The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Harmony Curtis slid onto the porch swing, patting the seat next to her. “I believe I can trust you with this story, seeing how you’re the preacher’s son and all.”

“You can!” I said, sliding onto the swing. “But, you’re not Irish?”

“Nah,” she said. “But it makes my Pa and I seem a whole lot more authentic as traveling musicians if we have the whole British Isles mystery about us.”

“I guess it does,” I admitted. “So tell me about the gold.”

“Well,” she said. “My grandmother on my Ma’s side was an Apache Indian bride, married to an Army officer from down Oklahoma way. After she got married, she stole a stash of Army gold bullion from Fort Dodge, Kansas. Once the Army found it was missing, it wasn’t long before they were after her. But she was already out of there. She led the law on a wild goose chase north for hundreds of miles.” Her finger traced the route on an imaginary map. “A chase that led them right through this part of Colorado.”

I leaned back on the swing, head swirling. “But all that stuff about catching the boat from the Old Country…”

“Remember what I said about giving people what they want to hear?” she said. “Our concerts are the perfect way to keep the search going.”

“How much gold are we talking?” I asked.

Her eyes twinkled. “Not sure. At least a few chests, each one chock-full of bars.”

“Full of bars,” I repeated, picturing the gleaming bounty. You could buy a lot of slingshots with that.

“The last town we visited,” she said, “about a day’s walk from here, a fella in the general store said there used to be an Apache burial ground just outside Rattlesnake Junction somewhere. If that’s where she’s buried, she had to have stashed the valuables somewhere around here. But where…?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, deep in thought. Then, I remembered.

“Rattlesnake Creek!”

She leaned forward. “Pardon?”

“Where we were this morning. There’s a cave that leads right down into the tunnels. In fact, there are caverns all over the place out there. It’s one of the mining hotspots from when this town was first founded.”

“Incredible!” She grinned. “Then you could take us there. We could explore them together.”

Suddenly, her smile vanished. “Oh, no! The concert. I can’t go with you, Eugene.”

My heart sank. “What about after?”

“We’re expected in Rocky Flats tomorrow afternoon. We’re leaving around noontime, not too long after the concert. There won’t be time to look.”

She glanced down. I could hear my heartbeat pumping in my ears.

She had trusted me with this secret. Me. Not Tumbleweed. Who cared if my golden opportunity involved underground tunnels I knew nothing about, where lurked bats, snakes, and possibly other dangerous varmints?

I grinned weakly. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll go alone.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Sure. I’ll find a way to slip out of the concert. Then, I’ll find the caves and do some exploring. I’m sure I can dig up something. I’ll catch up with you afterwards and take you there. Together.”

She took my hand in her small, white one. I could feel her pulse against my palm. “You’d do that…for me? All by yourself ?” she whispered.

My heart fluttered. Bold, Gene. Bold, a voice whispered in my ear. Grab destiny by the scruff of the neck and give it a firm shake. Show you’ve got the right stuff.

I squeezed her hand and summoned my best Dead-Eye Dan growl. “It would be an honor to perform this heroic feat for you, my prairie pea-plant.”

“Oh, Eugene!” She wrapped her arms around my neck. “I just knew you were the feller to come to. You’re my hero,” she whispered in my ear.

A heat like the July sun swept over me. I felt my body spinning. Spots flashed before my eyes. Harmony stood and started down the steps. At the end of the walk, she reached Absalom and leaned close to tell him something. He pulled away, laughing. She turned and waved one last time.

I slumped into the swing, head spinning. A daring mission of bravery for a pretty girl: this was certainly a new development in the life of Eugene Appleton.

Saturday morning dawned clear and bright. After I complained of a whopper of a bellyache from pie-eating the night before, I found myself unsupervised in my preparation for the quest laid before me by Lady Harmony. As the morning passed, I began to imagine myself as the lone hero at the climax of a treasure hunt spanning decades, territories. Mine was the only brain capable of deciphering the clues and unearthing the massive chest of gold.

I’ll confess: the previous night, before bed, I had dug Dead-Eye Dan and the Aztec Gold out from under my bed and enjoyed a few choice chapters.

There was only one other thing left to do before I left for the cave.

“One other thing,” Harmony had said the night before, in that instant on the front porch between the hug and the wave. “You’re going to wear a disguise, right?”

“A disguise?” I asked. “You think I need one?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, nodding assuredly. “No one can know you’re the one going after the gold. If they’ve seen us together, we could be in big trouble.”

“Oh, right,” I said, not really getting it, but still seeing spots from the hug.

“I knew you’d understand.”

Then came the wave, the slump onto the porch swing, the dizziness. And here I stood on Saturday morning before my chest of drawers, concocting a disguise. My last foray into night adventuring had been underwhelming. This situation called for something daring. I rifled through belts and socks, until I remembered. When Dead-Eye Dan went undercover in Dead-Eye Dan and the Laramie Seven, he wore a black hat pulled low over his forehead and a red bandanna covering his face. Not only did it conceal his identity, but it provided the perfect touch of frontier charisma. I dug my only bandanna out from the bottom of my underwear drawer. It was a ripe shade of orange. Not exactly heroic.

I dragged my toy chest out from under my bed and found the wooden tomahawk Uncle Chester gave me for my sixth birthday. It was the closest thing to an actual weapon I was allowed to own, since its blade was so blunt, it couldn’t even slice cheese. I slapped the business end against my palm. Maybe I could count on it for thumping.

I dashed down the hall, snagged a black cowboy hat from the peg next to Pa’s bureau, and headed onto the front porch. South Street was strangely deserted. Strains of piano music drifted across the green from the church. The concert must have started. I was supposed to be in bed recovering from my bellyache. I would have to be stealthy. I sucked in a breath and pulled the bandanna across the bridge of my nose.

I reached the woods in no time, but breathing under the thick cotton bandanna had become problematic. I had to stop every ten feet to scratch and remove my hat to wipe the sweat from my forehead. This bandit thing was downright uncomfortable.

Soon, I heard the burble of water from Rattlesnake Creek and saw the cave mouth yawning dead ahead. I slipped inside, hearing the buzz of dragonflies and the rustle of leaves on the cottonwood fading away as I moved deeper. All was silent save the thudding of my heart. And the occasional sneeze.

A hundred paces in, the light had nearly vanished. I lit my lantern and continued until the path forked. Now what? I peered down both paths, played a little back-and-forth in my brain, then chose the one on the right. The passage ran straight for another ten yards, then veered sharply.

I stopped short. Around the bend, I saw a flickering light and heard scratching. There was no mistaking it.

The sound was footsteps.

There was someone around the corner.

I pulled my cowboy hat low on my forehead.

The steps came closer.

Tightening my grip on the tomahawk, I crept forward. I paused at the bend and practiced narrowing my eyes and looking menacing. With one last breath, I raised my tomahawk, let out a ferocious whoop, and leaped around the corner.