The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

I stumbled backward, feeling the world around me spin. It didn’t make any sense. How could it? Wendell was the town barber. I had heard him tell me his life story the other day in the shop. What had he left out?

“I can see the way you’re looking at me,” he said. “But there’s more I got to explain before you make up your mind.”

“I’m listening,” I said. “But you better make it quick. Tumbleweed’s in a bad way on account of a scorpion sting.” Wendell’s eyes widened. “So start talking.”

“There’s too much to tell now. But I’ll give you the basics.” He lifted his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I already told you about the team I put together for General Grant. Well, there’s a bit more that comes after that.”

“Involving Berger?”

He nodded again. “The war ended, with no home to go back to, no Tabitha waiting for me, so I took work as a Pinkerton. Carried on that work for several years.”

“A Pinkerton? You mean guarding the President?”

“That’s what some of ’em did, but I was more like a private guard for the railroads and the like. A few members of the old team, including the three you’ve met—Berger, Alton Plunkett, and Gerald Hackensack—along with a few others, joined up with me again. They were a good, reliable crew, not the nasty, bitter men they are now. We had a good stable life for a few years. But, they were always grumbling—‘Look at all this money, Silas. We’re on the wrong side of the law. Look at how much there’d be for us if we would just nick a little off the top.’

“I was able to keep that talk nipped mostly, but one job back in seventy-two, I’d gotten laid up with a sickness and couldn’t go. They came riding back into town and showed me a bundle of cash. They’d gone and done it like they’d said—robbed a stage-coach, even killed a man in the process. I yelled at ’em pretty good and sent a couple of ’em packing. The one who did the shooting turned himself in, and we carried on. But it happened again. Berger took advantage of me being gone for a job, and they robbed a stagecoach blind. Two more men were killed—”

“Two Marshalls,” I mumbled.

“That’s right,” he said. “I knew the time had come to leave them behind. They had that look in their eye. The lust for riches had got ahold of them something fierce, and it didn’t matter who crossed ’em.”

“So you left for good,” I said.

“Well, that was it. I told ’em we were through, and I cut ties with them. Seeing how I was the leader, I knew they were going to try to stop me, so I split off in the middle of the night and rode east as hard as I could. Pretty soon, I reached Rattlesnake Junction. It was so peaceful, so blessedly ordinary, that I knew it was the place to settle down and begin a new life.”

“And you changed your name.”

He nodded. “From that point on, I dropped Silas Hayes along with the rest of my past. It meant leaving behind the name I had given to Tabitha all those years ago, but I knew she’d be okay with the decision I made. As for the gang, I was more than happy to live on not knowing what ended up happening to them.”

“Until that day in June, right?”

Wendell cocked his head. “How’d you know about that?”

“I saw it. I didn’t know if I should tell you, but I saw Trent threaten you.”

“He was trying to talk me into joining back up to lead the crew. Turns out he didn’t have the mind for strategy like I did. I was shocked he’d found me. But he said an old friend of ours from the Army days, Carlton Jergenson, had made Rattlesnake Junction his home.”

“Jergenson,” I said with a groan, remembering the big-bellied cook from the keelboat.

“So you met him, too,” Wendell said. “The fellas had crossed paths with Jergenson somewhere and got to talking. He told them about Rattlesnake Junction, how the railroad runs right by here, how we’ve got a bumbling sheriff, and it should be easy pickings.”

“That was before Marshall Boggs, apparently,” I said.

“Yup,” he said. “I had hoped I’d buried Trent Berger along with Silas Hayes. But he said they wanted me to help them pull off one big job. Then, I could get out again. I turned him down, but I knew that wasn’t going to be the end of it.”

I could finally feel the world starting to come right-side up again. “That’s awful.”

“When you came by talking about having run-ins with them, I could tell the whole thing was starting up again, and I didn’t know how to make it stop.” Wendell shifted his weight from his bad leg and leaned against his horse. I fell silent, watching the sunlight creep deeper into the canyon. “With the job done, they’ll be looking to vanish as fast as they can. I reckon they’ve got a way-point somewhere up ahead. Once they’ve got everything sorted out, they’ll be gone like lightning.”

“And what happens to Tumbleweed?”

Wendell said nothing, his jaw working as he chewed a few times more on the cigar. “Were you headed after him?” he asked.

“I was thinking about it,” I said.

“You have a plan?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I figured I’d follow their trail, then, I don’t know, see where it led me.”

Wendell’s eyes drifted across the canyon. “What do you think we should do?” he asked suddenly.

“Me?” I asked. “I want to get Tumbleweed back, get the money back, and bring them all to justice.”

Wendell grinned. “Oh, is that all?”

“You still reading them Dead-Eye Dan novels?”

“Sometimes. I haven’t had as much time lately.”

“That’s probably because you’re living one right now.”

I smiled. “I guess so.”

“Then we’d better get a move on. You’re lucky I brought supplies, then.”

He patted his saddlebag. “Just a few things I had stashed away for a rainy day. Plus—” He reached under the horse’s girth strap and slid a long, smooth rifle into view.

“Think that’ll do?” he asked with a grin.

“Yup. I’ve got my own weapon,” I said, sliding my slingshot out of my back pocket.

Wendell smiled. “I reckon we might need that when all’s said and done.”

“Then let’s go. Day’s getting hotter, and we’ve got quite a job before us.”

“What about the canyon? What if the Gang’s waiting for us?”

“Then we’ll have to ride fast.” With that, Wendell slid around the rocky spire, out of sight. He was already sitting astride his horse, reins looped over his wrists, when I stepped out. “Get on up here,” he said.

“I…haven’t spent a lot of time on horseback.”

Wendell tossed back his head and laughed. “Well, it’s a lot slower when you walk. We’ll start with getting you up on Jubilee.” He leaned down and offered his hand. “Can you get your foot into the stirrup?” I reached for the saddle strap and yanked myself upward. After a moment of struggling, my foot found the stirrup and I flopped forward over the saddle like a limp piece of bacon.

Wendell smacked me on the leg. “Ain’t no time for lyin’ down now. Let an old man on!” I pulled myself upright and slid backward. Wendell straightened himself in the saddle in front of me.

“Get tight,” he said, whipping the reins toward him. Jubilee took off like a shot, her hooves erupting like gunshots on the canyon floor. I hung on for dear life as we charged through the canyon. Every second, I expected to hear rifle fire, but it never came.

Then, without warning, we flew out of the canyon onto a broad stretch of rocky ground like the plateau which bordered it to the east. Though we had—I hoped—left behind the danger of being picked off by an outlaw’s shot, Wendell’s pace didn’t flag. And Jubilee responded, her almond-colored body rippling beneath me as we rode on. The sun crested the sky as the miles passed, beating down as the ground changed again, from the tan of the plateau to green, rolling hills. Wendell’s keen eyes must have found a trail, because he kept his rapid pace.

Finally, after hours of rough riding, Wendell eased up on the reins. Jubilee slowed, and Wendell brought her to a stop on a wide, tree-capped ridge. He edged forward, and we peered down into a deep, green valley.

“Well, lookee there!” he said. “I was hoping we’d find something like this. Look.” I glanced around the valley, which was fully enclosed on its sides by steep hills. At the far end was another craggy rock formation. “One way in and out,” he said. “They must have scouted this place.”

“Is it their hideout?” I asked.

“Probably just a convenient place to stop. I doubt they’re keeping those cattle.” He pointed again. At the base of the slope, still hundreds of yards off, stood a ranch house, bordered in front by a fenced paddock where a herd of cattle stood grazing. Their horns gleamed in the afternoon sun.

“Hang on,” Wendell replied. “The gears up here”—he tapped his temple—“don’t turn as fast as they used to.” He maneuvered Jubilee into a tight turn, then back into the shadow of a stand of aspen trees. He slid out of the saddle and leaned against the horse’s flank. I tried to slip smoothly from the saddle, but the toe of my boot nicked the pommel of the saddle, and I went off sideways. I flailed for a moment, until Wendell hoisted me to my feet.

“Yikes,” I said.

“You’ll get there, cowboy,” Wendell said. He leaned against the trunk of an aspen and studied the valley. I waited, trying to form my own plan. What would Tumbleweed do? But he wasn’t here! I smacked my fist against my palm.

Wendell turned. “Now don’t get frustrated. I been in worse scrapes than this.” He slipped a spyglass from his saddlebag and handed it to me. “While I think, you do some scouting,” he said. “See if there’s anything suspicious going on down there, like I think there is.”

“Remember,” he said, “stay out of sight.”

I crouched and lifted the spyglass. After a few seconds of blurred confusion, I caught sight of a flash of black. It was one of the steers. I followed the fence line until I could see the cabin. Nobody stirred out front, but I could see a pair of horses tied to a hitching post beside the rear corner of the cabin. One was a deep brown, and the other was white, with spots like chocolate drops sprinkling it from mane to tail. It may have been Berger’s appaloosa, but I hadn’t gotten a good look at it before he rode away.

There was a flicker of movement at the door. I moved the spyglass and saw the front door slam; I had just missed seeing who had entered the cabin.

Wendell appeared beside me. “See anything?” he asked.

“Just a couple of horses,” I said. “I can’t see inside. There’s a curtain over the one window.”

“What did the horses look like?” he asked.

“One of them was an appaloosa and the other…”

“An appaloosa, with brown spots?” he asked. I nodded. “That’s Trent’s horse.”

“I thought so,” I said.

“See if you can get a look inside.”

I focused the spyglass on the small window to the left of the front door. The window was opened a crack, and a breeze rustled the curtain. It flapped aside, and I caught a glimpse of the room inside. Tumbleweed sat upright on a bed, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. As I stared, another figure came into view, moving through the cabin behind him.

A hand clamped my shoulder, and I fairly jumped out of my skin.

“Don’t do that!” I said, whirling to face Wendell.

He grinned. “You’re jumpy now, just wait until you go down there,” he said, pointing down the hill.

“He’s in there!” I said. “Way over on the left.”

Wendell nodded. “He ain’t near the front door. That’s good.”

“No. Why?” Then, his words registered. “Did you say ‘wait until I go down there’?”

He swung his saddlebag over his shoulder and set it gently onto the ground between us.

“As plans go, I rightly declare—humbly, of course—that I’ve concocted a doozy. But this here’s a two-person job, and”— he looked around dramatically—“I don’t see any other partners available.”