The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Wendell held the front door open, and I ducked inside, rubbing my shoulders against the chill. It was earlier than I would have liked to be awake, especially after our late night on Mosquito Ridge. But as I was met by the rich aroma of Wendell’s coffee brewing and the wood stove crackling in the corner, my job seemed a little less of a nuisance.

“Drop your coat and come on back,” Wendell said, leading me through the shop into one of the back rooms. A cloth-draped chest of drawers sat in the middle of the floor. “I’ve got a couple of boys coming to help me move this out of the shop in a bit,” he said. “I need a hand moving it onto the front porch. Grab an end.”

“You got a thoughtful look in your eye,” he said as we hoisted the dresser and edged across the shop. “Where were you last night?”

“Mosquito Ridge. It’s a good spot for peace and quiet, looking at the stars.”

“By yourself ?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

“No, Tumbleweed was there, too.”

“That’s good,” Wendell said. We set the dresser down. “Anyone else?”

I hesitated, and Wendell’s lips edged upwards in a sly grin. “Anyone special?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, Charlotte was there. So?”

He cackled and slapped the top of the dresser. “I figured that’s who you was going to say. You’re a hoot, Eugene. Hang on, give me a minute.” He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “This old leg don’t allow me to do much of anything except stand in one place some days.”

“How’d it happen?” I asked.

There. I’d done it. The question was out in the open. Not the one I had really wanted to ask him, but a starter, nonetheless.

Wendell leaned against the dresser. “How’d I get this leg injury?” I nodded. “That’s quite a sad story to be told to one so young.” He mopped his forehead again and replaced the handkerchief, then hefted his end of the dresser up, and we moved toward the door.

“Tell me,” I said. “I’m not that young, you know.”

“I know,” he said, “You know some of it from your parents, don’t you?”

“Well,” he said, glancing at the clock, “guess we’ve got a few minutes before the boys come to get the dresser.” We reached the front door and stopped. His whiskered face was shadowy in the dim light. “I married the girl of my dreams, Tabitha Scott. As lucky as a fella can get to call her mine. We’d been married five years when the war started in sixty-one. I got the summons at our home in Tennessee, and much as I didn’t want to go, fightin’ for the Union army and President Lincoln seemed the right thing to do. One year went by, then another. I managed to get some leave here and there to go home to see Tabitha.

“Then comes some pretty nasty battles in the next couple years—Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and of course, Gettysburg. I got myself pretty well injured in the fighting in Gettysburg, took a bullet in my leg, and was laid up for a long while. Didn’t know whether I was going to wind up alive or dead. When I was fully myself again, my leg was all sorts of dinged up, and I couldn’t walk right for another long spell. But that wasn’t the worst of it. When I came to, they told me Tabitha had taken ill back at home. By the time I was well enough to travel, she was gone.”

“Dead,” he said. He looked down at his hands. “She’d caught the fever, and it got into her lungs.”

I stared at Wendell, but he was lost in the silence of all those years. It pressed down over everything in the shop like a giant hand. Wendell sighed and lifted his head, peering at me with dark, liquid eyes. “After a few months of moping around, trying to sort things out, I still couldn’t figure out a single thing to do. Home wasn’t home anymore. But no other place was either. I kind of wandered for awhile—Cumberland Gap, Shenandoah, the Smokeys. I was ready to ask for my release from the Army when I got word from General Grant. I guess my reputation had gotten around. Even though I wasn’t quite the solider I’d been before the injury, I still had a mind for strategy. Grant had heard all that, and he wanted me to take charge of a special fighting force. Part of the Army, but not the usual battles.”

“What kind of force?” I asked.

“It was a small group of specialist soldiers, the best of the best. The idea was we could travel light and fast, pull off little missions for the Union Army that a larger division couldn’t. Raiding weapons depots, destroying railroad junctions. Sort of being an all-around nuisance in Johnny Reb’s behind.” A faint smile whispered across Wendell’s face. “And we had a couple good years there, causing all kinds of mayhem before the surrender got signed at Appomattox.”

“Whoa,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Most people around here don’t,” he said. “There are certain stories you carry with you, and others you leave behind. That was another lifetime. When I came out here a couple years back, I told myself I was going to drop that baggage behind me at the town border. I like being Wendell Jenkins, free and simple.”

“Who were you before?” I asked, heart pounding as I remembered how Trent Berger had called him “Silas” that day in the alley.

“Well, I don’t like being all dramatic, but I was a different man, back then, you might say.” He paused. “Most folks in Rattlesnake Junction don’t know any of that, and I reckon it should stay that way, so don’t go spreading my story around.”

“Got it,” I said, swallowing for the first time in what seemed like hours.

Wendell raised his end of the dresser. “Let’s get after it. Watch that doorframe there.” I hefted, and we maneuvered the dresser through the door onto the front porch. Wendell pulled a rag from his pocket and began to wipe the dresser down gently. I stood behind him, watching for another quiet minute.

“What do you think about the Clean Shave Gang?” I asked.

I could see Wendell’s back tense, ever so slightly, before he relaxed and continued rubbing the rag over the dresser. “Not much to say about ’em,” Wendell said. “Swindlers and outlaws always coming through these parts. We just lie low, it’ll blow over. It always does.”

“But you heard what Marshall Boggs said. They’re here in town. He thinks they’re up to something.”

“I don’t recall him saying anything about them being in town,” Wendell said. “Where’d you hear that?”

I felt a shiver slip down my spine. I was treading on mighty thin ice here, trying to ask questions of Wendell without tipping my hand that I had seen Trent Berger threaten him behind his shop that day in June and that I’d heard them tell Carlton Jergenson they were going to occupy his cabin for awhile.

“I…I’ve just seen some shady guys hanging around, that’s all,” I said. “Maybe they’re with the Gang?”

“You tell Marshall Boggs about it?” I shook my head. “That might not be a bad idea,” he said. “Unless you just want to steer clear of the whole mess.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “At first, I did. But now, I’m not so sure. Maybe somebody should do something.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, “If a gang of outlaws has been hanging around this town for more than a day or so, the Marshall should definitely know about it. Gangs like that don’t put down roots unless they’re planning something big.”

“Like a robbery?” I asked.

“Something like that.”

“But how would they pull that off ? People would see them.”

“Not if they went undercover,” Wendell said. “Changed their look, took regular jobs, had regular-sounding names.”

“Like the general store, or even the bank,” I said, another shiver running down my back as I remembered Alton Plunkett in the general store and the beefy, barrel-chested man with the deep voice at the jamboree. Along with Trent Berger that made three. How many more were out there?

The bell in the steeple rang, jarring me from my thoughts. Wendell peered across the square. “Listen,” he said, “it’s going to be a real slow day, and I got to help these fellas with this delivery. Why don’t you cut off early, spend some time with your folks—or…anyone else you may please.”

“Right,” I said, surprised at the abrupt end to our conversation. “You sure?”

“Sure,” he said. “You got other things on your mind this morning anyway, I can tell. See you Monday afternoon, same time as usual.”

“Okay,” I said, picking up my satchel and heading for the door. As I passed, Wendell caught my arm. “Thanks for listening to an old man wander down memory lane for a spell,” he said. “It was—good to talk.”

“Yeah, it was,” I said.

“But Eugene,” he said, “when you find yourself on a frozen lake, it’s best to go slow at first, find your footing. Run too fast, you might fall through.”

I blinked. Was Wendell talking about Charlotte, or was this his way of telling me he knew more about the Clean Shave Gang than he was letting on? “Thanks,” I stammered. “And…take care.”

He nodded, and turned away, dark eyes roving as he rubbed at the whiskers on his chin.

I trudged down the steps and crossed the town square toward home. Ma was in the kitchen drying the breakfast dishes when I entered.

“Boots off, Eugene,” she said. “Wendell didn’t need you today?”

“He—had other work to do. Said Monday would be fine.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, I’m about to dive into your father’s wash. I could use some help, if you’re not busy.” She paused, then smiled. “But—I figure you’re probably off to see Tumbleweed, aren’t you?”

“Then be on your way. I can manage here. Oh, Eugene,” she called after me as I headed toward the front door, “I ran into Marjorie Springfield at the general store this morning. First time I’ve seen her since the shooting competition. She told me to remind you about her invitation to come over and see her.”

“Oh, right,” I said. Truth was, I hadn’t forgotten about the widow’s words. While packing up my Tumbleweed costume a few days earlier, I had found the pouch of dirt she had given me and been reminded of her promise of sarsaparilla and cookies.

Ma glanced at the clock. “You’ve got a bit before lunch. Why don’t you get over there now and see her? It will do her good. I don’t think she sees too many callers these days. And grab your coat. There’s a chill in the air.” I raced upstairs to change my clothes and grab the pouch of dirt before snatching my coat and heading out for the short walk up River Street. Tumbleweed would have to wait.