The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

We both nodded, my throat still feeling like it was clogged with a thick spoonful of porridge. Tumbleweed split the deck and placed it evenly in front of him. “You two both want a piece of the action?” he asked. The two men nodded.

“I’ll sit this one out,” I croaked. Tumbleweed gave the faintest trace of a grin. He tossed two crumpled bank notes onto the table in front of him. Both of the other men did the same, leaving six bills in a small pile at the center of the table. Tumbleweed shuffled the cards a few more times, then cracked his knuckles and nodded to both men.

Then, the action began.

Tumbleweed slid one card apiece, face-down, to Berger and Plunkett, laying a single one down for himself. All three of them raised their single card and studied it. Tumbleweed dealt a second card to Plunkett, face-up this time, so I could see the black number eight on it. Berger was dealt a four, and Tumbleweed drew a ten for himself.

“Reckon I’ll stay, boys,” Tumbleweed said. The two men frowned. Plunkett chewed his lip quietly for a long second, then lifted his head.

“Hit me,” he said. I flinched and glanced at Tumbleweed. He nodded coolly back at me, then slid a third card from the deck toward Plunkett. The skinny man winced, his left eye twitching, and laid all three cards face-down on the table.

Tumbleweed turned toward Berger. He scowled, but said nothing, only tapped the table twice with his index finger. Tumbleweed handed him a third card, a nine. Berger glanced at it, then immediately tossed all three cards onto the table. “I busted,” he said simply.

With that, Tumbleweed turned over his two cards, and Plunkett revealed the three he had set on the table.

“How d’ya like that?” Plunkett said. “The boy’s got twenty-one, first time out.” He shook his head while Tumbleweed grinned like a cat in a beam of sunlight. I failed to find the significance in the number, but at his words, both men’s faces had darkened considerably and they slid their bank notes across the table toward him. It seemed Tumbleweed had won.

When we first gathered around the table, I had been worried that the two smugglers would see through our card-shark ruse. Now, if Tumbleweed ended up winning, we might end up shot on suspicion of cheating. Was there a third option? A quick exit? Not likely.

“Well, I ain’t happy with getting my money taken by a kid, but you seem like the real deal,” Berger told Tumbleweed.

“Told you I was,” Tumbleweed said. “Red Weaver plays for keeps. You gents ready to keep going, raise the stakes a little?” Both Berger and Plunkett nodded and reached into their pockets.

Now might be the proper time for me to emphasize how cool and calm Tumbleweed was throughout the evening’s proceedings. This might help explain why a certain impressionable young twelve-year-old followed a certain other twelve-year-old onto a keelboat housing armed miscreants in the middle of the night. That sort of unshakable composure, I am told, is a crystal-clear quality of a natural-born leader. I don’t know about all that, but I do know that at that moment, I would have followed Tumbleweed anywhere. And, as it turned out, I did.

Slowly, but surely, the rules of the game began to come clearer to me. And, just as steadily, the small pile of money in front of Tumbleweed began to grow larger. As it did, the two men grew more and more surly. My plan for a quick exit was going to have to start taking shape soon.

But Tumbleweed wasn’t really interested in the blackjack. As the hands wore on, his eyes began to roam the cabin more. While I had temporarily forgotten the real reason for our arrival on the riverbank—the cache of gunpowder and the hootenanny—Tumbleweed had not.

Suddenly, the rhythm of our card game was interrupted by the drumming of hooves and the sound of voices outside. Berger dropped his cards and drew his gun.

Jergenson’s head appeared in the doorway. “Hackensack’s outside,” the cook said, then vanished.

Berger grabbed his hat. “I reckon this game is over, boys.” He slid his pistol into its holster and glared at Tumbleweed and me. “You stay put until we get back.” He swept around the table and out onto the deck. Plunkett stood, but didn’t leave the cabin. When the scrawny man’s back was turned, Tumbleweed caught my eye and jerked his head toward the second room at the far end of the cabin. The message was clear—the gunpowder is in there.

Tumbleweed stood. “’Scuse me, sir, think I could take a wander, get some air?”

Plunkett stepped in front of him. “Trent said stay put, so you stay put.” He folded his arms.

Suddenly, a sound floated into the cabin. It was a long, low yowl, slow and spooky, and anyone whose imagination was prone to running away with them could have easily pinned the noise on a real-live ghost. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight as the noise continued for several seconds, then faded away into the night.

Plunkett’s eyes widened. “You hear that?” he asked.

Tumbleweed nodded. We waited, listening for the noise to return. We didn’t have to wait too long. Soon, a second yowl snaked its way through the slatted wall of the cabin. This time, Plunkett’s face turned slightly pale.

“There,” he said. “What…was that?”

“You might not know this, being from out of town and all, but we got cougars in these parts,” Tumbleweed said coolly. “That’s probably what it was, just a little ole’ cougar. Ain’t that right, Bronco?”

It was my turn to feign confidence. “Yup, cougars. Real nasty ones, too,” I croaked.

“Take the skin clean off you with one claw,” Tumbleweed said, idly cleaning his nails with a toothpick. “Just zzzzzzip and you’re as dead as a doornail. Ain’t that what they say?”

I nodded, still shivering from the spine-tingling yowl.

“But it’s nothing to worry about,” Tumbleweed continued. “They rarely venture out of the woods.” My heart begin to pound. Was he telling the truth? Pistols in front. Cougars outside. What was next?

Plunkett shifted slightly. Suddenly, he dashed for the door. “I can’t stay here any longer,” he said. “I got to know what’s out there.” Just as he disappeared, a third yowl, louder and closer than the others, rose up out of the night, drifted into the room, and slid down my spine like a cold rain shower. Tumbleweed raced for the mysterious door at the rear of the cabin. As I moved to follow him, I heard the voices from on deck. Berger spoke first. “Did you get there?”

“Sure did,” said a unknown fourth man, whose voice was as deep and rich as molasses. “There was a light on upstairs, so I had to be quick. But I sent him a real strong message, like you told me to. Threw some rocks through the barbershop window, dumped manure on his front step. Think that will do it?” He laughed, and I felt more chills down my spine. What did these guys have against Wendell Jenkins?

Tumbleweed appeared beside me and yanked me across the room. “Quit eavesdropping like a church lady. I found something.” He threw open the mysterious second door, and we plunged forward into the darkened room. Suddenly, from out on deck came a frantic yell, followed by another spine-tingling yowl. The conversation on deck was over.