The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Banker Cartwright’s barn—the scene of the jamboree—was lit by the glow of hundreds of candles in huge round chandeliers which dangled from the rafters. At one end of the barn, a large stage had been erected for the eight-piece band, which was already in full swing when I entered with Ma and Pa. By the time I had found them that afternoon, I couldn’t even answer their questions about the contest. I was truly lower than a toad facedown in a mud puddle.

Only a glimpse of Charlotte Scoggins could raise me from the doldrums of despair, but she was nowhere to be seen. Ma and Pa stopped to talk to seemingly everyone in town. When I finally broke free and wandered toward the dessert table, I scanned the crowd in earnest for Charlotte. Then, I saw her—beside the stage, standing beside her Pa. I caught her eye, and she waved me over. I took one step, then ran smack into a barrel-chest, which I soon discovered was attached to a pair of beefy arms and a massive, jowly head. The extremely earnest owner of the burly body paused for a moment, hitched up his britches and wiped sweat from his brow with a damp handkerchief.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but the man only scowled at me and continued plowing through the crowd across the dance floor. It wasn’t until he had lumbered past that I was struck with a spark of recognition. It was the third man from the keelboat, the one with the deep, booming voice. First Plunkett, now this man. This was not a good development.

Completely oblivious to nearly plowing me over, the man continued across the barn. I followed his path, and my eyes widened. He had stopped short and was staring dumfounded at none other than the dainty, auburn-haired figure of Miss Camilla Wimberly, my schoolteacher. I winced at the memory of the devastating force with which she had wielded her yellow umbrella that fateful day just a week earlier. As she stood, toe tapping in time to the music, he slipped up beside her. Though the man was larger than she by close to three times, they seemed to be the same age. His face glowed like the sunrise as he started talking.

Sadly, while the man was as smitten with Miss Wimberly as Adam with Eve, she was having none of it. I sighed, remembering my own brush with unrequited love at the hands of Harmony Curtis, and turned to look for Charlotte. A figure in buckskin lurched into my path.

“Hey, pal, how’d the essay writing go?”

Finally, that puzzle piece I spoke of earlier—the one related to the “real” Eugene Appleton—dropped into place, and I knew what had happened.

“You,” I said. “You low-down, double-crossing—”

“Eugene! Tumbleweed!”

We both whirled, and Charlotte appeared at my elbow, a vision of lace and pearls in a red and white dress.

“Did you turn my essay in on time today, Tumbleweed?” she asked.

“Her essay?” I asked, feeling my blood pressure climbing skyward.

“Sure did,” Tumbleweed said with a grin.

“Did you enter, too, Gene?” Charlotte asked.

“Uh, not exactly.” I opened my mouth to explain, but at that moment, the sound of fiddle music split the air, and the band lit into the opening notes of the Polka Dot Shuffle. The crowd cheered, and the booming voice of Red Derby filled the barn. “Grab your partner, swing ’em round. It’s square dancing time!” He slapped his thigh in time to the beat. I turned and saw Charlotte staring up at me. Her foot tapped, and her arms hung expectantly at her sides. It was almost like she was waiting for something. But what?

“Uh, hang on a minute, Charlotte,” I said. She frowned, and I grabbed Tumbleweed by the elbow and pulled him aside. “Let me get this straight,” I hissed. “You made Charlotte Scoggins write an essay, told her you were going to turn it in for her, put MY name on it, and beat me to the office to turn it in, SO I COULDN’T! It’s a wonder you didn’t try to disguise yourself as me or something.”

Tumbleweed cleared his throat, one eyebrow raised.

“You did dress up as me!”

“Well, of the two of us, you’re the one enrolled in school, aren’t you?” he said, popping a raspberry tart into his mouth.

“You cheated, you slimy little—”

“Gene, Gene, settle down, you’re going to get tart all over your nice clean shirt,” Tumbleweed said, nibbling calmly on a lemon bar.

“How could you? You lowdown trickster!”

“Everything okay, boys?” Charlotte asked, appearing beside me.

“I’m going to tell her,” I said.

He grabbed my elbow and turned on that pitiful, wide-eyed look. “Please, don’t,” he whispered. “Not here.”

“Fine,” I said. “But only not right now.”

Charlotte cleared her throat and extended her left arm toward me, bent slightly at the wrist. Again, it seemed she was making some sort of strange gesture. She tilted her head toward the stage, where the band was careening toward the tail end of the Polka Dot Shuffle. I squinted at her. The music reached a crescendo, then stopped. Charlotte’s face fell, and she lowered her hand.

Mayor Scoggins stepped forward on the stage. “Nicely done, Red,” he said. “How about a hand for the Hard Tack Boys?” The crowd whooped loudly. “Now, before we dive into a favorite of mine—the Sassafras Stomp—we have a little business to attend to. You might have heard that the First Lady of the Frontier, Miss Tess Remington herself, will be joining us tomorrow here at Junction Days”—more raucous shouting—“In addition to her trick shooting show, she’s graciously agreed to provide a thirty-minute lesson to one lucky boy or girl from town who can explain in an essay what Rattlesnake Junction means to them. And I’m here to announce the winner of first prize.”

I jabbed Tumbleweed in the ribs. He winced slightly, but continued grinning.

“If your name is announced,” Mayor Scoggins continued, “come to the general store tomorrow morning at nine a.m. sharp to claim your certificate. You’ll need to verify the contents of your essay, and your proof of enrollment in school, of course. We want to prevent any sort of fraudulent behavior in winning this outstanding prize.”

Fraudulent behavior. That was rich. I elbowed Tumbleweed again, but he didn’t even look at me. The mayor reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. I could feel my heart sink as I turned to look at Charlotte, her face glowing with hope.

“Before I announce the winner,” the mayor said, “allow me to read a selected portion from the essay, which will provide a picture of the talent this young author possesses.” He cleared his throat and began reading:

“‘Rattlesnake Junction, oh Rattlesnake Junction. You lie at a junction, indeed, within my very heart. Like the town itself, nestled at the foothills of the majestic Rocky Mountains, I, too, am nestled within your glorious bosom. Oh, Rattlesnake Junction, I shall forevermore be true to your town and your people, no matter how far I may roam.’”

Charlotte’s face beamed like a sheet of gold leaf foil at the public reading of her essay. She clasped her hands together in anticipation, awaiting the reading of her name.

“You guessed it folks, the winner of the contest and the shooting lesson is…Eugene Appleton!”

Beside me, Charlotte gasped loudly. She turned toward the spot previously occupied by Tumbleweed, her face turning a bright red.

“You!” she hissed. “Why did you do that?”

But Tumbleweed, ever the master of surprise, had conveniently slipped out of the barn and vanished into the warm Colorado evening.

“And you!” she said, turning to me and balling up her fist. “You put your name on my essay!”

“No,” I stammered, quickly backpedaling. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

“I wanted that shooting lesson,” she said through gritted teeth. “You had better explain yourself.”

I shook my head. But then a thought struck me. Charlotte was as much a victim of Tumbleweed’s scheme as I was. Here was an opportunity. Here was a potential ally.

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s what happened.” I composed my thoughts and explained—to the best of my knowledge—how Tumbleweed had managed to hoodwink us both.

“This will not stand!” Charlotte hissed, blue eyes wide. “I will claim what’s rightfully mine.”

“I totally agree,” I said, now as interested in this sudden partnership with Charlotte Scoggins as in the shooting lesson. Well, maybe not equally interested. Still…

“But how?” she asked. “Tumbleweed turned in the only copy of my essay. I’ve got no proof I wrote it.” She paused. “Wait! My Pa would believe me. I’m going to go tell him.”

“No,” I cried, catching hold of her arm. “Hang on a second.” I knew what had to happen. No matter what, I couldn’t let Charlotte Scoggins allow her father to solve this problem. I had to be the one to get her out of this jam. “I don’t think Tumbleweed thought this through,” I said. “Eventually, the truth will come out.”

“Of course it will. I’m going to tell my Pa.”

“No,” I said. “Think about it. Tomorrow at the general store, when Tumbleweed shows up, they’ll know he’s not Eugene Appleton.” I paused.

“Unless,” she said, “the man running the essay contest was new in town, didn’t know you from Adam, and had seen Tumbleweed impersonating you yesterday when he turned in the essay.”

I groaned. “Of course. So Plunkett is actually expecting someone looking like Tumbleweed—”

“But probably dressed as you,” she interrupted, “to show up, quote the essay, and claim the prize.”

“Then I have to tell my dad. He’ll straighten all this out.”

“No,” I said, feeling my jaw tighten as the seconds ticked past. “You can’t tell him. I’ll sort this out. I’m the man of the hour.”

“You are?” she asked.

“I sure am,” I said. “What if I could make sure you got the shooting lesson, and I got to snatch the victory away from Tumbleweed at the last minute?”

“You can really pull off all that, Eugene?”

“Trust me,” I said, sounding far more certain than I felt. “There’s a whole lot more to me than meets the eye!”

A brief pause here to emphasize how greatly the past month of partnering in Tumbleweed-inspired schemes—combined, of course, with a steady diet of Dead-Eye Dan—had affected my skills of improvisation. As Charlotte stared at me, wide blue eyes piercing through me, I felt a burst of genuine inspiration light me up like a summer lightning storm.

“Looking like him. Dressed like me,” I mumbled. Then…“I’ve got it!” I cried. “Come with me.” I grabbed Charlotte’s hand and pulled her out of the barn. Leaving the revels of the square dance behind, Charlotte and I slipped into the moonlit night, the crickets providing a soundtrack to my thoughts. I pictured Tumbleweed’s room in Cutler’s Boarding House, his few worldly possessions, those things he held most dear.

Yep, I was thinking of a distraction.

“Bingo!” I cried suddenly.

“The plan for retribution has two parts, both to be undertaken tomorrow morning. I will need you for Part One. Part Two will rest entirely on my narrow, but capable, shoulders.” My powers of rhetoric were improving by the second. It’s true what they say about people who read excessively. They can really spin gold out of straw when counted upon.