The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

I raised the lid with a creak and reached inside. My hands found a leather satchel first, which I drew out and set between us. There were clothes further down, folded neatly in a thick layer. I shoved those aside, impatient to find something of real value. Beside me, Charlotte opened the satchel and rummaged inside. I moved to the right side of the trunk, where I found a toiletry kit with a straight razor, comb, tooth powder, and other necessaries. But still nothing to identify the trunk’s owner. I dug deeper, my fingers finally hitting the bottom of the trunk. I fumbled for more items, but could only feel the smooth bottom of the trunk.

“That’s it,” I said, slumping back. “No way to tell who owned

“Not exactly,” Charlotte said. She handed the satchel to me.

“Money?” I asked. “These are bundles of bills. Were they all inside the satchel?”

“And look at this,” she said, tossing a small book onto my lap.

I opened it slowly. The pages were filled with narrow, looping handwriting, far from neat, but easily legible. I turned to the first page, which was headed with a date nearly ten years earlier.

“Is it—” Charlotte began, then stopped when I held the book out. “You read it,” she whispered.

I started reading, and soon, I knew.

“It’s his,” I said. “The entries start during the war. He talks about battles and strategy.”

“Flip ahead,” she said. “Try the end of the book.”

I turned the thin pages. “Here’s one from about five years ago. It talks about getting mixed up with the cattle rustlers. He said it’s the last thing he wanted to do, but he wants to take care of Marjorie so badly, he’ll do anything to provide for them.”

I fell silent, reading the entries. Charlotte scooted tightly beside me, her eyes joining mine as we followed the looping words across the page. Finally, I flipped the page, and saw nothing. The writing had stopped. We both sat in the silence, staring at the book. The wind had picked up outside and blew against the windows, rattling the glass panes.

“He’s really gone,” Charlotte said. “I was hoping…”

“That we could tell her some good news?” I finished. She nodded.

“I guess this is the best we can do—give her the trunk and the journal and hope that’s enough. This way, she’ll at least know why he did what he did. You read it yourself—he left town to get the rustlers away from the cabin and the widow. But he buried the trunk under the floorboards a few days before he left, knowing they were coming, to keep his savings safe. He was hoping he’d shake the rustlers and come back for it, so he could give it to her. But they must have followed him out there.”

I flipped backward through the pages. “You’re right. We’ve got to get—” There was a noise outside the window, and I froze. “Quick!” Charlotte hissed. “The floor!”

I dropped the two loose boards and slammed them back into place with my heel. A few raps with the shovel completed the job. “Help me with the bed,” Charlotte said. We shoved the bed back over Rubicon’s hiding spot and dashed for the main room of the cabin. We ducked, and Charlotte extinguished the lantern. Suddenly, the front door flew open, and a hooded figure stood, backlit in gleaming moonlight.

“Eugene, your knife!” Charlotte called, raising the shovel.

I went for the holster at my side, sliding Pa’s Bowie knife loose of its sheath. The figure in the door reached for its side.

“Hold right there, varmint!” I called.

“Now, hang on,” the intruder said, pulling loose a thick wool muffler wrapped around his face. “It’s only me.”

Charlotte lowered the shovel. Tumbleweed let out a deep sigh. “Dang blast it, this is the greeting I get after hours trooping around in the wilderness?”

“Hours?” Charlotte asked.

“Well, it felt like it.” He shut the door behind him and dropped onto the chair in the corner. “Beautiful night out there. Starting to get a bit windy, though. Well after midnight, I expect.”

“And no sign of a ghost,” Charlotte said.

“Very funny,” he said. “But the night is still young.”

“Still not willing to admit you let your imagination get the better of you?” I asked.

“Naw. Have any luck in here?” Tumbleweed asked.

“Yup. Show him, Gene,” Charlotte said.

I slid the trunk over to the middle of the floor, and we gathered around it.

“It’s Rubicon Springfield’s savings,” I said. “And his journal. This all belonged to him.”

“So this was his cabin,” Tumbleweed said, eyes widening. “Pretty tragic, I have to say. But also further proof—” a strange look came over his face.

“Oh, no,” I said.

“That if Rubicon died out in the woods, in such a bad way, he’s still wandering these very paths, waiting for his spirit to find peace.”

“Or,” I interjected, “his body was never found, and his poor widow has been waiting all these years for some way to finally give her husband a proper goodbye.”

“Do you think this will be enough?” Charlotte asked.

“I hope so,” I said.

“Hmph,” Tumbleweed muttered. “I just don’t think you two are seeing the possibility of this situation. We could be dealing with a ghostly specter, caught between the world of the living and the great beyond, traveling these pathways for all eternity.” He dropped into a wooden chair.

“That sounds remarkably similar to your old wagon train story,” Charlotte said.

“Fine,” Tumbleweed tipped back in his chair, resting his boots on the table. “But there’s still no harm in a little more hunting before we call it a night.”

“Careful,” Charlotte said, “You’re going to—”

But it was too late. Tumbleweed’s chair keeled backward, depositing him on the floor. A pot fell off the counter above him, followed by some metal plates. He lay still for a moment, then struggled to his feet.

“You okay?” Charlotte asked.

“Alright, alright,” he said, hoisting himself upward. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just—Hey!” he called, bent over the counter. “Look at this.”

“Is it the ghost of a mouse, come back to wander this cabin in search of cheese for all eternity?” I asked.

“Nope,” Tumbleweed said. “This was on the counter, must have been underneath all those dishes. It’s one of them metal strongboxes.” He dropped the box onto the table with a clank. “I thought you searched this place, Gene?”

“I did,” I said hotly. He lifted the metal lid on the box. Inside were several thick sheafs of papers clipped together in neat stacks. I pulled the top stack off the pile.

“It’s a train timetable,” I said. “Shows all the routes running on the Denver Pacific Railroad and Central Pacific Railroad.”

“That’s the transcontinental route,” Charlotte said.

“This is a map of the same thing,” Tumbleweed said, rifling through more papers. “And there’s other maps here too, Central Pacific, Western Pacific.”

“The men who are living here must work for the railroad,” Charlotte said.

“Hang on,” I said, reaching back into the box. “This looks like a diagram of some sort, a box, but I can’t make out what kind.” I passed it off to Charlotte and started in on another stack.

“I’m not sure what the box is, but there’s a bunch of photographs of train cars in here,” Charlotte said. “What does that—”

“Yipes!” I chirped suddenly. I had flipped another page to reveal working papers. What I saw turned my blood to water.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s…him,” I said, jabbing a finger at the picture on the paper.

“Who?” Charlotte asked.

“Let me see that,” Tumbleweed said, snatching up the papers. His eyes flitted across the page. “That’s him, alright. But what’s it say?”

I leaned in next to him, scanning the page. “They look like working papers. For someone called Jeremiah Watson to work in the railroad office as a clerk. They’re dated nearly a month ago.” My mind began to whirl. “Are there any more?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

Tumbleweed shuffled through the papers. “Yup,” he said. “There are one…two…others.”

“Let’s see—one for Alton Plunkett, in the mayor’s office.”

“The mayor’s office,” I repeated. “That’s the strange, nervous-acting guy. His name’s Alton Plunkett.”

“Another for someone called Gerald Hackensack,” Tumbleweed continued. “Here’s his picture.”

“Yup,” I said, examining it. “That’s him. He’s the big one who vandalized Wendell’s shop. And the one who’s sweet on Miss Wimberly.” I winced at the memory of how close I’d come to him the night of Cartwright’s square dance. How many other close calls had I not been aware of the past month?

Then, the implications of the box hit me like a bolt of lightning. I staggered back against the wall.

“What is it, Gene?” Charlotte asked.

“The cabin,” I croaked. “They said that night on the keelboat they were moving into the cook’s cabin, going to stick around awhile. This is the cabin.” My heart sank into a neat puddle in my stomach. “No doubt about it now. It’s just like Wendell said. They took jobs in town to go undercover, for some job they’re planning. It’s the perfect spot. No one of consequence ever comes up here. Except for the occasional crazy kid.”

“Guilty as charged,” Tumbleweed said.

“If they’re all working in town—” I began.

“Add in these train timetables and drawings,” Charlotte added.

“They’re drawings of train cars and safes,” Tumbleweed said. “It makes sense now. They’re not planning to rob a bank.”

“No they’re not,” I said. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

Suddenly, the wind battered open the cabin’s front door. I whirled, expecting to see the mountainous figure of Trent Berger framed in the doorway. But only the full moon gleamed through the open door. I let out a long breath and turned toward Tumbleweed. His head was cocked sideways, listening.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“It’s just the wind,” I said. But then, I heard it, too. Voices, and the heavy thudding of horse hooves. “The Gang!”

I slammed the strongbox shut and shoved it back onto the counter, burying it under the pans and dishes. We crept to the window and peered out. No one was visible. Tumbleweed reached for the doorknob. “Wait,” I said. “What about the trunk? They’ll know we’ve been here.”

“You and Charlotte grab the trunk. I’ll scout things out,” Tumbleweed said. “Meet you out back.”

“We take the trunk? How noble of you,” Charlotte muttered, bending to heft her end of the trunk. I gritted my teeth and helped her steer the trunk through the front door. We made our way down the steps, then froze. A flicker of light was visible through the trees. Charlotte raised her hood.

“Back here!” Tumbleweed hissed from behind the cabin. I swerved left and headed around back. Suddenly, there was a boom of thunder, and the skies opened up in a torrential rainstorm. Lightning flashed, and in its beam, I could see clearly the path in front of us. We were standing on the edge of a—“Graveyard! It’s the graveyard,” Charlotte cried. The rain had plastered her hood to her head, and I could barely make out her face in the blackness.

“Now we’re talking,” Tumbleweed said. “Ole’ Rubicon will be coming out shortly, you can bet.”

“Enough with the ghost,” Charlotte scolded. “Get moving! You can stay out here with the headstones if you’d like.” We pushed forward, wobbling under the trunk’s bulk, and barreled down the hill. The path was a muddy mess, but we stumbled and staggered through the slop back into town, where I deposited the trunk on my back porch. Tumbleweed arrived a few moments later, as wet and muddy as the rest of us, but a big grin on his face. He slumped against a post and sighed deeply, the rain splattering the rail inches from his arm.

“It wasn’t a ghost,” Charlotte said.

“You don’t know what I saw back there after you left,” he said. “Maybe I’m delayed in returning because I encountered the spirit of Rubicon from the great beyond, and he and I had a heart-to-heart chat.”

“Or maybe you slipped and fell in the mud,” Charlotte said, pointing.

“Oh, right,” Tumbleweed said, swiping at the brown glob smeared down the front of his shirt. “Either way, it’ll make for a great story someday.” He wiped the water from his face. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky again. We sat panting on the porch watching the summer squall batter the streets.

“You really think they’re going to rob the train?” Charlotte asked, echoing the direction of my own thoughts. “That’s a big job.”

“Not if you’re experienced outlaws,” I said. “Marshall Boggs told me and Pa these guys have done this sort of thing for years.”

“We have to tell someone,” Charlotte said. “I can catch Pa in the morning before he leaves. He’s taking the train to Denver for a big conference about statehood for Colorado.”

“Perfect,” Tumbleweed said. “I’m bushed. That means we can all get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Charlotte said. “After we find the widow.”

“Or before,” I said. Things were getting more complicated by the day. And any plan involving sleep was fine with me at that point.

With the trunk safely draped under one of Ma’s old quilts, I staggered up to bed, trying in vain to erase the bearded, scowling face of Trent Berger from my mind. How had Wendell gotten himself mixed up in all of this? Promising myself I would find out the next day, I dropped off to sleep, as easy as rolling off a log.