The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

It’s been my experience that there’s a whole lot more going on in the human brain than what a living soul is able to comprehend at any given time. I’ve heard folks say there’s things our brains are trying to tell us, but we don’t slow down long enough in everyday life to listen. It’s only when we sleep, they say, that our brains work extra hard on the things that puzzle us.

Now I won’t say whether or not I buy that theory. But it would help explain why the morning after we set things right with Widow Springfield—and two days after the discovery up on Mosquito Ridge, if you’re keeping track—I sat bolt upright in bed out of a dead sleep, suddenly having figured out something I must have failed to comprehend in the previous day’s excitement.

Ma was cooking griddle cakes downstairs, but I knew that wasn’t what had drawn me awake so quickly. I dressed in a flash and darted downstairs, through the hall, and out onto the front porch. I skidded to a stop at the sight of Tumbleweed standing in front of me.

“It’s today,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I just put it together.”

“Me too. Why else would they be clearing out of the cabin?”

“Look at this,” he said, pulling a wadded piece of paper from his pocket. “I nabbed this from the cabin. It’s one of the schedules. Couldn’t make sense of it without Pa’s help, but we pieced it together yesterday. There’s a train coming through on the Denver Pacific line today, bound for Salt Lake City. Look.”

He held out the schedule and I looked down at the time circled in red.

“Ten-ten,” I said. “You’re sure?”

“Sure as shooting. You ready?”

“Come on, Gene. We’ve got to get to the train station.”

“Us?” My heart began to race, remembering my promise to Wendell to stay out of it.

“Yeah, us. Who else knows about this?”

“Well, Charlotte does.”

I opened my mouth to answer him, then stopped. The crumpled papers in Tumbleweed’s right hand were the only proof that the Clean Shave Gang planned to rob the 10:10 to Salt Lake. And the hour was rapidly approaching.

“We’ve got to tell Marshall Boggs,” I said.

“You take care of that,” he said. “I’ll head to the train station.”

But at the mention of the Marshall, another thing my brain must have been working on while I slept began drumming loudly on the front of my skull. It was a hunch about Wendell that I feared wasn’t true.

“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “There’s someplace I’ve got to go first.”

“Okay,” Tumbleweed said. “How long do you need?”

“Maybe thirty minutes.”

Tumbleweed slid his watch from his pocket. “It’s nearly nine now. That won’t give us much time.”

“Trust me, that’s plenty,” I said.

“Gene, I ain’t sure what you’ve been eating lately, but you got regular sand in your blood, and I like it.” He fired off a salute and shoved the papers back into his pocket. “We meet at the train station.”

I nodded and dashed back up the steps. “Heading to Wendell’s shop for a few minutes, Ma,” I called, then took off across town without waiting for a reply.

When I reached Wendell’s shop, no lights burned inside, and the front door was locked. I jogged around to the alley behind the shop. To my surprise, not only was the back door unlocked, it stood open. I crept inside, anxiety prickling in my chest. I reached a wall sconce, and lit the oil lamp inside. It hissed to life, and I could immediately tell Wendell had not been down from his rooms upstairs. The drape still hung across the barber chair, his supplies hadn’t been moved from their storage spot on his desk, and the welcome mat still hung on the peg next to the door. A trace of fear crept up my spine. I lit a second lantern and took it with me as I made my way across the room. Just as I reached the stairs to the second story, I froze at what I saw on the table.

It was the strongbox from the cabin on Mosquito Ridge. Raising the lid, I found the papers just as I had seen them two nights before—train schedules, working papers, diagrams of train cars. It was all there.

I closed the box and swept it off the table onto the floor. It came to rest in the corner with a loud clank. I jumped at the noise and raced for the stairs, galloping up them two at a time. At the top, my heart sank.

Wendell wasn’t home. That fact, combined with the opened back door and the strongbox lying on the table led me to a conclusion I couldn’t fully believe myself—could the Clean Shave Gang be so interested in Wendell Jenkins because he was part of the Gang?

I could feel my knees go weak, my head swirling as I replayed our conversation from the day before. He had wanted me to leave it alone. He said I shouldn’t go poking after the Gang. Was it because he didn’t want me to get mixed up in the robbery?

Heart in my throat, I slumped out the back door and raced across town to the railroad office. As I approached, Tumbleweed’s voice hissed out of the shadows.

“Psst—Gene, over here!”

I whirled, and spotted Tumbleweed crouched beside a clump of barrels beside the office door. I ducked down next to him, and he handed me a leather water flask.

“Thanks,” I said. “It sure got hot in a hurry.” I took a few swigs, then handed it back. He swung the flask over his shoulder by a strap.

“What did you find?” he asked. We compared notes. When I finished, he ran a hand across his cheek. “I really hope you’re wrong about this, buddy,” Tumbleweed said.

“Me too,” I said. “But I can’t see any other explanation.”

“Me neither,” he said. “He always seemed like the nicest guy. And the way he gave you the job and helped you with your shooting.”

I could feel the swirling feelings starting in my chest again. I had to think about something else, and fast. I leaped to my feet. “We’ve got to get to the train platform,” I said. “Now.”

Tumbleweed stood beside me. “Then what?”

“We’ve got to get on that train.”

Tumbleweed froze. “Get on? Gene, I know I said I liked this bold new you, but that’s pretty wild, even for me.”

“I know, but I read all about it in Dead-Eye Dan Takes the Ride of His Life. Dan stops a train robbery in that one.”

“How do they do it?” Tumbleweed asked, eyes wide.

“You’ve never read about train robberies?” He dropped his gaze. “Oh, right. That whole reading thing. You should really try it.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Well, you should. There’s all sorts of wild things.”

“Like train robberies?”

“That ain’t the half of it. There’s pirates and hot air balloons and cannons and Indians, just for starters.”

“Yup. Anyway, in that one, two of Blackjack Billy’s men buy tickets on the train, ordinary-like. But Blackjack Billy rides ahead and blocks off the track about ten miles out of town. So when the train comes to that point, it has to stop. The two inside guys on the train ambush the express car—that’s where they keep the money—blow the doors off the safe, and pull out the loot. Then they nab the money and all three scatter in all directions, to meet back up at their hideout and go through their stash.”

Tumbleweed sat in stunned silence. “Whoa,” he said, “all that was in a book?”

Tumbleweed paused, processing this information.

“I’ve only read about it this stuff in books, Tumbleweed,” I continued. “I want to be there, to see it all happen right in front of me. Don’t you?”

Tumbleweed’s gaze snapped to attention. “I do, Gene. I sure as heck do.”

“Then we’d better move. We’ve only got a few minutes until the Denver Pacific pulls out.”

“Where’s the Marshall?” he asked.

“I didn’t get over to him. I was at Wendell’s all this time. Should I go now?”

Tumbleweed consulted his watch. “There ain’t no time.”

“Maybe he already knows,” I said.

“Right. I was casing out the train while I was waiting. I reckon we can sneak onto the freight car and hide out until it rolls out.”

“No way,” I said. “It’s better to just buy two tickets.”

“Buy tickets?” he asked. “Like in the book?”

“Absolutely. We won’t attract a lick of attention, and we can roam the passenger cars free and clear to find a spot to watch. If the Marshall shows up, we don’t get to see a robbery, but we’ll get to see him put the cuffs on them. Or, if we’re lucky, both.”

Tumbleweed’s eyes lit up. “Now you’re talking. You go buy the tickets.” He pulled a wad from his pocket and placed it in my palm.

“Blackjack money?” I asked. He smirked.

And with that, I found myself before the ticket window, handing over seventeen dollars in exchange for two tickets on the Denver Pacific bound for Salt Lake City. My spine tingled like a streak of bolt lightning. Sure, a small part of me was praying we were dead wrong, and the Clean Shave Gang would be pulling their job somewhere far down the tracks. But most of me was itching to see my Dead-Eye Dan novel come to life. As for Wendell, I was hoping I was dead wrong about him.