The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

I trudged out the door. Charlotte met me at the corner of North Street. “I had to return the raccoon,” she said. “She was getting too fidgety. What happened?”

I explained the unexpected development.

“And Plunkett went to tell Pa?” she asked.

“Yup. You’ve got to get there and tell your Pa not to get involved. Not yet, anyway.”

“You still have this under control, Gene?” she asked.

“Totally,” I said.

“I’m going to beat him in that shooting contest, that’s how.” Her eyes widened. “Fear not,” I went on. “This is what must be done, for the sake of honor and truth. I only ask that as I go to stand up for what is right, you do not forsake me. Remain true, my darling.”

She squinted at me. “Eugene, are you okay?”

Was I alright? In the face of a shooting contest overseen by Tess Remington, the spirit of Dead-Eye Dan was flowing through my veins like liquid mercury. I would show I had the right stuff by winning the contest, taking the lesson with Tess Remington, and becoming a true frontier hero all in one morning. As long as Ma and Pa didn’t show up.

“I’m fine, my darling.”

A light smirk crossed her lips, and she fell into step beside me. Tumbleweed strode up behind us. Plunkett’s frantic sprint through the streets had drawn the attention of a newsboy in the general store, who ran ahead of us calling out the details. By the time we reached the spot where North Street widened, townspeople had gathered on either side of the street. They leaned against barrels, sat, stood, and even climbed onto rooftops to see us pass. Their voices floated out to me from all sides.

“Atta boy, Eugene.”

“Go get ’em, Tumbleweed!”

Some of their advice was truly perplexing.

“Fire that tater straight and true!”

“Bang those gizzards!”

Suddenly, I caught sight of Widow Springfield standing on the sidelines in her yellow dress and new shoes. Our eyes met, and she stepped into the street.

“Morning, ma’am,” I said.

“Squash those pleasantries,” she said. “Squash ’em right now. You are about to engage in a display of riflery accuracy and technique which will require you to be as ruthless as a cattle-rustler and cold as a sidewinder. Do you understand me?”

I stared, dumbfounded. How had the mere mention of a shooting contest changed this mild-mannered widow into a firecracker? “Mrs. Springfield, what’s going on?”

“I been watchin’ you, Eugene —I know that’s who you really are under all that hair goo. I’ve seen you working with Wendell in his shop. You’re a fine young man with a good head on his shoulders. I’m pulling for you to take this contest. So whatever happens out there, I want you to know I’m on your side. You keep your aim true and your hand steady, and you’ll come through all right.”

“Well, thanks,” I said.

“Now, when you fire, don’t move a muscle until you see the can dance.” She paused. “Repeat that!”

“Don’t move a muscle…”

“Until you see the can dance.”

“Until I see the can dance.”

“Atta boy!” she whooped, smacking me on the back. She reached into the bosom of her shirtwaist and removed a small black pouch on a strap around her neck. She lifted the strap over her head and draped it around my neck. “This here’s a little bit of dirt I keep as a memento of my dear departed husband Rubicon,” she said. “Veteran of the battles of Shiloh, Vicksburg, Chickamauga, and Chattanooga. Best sharpshooter the Army of the Cumberland possessed. And oh, what a beard! He vanished from this earth without a trace, and not a day goes by that I don’t mourn him. This is the soil from the ground where we planted our first tree at our home back in Iowa. Wear it for luck.”

She wasn’t done. “When all this is sorted out, you come by my place for some sarsaparilla and ginger cookies. A nice boy like you deserves that.”

I could only gape. Advice from an unexpectedly fierce widow, a memento of a bearded sharpshooter for luck, and an invitation to sarsaparilla and ginger snaps? What a morning.

“But first,” she finished. “You focus your eyes and put a bullet through every single one of those cans. You hear me?”

I nodded. “Thank-thank you, ma’am,” I stammered out. She stepped back onto the sidelines as our strange parade passed. Strangely bolstered by the widow’s belief, I tucked the pouch inside my shirt and continued marching. Somewhere, someone had found a snare drum and was beating out a military rhythm— ONE, ONE, RATTA-TA-TATTA-TA-TAT…ONE, ONE, RATTA-TA-TATTA-TA-TAT.

The street ended at the festival grounds. I could see the fenced-in paddock where the shooting demonstration was to take place. Tess Remington stood beside the mayor and Alton Plunkett. She wore a white shirtwaist with intricate jade and red Indian beading across the chest, and a long leather skirt hemmed with deerskin fringe, cinched at the waist with a jade scarf. A brown leather hat was cocked back jauntily atop her head, and her long brown hair flowed past her shoulders.

“I reckon it’s a good thing I had this set up for my shooting show this afternoon, ain’t it? Give me one shake of a sheep’s tail to make a few modifications, and we’ll be ready to go.” She turned to the crowd, which was now filling the large wooden seating unit beside the field. “You folks ready to see some shootin’?” she called to them.

The crowd whooped, and I caught sight of Widow Springfield in the front row. Our eyes met, and she raised a fist in solidarity. I turned toward Tumbleweed, expecting to see supreme confidence etched on his face. Instead, he had his back turned to Tess, his hat pulled low over his forehead.

Tess moved between us, blocking my view of Tumbleweed. “I’ve arranged two sets of five cans over yonder, twenty paces away,” she said. “You’ll take turns shooting. Best of five wins.” She pulled a small pistol from her waist. “Seein’ as how I don’t let anyone lay a finger on Old Hickory there,”—she pointed to her rifle—“we’ll give you this pistol to use. That okay?”

Tumbleweed grunted, but continued to avoid eye contact. I couldn’t figure it out. He had lied and cheated to get here; why had he suddenly gone mute?

Tess held out the pistol. “You first, lover of bear grease. What’s your name?”

“Eugene Appleton, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m going to call you Bear Grease.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Very well, Bear Grease,” Tess Remington said, “Whenever you’re ready.” She stepped aside and I moved to my mark. How was I supposed to conquer my nerves? My hand wouldn’t stop trembling, and my eye had started twitching.

Suddenly, I had it. Holding the gun out, I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in Wendell’s front yard plinking cans with my slingshot. I squeezed my left eye shut and pulled the trigger.

I flinched as the pistol leapt backward, nearly busting me in the jaw. But somehow, the bullet had left the gun before I jumped. The third can from the left flew off the rail and clattered to the ground. The crowd whooped in approval.

“Well, lookee there, folks, we got a real sharpshooter here,” Tess said, taking the pistol and handing it to Tumbleweed.

“And you’ll shoot second, lad. And what’s your name?” But Tumbleweed did not reply. She leaned closer. “You okay?”

Suddenly, there was a moment, sure to be remembered deep into the future of Rattlesnake Junction, when something truly jaw-dropping occurred.

As I said, my jaw dropped open. Tumbleweed blinked, frozen in place. But while he froze, Tess Remington wrapped her arms around his waist and picked him straight up off the ground, squeezing him in a grizzly bear grip. When she finally set him down, he wobbled, and was promptly hoisted off his feet again by Tess. This time, she drew him close, peppering his face with a series of rapid-fire kisses.

“My Horatio,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s really you. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Tumbleweed pulled himself free. “Uh, hi, Ma.”

But she wasn’t through. Tess yanked Tumbleweed into an improvised jig, and the two of them whirled round and round the paddock. Tess’s hair streamed in the wind. And Tumbleweed?

Well, the brave young adventurer was holding on for dear life as his Ma swung him around like a rag doll. Her wild spin was punctuated by whoops of joy. Only after they—and I, and most of the crowd likely—had grown dizzy did Tess Remington slow, only to collapse into a heap, pulling her son down beside her.

I let out a long breath. I was well and truly exhausted from what I had just witnessed.

Tumbleweed struggled to his feet, and I raced over.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Tess Remington’s your Ma?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly know that ’afore now, did I?”

“How did you not know that?”

Tess smiled broadly. “So this little town’s where you and Beauregard ended up? I’ll be flab-gabbered.”

“Your…Ma?” I repeated.

Tess turned toward me. “My real name ain’t Remington, of course. But Dorothea Thompson ain’t exactly a sharpshooter’s moniker, is it?”

“You changed your identity, Ma?” Tumbleweed asked.

“Well, what else was I supposed to do after your Pa split town, took you with him, and a whole month went by without a single word? It was time for me to head out after you. And so I did. That part of the story ain’t a happy one.” She wrapped Tumbleweed in another giant hug and gave his freckled cheek another pinch. “But this is indeed a glorious occasion! Ain’t it just splendid to see my Horatio again.”

Tumbleweed’s face flushed to the color of a radish. “I go by Tumbleweed now, Ma. Out here on the frontier, you’ve got to adapt to your environs.”

“I reckon I can appreciate that,” Tess said.

“I thought your Ma was…” I said.

Tumbleweed slapped a hand over my mouth. “Ma doesn’t need to hear about all that.”

“He’s right,” Tess said. “You can hear the truth from me. And where’s that lowdown Pa of yours?”

Right on cue, Beauregard burst from the crowd at the edge of the field and raced toward his wife. He captured her in a massive hug, tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Oh my Dorothea, delicate marigold of mine,” he blubbered, “to see you again. It’s a dream come true.”

I had never pegged Beauregard Thompson—he of the explosive youth tonic—as a romantic. But watching him cry like a baby at the reunion of his family strangely warmed my heart.

“You’re happy to see me? Well that’s rich!” Tess said.

“Come now, Dorothea, let the past go. There hasn’t been a day in the past two years I didn’t regret leaving you in Omaha. I never meant to hit the trail without saying goodbye. But I’d gotten word there was one opening on a land deal in Kansas City. And it wasn’t going to wait. It was leave now, or continue in the life of poverty to which I had sadly become accustomed.”

“So you ran off and took Horatio with you?” she asked.

“A man needs his son beside him on adventures like this, Dorothea!”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I wasn’t convinced then, and I sure ain’t convinced now.”

“And what happened to you?” Mr. Thompson asked.

“After you and Horatio skedaddled without a proper goodbye, I had a dickens of a time finding my place. There was the usual saloon work, which I subsisted on for a short time. Finally, through a rather remarkable serious of events one evening in sixty-three, out back of a saloon in Omaha, I discovered quite suddenly I was a crack shot with a pistol. One thing led to another, and I began to work up a trick shooting routine. Before you knew it, Coyote Pete himself came calling. It was a turn of fate straight out of those delicious Dead-Eye Dan novels. Almost made up for being jilted like I was by my beloved husband eighteen months earlier.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Thompson added, his eyes flitting away. “But…you’re back now. And all’s well that ends well, m’dear,” Mr. Thompson said.

“Back?” she asked.

“You’re going to stay, I mean.”

“Hang on now, who said anything about staying?”

I glanced at Tumbleweed, whose eyes were swinging back and forth between his parents as their exchange picked up steam.

Mayor Scoggins and Charlotte appeared behind Tumbleweed’s Ma and Pa. Before another word could be said, my own Ma and Pa, having undoubtedly overheard the Thompson’s argument, swooped in between us.

Pa placed a hand on Beauregard’s shoulder. “And this sounds like the perfect conversation to be had over a plate of crawfish at the Silver Dollar Saloon. Special today, a penny a piece. Won’t you two join me?” And he and Ma steered them away before either could object, leaving Tumbleweed and me standing beside Charlotte and her Pa in the middle of the paddock.

I turned to Tumbleweed, whose face was still as red as a radish. “You ready to tell the mayor you stole her essay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Charlotte wrote the essay, and I stole it from her and posed as Eugene on account of how I ain’t enrolled in school, but I still wanted to win that shooting lesson.”

“There you go,” I said, turning to Charlotte and the mayor. “Nothing to it.”

Charlotte smiled at her Pa and said nothing, but slipped her hand into mine. Suddenly, the shooting contest didn’t seem like the most important thing to happen that day.

“Uh, I should probably go too,” Tumbleweed said. “Later, Charlotte. Later, Eugene. Everything smooth between us?”

Why should I hold a grudge this time? I asked myself. With Tumbleweed, it was just part of the show. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s just what we do.”

And so I reckon that’s how come me and Tumbleweed spent a short spell not seeing much of each other. I figured at that point, I needed a break, anyway. The competition between us had gotten mighty fierce, and some cooling down was in order. Besides, Charlotte Scoggins seemed to be taking quite an interest in me, and all my waking hours were going to be needed to figure out what to do about that. Ain’t that the way life goes sometimes?

Two days later, Charlotte surprised me after work at Wendell’s front gate. “Did you ask Wendell?” she said.

“No, I couldn’t bring myself to.”

“Eugene, how are you going to ever help Wendell if you can’t figure out why on God’s green earth he made enemies of a band of scoundrels like the Clean Shave Gang?”

“First of all, I’m not even sure that’s really what’s going on here. And, if it is, I don’t know what to do about it.”

She frowned. “Fine, for now. Come on, let’s go.”

But what I wasn’t saying that afternoon was that a large part of me didn’t want to go poking around in this whole business at all. Something about Marshall Boggs’ face when he mentioned the Clean Shave Gang told me that I had every right to be worried my suspicions were true. The Gang was in town, they possessed crates full of dynamite and rifles, and they had seen my face on more than one occasion. Even if they didn’t recognize me, it was still enough to make my heart skip a beat.