The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

“So there I was, the first day of September on the Nebraska prairies, snowflakes falling like a blanket of diamonds, wearing nothing but my long johns, and praying for a miracle at midnight.” Tumbleweed’s eyes lit up as the story reached its climax. “Pa was sprawled out next to me, snoring like a crosscut saw going to work on a stand of timber, but I was wide awake. And do you know why? I’ll tell you. The Ghost Schooner of the Prairies!”

I shivered. Maybe it was just the mention of a snowstorm in Tumbleweed’s story, but the air around us had suddenly grown chilly. Folks had been talking all week about a late-summer cold snap sweeping across the Great Plains, and it seemed like we were catching the first bit of it. But, there we were—me, Charlotte, and Tumbleweed—sprawled out on a blanket up there on Mosquito Ridge, stars gleaming as Tumbleweed reached the climax of his story.

Despite the fireworks which had accompanied her reunion with her husband, Tumbleweed’s Ma had agreed to take a break from the Coyote Pete show and settle down for a spell in Rattlesnake Junction to give old Beauregard another chance at being a respectable gentleman. I had my doubts as to whether that was possible. One thing was for sure—Tumbleweed’s parents had kept him quite occupied the past few days, what with moving out of Cutler’s Boarding House and into proper digs in the Grubstake Hotel.

Naturally, he’d been itching to get loose of all that, and his suggestion of a night up on Mosquito Ridge swapping yarns and bottles of root beer had seemed just the ticket to take my mind off Wendell and the Clean Shave Gang. I sucked in a breath and rubbed away the goosebumps prickling my arms.

“I whirled, rubbing my eyes at the white light in the distance. Could it be—the ill-fated wagon train, which had left Independence, Missouri twenty years earlier, but never made it to Topeka?” I leaned closer. Beside me, Charlotte shivered and rubbed her shoulders.

“They said that six-wagon group of men, women, and children had gone hopelessly awry and were now fated to wander aimlessly for all eternity, always traveling, but never reaching their destination. I knew I had but two choices. Either run for my life or—if I wasn’t quite fleet enough to shake ’em—be cursed to join them on their ghostly trek. Just then—”

“Hang on, wait a minute. You just said it was snowing. In September. In Nebraska. And you were sleeping under the stars? In long johns? Not a lick of this adds up, Tumbleweed.” Charlotte shook her head.

“I figgered you’d say that,” he said, wagging a finger at Charlotte. “But don’t start on me with your schoolhouse logic. This is one of them tall, tales, my dear. Things happen in them that just can’t be explained.”

“Oh, it’s a tall tale, alright,” Charlotte said standing and brushing off her knees. “But it’s one I’m not aiming to hear the final moments of.” She stifled a yawn. “It’s getting pretty late, and we still haven’t done what we came here to do.”

“Wait, you’re not going to let him finish?” I asked.

“Let me guess, just as the ghostly wagon train swept past you, you grabbed your knapsack and hopped aboard. You rode until you got tired, then asked them to drop you back at the spot where you started, and Pa had slept through the whole thing. Leaving no one to verify your story. Pretty convenient.”

“Wha—how—she…” Tumbleweed’s jaw dropped open.

“That’s what I thought. You forget, boys, I know a thing or two about storytelling myself.”

“Fine,” Tumbleweed said, clambering to his feet, “since you can’t appreciate a fine ghost story, let’s move on to the next agenda item. The shovel, Eugene?”

I stood, wiping the damp dirt from the seat of my pants. Charlotte handed me the shovel, and I dug it into the earth.

Tumbleweed cleared his throat. “Lady and…Eugene, we are gathered here today for a ceremony which will mark a turning point in the relationship of Eugene Appleton, hereafter referred to as Babyface, and Tumbleweed Thompson, who shall be known as—”

“Horatio?” Charlotte supplied. I snorted back a laugh.

“Tumbleweed Thompson,” he continued emphatically, “who shall hereafter be known as The Rocky Mountain Cougar.”

“Hang on, wait a second. How come I’m Babyface, and you get to be The Rocky Mountain Cougar?” I asked.

“I don’t decide these things, Eugene. It’s fate.”

“Fine,” I said, “Continue.”

“From now on, any and all adventures undertaken by Babyface and The Rocky Mountain Cougar will only occur in the spirit of cooperation, not competition, conviviality, not conjecture, contradiction, not—”

“We get it,” Charlotte hissed. “You two agree to not fight anymore.”

“Because what have we learned, Babyface?” Tumbleweed asked.

“Cut it out,” I said.

“Fine. What have we learned, Gene?”

“That we’re pretty dang good together,” I said. “The time for fighting is over. The time for working together is at hand.”

“Hear, hear,” he said. “M’lady, the hatchet?”

Charlotte reached into her bag and removed a wood-handled hatchet. “Remind me why you need this?” she asked.

“Simple,” he said. “We’re burying the hatchet. It’s what folks do who want to mend a feud between them.”

“Got it,” she said, handing the hatchet to Tumbleweed. Charlotte swung the lantern over the hole. I grabbed the handle and together, Tumbleweed and I tossed the hatchet into the shallow hole we’d scooped out. It landed with a thump in the soft dirt. I peered down into the hole, lit up by orange lantern light.

Tumbleweed grinned smugly. “A new chapter begins,” he said. “Now, can I finish my story?”

“Wait a second,” I said. “Look down there. There’s something in the hole.”

“What?” Tumbleweed asked.

“Lower that lantern, Charlotte,” I said, peering into the hole. The orange light glinted off an object half-buried in the dirt, pried loose by our digging. I stepped down into the shallow hole, and Charlotte angled the light down after me. I crouched and pulled up a small piece of metal. Charlotte and Tumbleweed yanked me back up, and I opened my hand, revealing a small piece of silver jewelry on a short chain.

“A locket!” Charlotte said. “I’d bet anything that’s what that is. Open it, Gene.”

“Like this. Give it here,” she said. Charlotte plucked the locket from my palm and slipped a fingernail into the side of the disc. It split into two round halves to reveal a small photograph of a young woman. She was young and pretty, with long, dark hair curled stylishly under an elaborate hat. Her smile was warm and secretive, as if her smile was only meant for the locket’s owner.

“Whoa,” Charlotte said.

“It’s just an old locket. Big deal.” Tumbleweed grabbed the shovel and began tossing dirt back into the hole.

“You want a good story? This locket is a tale waiting to be told,” Charlotte said. “And I’ll bet—” she flipped the locket over, revealing engraved initials on the back. “Yup, an engraving. It says ‘MS’ on the back. That must be who it belonged to.”

“I prefer my ghost story,” Tumbleweed said.

“Well, now that you boys have buried the hatchet, looks like you’ve got a new project right here—” she dropped the locket into the pocket of my coat—“and it’s getting downright chilly. Time to head home.” And with that, Charlotte started across the crown of Mosquito Ridge and disappeared down the other side.

“Oh goodie,” I said, following Charlotte. “Coming?”

“Oh, brother. Don’t tell me you’re interested,” he said.

“Yup. And you are too, ’cept you’re jealous you didn’t find it,” I said.

“Not a chance. And watch out for that branch.”

I ducked, then scooted down the hill after Charlotte, thoughts of Tumbleweed’s ghost story swirling in my head to mingle with the mysterious locket.