The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Deputy Quincy appeared in front of the livery stable, leading two jet-black mustangs, saddled and bridled. Marshall Boggs mounted the horse in front, motioning for me to ride behind him. Deputy Quincy led the second horse, Pa behind him. Deputy Mars had stayed behind with Wendell.

As soon as we left town, Marshall Boggs spurred his horse into a gallop. The mustang’s hooves kicked up dusty billows as they pounded the ground. We retraced the path Tumbleweed and I had taken a few days earlier, though it seemed like weeks had passed since then.

While we rode, I replayed the events of the day in my mind, trying to find some way to see how I could have stopped all this before it happened. Guilt danced around the corners of my mind, but Wendell’s words stuck with me:

You ain’t at fault here. Things just run their course, I believe.

Maybe I couldn’t have stopped it. But I still had to make it right.

Marshall Boggs steered us away from the tracks at the spot of the robbery, and I took over navigating us toward the gang’s hideout. The minutes slipped into hours, and I had lost track of how long we’d been riding. Suddenly, Pa’s voice snapped me from my daydream.

“Is that it, Eugene?”

We had ridden clear across the grassy plateau while I had been lost in my thoughts, and now Marshall Boggs was waiting for me to point out the nearly hidden entrance to Diablo Canyon.

“It’s right up there, just on the other side of that cluster of pines,” I said, pointing. I shuddered as I remembered Berger appearing on horseback at the top of the ridge and taking Tumbleweed. How much difference a few days could make. It all seemed so familiar, yet still dream-like, and if I hadn’t just been there, riding out of the canyon on a stolen appaloosa the day before, I wouldn’t have believed any of it. We rode out the other end of the canyon, the sun nearly at its apex. I’d heard folks in town talk about being “saddle-sore,” but only now did I have a full appreciation for how raw and battered one’s backside could be from a day’s worth of riding.

My heart pounded faster as we drew closer to the ranch house. Wendell had said Berger was wily. But what could he have planned for us out here?

Soon, Marshall Boggs drew up his reins at the edge of the valley. He motioned Deputy Quincy to pull up behind him and drew a spyglass from his coat. I couldn’t. After a few moments of studying the valley, the Marshall rode on, down the grassy slope.

The fence still lay in pieces, and I could see no steer around. The family must have decided to wait longer before returning to their home. But as I peered closer, I saw something else: the front door to the cabin stood open, and something lay sideways across the doorway.

Carefully roping the horses to a post of the paddock, Marshall Boggs and Deputy Quincy dismounted. Pa and I followed. Marshall Boggs stepped over the broken chair in the doorway. Scattered around it lay glass bottles and other debris which definitely hadn’t been there the day before. There was definitely something going on.

I followed Marshall Boggs around the back of the cabin. “Well I’ll be,” he said in a low voice.

He pointed, and I moved beside the two lawmen.

“Is that what I think it is?” Deputy Quincy asked.

“Sure looks like it to me,” Marshall Boggs answered.

Directly behind the cabin, a few yards behind the very spot where I’d help to hoist Tumbleweed through the back window, were three small mounds of dirt. Each one was piled next to a rectangular patch of freshly-turned earth. The patches of earth were identical in size and large long enough to fit a grown man.

“They’re graves,” Pa said, echoing my thoughts.

Marshall Boggs turned toward me, his eyes gleaming.

“I think this is the missing piece we were looking for. Witnesses described three men robbing the train. And there are three graves here. Looks like Silas Hayes followed the men back here after the robbery, then double-crossed all three of ’em. That cold-blooded snake probably shot ’em all in the back, then dug their graves and tossed them in.”

I felt the swirling cold wash over me. “That’s mighty grisly,” Pa said.

“Aren’t you going to…dig ’em up?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t see any shovels around, do you?” the Marshall asked. “At some point, we’ll need to verify the identities of the men in the ground. But for the purposes of our hearing, this is more than enough. And that’s because I say it is.”

Deputy Mars walked over to the nearest patch of earth and nudged it with his toe. “It’s fresh, all right.”

At his words, Marshall Boggs slid open the back window and knelt to peer inside. He whistled again as he looked around, then stood again to face us.

“Looks like a twister went through there. As I’m standing here, it seems clear there’s no way Hayes would leave the money here. We’ll get the location out of him eventually.”

“You can’t do this,” I said.

The Marshall laid his hand on my shoulder. “For the life of me, son, I can’t figure out why you two kids are lying to cover for him. You must be some kind of loyal to that man.”

“We’re not lying,” I said. “Honest, we’re not.”

He cinched his thumbs through his gun belt. “Whatever you’ve been aiming for with this whole ruse, it’s over now. I’m sorry to tell you that, but it’s true.”

My head dropped, and I shoved my hands into my pockets. The Marshall and his deputy headed around the corner of the house, and I trudged after them. The Marshall swung himself up onto his horse.

“I have to admit, Calvin, I didn’t think we’d find anything out here,” he said. “But this is a stroke of luck. I can’t tell you how fine it will be to meet Judge Crawford at the train station and have an iron-clad case against the Clean Shave Gang and Silas Hayes. Finally, we’ll get some justice for Deputy Adamson and Deputy Walker.”

I clambered numbly onto the back of the Marshall’s horse. We rode up the hill out of the valley. I looked back one last time at the cabin, picturing those mounds of earth.

Justice. With the mayor and Sheriff Mayberry out of the picture, there was no one in town to stop the Marshall from whisking Wendell out of state.