my gut told me bringing up my folks might lose whatever respect the incident had earned me. “I mean…what’s next?”

“Aha! I knew you were the right guy to come to. Fortunate indeed we crossed paths like we did,” he said, steering me onto the town green. “Because last night in Daisy’s, I took hold of a ripe nugget of information.” He gestured toward the Silver Dollar Saloon, mystery oozing from behind its swinging green doors. Instantly, I could picture Tumbleweed inside, surrounded by a clump of robbers with gold teeth and bandits with wooden legs, regaling them all with tales of his daring deeds.