The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

“Let’s get to the front car,” Tumbleweed said. “You keep an eye out for the Marshall.” He swigged from his canteen and swung the strap over his shoulder. The sky had cleared, and a beam of sun gleamed off the brass handrails on each seat back. I pictured the Clean Shave Gang bursting through the door at the front of the car, guns raised, and felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

We started up the aisle between the two rows of bench seats. At the front, I slid open the door and we stepped out onto a small landing, then through another door into the first passenger car. As we passed, a thin man in a pinstriped suit and bowler hat glanced up from his newspaper. Could he be a member of the gang in disguise?

“Help you, son?” the man asked, peering over his paper.

“Oh, um, nope. Just passing through,” I said.

Tumbleweed elbowed me in the side. “Don’t call attention to yourself,” he whispered.

“I’m not trying to.”

The man raised his paper, and we continued up the aisle, studying every passenger. Soon, we were peering through the small window in the front of the passenger car. Across the gap was a windowless car with a metal rear door.

“Is that it?” Tumbleweed hissed. “The express car? Where the safe is?”

“I’m not sure. But usually they’re behind the locomotive,” I said. “But I don’t see a guard. What time is it?” I asked, turning away from the door.

Tumbleweed glanced at his pocket-watch. “Marshall’d better hurry. It’s almost—”

There was a jolt from below us, then a rumble.

“Are we—” I began. But there was no mistaking the slow feeling of movement. The 10:10 to Salt Lake was leaving the station.

“Wait—we can’t leave yet,” I said, studying the passenger car again. “The Marshall’s not here.”

“Hang on, Gene,” Tumbleweed said. “You said you wanted to see a robbery, Marshall or not. Besides, we’ve got tickets. If we change our mind, we can always get off at the next stop. I’ve got a map right here”—he patted his front pocket, then froze. “Oh, shoot. I must have left it on the bench outside the station.”

“Well, that’s great.” As the train rumbled down the tracks, I was feeling a twinge of doubt about my plan. But we were off, and there was no changing that. “I can’t just sit here,” I said. “Let’s search the cars again. Maybe we missed something.”

But after two more passes through the first three passenger cars, we found ourselves again peering through the window toward the rear of the express car. We were plumb out of options.

“We’re plumb out of options,” Tumbleweed said.

We plopped onto a seat in the first row. I looked out the window as the scenery changed from woods to bare plateaus. The train’s steady click-clacking rhythm lulled me into thought. Maybe we had been wrong. Maybe the robbery wouldn’t happen. But every bump and jostle only reminded me we were getting farther from home, and perhaps, closer to the Clean Shave Gang.

We veered around a bend, and a large trestle bridge came into view. The train jerked suddenly and slowed. I pitched forward as it braked, then came to a complete stop. The passengers rose from their seats.

“Uh oh,” I said. “This isn’t good.”

We stayed stopped for several long moments, my heart pumping wildly. I stood and moved to the front door.

Suddenly, the rear door of the express car flew open. A nervous-looking guard was shoved onto the small platform behind it. His hands were in the air. As he stepped onto the platform, I saw why. A large, dark-haired man with a bandanna covering his face held a gun to his back.

“Get back!” the masked man yelled at the passenger car, the barrel of his gun never leaving the guard.

We complied. The robber gave the guard another shove, sending him sprawling across the open space between the cars and onto the small platform at the front of our car. Then, the robber disappeared back into the express car and the door slammed shut.

The guard stood and slid open the door to the passenger car. There were gasps as he lurched through the doorway and collapsed onto a bench.

“What happened? Why did we stop?” a woman behind me asked.

The guard raised himself, forehead damp with sweat. “There are two of them in the express car, both armed,” he said. “They had the bridge blown out when we got there. They came aboard right after we stopped. I went for my gun, but they were quicker than me.” There were gasps from the passengers, but the guard raised a hand for quiet. “They’ve got control of the engine. They threw the engineer off the train, and they’re going to blow up the safe. You’ve got to duck and cover. Everyone, right now, find shelter!”

But I couldn’t move. Maybe it was the thought of all that action taking place just a few dozen feet away. Or maybe it was not knowing how Wendell was mixed up in all this. But I remained crouched beside the door, eyes glued to the express car.

“Son, did you hear me? You’ve got to move. Now!” the guard said, grabbing at my shoulder.

For a moment, I entertained a fleeting vision of flinging open the door, leaping into the express car, and doing whatever needed to be done. But this wasn’t a Dead-Eye Dan novel. There were real explosives, and real guns. That was something different.

“Gene, we’ve got to go,” Tumbleweed said. He gave me a shove, and I let myself fall onto the ground between the rows of benches. How long was it going to be until—

The explosion rocked me back on my heels. Our car wobbled. Tumbleweed’s face loomed next to me. His lips were moving, but my ears were ringing too loudly to make out words.

“I CAN’T—HEAR YOU,” I shouted. He scrunched up his face and shook his head emphatically. After trying again to read his lips, I stood and wobbled toward the door. The back end of the express car was torn open like a tin can. Smoke billowed from inside, and bank notes fluttered through the air. I couldn’t see the safe, but soon, figures emerged from the smoke. First came a tall, broad-shouldered man whose bushy beard was visible despite the bandana over his face. It was probably Trent Berger. A second man, tall and gangly, appeared next to him, who I’d bet money was Alton Plunkett. Still no sign of Wendell.

Berger and Plunkett waved at the smoke with their hats as they moved toward the remains of the safe. Berger hefted a large chunk of metal out of the car, then leaned forward and raised a thick wad of bills. He held it out to Plunkett, who stuffed the bundle into a large sack.

My heart sank, as I watched the two men pull every last bank note from the now-mangled safe, filling their bags to bursting. My curiosity was steadily replaced by anger. They were going to get away with all the money, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Tumbleweed appeared beside me. “It’s them,” he said, his voice faint against the ringing in my ears.

I pointed. Berger stepped to the edge of the car and shouted. A moment later, a third man rode up on horseback, leading two more horses behind him. Clutching his sack to his chest, Berger leapt from the train, followed by Plunkett. They ran for their horses, mounted, set spurs to flanks, and thundered away down the tracks.

“Wow,” Tumbleweed said. “That was like…incredible!”

I watched the dust cloud drift out from sight. My fingers balled into fists. “It’s not right,” I said. “They’ll be halfway to Utah before anybody gets here.”

“Maybe. And you know what that means.” Tumbleweed said.

“You said it yourself, Gene. The Marshall’s not on the train, and we don’t know when he’ll get here. We’re dozens of miles out of town. We’ve got to go after them.”

“That’s not exactly—” I began, but stopped. “You know what? You’re right. We don’t have to catch them, or even stop them. But we can darn well track them.”