The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Tumbleweed scrambled onto the platform behind me. “Yarrrrrrr,” he yelled, knife held high.

“Tumbleweed, no!” I shouted. But before I reach him, my petite young school-teacher, Miss Camilla Wimberly had raced up the steps onto the stage, I must have looked mighty large and imposing up there, because she raised her umbrella, and with an aggression I hadn’t thought she possessed, clobbered me with it.

I staggered backward, certain I could explain that this was all a gigantic misunderstanding, and if everyone would just take a deep breath, we could get this sorted out.

But Miss Wimberly kept coming. Like a steam engine roaring down the tracks, she raised the umbrella again. I threw up an arm to block her.

“Wait!” I cried.

Miss Wimberly’s eyes widened. But her arm was already moving forward. The Umbrella of Justice collided with my skull a second time. And, for the second time in as many days, I saw stars.

I turned, brandishing the stump of my shattered tomahawk. An entire row of women fainted dead away, crumpling into the blue-padded pews like stalks of harvested corn.

“Alright, you two, time to go.” Pa and Absalom Curtis appeared on the platform. I tore the bandanna from my face and shoved back my cowboy hat.

“Stop!” I yelled.

More gasps swept the sanctuary. Absalom halted and blinked, then staggered back a step.

“It’s—you,” he said.

I nodded, my vision still blurry. But over Absalom’s left shoulder, I saw the smiling face of Harmony Curtis. Hers was a grin of amusement, devious enjoyment, and, most of all, deep satisfaction. She winked and raised her palm to her lips, kissed it, and blew.

Behind me, I heard Tumbleweed groan. Pa dragged me from the platform. I wish I had the proper word to describe the look that appeared on Ma’s face as I stood before her. But some expressions defy words.

I don’t believe I truly blacked out. Perhaps it was the rush of energy. Or the blows to the head. But the exact details of what transpired from that moment until the next day when I found myself alongside Pa and Wendell Jenkins as they repaired the newly-damaged pulpit of the Mount Carmel Church are a bit fuzzy. I wasn’t contributing much to the repair project; my mind was lost in untangling Harmony Curtis’ devious plan.

“You planning on letting your son here out of your sight tomorrow, or will I have to fend for myself around the shop for awhile?” Wendell asked Pa.

“No, I reckon he’s all yours, Wendell,” Pa said.

Suddenly, the rear door swung open and a tall, rangy man with a neatly-groomed brown mustache strode into the church. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a tan shirt with a gold star pinned to the front. Behind him followed Sheriff Mayberry.

“You Elijah Appleton?” the man with the mustache said, moving up the main aisle. His deep voice boomed around the empty room like a church bell.

“Sure am,” Pa said, sliding his chisel into the front pocket of his pants. “And judging from that impressive piece of tin on your chest, you must be that new lawman I heard we should be expecting in town.”

The man touched the brim of his hat “Levi Boggs, U.S. Marshall’s service.”

Pa whistled. “Marshall’s office, you say. That’s mighty big time for our little frontier town.”

“Well, if it’s as small as you say it is, I don’t think I’ll be here too long. I’ve been riding the circuit of the Colorado territory, doing some investigating. Sheriff Mayberry suggested I stop in for a chat, since you know as much as anyone about the goings-on in town.”

“Have a seat, why don’t you?” Pa asked. Sheriff Mayberry moved to sit, but Boggs remained standing. The sheriff quickly leaped to his feet.

“You’re a Marshall, so why are you out here in Colorado?” Pa asked. “You know we’re not a state yet.”

“True enough,” Boggs said. “But we’ve still got jurisdiction out here. And the Marshall’s service has been tracking the movements of a gang of outlaws in these parts. They call themselves the Clean Shave Gang, on account of their reputation for narrow getaways.”

Sheriff Mayberry stepped forward. “We—uh—he reckons they’ve been heading west from Kansas. Not sure what they’re planning, but they’ve got a string of arrest warrants going back three years, bank robberies, cattle rustling, and the like.”

“One thing’s for sure,” Boggs said. “They won’t stay quiet for long.”

Wendell cleared his throat, and I turned to glance at him. Maybe it was just the light in the dim church, but his face seemed to have paled. He looked away and ran his hand idly across the top of the pulpit.

“A gang of outlaws?” Pa said. “Well, I’m sure in a place like this, they’ll stick right out. How many of them are there?”

“Not rightly sure. Sometimes a half dozen, lately a few less,” Boggs said. “And I wouldn’t be too sure about them attracting attention. They’re pretty good at disguises.”

“Well, we’ll be sure to be vigilant,” Pa said. “Isn’t that right, fellas?”

Wendell nodded, still rubbing the top of the pulpit.

“Between you and me, I’ve got a personal score to settle with their leader,” Boggs said. “He killed two of my men in cold blood awhile back outside Laredo. I told myself if I ever laid eyes on any of them again, they’d see swift justice.” Boggs headed back down the aisle. “I’ll be in Sheriff Mayberry’s office for the next few days. If you see anything unusual, you know where to find me. Take care.”

Sheriff Mayberry followed Marshall Boggs out, thumbs hooked inside his belt, which I noticed now contained his pistol.

A silence descended on the church, broken only by the scuffing and tapping of Pa’s woodworking tools. Suddenly, Wendell set down his mallet.

“I’ve got to go,” he declared. “The shop’s been closed long enough.”

Pa raised his eyebrows. “Already?” he asked. “We’ve only got a few minutes left.” Wendell nodded and slipped on his hat. “Well, we appreciate the help,” Pa said. “Eugene will be along shortly.”

“That’s okay,” Wendell called back over his shoulder. “He can take the day off.”

Pa turned to me. “Well, look at that,” he said. “A whole day free.” Soon, Pa declared the podium as good as new—while managing to shoot me an ornery glance—and we headed for home. As we passed Wendell’s shop, I glanced inside to see the barber standing behind his empty chair, staring blankly out the window.

I suddenly felt sad all over, wanting to run inside, but having no earthly idea what to tell him. I knew that when I felt low, a slice of Ma’s chocolate cake did the trick. But I got the feeling that what was going on with Wendell wasn’t so easily fixed. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The men I’d seen had to be part of the gang of outlaws the Marshall mentioned. But why were they so interested in Wendell? What had he ever done to them?

It was like being smack in the middle of one of Dead-Eye Dan’s twisty plots. I couldn’t make sense of it.

So, with thoughts of cake, I wandered into the kitchen and had myself a leftover slice of huckleberry pie, on Wendell’s behalf. Then another, for Harmony Curtis. It seemed like the right thing to do.

As I recollect, I did catch sight of Harmony Curtis one last time before she left town. She sat on the front steps of the Grubstake Hotel that afternoon, a bottle of sarsaparilla in her hand. “Eugene!” she called, waving me over.

I scowled, but trudged toward her.

“No hard feelings?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” I asked, rubbing the egg-sized lump on the back of my head. “Why’d you do all of that?”

“All of what?” she asked. “I’m pretty good at reading people, Eugene. And I could see you two boys were brewing a fierce rivalry over me. So I thought I’d show you that I could fend for myself.”

“Oh, you showed us all right,” I said.

“I had no idea you’d go to all those lengths, with the tomahawk and the bandanna and all.” She leaned forward, feathery lashes batting. “You didn’t have to do any of that to impress me, you know. I think you’re pretty great.”

My head started to spin. “Uh, right.”

She set down her bottle and took my hand. As it had the night before, my chest began to tighten, and spots danced before my eyes. “You were pretty impressive up there, with the outlaw getup and the whooping,” she said.

She nodded. “Sure. If I had been a sweet young school teacher, I would have been terrified, too.”

“Aw shucks,” I said.

I couldn’t tell whether she was shooting straight or simply baiting the hook again. But in that moment, I didn’t care.

The front doors to the hotel swung open, and Absalom exited, followed by Wendell.

“There’s the disturber of the peace himself,” Absalom said, his Irish brogue rich and lilting again. He threw an arm around Wendell’s shoulder. “I’m much obliged to you for seeking me out to offer us some refreshment before we head on down the road a stretch.”

“Don’t mention it,” Wendell said. “I’m glad I caught you before you left. The Good Book says to offer a cup of cold water to those in need. I reckon a swallow of sarsaparilla will do the trick.”

“We do appreciate it.” Absalom took a long swig, then handed the empty bottle to Wendell. “Ready to hit the road, fair maiden?”

“Sure, Da,” she said, her Irish accent returning as well.

I watched them descend the steps and head across town into the golden afternoon sunlight. Only then did it hit me: I had forgotten to get her to tell me Tumbleweed’s real name.