The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

The corridor was dim, with two rows of identical doors. A large grandfather clock ticked at the far end of the hall, its gentle rhythm the only sound. I took a cautious step forward, listening for any noise. At the third room on the left, I froze. Someone was singing inside, their voice deep and resonant. I leaned toward the door and heard the sounds of drawers being opened and closed. There was a scuffle, then a pair of thuds.

Prompted by only a fleeting instinct, I raised my hand to knock.

I never got the chance.

As I lifted my fist, the door flew open, and the scowling, sweating face of Gerald Hackensack appeared, eyes sunken into a fleshy face with large, drooping jowls.

“What the—” he boomed. “What are you doing here?” He pulled a pistol from the waistband of his pants and aimed it square at me.

“Whoa! Hang on,” I called out, trying to avoid looking at the gun barrel. “Don’t shoot.”

“I know you,” he said. “You’re that kid from the shooting contest. You broke your friend Tumbleweed out from our hide-out. You got some nerve coming here.”

I could feel my resolve crumple. This had all been a terrible mistake. How did I really think I could pull this whole plan together, by myself ? I felt behind me for the doorframe, ready to make my break for it. But as my hands fumbled for the doorknob, I remembered Wendell sitting in his jail cell, waiting to be led to his hearing, and Tumbleweed and Charlotte preparing to wade into the fray.

Things had already been set in motion. If I didn’t come through now, it wasn’t just me who would have failed. People were counting on me.

Glancing up to meet Hackensack’s gaze, I balled my hands into fists, and went for it.

“Yeah,” I said, faking a chuckle. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be here either unless Berger had sent me himself.”

He squinted an eye and lowered the gun a touch. “What’s that you said?” he rumbled. “Sounded like you said Berger sent you.”

My pulse settled a touch. “That’s right. He did. But it would be a lot easier to give you his orders if you’d lower that gun.”

“I ain’t planning on it,” he said. “You got about two seconds to start running before I start shooting.”

Despite Hackensack’s massive frame, and the gun he was pointing at my face, talking to him became less intimidating the longer I looked at him. He wore a stained white undershirt and sagging trousers. Sweat poured from his face, and he had to keep breaking off his remarks to wipe his forehead. Maybe I could do this.

“Fine,” I said. “Here’s what I have to say. I came from Silas Hayes’ hearing. Trent Berger sent me to get you. It’s a matter of life and death.”

He blinked, a bead of sweat trapped on his upper lip. “You were at the hearing?”

“That’s right. Berger’s there, and he sent me with a message that I have to deliver.”

He lowered the gun ever so slightly. But it was enough. I barreled ahead, the story blooming to life in my brain.

“I was at the trial, just minding my own business in the back of the room, waiting like every other Tom and Harry for the action to start when Mr. Berger grabbed me. He looked me dead in the eye, and I knew he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. He dragged me out of sight and told me things ain’t going how he thought they would. He needed someone to get you a message.”

“Why would you help Berger? He’s got your pal Hayes.”

“He grabbed my folks, and my girl, and if I don’t come get you lickety split, they’re all going to get it.”

Hackensack wiped more sweat from his fleshy face. “He did?”

“He said he needs you for something big that he’s about to pull.” I paused, pretending to think. “Yeah, that’s the whole message.”

Hackensack blinked. “So Trent needs me,” he repeated slowly.

“That’s right. And he said to bring the horses. Ride ’em on over, with the special package inside the saddlebags, and get ready. When he does whatever he’s going to do, you’re going to be his getaway man.”

“He said you were the one he wanted. You were his indispensable accomplice.”

“You’re his most important helper,” I translated.

He slipped his gun back into his belt. “I’ve got to get over there,” he said. “There’s no time to lose.”

I sucked in a gulp of air, weighing the final piece of my plan. “And,” I added, “Berger said you shouldn’t bring any weapons. He thought it might attract too much attention in the courthouse. No one in there is armed, and if you come busting in, the Marshall and his boys will be all over you.”

Hackensack paused, hand still on the butt of his pistol. Our eyes locked, and he eyed me good and steady for a solid four seconds. Finally, he slid his hand across for the buckle and unclasped his belt. “Well, I don’t want that, now, do I?” he muttered. He started past me out the door, then froze mid-stride.

“I can’t go like this,” he said. “What if…she’s there?”

“Camilla Wimberly.”

I was ready for anything Gerald Hackensack could throw at me. But at the mention of my dainty, sweet-spirited—though fierce when called upon—school-teacher, I nearly fell backward out the door. Then, I remembered the jamboree and his passionate pursuit of Miss Wimberly.

“You two are…in love?” I guessed.

“Yes indeed,” he said. “We’re to be wed.”

“Well, not exactly. We ain’t even really spoke of it. But it’s a-comin’. Soon as I give her—” Instantly, his jaw clamped shut. “Well, that’s enough of that. Did you see her in the courthouse, son?”

“Yup,” I said, glad to play along. “She’s there. Said she wanted to be in the middle of the action.”

“She did? Hot dang!” Hackensack flung himself back into the hotel room, disappearing into one of the bedrooms.

He burst back into view a few moments later shrugging his thick arms into a dingy flannel shirt as he attempted to make sense of his wild mass of brown hair. “There ain’t no time to lose. Berger needs me, and that woman needs to see some real heroism. Camilla Wimberly, here I come!” He shouldered me aside and lumbered into the hallway, slamming the door behind him and careening toward the stairwell. A framed picture tumbled from the wall in his wake.

“Remember the horses!” I called as he slammed out the door and down the stairs. I jogged to the window and watched as Hackensack drew up the reins to two horses, clambered onto the third, and steered his caravan out of sight.

As he disappeared down the alley, I felt the fear drain out of me.

It had worked. It had actually worked.

I had faced down one of the infamous Clean Shave Gang with only my wits and a prayer, and I had lived to tell the tale. It hadn’t gone as neatly or heroically as Dead-Eye Dan’s plans usually did, but for Eugene Appleton, it was pretty smooth.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of jitters sweep me head to toe, and I commenced to quivering like I was being shook by an earthquake. I slumped against the wall, letting the small victory wash over me. Finally, the jumpiness gave way to cool thought. It was time for my next move. I had to get to Plunkett before he came upstairs. While I’d like to report that I was as fresh as an April morning, sad to say, I was more like the inside of a cattle-rustler’s boot— sweaty and starting to stink.

I made my way to the back stairwell. Two stories below me, Alton Plunkett had emerged from the privy and was glancing around. Then, he turned and stared right at me.

“Hey! What are you doing up there?” he called. He whipped out his pistol and aimed at me. “Come on down from there. And keep your hands where I can see ’em!”