The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

I awoke the next morning to a plinking at the window. When I stumbled out of bed, I peered down onto the front yard to see Charlotte tossing pebbles at the glass. Still clad in my skivvies, I lurched back to my dresser and pulled on a pair of denim pants, then returned to the window, where Charlotte was winding up for another throw. I flung open the window.

“Hang on, I’m up,” I hissed.

“Finally,” she said, arm cocked. “I was worried your parents were already awake.”

“Not yet. But we should hurry.” It took more than a few minutes to arrange my hair, brush my teeth, tidy up my face, tuck in my shirt, then un-tuck it, locate my other boot, finish arranging my hair, and give myself one final glance in the bedroom mirror. By then, Charlotte had wandered onto the back porch and was sitting on Widow Springfield’s trunk.

“Finally,” she said, smirking. “You don’t have to make yourself look pretty on my account.”

I felt my face flush. “No,” I stammered. “It’s dark in there, that’s all. I couldn’t see anything.”

She grinned. “You ready?”

“I pulled a few things from the trunk before bed last night, so we don’t have to drag the whole thing across town,” I said. I located the small bundle I had left on the porch, and we started off.

“You don’t want to wait for Tumbleweed?” Charlotte asked.

“He wasn’t ever too interested in the Widow Springfield side of this project,” I said. Truth was, I liked having a Tumbleweed-free mission to undertake. And having Widow Springfield to keep my thoughts from straying onto the Clean Shave Gang was also beneficial. The time would come for that decision. I wasn’t sure how I would make it.

“Then there’s just one more stop to make,” Charlotte said.

“One more stop?”

She guided me around the town green and past River Street before stopping at the front door of Wendell’s barbershop.

“I slid a note under his door last night after we got back,” she explained. “If he’s up, he’s gotten it.”

“Wendell? But why?”

“Trust me on this one, Eugene. I think Wendell should be the one to return Rubicon’s belongings to Mrs. Springfield. Call it female intuition.”

I wasn’t quite sure what female intuition was. Before I could ask, the door opened, and Wendell’s whiskered face appeared. He wore a black hat and appeared to be dressed for calling, with a checked button-down shirt and a black suit coat.

“You got my note!” Charlotte said.

“You young people sure do have a flair for the dramatic,” he said. “The ink was fairly running down the page from all that rain last night.”

“But you’re going to come, right?”

“I sure am,” he said. “Morning, Gene.”

We started across town. The ground was still thick with mud, and we had to wait for a team of horses to pull a wagon out of the muck before crossing the road and heading up River Street to the widow’s house. Finally, we reached our destination. I started up the front walk, but Charlotte tugged on my arm. I stopped, and she handed my bundle to Wendell.

“You go first, Gene,” she said. I reached the door and rapped lightly. A moment passed, then the door opened.

“Hi, ma’am,” I said. “I apologize for it being so early, but can we come in?”

“It’s kind of important,” Charlotte added from beside me.

The widow blinked. “Eugene Appleton, Wendell Jenkins, and is that Charlotte Scoggins?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “How are you this morning?”

“Mighty early for important news. May I ask what this is all about?”

“We found something, ma’am,” I said. “Up on Mosquito Ridge.”

Her eyes widened, and she stepped aside. “Oh my. You went already? Then come in, by all means, come in.” We followed her into the parlor, and she pointed to the couch. “I’ll put some tea on,” she said, then vanished into the kitchen. The three of us sat in drowsy silence until the widow returned and tucked herself into the same worn chair I had occupied the day before.

“Now,” she said, “what’s this all about?”

Wendell set the bundle on the rickety table and unwrapped its contents, first a jacket, then a pocket-watch, and finally, the old leather journal and the satchel of money.

“All that,” the widow said. “Where did you find it?”

“We found the cabin, right where you said it was. There was a spot in the bedroom, under the bed, where he buried them.”

“He put them under the floor boards. There’s a whole trunk of stuff back at Eugene’s house,” Charlotte added. She handed the satchel to the widow, who pulled out the money.

“This was our savings,” she said.

“And this,” Charlotte said, tapping Wendell on the arm. He passed her the journal silently.

“You should read it for yourself,” Charlotte said. The widow flipped it open, just like we had the night before. Her eyes flitted back and forth as she read the opening page. When she finished, she looked up, hands gripping the book tightly.

“They’re his words,” she said in a hushed voice. “Like he wrote them down hoping I would read them someday.” Her eyes dipped back to the book, and she read hungrily. The seconds ticked by from the clock in the hall.

Charlotte stood. “We should go,” she whispered. “Eugene and I will show ourselves out.” Wendell nodded, and I followed Charlotte into the hall. The last sight I saw before slipping out the door was the widow and Wendell sitting beside one another in the parlor as she poured over Rubicon Springfield’s journal.

“How’d you know?” I asked as we stood on the porch together.

“I think Wendell’s in a good position to understand what the widow’s been going through, with what you told me about his wife dying.”

“I never thought about it that way.”

“‘Course you didn’t, Eugene. That’s what I’m here for.” And Charlotte gave my arm a little squeeze, “That felt good, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it kind of did,” I said, remembering again Wendell’s words about coincidences, and his generosity to the man who had helped him stack wood.

“I kind of wish Tumbleweed had been here to see it,” Charlotte said. “Might have done him some good.”

“Well, at least we can round him up and figure out what to do about the Clean Shave Gang’s hideout.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but just then, the clock on the church steeple began to ring the hour. It was nine a.m. Like a trained dog, my ears perked up at the sound of the bell. “I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to get home and change for work. Wendell said he needed a few hours’ help sorting his new shipment. I’m sure he’ll be done here soon.”

“No problem,” she said. “Dad said he needed a shave today before he left for the train station. I’ll just get him to come by the shop, and we can both tell him.”

“You talked to your dad this morning?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “He and Sheriff Mayberry were downstairs having coffee when I left. I think Mayberry is going with him to Denver.”

“Did either of them mention the gang?” I asked, my stomach suddenly tight as a drum.

“No, and I almost told them,” she said. “But I figured you’d want to be a part of that. It might mean more coming from both of us.”

“Right,” I said. “That’s a good idea.” But as the words left my mouth, I wasn’t sure I believed them. I couldn’t figure out why I feared the law knowing, but something about the look in Marshall Boggs’ eye when he’d told us about the Clean Shave Gang made me mighty afeared of the law being mixed up in all this. Maybe I was worried that if the law went poking around, whatever anger Trent Berger held against Wendell would rear its ugly head.

“I guess I’ll see you at the shop later,” I said.

Charlotte smiled. “I look forward to it,” she said. “And Gene,” she called after me. “Last night up on the ridge with you two adventurers was the most fun I’ve had all summer.”

“Uh huh,” I said. It was all I could manage.

It wasn’t until I had reached Wendell’s shop and started up the steps that it hit me. She had called me an adventurer. In the same breath as Tumbleweed. How do you like them apples?

When I reached the shop, Wendell was hobbling up to the front door. He opened it and gestured inside.

“That was her idea, wasn’t it?” he asked, gnawing on a stumpy cigar.

“Charlotte suggested I help you return Marjorie Springfield’s belongings?”

“Yeah, it was.” My heart thudded. Was he angry? A muscle moved at the base of his jaw, and I held my breath.

“Well, I reckon I’m mighty grateful to you.”

I breathed out slowly. “You are?”

“Yep. I was glad I was there to see all that. It felt right. And I think Marjorie really appreciated it, too.”

“I think she did,” I said. He held out a hand, and I slapped his palm.

“So you were really up on Mosquito Ridge last night with Charlotte Scoggins and that crazy friend of yours. What’s his name, Jabberjaw?”

“Tumbleweed,” I said.

“You and Charlotte,” he repeated musingly. “Huh.”

“What? What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. But I ain’t as old as I look, Gene. I notice things. Now give me a hand with the rest of these crates.”

“Before we get into all of that, I have to tell you something,” I said. Wendell stepped back, arms folded. “Charlotte probably didn’t mention this in the note, but we found the Clean Shave Gang’s hideout up on Mosquito Ridge last night,” I said. “They moved into the abandoned cabin.”

“Well now,” he said, slowly scratching the whiskers on his chin and gnawing on the cigar.

“And I think I found details about their plan. They’re after a train, Wendell. A train!”

I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but Wendell merely continued scratching idly at his whiskers, moving slowly up to his bushy sideburns, eyes drifting about the room. “You tell the Marshall about this?” he asked.

“Not yet. But we’re going to tell Mayor Scoggins when he comes by the shop for a shave. He should be here any time. He said he wanted to get one last shave in before he catches the train for Denver.”

“He’s going to Denver?”

“There’s a big meeting for all the government officials in the Colorado Territory. He and the sheriff will be gone a few days, Charlotte said.”

“Interesting timing,” he said. “Then it’s probably a good idea to tell Marshall Boggs too,” he said. “He’ll take care of it.” There was a pause. “They say what train they’re planning on robbing?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Something about the Union Pacific, or the Denver Pacific. They had a whole bunch of papers and diagrams.”

He nodded again. “You see a schedule?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. We had to stow it all on account of we heard voices and figured they were coming back.” Then, I remembered something else. “And you were right, they have gone undercover. One guy named Trent Berger even got himself a job in the railroad office.”

“The railroad office,” Wendell repeated. “Ain’t that something. Pretty good plan.” He paused again, letting the silence drift through the shop like dust particles in the sun. “Why’d you tell me all this, Gene?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. We talked about it the other day, that’s all. I figured you’d be interested.”

“Oh, it’s interesting all right. Always interesting when big goings on from the outside world make their way to little ole’ Rattlesnake Junction. But like I told you earlier, I’m a quiet type, Eugene. Came here to this town to settle down and try to live peaceably with all m’neighbors. Best leave all that chasing and fighting to other folks.”

“I remember,” I said. “It’s just…they saw my face. Sort of.”

“They have? How’d that happen?”

I took a deep breath, then recounted all my tales to Wendell, leaving out only the first time I had seen him and Trent Berger together. For some reason, I didn’t think he should know I had been there for that. When I finished, Wendell leaned against the wall and stroked his whiskers again.

“What do you think? Am I done for?” I asked.

Wendell chuckled. “Not exactly, what with the darkness and multiple disguises you created. Besides, you’re a twelve-year old boy. Don’t think Trent Berger and his men would bother much with you, even after your pal Tumbleweed managed to steal their stash from the blackjack game. They’re mad, but they’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“You just turn things over to the Marshall, and he’ll get on it. You leave it to them, you hear?”

“Give me your word,” he said, leaning close.

“Right, I will.”

He patted me on the shoulder, and we returned to work. Strangely, neither the mayor nor Charlotte materialized that morning at the barbershop, and when I ended work around eleven o’clock, I was surprised to find another dreary day with a whole heap of humidity in the air. It felt like whatever cold snap we’d been experiencing was giving way to a scorching summer day.

Wendell’s words tumbled around in my head, and I glanced up as the sun dipped out from behind a bank of clouds, lighting up the gray sky for a moment. Suddenly, Charlotte dashed into sight, heading toward me under the elm tree.

“Pa left early,” she said. “Sheriff Mayberry, too. I wanted to find you, but I had piano lessons. Ma’s strict about them. You have to go tell the Marshall, Gene.”

I nodded, my stomach already starting to tighten up at the thought of Marshall Boggs scowling down at me from above his bushy brown mustache. “Sure,” I said weakly. “You got it. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll walk you home.” We wandered down the dusty street in silence, my thoughts veering between the blonde girl beside me and the tanned face and flashing eyes of Marshall Boggs. He was on my side, I kept telling myself. Then why did the thought of telling him send shivers down my spine?

“You know, you never told me what was in that pouch the widow gave you the day of the shooting contest,” Charlotte said as we reached my house.

“She said it was soil from when they planted a tree together at their home. She told Wendell she was going to bury it here out back of her house, make a little marker for Rubicon.”

“So the soil from their house together can be here, where their new home was. That’s pretty special,” she said.

“I guess I never thought about it that way.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Gene,” she said.

And so one thing settled down for awhile—the matter of the widow’s ghost, you might say. But just like life, as one thing was winding down, another thing was just getting nicely ticked up. And little did I know that would be the one thing that would change that summer—and my life, I guess—forever.