The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Considering the only experience I had with tracking was courtesy of Dead-Eye Dan’s Navajo guide White Tail, I reckon I did pretty good for myself that first mile or so. The Clean Shave Gang’s path ran right beside the railroad tracks, and the dry dirt made it easy to pick out the hoof prints. Soon, however, the tracks veered off to the right, and the prints led straight ahead, up a rocky slope.

Tumbleweed staggered up beside me. “Hang on a second,” he panted. “You sure you can track them up there?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But you said it yourself. We’re the only ones who can stay close to them now.”

“I know what I said. But you’re—”

“I ain’t a tenderfoot, if that’s what you’re fixing to say,” I snapped. “I’ve got more knowledge than what’s in books. So stay close, Horatio!”

Tumbleweed’s mouth snapped shut. I scrambled up the slope. Two boys on foot, no matter how motivated, were no match for three outlaws on horseback. My only hope was to keep on their trail for a few hours, and hope they stopped at whatever temporary hideout they’d chosen. I figured then we could double back and tell Marshall Boggs, if he was on our trail.

We were heading pretty much due west from the position of the sun, a course which took us out of the path of the Rocky Mountain foothills. We crested the slope and reached a wide, barren plateau.

I knew we were in for a real scorcher of a day. The cloudless sky was the color of dirty bathwater. It was muggy. We were not dressed for this. And we had a single flask of lukewarm water between us. But I was driven by something deeper than the thirst for adventure that had led me to join Tumbleweed on the keelboat, or even the hunger to win that sharpshooting lesson. The thought of finding out the truth about Wendell Jenkins and how he was mixed up with this band of outlaws made my skin prickle.

Yes, it was a madman’s plan. But I had my own personal madman in Tumbleweed Thompson. And I had learned much from him.

So on we trudged across that godforsaken plateau, mile after mile, heads bare and sweat pouring down our faces. Following the outlaw’s tracks proved a stern challenge. It was hard to distinguish between the scuffs of dirt made by the wind whipping across the ground and hoof prints. I knew that when horses are at a gallop, only two tracks are left on the ground, but when at a canter or slower, all four hooves leave a track. Judging from the tracks I was able to pick out, the heat was taking its toll on the Clean Shave Gang. Soon, four-hoof tracks became more and more frequent, and I found it easier to follow their trail.

As midday turned to afternoon, the wind began to pick up. It cooled the air, but also smudged the tracks. As we reached the far end of the endless plateau, a stand of ponderosa pines beckoned, with a looming wall of rock rising up from beyond it.

“No way,” I said. “That’s Diablo Canyon out there. We’ve got to be close to the Utah border.” I bent again, searching for a track.

Tumbleweed staggered up beside me and dropped to a knee. “You’re on a mission, Gene,” he said. “I’ve never seen you so focused. Not even when you wanted them shooting lessons with Ma.”

“You’re in my light,” I said. “Shift a little to the left.” He sat, shading his face with his hand.

“You still got the trail?” he said.

“Not really,” I said. “But they’re probably heading up through the pass into the canyon. That will make tracking a lot more difficult.”

“Time for a swallow of water,” Tumbleweed said, pulling out his flask. “My tongue feels so thick. I ain’t never been thirsty like this.”

“I know,” I gasped, feeling my tongue flat and dry against the roof of my mouth. “But we can’t waste it all now. Let’s get through these trees, and then we can have a drink and figure out what to do next.”

He groaned and hoisted himself to his feet. We commenced shuffling like a couple of half-dead men, off the plateau and into the cool shadow of the pines. I held up a hand, and we both staggered to the ground at the base of a tree.

Tumbleweed pulled the canteen off his shoulder and took a meager sip. “That ain’t enough,” he gasped. “I can’t go no further unless I got some more water in me.” He stood and pointed. “Look over there, behind the trees. It’s so cool and shady over there. There has to be some water over there.”

I followed his finger, but saw only a shimmering ripple of heat. I didn’t like the chances of finding any water so near the canyon. Still, the maniacal glint in Tumbleweed’s eye suggested I should let him go.

“Go on,” I said, handing him the canteen. “If you find water, drink your fill and bring some back for me.”

He stood and vanished into the pines. I sat alone with my thoughts, eyes fixed on the trees as I waited for Tumbleweed to return.

Suddenly, there was a cry, then a thud, from somewhere on the other side of the trees. My heart leapt. I jogged under the bristly arms of the ponderosas, emerging at the base of the canyon’s rocky wall. To my left was a young waterfall. It tumbled into a small, shallow pool. But where was Tumbleweed?

“Tumbleweed?” I called.

There was no answer.

I stood and glanced around the small, shadowed clearing. It was too quiet.

I could feel my pulse quicken. A sound came from the shadows on the far side of the pool, a low, pained moan. Instantly, my heart climbed into my throat, and I raced around the pool. There lay Tumbleweed flat on his back, arms splayed out. He didn’t move when I approached.

“What happened?” I asked. “Did you fall?”

His face was flushed and clammy, and he shook his head weakly. My eyes traveled down his lanky frame. His left pant leg was rolled up. On his shin was a large red welt, punctuated by an angry round blotch in the middle. As I crouched beside him, the small, tan body of a scorpion scurried from under his boot.

“Oh man, this is bad,” I said. Tumbleweed moaned again. I bent to examine the wound. Were scorpion stings fatal? How long would he have? I dragged Tumbleweed into a sitting position.

He winced. “It’s—bad,” he mumbled. “Hurts bad.”

“I know, pal,” I said. “But there’s a whole pool of fresh water just over there. Let’s get you over to it, and then we can figure out what to do.” He moaned again, but I dragged him to the pool and filled the canteen for him. He drank greedily for a long minute. I glanced at his leg. He needed a doctor. Or at least someone who would know how to treat it. But we were a long way from home.

Tumbleweed finished drinking and lay back. “I didn’t even see it,” he said. “I came around the pine trees, saw the water, and sat for a second to get the canteen. Then, I felt something under my pant leg. I rolled it up to see, and there it was.” He raised his head and looked at me. “What do you know about scorpions? Does Dead-Eye Dan ever run into one of them?”

I shook my head. “I’ve got to go for help.”

“You can’t. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Well what am I supposed to do? Leave you here?” I asked. “If we go back together, it will take twice as long.”

“I know it’s not great, but it’s the best plan we got. Let’s find you a good spot, okay?” I dragged Tumbleweed to his feet, and we hobbled around the pool, back into the shadow of the pine trees. I bundled my jacket under his head and started off through the trees. He lay still, chest rising and falling steadily.

I emerged onto the quiet plateau and froze. The clatter of footsteps echoed across the open space. I whirled and peered toward the canyon. A single rider stood at the entrance to the pass atop a spotted appaloosa.

He was looking down at the stand of pine trees where Tumbleweed lay.

Heart thumping, I dropped to the ground and crawled into the cover of a scraggly patch of sagebrush. I peered up at the pass. The horse’s tail swished lazily from side to side as the rider scanned the trees. Had he heard us talking? He rode down the hill toward the ponderosas.

I crept toward the spot I’d left Tumbleweed. Through the bushy branches, I could see Tumbleweed peering upward. I followed his eyes and saw the rider ride up and dismount. My heart thudded wildly. Should I reveal myself ?

The man’s face was hidden from me, but from behind, I could make out a black hat and the silver gleam of a pistol.

“Where’s your pal?” he growled.

I flinched. It was Trent Berger. They had headed into the canyon after all, then doubled back to check for pursuers. His partners must have ridden on ahead.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Tumbleweed said weakly.

“You sure about that? I heard voices.”

“I was talking to myself, that’s all.” Tumbleweed raised the canteen to his lips.

“Looks like you got yourself a pretty nasty wound there. You think your pal will come looking for you, or leave you out here for buzzard-bait?”

“I told you, there’s no one else,” Tumbleweed said.

“What’s that?” Berger asked.

“I said you’re wrong. It’s just me. I heard about your job and wanted to see if I could get a piece of the action, that’s all.”

“Yeah? That ain’t likely,” Berger sneered. “More like you and your pal were the ones snooping around our cabin and found out about the robbery. It don’t matter. You’ll have plenty of time to explain your plans to me and the other fellas.”

“What? You’re taking me with you?”

“Kid, as much as it makes sense to eliminate any trace of you, I generally don’t take to shooting kids. But I can’t turn you loose, can I? You might just drag yourself back to town and tell the Marshall. So, you’re coming with me. We’ll find a use for you.”

And with that, Berger hoisted Tumbleweed to his feet and led him to his horse. Tumbleweed groaned as the big man tossed him onto the appaloosa’s back. Berger mounted, and Tumbleweed clutched his waist as the big man wheeled around to gallop out of the glen.

I crept back to the plateau. In a moment, Berger’s appaloosa had vanished into the pass to Diablo Canyon.

I felt the lump in my throat grow larger. The sun sank over the hills, right above the place where Tumbleweed had disappeared. He was gone. And I was responsible.

I can’t rightly say when I fell asleep that night. But when I did, the whole black night was filled with strange dreams. I had made the decision to spend the night in the shadow of the pine trees in a second. I couldn’t bring myself to admit the Clean Shave Gang had won, and leave Tumbleweed in Berger’s clutches. But falling asleep under the stars was a challenge. Seemingly every creature in God’s creation was howling, yowling, and otherwise disrupting my sleep. Every time I had shut my eyes, I heard a scratching in the sagebrush, or the howl of a restless coyote, and my eyes would snap open. Finally, after tucking myself into my coat for the hundredth time, I fell into something resembling sleep.

Then came the dreams.

If watching Trent Berger hoist Tumbleweed onto his horse and ride off with him hadn’t been hard enough, I had to relive it in my nightmares. There was Tumbleweed, face clammy and eyes wide, watching as Berger pointed his pistol at him. But as he moved to mount his horse, Berger split into a hundred pieces and tumbled to the ground. I watched in horror as the pieces became scorpions, each one wagging its spiked tail. They skittered toward me as I lay on the ground, my legs and arms powerless. As the first scorpion reached me, Tumbleweed’s voice called to me from the mouths of the scorpions.

“The right stuff, the right stuff,” they taunted. “Do you have the right stuff ?” A wave of scorpions swept toward me. I raised my hand, ready for the hundreds of fiery stings.