The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

“Sure I’m sure. Going to blast a hole clean through my window. And I don’t aim to fix another window. Lower your arm a touch.”

Wendell leaned against the railing of his front fence, eyes half-shut as he yawned broadly, the stump of a cigar dangling from his lips.

“You’re not even looking at me. How can you tell?”

Wendell’s eyes popped open, wide and gray below his mass of stringy silver-black hair. “Oh, I can tell. Your aim’s off.”

I shook my head and squeezed my left eye shut. But I did drop my arm a touch or two, taking Wendell’s advice before tightening my grip on the slingshot’s wooden handle and drawing back the strap.

My tin can target leapt off the fence post and tumbled to the ground. It had happened so fast I hadn’t even seen the rock fly. I grinned and turned toward Wendell, whose employment, I suppose, made him the reason I had been able to afford the slingshot in the first place. He grunted and chewed on the cigar. “Guess I still got the ole’ eagle eye, don’t I?” he muttered, then returned to snoozing.

Despite his reaction, I was a mite shocked at how well my first round of shooting was going. Four out of five cans isn’t something to sneeze at. I figured it was all those Dead-Eye Dan novels I had been reading. My brain had been soaking up information all that time.

Wendell lifted his head and called across the yard to a slender, bearded man in a pair of faded overalls. “You’re doing great out there. Making real good time.”

The man set a bundle of wood down on top of a tall stack against the wall of Wendell’s shop. “Those stacks the right height for you?” he called back.

“You can stack a few more up there,” Wendell said, standing and hobbling over to where four large piles of wood stood. The man—he’d said his name was Benjamin Gruber—had been hard at work for nearly an hour bringing loads of wood from his wagon.

The man nodded, picked up the wood, and started across the yard.

“You always get your wood delivered? Pa has to chop it himself,” I said.

“Nah, this ain’t a delivery service. I just seen Mr. Gruber there up at the general store a bit earlier. Said he was trying to make it to Casper, Wyoming where his family’s staying, and was looking for work. Seemed like his skill-set and my need were a pretty good match. So I figure I’ll give him a fair wage, and he can make it a bit further on down the road to Casper.”

“I get it. Kind of like what happened with the Widow Springfield.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I mean, how you had a pair of extra shoes, and she needed one badly. Kind of a coincidence.”

“Hmm, I guess that’s a way to look at it. If you believe in coincidences, that is. I kind of believe that if something’s important to you, you can make coincidences happen.”

“Right,” I said, not totally sure what he meant. I watched Mr. Gruber lug his final armful of timber and set it on the top of the nearest stack. He wiped his brow and started toward us.

“I think that takes care of it.”

Wendell dug into his pocket for a crumpled bank note and stuffed it into the man’s hand. “Much obliged for your hard work today.”

Gruber’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t take this.”

“Sure you can. A decent hour’s work deserves a decent wage.”

“But this is—”

“I know how much it is, son. You got a family waiting out there for you. I figure this’ll help you get there a mite bit quicker.”

The man looked up at Wendell. “Well, I’m very grateful for this,” he said quietly, pocketing the bill. The two shook hands, and Gruber started across the yard. When he reached the fence, he turned and touched the brim of his hat, then left.

I watched him leave, then glanced up at the sky, where the afternoon sun floated lazily in a bowl of blue. “Do we have time for a few more shots?”

Wendell shook his head. “You can go on plinking cans till the cows come home, as far as I’m concerned, but I should head in. I got to spiffify the shop. Junction Days is just around the corner. All manner of folks will be stopping by for a shave or a haircut. So long,” he said, heading toward the front door. “And aim low.”

I watched Wendell head inside. The knees of his tan pants were faded, the cuffs stringy, and I could see a dime-sized hole in the seat of his pants. Truth be told, his clothing wasn’t in much better shape than Widow Springfield’s. Seemed like he’d want to get that fixed. I guess it was, like he said, a matter of what’s important to you. Maybe shoes for Widow Springfield and work for Mr. Gruber were more important to Wendell than new pants.

I gripped the slingshot. Ah, Junction Days. The annual late-July celebration of the founding of our fair town. There was something for everyone in the three-day extravaganza: livestock exhibitions, calf-roping, trick riding, games on the town green, concerts under the gazebo, and food, glorious food. Jams and jellies, salted ham, salted potatoes, salted corn, salted beets, salted pickles. Pretty much anything you could salt, we ate while crammed around groaning tables set up back of the church following Sunday service.

And this year, it being the town’s twentieth anniversary, I had heard tell of an honest-to-goodness jamboree, featuring a square dance called by Red Derby himself, the most sought-after caller in the entirety of the frontier. Plus, a cookout with the meat provided by Chester Willoughby, owner of the finest herd of Angus steer for miles around. It was enough to make a boy positively tingle with anticipation.

But on this fine afternoon, I was anticipating something possibly equal in excitement—the appearance of Charlotte Scoggins. I had gone plum out of my head for a spell over Harmony Curtis, but that was just some sort of fanciful daydream. Charlotte Scoggins, mayor’s daughter and owner of the most radiant blonde curls I had ever laid eyes on, was a local. And, though we’d sat next to each other for an entire two years in Miss Wimberly’s schoolhouse, there had been something different about her lately. Something involving more sweating when she came around. Which was bad, but also good.

Besides, that summer, it seemed like anything could happen. So why not an actual conversation with Charlotte? Sure, Wendell’s front yard was a fine spot for plunking cans off fence posts, but it also happened to be the perfect location from which to sight Charlotte as she crossed town on her way to her weekly piano lesson at the church. This, I knew from careful scouting, would happen in exactly eight minutes.

I glanced at the front walk—no Charlotte—and raised my slingshot for one final shot. Suddenly, the afternoon’s peace and quiet was shattered by a familiar drawl.

“Extra, extra, read all about it. Special Junction Days insert in the newspaper! Food, fun, and frivolition! It’s all right here!”

I whirled to see Tumbleweed Thompson himself standing on the other side of the fence. He wore a red checked shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his battered brown cowboy hat behind his head, tied around his neck with a string. His red hair was again performing its gravity-defying vertical swoop. He grinned broadly as he pulled a newspaper out of his satchel and waved it over his head.

He vaulted neatly over Wendell’s fence and landed a few steps away. His eyes lighted on my slingshot. “Well look at that, Gene, you went and bought yourself a slingshot with your hair-sweeping money.”

“Sure did,” I boasted.

“Looks like we’re both going to be armed men, then. Feast your eyes on this baby.” Tumbleweed reached into the waist of his pants and produced a small silver pistol. Narrowing his eyes, he cocked the hammer and raised the pistol. “Reach for the sky, you lily-livered varmint.”

“A gun?” I took a step backward. “Where’d you get that?”

Tumblweed crept forward, his finger slowly squeezing the trigger until—

I leaped backward, stumbling over a stump and sprawling against the fence. Tumbleweed exploded in laughter. “Did I scare ya, Gene?” he howled. “Put a little kick in your ticker?” He leaned down. “Don’t worry, pal. It’s a cap gun. Just pop and smoke, that’s all. Won’t do nothin’ but skeer ya.”

“Yeah, I…I knew that,” I panted. “Where’d you get it?”

Tumbleweed hoisted me to my feet. “Dad came home from the saloon last night with it. Fella named Amos Revere said he thought Dad would like it for me.”

I gulped. Once again, Tumbleweed had found a way to cast a spell over me with his tall tales and fancy technology. I knew better; trust me, I did. But at that moment, with the acrid smell of smoke filling my nose and a shiny silver firearm inches from my palm, I didn’t care. I was dying to hold it, but firearms had occupied the top spot of Ma’s Forbidden Items list for so long, I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

Tumbleweed unfolded the crinkled wad of newsprint and laid it carefully on the stump between us. “Look,” he said, pointing. “It’s an ad-vertysment.”

“Yeah, for Junction Days. I saw this yesterday.”

“Nah,” he said. “There’s something new. Look.”

We crouched around the paper. Just below a notice about men making sure their tobacco ended up in the spittoons and not Widow Springfield’s flower pots, there was a small box. I read the notice inside:

First Prize: 30-Minute Private Lesson with Sharp-Shooting Legend Tess Remington, Star of the Coyote Pete Frontier Extravaganza!

My mind spun like a top as I tried to process all the information. “This is incredible,” I said breathlessly.

“You bet!” he answered. “Tess Remington herself is going to give a private shooting lesson. Tess Remington!”

“Holy smokes! You think she’ll teach me to shoot marbles out of the air like she does?”

“You? I’m going to win that prize, no doubt about it.” Tumbleweed stood and began to pace, fingers twitching excitedly. “Her record is twenty-seven marbles in a row. Imagine that, blasting ’em apart with that rifle—bang—bang—bang—all the way to twenty-seven. Then, she takes a second rifle and shoots both guns, picking off cans they toss in the air. For the big finale, they blindfold her and put her backwards on a horse. She lies down and shoots apples off the head of a volunteer from the crowd. An apple, Gene! Blindfolded! On a horse!”

“You’ve seen her show?”

“Not exactly. Ain’t even laid eyes on Tess Remington. But word spreads, don’t it? What a lady,” he said.

“Yup.” My mind was racing as I thought about trading in my slingshot—which until twenty minutes ago had seemed the pinnacle of weaponry—for one of Tess Remington’s custom-made .44-40 caliber smooth-bore Winchester rifles. I closed my eyes and imagined myself at the shooting lesson, squeezing off shots with my rifle and watching the cans dance like puppets on a string. Charlotte Scoggins would swoon at my dead-eye accuracy and plant a kiss on my cheek. No, both cheeks. Then, Coyote Pete himself would ask me to join his Frontier Extravaganza. Eugene the Dream, Boy Wonder, they’d call me.