The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

I handed him the ad. He glanced at it, then tossed the paper to the ground. “Ah, never mind,” he said. “I can enroll in the fall, right?”

“I don’t think it works that way. It’s a contest for Junction Days. So they want the winner to be someone from this town. Trust me, that settles it. Sorry, pal.”

A faraway look crossed Tumbleweed’s face. “Hmm,” he said.

“Never mind,” he said. “Well, gotta go. See you around.”

I started to stop him, but at that moment, Charlotte Scoggins appeared on the other side of the fence, piano books tucked under her arm. She paused at the gate and waved, her blonde curls bobbing in the sun. “Afternoon, Eugene!” she called.

Wouldn’t you know, my mouth picked that moment to go dryer than a heap of sawdust. But, recalling how horrible it had felt to stammer out nonsense in the presence of Harmony Curtis, I vowed to do something daring. I vowed to say something. With words.

“Oh, uh, I mean hi, Charlotte.”

Tumbleweed snorted and tried to step between us. But I slid in front of him, shielding him from Charlotte’s sight. “You heard about the contest?” I asked her.

“Isn’t it fantastic? Are you going to enter?”

“Enter? Are you kidding? I’m going to win.”

Behind me, Tumbleweed grunted in disgust.

“Who’s that behind you?” Charlotte asked.

“Nobody,” I said.

Tumbleweed snorted again and stepped out. He bowed dramatically. “Name’s Tumbleweed Thompson. Frontier renegade and erstwhile high plains drifter. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Charlotte said. “You’re the one who roped Gene into interrupting the fiddle concert the other day. I was supposed to give a piano recital that afternoon, but I couldn’t, on account of you brandishing that knife and scaring the church half to death. I’ve finally managed to forgive Gene for it, because I know he wasn’t the ringleader of that whole thing, but as for you, I’m not too sure about it.”

Tumbleweed blinked. “Well, shucks, missy. I’m terribly sorry about all that. Do you think you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me?” He puffed out his lower lip and widened his eyes.

Charlotte frowned, but I could see her face softening. “Hmm…why should I?”

“Well, for starters, I just so happen to be a gifted speechifier and writer. I’d love to give you some help with your essay for this contest.”

I nearly choked. Tumbleweed helping Charlotte—top of her class and spelling bee champ for four years running—with her essay? But in further proof of the world’s turning upside down for Tumbleweed, Charlotte smiled. “Well, that’s right nice of you, Mr. Thompson. I had no idea that concealed beneath your carefully-concocted bumpkin façade lay the soul of a poet. I believe you could do that.”

Tumbleweed blinked, likely mystified by a handful of the words Charlotte had just used. But as her meaning sunk in, he smirked and shook her hand. “I’ll see you later, then.”

The bell atop the church steeple began to toll, and Charlotte turned to leave. “I guess I’ll be seeing you soon, Eugene. Same to you, Tumbleweed.” She continued down the sidewalk out of sight. I turned to give Tumbleweed what-for, but he was already at the fence, watching Charlotte leave.

“Hey, what gives?” I shouted after him. “Didn’t you learn anything from Harmony Curtis?”

Tumbleweed grinned and ran his hand through his hair. “The question, Gene, is did you learn anything?” He dashed through the gate and down the street.

My mouth flopped open. We had engaged in a fierce competition for Harmony’s attention, but the end result had been utter humiliation for us both. Without a plan, it was wise to tread carefully, lest we wind up with a repeat of that incident. Unless Tumbleweed already had something in mind.

I spent the rest of the evening locked in my room, scribbling out the best response I could muster to the question at hand: “What does Rattlesnake Junction mean to you?” By the time three candles had burned to nubs, I had managed to scratch down exactly ninety-eight words, leaving me two shy of the minimum. I thought for a moment, then scribbled out the only logical conclusion: “The End.”

I folded the paper, stuffed it into an envelope, and crept to the kitchen. Leaving nothing to chance, I set a note on the kitchen table instructing Ma to wake me at ten minutes to eight o’clock, so I could deliver my essay as soon as the office opened.

The next morning, bleary eyed and wearing the same wrinkled shirt and denims I had slept in, I stumbled out of bed and lurched to the town offices, hearing the church bell ring eight o’clock as I crossed the green. I took the steps two at a time and entered the general store to see a banner strung from the ceiling. It read “Junction Days Headquarters.” Down one aisle, I could see Mr. Long sweeping quietly. A small table was set up under the sign, beside the main counter. Behind it sat a thin-faced, balding man with small glasses, wearing a round blue bowler hat. He blinked nervously as I approached the desk.

Sparks shot up my spine as his eyes met mine. It was Alton Plunkett, Trent Berger’s tall, birdlike sidekick from the keelboat. Last time I saw him, he was running for his life from Tumbleweed’s raccoon. Marshall Boggs’ words about the Clean Shave Gang came back to me. Had he gotten a job in town?

The contest forgotten for the moment, I nearly headed back out the front door. Then, I remembered. I had been wearing boot black face paint that night on the boat, and it had been dim inside the cabin. I hoped that was enough to keep him from recognizing me.

“Help you, son?” the man at the desk asked in a high-pitched twang, blinking rapidly in a way that added to my already-tight nerves. He didn’t seem to recognize me.

I freed the envelope from my pocket and placed it on the desk. “I’m here to turn in my entry for the essay contest.”

“Age?” he asked, as I slid the envelope toward him.

Did I dare introduce myself ? I supposed at this point, I had no choice. “Eugene Appleton,” I said weakly.

He paused. “That’s strange. Sure is, strange, that’s what it is.” His voice had a rapid, frantic rhythm to it, and I had to lean close to catch his meaning.

“Had a feller in here a minute ago name of Appleton. Come to think of it, his name was Eugene, too.” He leaned forward over the desk. “You got a brother?”

“Then what’s going on?”

My heart began to thump faster. “I don’t know, sir. My name’s Eugene Appleton, and I’ve come to submit my entry for the essay contest, to win the shooting lesson with Tess Remington.”

The man pulled a wooden box toward him and lifted an envelope. “Yup, right here—essay brought over a wink or two ago, submitted by Eugene Appleton.” He narrowed his eyes. “So who are you?”

“I’m him. I mean, I’m me. Eugene Appleton.”

The man handed my envelope back to me. “Now listen here, son. I’m pretty new in town. But when I got this job in the mayor’s office last week, he gave me one job. ‘Make sure Junction Days runs smoothly,’ he says. ‘That’s all, Alton.’ And I’ve got to keep this job for a while. So I’m going to oversee the heck out of this contest.”

He stood abruptly and began to pace back and forth behind the desk, small head bobbing on that long stalk of a neck as sweat began to bead on his forehead. “Now, listen. Mayor tells me we got all manner of folks pining to enter this contest. But the Mayor—under Tess’s orders—instructed me to mind the rules of the contest to the letter. You find any foolery involved, he says to me, they’ll be disqualified, and you’ll be fired, no questions asked. So I ain’t-a going to cross him. I’m going to need iron-clad proof of what you said.”

My mind raced. He was right; this did look fishy. But how was I going to prove I was me? All I could think of was my grade report from school. And my Dead-Eye Dan Junior Marshall Club card, of course. But both only showed my name, and could easily be faked. I got the feeling that only the word of Ma or Pa would suffice for Alton Plunkett. But they were going to be occupied with Junction Days-related obligations until at least after the noon deadline. Could I find them in a pinch? What other option did I have?

“I’ll…be back,” I said. With that, I turned and wandered back onto the front steps of the General Store. More boys and girls trickled up, envelopes in hand, entered the store, and returned a minute or two later, hope written on their faces. My hope, of course, was ebbing by the minute. Alton Plunkett, under the orders of Tess Remington herself, had been clear. Unless I could prove I—and not the other Eugene Appleton—was actually me, my essay wouldn’t count.

It was past eleven when I gave up and headed back into town. I wandered the streets aimlessly, eyes peeled for Ma or Pa. But they were nowhere to be seen. Soon, the church bell tolled noon, and I knew it. I had lost.

I couldn’t figure how or why someone would have submitted an essay to the contest claiming to be me. I should have, mind you, but I didn’t. Not yet anyway.