The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

By Glenn McCarty and Joe Sutphin

For Eugene Appleton, the summer of 1876 in Rattlesnake Junction, Colorado promises to be just as sleepy as the ones before, his only excitement provided by the pulse-pounding Dead-Eye Dan adventure novels he devours. But Eugene's life takes an unexpected turn with the arrival of Tumbleweed Thompson, a gangly, red-haired boy who spins yarns about whaling voyages in the Atlantic and hidden stashes of gunpowder. Drawn into Tumbleweed's orbit, Eugene soon finds himself chasing smugglers, firing rifles, and competing for the attention of the lovely Charlotte Scoggins. The pair's innocent mischief takes a serious turn when they stumble across a sinister plot hatched by the infamous Clean Shave Gang. Soon, Eugene and Tumbleweed are smack inside the middle of a twisty plot lifted from the pages of a Dead-Eye Dan book. They've learned a lot from each other's friendship. But will it be enough to thwart the Clean Shave Gang's plans?

The debut novel from Glenn McCarty, The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson is a wild and woolly tale that's classic Americana for a new generation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732623521

Book preview

Acknowledgments

PART 1

The Youth Tonic

Sometimes, the biggest things in life seem to spring up out of plum nowhere, Charlie. Look out!

DEAD~EYE DAN GOES OVER HACKSAW FALLS

Chapter One

Pretty near everyone in Rattlesnake Junction acquired at least one memorable Tumbleweed Thompson story that misadventured summer. Myself, I’ve got a pocketful. Matter of fact, the yarns I acquired have served me quite nicely as I’ve pulled them out and sorted through them in my days since. Of all the scrapes involving me and Tumbleweed, I reckon the best place to start would be the one involving the tonic. After all, it’s the one that brought us together. So that’s where I’ll begin.

It was the summer of my twelfth year, and I was itching for something to happen. We’d arrived in Rattlesnake Junction, Colorado four years earlier, and I’d watched the town grow up around me, buildings hammered together, all manner of ranchers, miners, and grizzled cowpokes kicking up dust as they rode through town with tales of cattle drives and silver strikes.

Of course, all this was happening while Eugene Appleton— that would be me—was watching from the front porch. It seemed if I so much as thought about wading into the wild waters of frontier life, Ma would be on me in a flash. Even today, I can picture her hickory-handled switch resting in the corner of the kitchen, exerting its singular, terrifying influence on me. Just the sight of it was enough to make my hind parts ache. All the derring-do I’d experienced to that point was courtesy of Dead-Eye Dan, frontier Marshall and crackerjack marksman, the hero of a whole set of dime novels to which I was keenly devoted. Contrasted to Dead-Eye Dan’s exploits, my real life was as dry as a gulch.

Now, before I wander too deep into my own story, I reckon I should orient you a bit. Rattlesnake Junction—my own little corner of God’s green earth—sprang nearly whole out of the earth in one leap, like so many frontier establishments, on account of the mining industry. In our case, it was silver. The way I heard tell, about twenty years back or so, a drifter named Jim-Jay Johnson came wandering down out of the Rocky Mountain foothills, fell asleep under the stars, with nothing but a rock for his pillow and his grizzled gray beard for a blanket, and woke up to discover the boulder he’d been sleeping on was the biggest chunk of silver you ever did see. Jim-Jay jumped. Jim-Jay hollered. And then, Jim-Jay got rich.

Turns out, it’s hard to keep a thing like that a secret. Soon, a whole slew of people started poking around for their own silver claim, setting up shotgun shacks, and tussling over territory. There were scrapes and the usual disagreements, but eventually enough of them had settled down into a life here that they figured they ought to name their little town. Wouldn’t you know it, ole’ Jim-Jay Johnson himself provided the name, in his last act as a living soul. One Sunday morning a few years after his first silver strike, he was a-wandering about a mile outside of town when he felt himself growing weary. He laid down next to a creek that ran in a northwesterly direction. Again, only a rock for his pillow, and his fine prospector’s beard for a blanket.

When he awoke this time, it wasn’t silver he discovered, but rattlers. Seventeen prairie rattlesnakes, to be exact. They were crawling all over the bank, the rocks, and of course, Jim-Jay Johnson. One had even made a nest in his beard. Well, when Jim-Jay saw the collection of rattlers, he wasted no time in beating a path back to town, snakes and all. He arrived in the grassy plot in the dead center of town and stood there like a prophet of the Lord in all his glory, snakes dangling from every part of him, and proclaimed in a thunderous voice, There’s rattlers in them there waters! Then, he dropped dead right there. On account of all the rattler bites, I guess.

Once they’d gotten Jim-Jay Johnson’s body taken care of, they did two things: First, they planted a stately young elm tree on the very spot he’d expired. Then, they named the creek Rattlesnake Creek. It didn’t take long for the name Rattlesnake Junction to stick, on account of how the creek intersects the San Pedro River just outside of town. We’ve got pretty much everything any frontier town would have, including a church, Mount Carmel Church, pastored by Elijah Appleton, my Pa.

And now, having gotten the background details taken care of, I suppose I can return to the spot where my story and Rattlesnake Junction’s story intersect.

It was early June, easily the most stifling Saturday afternoon of the young summer. I was desperate for a way to avoid another three hours stuck at home assisting Ma during her town sewing circle meeting. But, how? Of honest escape plans, I had precious few options. And Ma could sniff out a fib a mile away. So there I was, facing down a summer afternoon trapped inside with Ma’s sewing circle. The quilts created by her weekly gatherings of wives and widows would be sold at the Turner County Fair in August, with the proceeds benefiting a variety of charitable projects throughout the Colorado frontier. Which was fine, but I couldn’t stand another moment squashed into that stuffy living room with a dozen women, listening to Mrs. Bradbury drone on about the symptoms of her gout. Cleaning the privy out back was strike two. And Ma suggesting I help serve the tea—while I wore her blue gingham apron—was the last straw. I prayed no boys would see me.

So when Ma proclaimed herself in need of a bottle of molasses for her prize- winning ginger snap cookies, I sprang into action.

I’d be happy to grab that molasses, Ma, I said.

She fixed me with a suspicious look. See what I meant about sniffing out an opportunity for action?

I whipped off the apron and leapt for the doorknob, aiming to exit before her usual litany of commandments. Moses only gave the Israelites ten of them. I should have been so lucky.

There and back, lickety split, Ma said, wagging her wooden spoon at me. No chin-wagging, lolly-gagging, or loitering, you hear me?

My eyes instinctively shifted to the hickory switch. I cranked the knob and nearly plowed into Widow Springfield in the doorway.

Afternoon, Eugene, she said, eyes pinched in a friendly smile behind round glasses, her gray hair pulled into a wispy bun. You going out?

Oh, just an errand for Ma. Haven’t seen you around the past few Saturdays.

I had a few things to take care of at home, she said. Those leaky windows don’t patch themselves, you know. She paused and reached into her handbag. Got something for you.

I held out my palm and accepted the peppermint stick she placed there, before stuffing Ma’s money into the front pocket of my pants and ducking out the door.

With the scent of freedom in my nostrils, I leapt off the porch, bolted past the lilac bushes, and jogged up the street. Our house lay a stone’s throw from the corner of South Street and the town green. Thus, we were usually on the edge of any excitement that passed through town. So that’s where I pointed myself. Molasses and the general store could wait.

I rounded the first bend in the circle and stopped short. A swaggering, golden voice rang out across the square like a railroad mallet colliding with solid iron.

My good friends, let me ask you one simple question on this glorious Saturday afternoon. Are you weary in body and brain? Is there a hitch in your giddy-up? Is your life panning for gold but coming up empty? If your answer is yes, then come on down and step right up! In my right hand, I hold the fountain of youth: Dr. Beauregard J. Thompson’s rejuvenating, intoxicating, sure-to-be motivating Sunshine Swirl Youth Tonic. Guaranteed to pep up any poopy prognosis you encounter in your life.

I crept forward to the edge of a small crowd gathered in front of the general store. Elbowing my way into their midst, I caught sight of the shiny, black frame of a high-sided wagon. It was drawn by a pair of horses hitched in front of the store. Atop the wagon’s bed stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a fringed, buck-skin coat. Wavy blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders, and he grinned from behind an equally blonde and equally wavy mustache.

Behind this dramatic-looking man, a white bed sheet was stretched between two wooden posts, each affixed to one corner of the wagon’s rear bench. The name of the product was painted on the sheet in a flamboyant red script.

Dr. Beauregard J. Thompson hopped down from the wagon. But don’t take my word for it. Behold a demonstration of the awesome powers of this youth tonic. Behind me, you will see my son, a mere boy of twelve, who seems by all outward appearances to be completely ordinary. Observe.

He turned and raised an arm. A tall, slender boy stepped off the wagon onto the horses, one foot on the back of each. His buck-skin coat matched the man’s, and he wore a pair of faded corduroy overalls, a white shirt and black string tie. His head was dwarfed by a comically large brown cowboy hat. He doffed the hat to the crowd, revealing an unruly shock of red hair.

As I mentioned, completely ordinary. And yet, this lad has been weaned on my Sunshine Swirl Youth Tonic since he first was at his mother’s side. You will now see how this marvelous elixir has given him abilities unlike any other. You will be amazed, he pronounced firmly. He turned toward the boy. Go ahead! he called.

The crowd fell silent, every eye trained on the boy atop the horses. He held his arms straight out to either side for balance, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, then stepped to one side. He now stood entirely on the back of the horse on the left. Eyes trained on the crowd, the boy crouched low, knees nearly touching his chin. A second passed, then another. Then, the boy leapt high into the air and flipped over backwards, hat tumbling from his head as he hurtled toward the ground upside down. At the last moment, the boy twisted and righted himself, his feet hitting the ground with a thud as he landed.

The crowd gasped, then burst into wild applause. The boy grinned and bowed, then clambered back onto the wagon, where he wiped his forehead with a rag.

Beauregard Thompson stepped into view again. Now that you’ve seen what this tonic can do, who might be brave enough to purchase a bottle? he called out. Who will have the courage, the gumption, to experience the invigorating effects of this magical brew? Then, his gaze fell square on me. What about you, young man? Might you be ready to take the step into manhood?

Chapter Two

The crowd swayed nervously and glanced at one another. I took a step forward, then another, unable to stop myself. Was this the moment? Something was happening, that was for sure. But why was I stepping up for a rejuvenating tonic? I was young already, and I hadn’t lived long enough to experience struggles with rheumatism, or any other similar condition. Still, I edged forward, all manner of scenes from Dead-Eye Dan swimming before my eyes.

Just as I reached the front of the crowd, a man in a black suit pushed past me. At his approach, Beauregard Thompson beamed. A brave soul, he called out, pulling the man toward him. Thompson reached into a crate on the wagon and pulled out a thick brown bottle. It is as I suspected. Rattlesnake Junction, Colorado, has more than its share of brave souls eager to better themselves. Now what may I call you, brave soul?

Theodore, the man said.

Dr. Thompson held the bottle toward the man, who took a deep breath. Instantly, he recoiled and began coughing. Dr. Thompson pulled the bottle away.

Now Theodore, he said, your reaction to this tonic might be strong, but let me remind you—cod liver oil, milk of magnesia, they aren’t much to smell either, are they? But, oh, the trust we invest in those elixirs! The tonic I hold here has the bona-fide stamp of approval of a dozen doctors from Colorado clear to the Mississippi River. It’s an all-natural, original recipe that tastes like sunshine. Guaranteed to please, or your money back. He leaned toward the crowd and winked. That’s a lifetime guarantee. Now, how many bottles will you be taking home today?

He held out the bottle again, and the man in the hat shrugged his shoulders. But instead of holding out money, the man snatched the bottle from Dr. Beauregard Thompson’s hand, uncorked it, and guzzled a long swig.

Dr. Thompson’s eyes widened. He had obviously not been prepared for anyone to actually drink the product.

A hush spread over the crowd, every eye fixed on brave Theodore. Dr. Beauregard J. Thompson began to look a little concerned. He turned and signaled to the boy, who immediately began straightening items in the back of the wagon.

Meanwhile, Theodore lowered the bottle and swiped a hand across his mouth. More breathless anticipation. Then— and I could hardly believe what I was seeing—Theodore’s chest appeared to swell, his shoulders broadened, and he appeared to grow an inch—or two! —in front of our very eyes. Was it an illusion? The crowd gasped and took a collective step backward. What a change was here! We waited for what would happen next.

There was another change, but not what I expected. Theodore grimaced and belched once, loudly. Then, a second time. Even louder. Both hands shot down to his guts, and he dropped the bottle. It shattered on the ground, spraying brown liquid over the shoe-tops of those in the front row.

The crowd gasped again. Theodore, whose expression might have been described as murderous, had he not been occupied with the mighty adventure taking place in his nether regions, twitched. He belched again, then raced up the steps into the general store. We all watched as the front door clattered shut behind him.

Another hush settled over the crowd. Then, the silence exploded with a collection of our handiest frontier insults.

You’re a quack, Thompson! a woman in front of me shouted.

Nothing but a charlatan, came the cry from a man behind me.

There was another shout from behind me, something to do with the devil. Thompson—whose credibility as a doctor I was beginning to seriously doubt—ducked as a collection of produce sailed over his head and splattered against the neatly-lettered white sheet.

Well, folks, I’ll take that as a ‘we’ll-think-about-it,’ Thompson called out from the back of the wagon. I thank you for your time, and we’ll see you later. Take care!

With that, Beauregard Thompson leaped onto the wagon seat and drew up the reins. Without a backward glance, he snapped the reins and whizzed down South Street. His getaway had been so abrupt, however, that the boy was left standing in the middle of the street, holding the final crate he had been loading onto the wagon. His eyes widened as his only ride out of town left him in the dust.

Though in other towns, that might have been the end of it, we Junctionites were particularly vengeful. A whole passel of folks turned and raced after the fleeing wagon. The vegetables continued to fly and quite a few stray dogs joined the mob. I could feel them nipping at my heels, snapping up stray tomatoes, and weaving in and out of my path as we pursued the wagon for a good half mile out of town. I didn’t really know why I was running, but it sure felt good to be a part of the action for a change.

Finally, as Dr. Thompson’s wagon rattled across the bridge over Rattlesnake Creek, the crowd lost its zip and folks began to drift away. Only when the wagon was gone from sight amongst the trees did I stop running entirely. I shook my head and turned to trudge back to town. I was buzzing inside at having an actual story to tell, but wondering who I might tell it to. I had still yet to muster the gumption for anything resembling a career in mischief. Remember Dead-Eye Dan?

It was only when I arrived at my front gate that I was struck by the keen memory of the molasses I was supposed to be bringing home. At the same time, I was surprised by a voice I couldn’t quite locate.

Psst. Over here. The voice was coming from the shadows under our porch.

I’m not sure what possessed me to creep closer, but I did. Perhaps those Dead-Eye Dan stories had been working on me more than I thought. I ducked down and discovered a boy about my age, tall and reedy like a stalk of wheat, with a shock of red hair. A wooden crate sat on the ground beside him. His eyes shifted nervously between me and the town square in the distance. Wait a minute—red hair, faded corduroy overalls, buckskin coat?

Hold on a second. You were up on the wagon with that quack doctor. He left you behind, I said.

The boy unfolded himself from under the porch and thrust out his hand. Tumbleweed Thompson, he said. Brave adventurer, high plains drifter, and erstwhile gold miner. He leaned closer and cocked one eyebrow. What’s yours?

Um…Eugene Appleton.

Pleased to meet you, Eugene. Pardon the interruption, but I’m looking for a good hiding spot until the fire dies down. Catch my meaning? He gestured to the crate. You mind if I sit here a spell until Pa comes back for me?

I gaped. Hide out? My eyes swung to the front door, picturing the hickory switch lurking just beyond it. Uh…yeah, but not here.

Why not?

How about we go down the street?

Oh, I get it, he said. You’re a skeptic.

No, that’s not it. The front curtain rustled, and I saw Ma’s face appear in the window. I could feel the moment slipping away. But instead of starting up the steps, I waited. Maybe it was because of the remarkable backflip I had just seen him perform. Or maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the voice of Dead-Eye Dan calling to me.

Pay no mind to all that back there. Some folks ain’t got a strong enough constitution for our tonic. He flashed a freckled grin, I think you’re scared of what might happen if you take a swig. Afraid of a little adventure, are ya? He leaned forward and jabbed me in the chest. Are ya yellow-bellied?

No way. I ain’t yellow-bellied, I said.

He plucked a bottle from the crate. Then go on, he said, uncorking the bottle and holding it out. Take a swig. Prove you’re not a chicken.

Well that did it. Nobody called Eugene Appleton a chicken. Well, some did, but that’s another matter. I surely wasn’t going to stand for it now. I snatched the bottle and brought it close.

Suddenly, from over my shoulder, a voice broke the spell.

Eugene Cornelius Appleton, whatever kept you? I’ve got dough in the mixing bowl, and those cookies aren’t going to bake themselves. Give me that molasses.

Tumbleweed vanished into the bushes, and my jaw flopped open as I turned toward the porch. I could only watch with a mixture of curiosity and horror as Ma stomped down the steps. She yanked the bottle out of my hand, turned and disappeared into the house.

As the door slammed, I could hear the excited chatter of a group of women whose afternoon-long wish for Ruth Appleton’s prize-winning ginger snap cookies was about to be fulfilled.

With one distinct alteration to the recipe.

The rest of the afternoon pretty much took care of itself. Suffice it to say there was quite a path beaten to and from our outhouse that afternoon. I believe all twelve women made use of the facilities.

Repeatedly.

Ma and Pa went snooping and quickly put together what had happened that Saturday afternoon. Ma could summon no compassion for the devious scheme of Dr. Beauregard Thompson, but the thought of a school-aged boy like Tumbleweed caught up in the unfortunate influence of a lost soul was another story. Her decision to pour out every last bottle in that crate was her way of nudging the tonic salesman toward more honest work.

Over the weeks that followed, I found myself wishing for a good swig of that tonic in the hopes it might drown out the sting of the hickory switch. We’d become reacquainted in a hurry. I still couldn’t bring myself to feel regret for what happened that afternoon. Of course, if I’d have played it safe, I might not have seen Tumbleweed again. And what happened with the keelboat and the raccoon, and what happened after that with the outlaws, would never have come to pass. But there’s time enough to tell all that.

PART 2

The Popping Pepper

The night was cold. So was his fear.

A shiver ran down Dead-Eye Dan Crowley’s spine. The only sounds were the thumping of his heart and the lonely howl of a wild coyote. He knew the one thing more terrifying than a night in Ezekiel’s Canyon hot

Reviews for The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

[Rina Fradette · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A highly entertaining story for all ages! This story has everything a person wants in a good tale & is told in such a way that you can't put it down. It has become a family favourite that we never tire of.