The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

“Now I wasn’t supposed to hear about this,” Tumbleweed said. “But Dakota Jack McGinty’s Pa and my Pa are mining partners, so I knew it was honest.” He paused. “You know how gunpowder’s being rationed now, on account of the Indian wars south of here?”

I nodded briskly, having heard no such thing.

“Jack said he heard from a reliable source there’s a gang of smugglers coming up the San Pedro tonight with barrels full of popping pepper bound for someplace north-a here.”

“Popping pepper?” I asked.

He cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? That’s smuggler slang for gunpowder. They stash the barrels full of popping pepper in the river, sealed up tight of course, leave them for the day, then come back at night to move them upriver, where they can catch the Colorado and hoist them out of state.”

“No way!” I said. “You just happened to hear about all this from a buddy at the saloon?”

“Tumbleweed Thompson has eyes and ears all over this town,” he said. “I figure we sneak down after dark, find where they’ve stowed the loot, crack open a barrel and fill up a couple of gunnysacks.” His blue eyes shone with excitement. “Then, we can have ourselves a real hootenanny.”

Immediately, my mind sprang to life with a half-dozen scenarios involving two gunnysacks full of gunpowder. Dead-Eye Dan once bested Anastasia “The Viper” Valparaiso, the most notorious female swindler in all of Kansas, by stuffing three jack o’ lanterns full of gunpowder, then lighting them and tossing the whole lot into her hideout. My mouth watered at the possibilities.

Tumbleweed cupped his hand and dipped it into the front pocket of his vest. When his hand emerged, a fine, black powder lay in the hollow.

“Gunpowder,” I whispered.

Tumbleweed nodded. “No doubt about it.”

I reached deep for words to suit the moment. “Wow,” I said.

“And there’s more where that came from,” Tumbleweed said. “Dakota Jack swore it to me.”

I was sold. “Now what?” I asked.

“Now, my fine fellow,” he continued, “we’ve just got to get ourselves to the dock on the San Pedro River, just down from Sczmanski’s place. You know the place?” I nodded. “That’s where the smugglers make their drops. We need to be there tonight before they come by to move it upriver.”

“Tonight?” I asked.

“Why, you have other plans?”

I glanced out across the town square. At midday, the town was at its peak. But the clatter of wagon wheels and the clang from the blacksmith’s shop floated over me like a cloud. I felt as weightless as a balloon, and just as free. “Nope,” I said.

“But…why me?” I asked.

“This town’s a little too quiet for my taste. Ever since me and Pa decided to hunker down here, I been looking for a fella with a thirst for adventure, ready to throw caution to the wind. A fella who’s got the right stuff.”

The right stuff. The words swept over me in a hot wind. As they did, I swear I almost heard an angelic choir of voices. Tumbleweed was looking for someone. And he had found me. Eugene Cornelius Appleton. Well that did it. It was destiny. I had no idea how, but come evening, I was bound for the San Pedro River and a date with some popping-pepper smugglers.

“Right,” I said, voice quivering slightly. “Then I’m your man.”

He smirked and slapped me on the shoulder. “Leave when the moon is right above the church steeple. We meet at the dock.” As he walked away, I could hear him whistling that sea shanty. I had to admit, it was mighty catchy.

There were many skills belonging to most twelve-year-old boys which I had never mastered. Sneaking out of the house was at the top of the list. It was, as it turned out, surprisingly easy. After Ma and Pa extinguished the final lamp in their bedroom, I leapt out of bed, fully dressed, and crept down the stairs. The moon gleamed a brilliant white as it hovered over the church steeple. I shivered despite the warmth of the evening, and started across town, my heart leaping around in my chest like a bullfrog. Soon, I stood under a clear patch of sky and the same gleaming moon on Sczmanski’s creaky dock.

There was a rustle in the bushes somewhere up the path, and Tumbleweed emerged. He had changed into a pair of dungaree pants, but was still wearing that faded flannel shirt. His face seemed to gleam darkly in the moonlight.

“What’s with the getup? Goin’ to church?” he asked, snickering at my librarian garb.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know what was the appropriate attire for burgling. What did you do to your face?”

“It’s so we blend in out here. I’ll give you some.” He pulled a small metal tin from his pocket, twisted off a lid, and scooped out something black and goopy. Before I could ask, he had smeared it across my forehead and cheeks. “Go on, rub it around,” he said. “It’s just boot black.”

I covered my face as best I could, then glanced at Tumbleweed. “How do I look?” I asked.

“Pretty as a picture. Who cares? We’re breaking the law. Now let’s go.”

He pointed downriver. “I saw light over there. We should check it out.”

He vanished behind a swath of bulrushes. Only then did I realize we had no lantern. Relying on a sliver of moonlight, I followed, my footsteps squishing in the mud. The wind whipped, sending the dry reeds chattering. Suddenly, Tumbleweed’s head popped out of the brush in front of me. He raised an arm and pointed.

We had rounded a bend in the path, with a clear view of the river. Less than fifty feet away, a long brown keelboat—single-decked and several dozen feet from stem to stern—drifted lazily in the water, tied to a stump with a thick length of rope. A narrow board was laid across the water as a sort of gangplank. On the deck of the boat, there was a single windowless cabin about halfway down the deck. Through the slats, I could see lantern light blazing from inside. The sound of men’s voices floated through the night air.

“Wait a minute,” I hissed. “You said—”

Tumbleweed turned toward me. “I reckon this changes things a bit,” he said.

“Changes things?” I asked. “I’d say so. Your inside information didn’t include a keelboat. Or the smugglers being on board.”

“But this has to be what Jack was talking about. These old shallow-bottom keelboats are perfect for smuggling stuff up and down these rivers.”

“You know this?” I asked.

“’Course I do. “We can work with this,” he said, a strange look passing over his face. It was a look I would come to know well, and occasionally fear: the feverish hatching of a hare-brained plan. His gaze fixed on the keelboat, he stared past me into the darkness. Finally, he grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Just a slight change of plans.” And with that, he dashed past me into the woods. I started to call after him, then thought better of it and followed.

Suddenly, Tumbleweed’s figure loomed up in front of me, and I stopped short. We whirled to stare at the boat from a further distance.

“Now,” Tumbleweed proclaimed, “they won’t be able to see us while we work up our plan.”

We crept deeper into the woods. As I ducked under a low-hanging cottonwood branch, I caught sight of a pile of junk a few paces away. Tumbleweed continued forward, but I slipped toward the pile. Under a large tarp were two identical stacks of wooden crates, piled more than a head higher than me, and a third stack covered by coils of rope and bundles of wire. The lid of the top crate was slightly askew. I slid it off, my eyes widening at what I saw.

“Eugene, git over here!”

“Just a minute,” I hissed back. With trembling hands, I reached into the crate and lifted the cloth-wrapped bundle. What I saw was strange indeed: small, red tubes in clusters of four, short wicks of thread sticking out of each end. There was a rustling in the woods, somewhere close. I set the bundle down and raced back toward Tumbleweed.

“Where were you?” he asked, eyes fixed on the boat. “Did you go poking around under that tarp?”

“Yeah,” I said, crouching beside him.

I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment, I felt a strong hand clamp down on my shoulder. Before I could turn, a high, nasally voice spoke out of the darkness.