The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

The sun broke over the Rocky Mountains with grace and glory that Saturday morning, and everything—juniper, columbine, even the scraggly sagebrush—seemed to glow with promise. Bursting out of bed, I moved quickly to my bureau, where I had laid out my costume the night before. After rehearsing the contents of Charlotte’s essay with her, I had made one other stop, the Thompson’s room in Cutler’s Boarding House. Both Tumbleweed and his Pa were still at the jamboree, so I was free to nab one nervous raccoon. That was important for Part One of the plan, which I trusted Charlotte was completing at that moment. My part was next.

First, I donned the most Eugene-looking outfit I could manage, pretty much a duplicate of the librarian’s assistant garb I had worn that fateful night on the keelboat. But dressing as myself was only half the battle.

Now, it was time for the hair.

With a glance in the mirror, I bid a fond goodbye to my carefully-combed brown locks. Then, I went to work with the bear grease. Working up a generous palm-full of the thick goop, I pushed my hair up into as ridiculous a vertical swoop as I could muster. Apart from its color, I believed I had finally found a look that would render me completely unrecognizable. Or, even better, recognizable as Tumbleweed. For the final touch, I slipped into the kitchen, pulled a bottle of molasses from the cabinet, and dotted my cheeks, careful to fade the freckles to sandy brown. With one more glance into the mirror, I was satisfied. It was time for TumbleGene to claim his prize.

After the previous evening’s revels, the streets of town were as bare as a skinny-dipper in the San Pedro River. I scooted undisturbed across the town green to the general store. Charlotte stepped around the corner of the building. She wore a dark blue cloak, with both her arms tucked inside. Something small was obviously struggling furiously underneath.

“You need to get cracking, Eugene,” she said. “I’m not sure how much longer I can tangle with this raccoon. She’s a feisty one.”

“Did you use the bacon?”

“Of course I used the bacon. But I ran out halfway here. I found some kippers in their room, and that’s been working so far. But hurry!”

I smiled. Bingo’s disappearance was sure to delay Tumbleweed long enough to allow me to beat him to the office. That was what mattered. I looked up at the door. It was showtime.

I kicked open the door with my boot and swaggered inside. “Well, howdy and good morning, old-timer. I reckon I’m-a here to a-claim my prize. Ya know—that there shootin’ thinger with Tess Remington.”

Alton Plunkett sat at the desk, a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. At my dramatic entrance, he stood, jolted from his seat.

“Eugene Appleton, proud resident of Rattlesnake Junction, here to claim my prize,” I began. “What do I have to do there? Sign my name, prick my finger and dab a little blood? Let me at it, and I’ll be out of your hair for good.”

I leaned over the table, careful to not get too close; my hair and those counterfeit freckles, after all, couldn’t bear much scrutiny. I was also afraid at any moment my bear grease would let loose, and my hair’s carefully-constructed architecture would come unglued. Obviously, I wasn’t familiar with the tensile strength of bear grease. Not even a Texas twister would have dislodged a strand.

Plunkett nodded briskly. “Eugene Appleton. Right, the winner of the essay contest. There was another kid trying to enter in your name yesterday. You were…more reserved yesterday.”

“Reserved?” I blinked. How had I managed to miscalculate? Of course Tumbleweed hadn’t addressed Plunkett as himself yesterday. He would have attempted to mimic my own speech patterns.

I backed away from the desk. “Oh, right, sir. I’m a little tired from last night, plus I confess I got into my mom’s black coffee this morning. I may have drunk more than my share.”

He squinted again, studying me closely. Finally, his face relaxed, and he smiled nervously. “Your Ma’s home-ground coffee, eh? You want to go easy on that stuff, son.”

I let out a sigh. “So, what do I have to do to claim the prize?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper. “How about you give me the opening few lines of your essay?”

I opened my mouth, poised to launch into Charlotte’s essay, when the door burst open behind me.

“Stop right there. I do declare a transmission of justice is taking place, and I will not allow it to commence any further herewith!”

I whirled, and was immediately stupefied to see Eugene Appleton himself standing in the doorway: black suit, white shirt and black vest, hair carefully slicked down and parted in the middle, even the absence of freckles or even a gap between his front teeth. Yup, Tumbleweed had nailed it. I don’t know how, but he was me. In fact, he might have been more me than I was at that point.

Plunkett leapt to his feet and darted around the desk. “What in tarnation is going on here?” he asked. “Yesterday, I had to stop a second Eugene Appleton from turning in an essay. Now, I’ve got two Eugenes trying to claim the prize.” He looked skyward and threw up his hands. “Lord, give me wisdom!”

“Now hang on a second,” Tumbleweed said. “I can explain everything.”

“You’d better, son,” Plunkett said.

“I am, was, and will always be, Eugene Cornelius Appleton, resident of 12 South Street, Rattlesnake Junction, Colorado. I won the essay contest in a manner most suited to my skills of Englishification, and I am here to receive my competition.”

I gaped at him. Englishification? Competition? Did he mean compensation? This had gone too far. “Hold on!” I cried. “Can I explain to you what’s really going on, in words that are actually English?”

“I’d be glad if you would,” Plunkett said.

“My name is Eugene Appleton,” I said. “This is Tumbleweed Thompson. He’s pretending to be me, and that’s all there is to it. He convinced Charlotte Scoggins to let him submit her essay yesterday, but swapped out my name for hers—on account of how he isn’t enrolled in school—and brought it over, dressed as me. How he got my clothes, I don’t know right now.”

“That’s not true,” Tumbleweed cried. “You’re pretending to be me. I have no idea why, but that’s clearly what’s going on here.”

“No I’m not,” I cried. “I’m pretending to be you pretending to be me. Anyone can see that.”

Tumbleweed paused, his lips moving slowly as he tried to puzzle through my last sentence. “I don’t rightly know what he just said, your majesty,” he said to Plunkett. “But I wrote that essay, and I deserve the rightful awarding of the prize.”

I shook my head. Impersonation had not worked. Neither had logic. There was only one course left. “Did not!” I cried.

Yup—the carefully wrought plan, combed over to account for every possible variable, had devolved into a schoolyard shouting match.

Plunkett shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s your word against his,” he said to me. “At this point, I’m not even sure which of you two boys actually wrote the essay, and which one is just fibbing. So I’m going to throw out both your essays and find a new winner.”

“No!” we both cried at the same time.

“Now, let’s not be hasty,” Tumbleweed said, stepping forward to take Plunkett by the shoulder. “I figured this might happen. Might I offer a suggestion? It might just make your problems with this essay contest go away and crown a winner in a mere thirty minutes. What do you say? The mayor would be mighty happy to not be bothered with this.”

Plunkett glanced at both versions of Tumbleweed Thompson standing before him. “I’m listening, son,” he said. Tumbleweed leaned close and whispered a few words into the man’s ear. When he had finished, Plunkett nodded.

“That just might work. And the less I have to bother the mayor, the better.”

“Exactly,” Tumbleweed said.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Plunkett said. “Overseen by Tess Remington, the two of you will engage in a target-shooting contest at the festival grounds. We’ll provide the gun, the ammunition, and the targets. Winner gets the lesson, loser goes home.”

“Wait, we’re holding a shooting contest to decide who gets the shooting lesson?”

“Yup,” Tumbleweed said, smirking.

“I agree, it’s unorthodox,” Plunkett said. “But it would add a bit of excitement to the shooting display Tess has planned. Sort of a pre-show.”

“Exactly,” Tumbleweed said.

“That settles it. I’ll meet you boys in a few minutes, out at the festival grounds.” Plunkett vanished out the door.

I felt my heart sink. Tumbleweed had been everywhere, done everything. And he had a real, live cap gun. There was no way I was going to beat him in a shooting contest. But then, Tumbleweed turned to smirk at me, and I knew what had to be done.