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?”

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.

I jumped, sending my well-thumbed copy of the latest Dead- Eye Dan novel tumbling onto the floor. “Sorry, Ma,” I mumbled, nudging the book behind the counter with my foot.

She scowled. “If you spent a little less time on those dime novels of yours, you might see yourself make some advances in Miss Wimberly’s schoolroom.”

I nodded. How to explain it? Since the molasses mix-up a few weeks earlier, my daily supply of Dead-Eye Dan had increased to a frenzied level. It was Soul Itch—a restlessness which often found me at the edge of town, staring up in awe at the towering, snow-capped Rockies in the distance.

I blamed Tumbleweed. I began to imagine his red hair and reedy figure everywhere around town, the promise of adventure blowing in his wake. But as the days rolled on, I had yet to actually set eyes on him again.

On this particular Friday, the hot Colorado winds had brought a bank of thunderhead clouds which promised a whopper of a storm. Following the sewing circle’s digestive outburst, Ma had roped me into another of her social projects: providing quality reading material to the residents of Rattlesnake Junction. So while Ma hung curtains and measured for shelves in the corner of the Grubstake Hotel, I sneaked glimpses at my book and tried to scratch my Soul Itch with a heaping helping of Dead-Eye Dan.

I located the copy of Little Women. “Right here, Ma. Now d’ya think I could finish up?” I held my breath.

Ma sighed. “You’re so distracted, I suppose you’ll be no more use to me here anyway. She brushed a cobweb from her hair. “Home for supper, Eugene, you hear?”

I thrust the book at Ma, grabbed my satchel, and dashed across the lobby and down the front steps. A thousand scents whirled around me. Even the normally nauseating aromas of sawdust, horse manure, and sweat were all made glorious by the sheer fact that I was outside to smell them. I started down the front steps as if in a trance. The afternoon lay spread before me like a picnic lunch. I wandered along, feeling the pull of the San Pedro River’s cool blue water. Did I have time for a trip before supper? Instinctively, I drifted down the narrow alley beside the hotel, turning at the back of the building and pointing myself toward the river. I could almost imagine the sound of the swirling eddies, the spray of whitewater against my bare toes.

I hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when I froze. Up ahead, behind one of the other buildings, two men were engaged in a heated argument. One was Wendell Jenkins, the town barber. The other man, a total stranger, was as tall and thick in the shoulders as a mature oak, with a black bushy beard. He bent over Wendell, finger thrust in his face, eyes flashing. Though they were fifty paces or more away, I caught every one of the large man’s words.

“Don’t act all high and mighty, Silas,” he boomed. “You’ve heard what we came for, and we ain’t leaving until we get it. Are you in or are you out?”

I crept backward into the shadow of the hotel, listening intently. Wendell leaned forward and jabbed a finger back into the larger man’s chest. “You’ve already gotten your answer, Berger,” he said firmly. “And I ain’t afraid of you. Now get.”

The bearded man’s eyes widened, and he swatted Wendell’s finger aside. “We’ll be seeing each other before too long, Silas, don’t you worry about that,” he barked, “This is going to happen, with or without you.” He pushed past Wendell and vanished around the corner of the building. Wendell watched him leave, then re-tied the strings on his apron and walked the other direction, toward his barbershop, limping as he left.

With the coast clear, I let out a long breath. I wasn’t sure what I had just witnessed, but I was glad neither of the men had witnessed me witnessing them. I didn’t know much about Wendell, save the fact that he sat in the pew behind us in church each Sunday, and Ma kept his pockets filled with a regular supply of butterscotch discs. I had heard he was a Civil War veteran; maybe that was the source of his limp. He was a mild-mannered guy, and as far as I could tell, an upstanding member of society. None of that explained why he would be mixed up with a rough-looking character like the one he had called Berger. And why had Berger called him Silas?

After the conversation I had just witnessed, the alley suddenly seemed dangerous. I doubled back toward the town green and yanked out my shirttails, wandering up North Street past the rooming houses that provided temporary lodging for miners and other transients who drifted through Rattlesnake Junction until their luck ran out. The Rocky Mountain foothills were nearly in view as I passed in front of the last rooming house on the street. A voice caught my ear, raised in full-throated song:

A figure bent over a garbage bin beside the front steps of the rooming house, pulling items from the pile and stuffing them into a burlap sack strung over his shoulder. He wore denim overalls and a flannel shirt, shaggy red hair skirting the rim of his collar. Upon seeing me, the figure straightened up and tossed the sack jauntily over his shoulder.

“Sea shanty,” he said, grinning. As he did, I noticed a small gap between his front teeth which I hadn’t seen the last time.

Tumbleweed.

“Whaling song, to be exact. Picked it up in Nantucket a year or so back. Makes the work go faster.” He paused. “It’s Eugene, right?”

“Yup. What are you doing?” I asked.

“This is where they keep the garbage,” he said.

“I mean, what are you still doing here, in Rattlesnake Junction?”

“Pa decided he’s sick of getting rotten vegetables pelted at him every other week from the tonic business. So he shaved off the moustache and got himself work in the mines. Silver mining is as good a way to get rich as what we used to do. We’ve had plenty of odd jobs since Ma left.”

“Your Ma’s gone?”

He flushed slightly. “Yeah, but you don’t want to hear about all that.” He thrust a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got a room upstairs, and we’ll stay as long as the mine work is good. I’m raiding the garbage because Bingo has to eat, doesn’t she, Gene?”

“Bingo?”

“Dad found her last week on the way back from the mines. Gentle as a kitten. And loyal, too.” Tumbleweed crouched beside the steps and waved me to join him. I ducked down, the smell of garbage wafting from the burlap sack. There was a rustling in the darkness. Tumbleweed reached into the sack, drew out the gnawed remains of a tomato, and held it out. A burst of fur flashed into view and attached itself to the tomato. Tumbleweed released his grip, and a young raccoon was now visible, small paws wrapped around the fruit while its tiny teeth tore at the skin.

“Dainty, ain’t she? I think she was the runt of the litter,” he said, rubbing a knuckle against her jaw.

I edged backward. “Aren’t they nocturnal?”

“No, I think they’re some kind of rodent,” he said.

“I mean, don’t they only come out at night?”

“Oh. Nah, she’s fine. Go on,” he said, gesturing.

“You want me to pet her?” I asked.

“Sure.” He moved aside, and I reached out a hand. The raccoon lifted her head and studied me with two round eyes, a blob of juice dribbling from her furry chin. I ruffled the fur atop her head.

“Ha,” I said. “She’s kind of cute after all.”

Suddenly, Bingo raised a paw. Five claws appeared. Without warning, she wrapped her paws around my wrist and sank her needle-sharp teeth into the meat of my palm. I yelped and pulled my hand back, but Bingo hung on, letting out a long, slow yowl as she clung to me.

“She’s got you now,” Tumbleweed howled. “Love at first sight.”

“Get her off,” I cried. “I need this hand.”

“Don’t pull, whatever you do,” he said. “I said stop pulling, Gene. You’ve got to relax.”

“Then, what?” I asked. “What?” My palm throbbed.

Bingo appeared to be smirking, if that was even possible.

“Hurry!” I said.

Tumbleweed plunged his hand into his garbage sack and removed a strip of uncooked bacon. He dangled it in front of Bingo’s tiny black nose. She removed her teeth from my palm and raised her head to look at the bacon, paws still wrapped around my wrist. Tumbleweed lowered the bacon to the ground. Bingo’s eyes followed it. At last she released her grip on my arm and dropped to the ground.

“I told you she was loyal,” Tumbleweed said, snickering.

“Loyal?” I asked, nursing my wound. “She’s deadly.”

“Nothing of the sort,” he said. “Like I said, she likes you.” He brushed his hands on his overalls. “It’s okay, girl,” he said. “I’ll be back for you around supper time, okay?” Bingo leapt for Tumbleweed’s arm, grabbing hold of his shirtsleeve and yowling in despair. Tumbleweed patted her head again and pried her loose, dropping a morsel of bacon onto the ground beside her. She dragged the food back under the stairs, yowling one last time as she disappeared.

“Man, what a girl,” Tumbleweed said, standing and swinging his sack over his shoulder. “She’d follow me anywhere, I swear.”

“No kidding,” I said, flexing my hand.

“I’ve got to stash this,” Tumbleweed said. “Be right back.” He dashed up the stairs, slamming the front door behind him, and returned an instant later. “Now then,” he said. “Freedom.” He tossed an arm around my shoulder, and we sauntered toward the town green. “Tell me a tale, Eugene,” he said. “What sort of mischief have you found to occupy yourself of late?”

I wracked my brain for something juicy to impress him. “That molasses thing was sure terrific. I mean, my parents weren’t too happy about it—” I trailed off. Something in my gut told me bringing up my folks might lose whatever respect the incident had earned me. “I mean…what’s next?”

“Aha! I knew you were the right guy to come to. Fortunate indeed we crossed paths like we did,” he said, steering me onto the town green. “Because last night in Daisy’s, I took hold of a ripe nugget of information.” He gestured toward the Silver Dollar Saloon, mystery oozing from behind its swinging green doors. Instantly, I could picture Tumbleweed inside, surrounded by a clump of robbers with gold teeth and bandits with wooden legs, regaling them all with tales of his daring deeds.

I shivered and leaned closer. “A…nugget?” I asked. “Like what?”

“Smugglers,” Tumbleweed said. “Right here in Rattlesnake Junction.”

I nodded briskly, having heard no such thing.

“Jack said he heard from a reliable source there’s a gang of smugglers coming up the San Pedro tonight with barrels full of popping pepper bound for someplace north-a here.”

“Popping pepper?” I asked.

He cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? That’s smuggler slang for gunpowder. They stash the barrels full of popping pepper in the river, sealed up tight of course, leave them for the day, then come back at night to move them upriver, where they can catch the Colorado and hoist them out of state.”

“No way!” I said. “You just happened to hear about all this from a buddy at the saloon?”

“Tumbleweed Thompson has eyes and ears all over this town,” he said. “I figure we sneak down after dark, find where they’ve stowed the loot, crack open a barrel and fill up a couple of gunnysacks.” His blue eyes shone with excitement. “Then, we can have ourselves a real hootenanny.”

Immediately, my mind sprang to life with a half-dozen scenarios involving two gunnysacks full of gunpowder. Dead-Eye Dan once bested Anastasia “The Viper” Valparaiso, the most notorious female swindler in all of Kansas, by stuffing three jack o’ lanterns full of gunpowder, then lighting them and tossing the whole lot into her hideout. My mouth watered at the possibilities.

Tumbleweed cupped his hand and dipped it into the front pocket of his vest. When his hand emerged, a fine, black powder lay in the hollow.

“Gunpowder,” I whispered.

Tumbleweed nodded. “No doubt about it.”

I reached deep for words to suit the moment. “Wow,” I said.

“And there’s more where that came from,” Tumbleweed said. “Dakota Jack swore it to me.”

I was sold. “Now what?” I asked.

“Now, my fine fellow,” he continued, “we’ve just got to get ourselves to the dock on the San Pedro River, just down from Sczmanski’s place. You know the place?” I nodded. “That’s where the smugglers make their drops. We need to be there tonight before they come by to move it upriver.”

“Tonight?” I asked.

“Why, you have other plans?”

I glanced out across the town square. At midday, the town was at its peak. But the clatter of wagon wheels and the clang from the blacksmith’s shop floated over me like a cloud. I felt as weightless as a balloon, and just as free. “Nope,” I said.

“Splendid.”

“But…why me?” I asked.

“This town’s a little too quiet for my taste. Ever since me and Pa decided to hunker down here, I been looking for a fella with a thirst for adventure, ready to throw caution to the wind. A fella who’s got the right stuff.”

The right stuff. The words swept over me in a hot wind. As they did, I swear I almost heard an angelic choir of voices. Tumbleweed was looking for someone. And he had found me. Eugene Cornelius Appleton. Well that did it. It was destiny. I had no idea how, but come evening, I was bound for the San Pedro River and a date with some popping-pepper smugglers.

“Right,” I said, voice quivering slightly. “Then I’m your man.”

He smirked and slapped me on the shoulder. “Leave when the moon is right above the church steeple. We meet at the dock.” As he walked away, I could hear him whistling that sea shanty. I had to admit, it was mighty catchy.

There were many skills belonging to most twelve-year-old boys which I had never mastered. Sneaking out of the house was at the top of the list. It was, as it turned out, surprisingly easy. After Ma and Pa extinguished the final lamp in their bedroom, I leapt out of bed, fully dressed, and crept down the stairs. The moon gleamed a brilliant white as it hovered over the church steeple. I shivered despite the warmth of the evening, and started across town, my heart leaping around in my chest like a bullfrog. Soon, I stood under a clear patch of sky and the same gleaming moon on Sczmanski’s creaky dock.

There was a rustle in the bushes somewhere up the path, and Tumbleweed emerged. He had changed into a pair of dungaree pants, but was still wearing that faded flannel shirt. His face seemed to gleam darkly in the moonlight.

“What’s with the getup? Goin’ to church?” he asked, snickering at my librarian garb.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know what was the appropriate attire for burgling. What did you do to your face?”

“It’s so we blend in out here. I’ll give you some.” He pulled a small metal tin from his pocket, twisted off a lid, and scooped out something black and goopy. Before I could ask, he had smeared it across my forehead and cheeks. “Go on, rub it around,” he said. “It’s just boot black.”

I covered my face as best I could, then glanced at Tumbleweed. “How do I look?” I asked.

“Pretty as a picture. Who cares? We’re breaking the law. Now let’s go.”

“Fine,” I said.

He pointed downriver. “I saw light over there. We should check it out.”

He vanished behind a swath of bulrushes. Only then did I realize we had no lantern. Relying on a sliver of moonlight, I followed, my footsteps squishing in the mud. The wind whipped, sending the dry reeds chattering. Suddenly, Tumbleweed’s head popped out of the brush in front of me. He raised an arm and pointed.

I stopped cold.

We had rounded a bend in the path, with a clear view of the river. Less than fifty feet away, a long brown keelboat—single-decked and several dozen feet from stem to stern—drifted lazily in the water, tied to a stump with a thick length of rope. A narrow board was laid across the water as a sort of gangplank. On the deck of the boat, there was a single windowless cabin about halfway down the deck. Through the slats, I could see lantern light blazing from inside. The sound of men’s voices floated through the night air.

“Wait a minute,” I hissed. “You said—”

Tumbleweed turned toward me. “I reckon this changes things a bit,” he said.

“Changes things?” I asked. “I’d say so. Your inside information didn’t include a keelboat. Or the smugglers being on board.”

“But this has to be what Jack was talking about. These old shallow-bottom keelboats are perfect for smuggling stuff up and down these rivers.”

“You know this?” I asked.

“’Course I do. “We can work with this,” he said, a strange look passing over his face. It was a look I would come to know well, and occasionally fear: the feverish hatching of a hare-brained plan. His gaze fixed on the keelboat, he stared past me into the darkness. Finally, he grinned. “No problem,” he said. “Just a slight change of plans.” And with that, he dashed past me into the woods. I started to call after him, then thought better of it and followed.

Suddenly, Tumbleweed’s figure loomed up in front of me, and I stopped short. We whirled to stare at the boat from a further distance.

“Now,” Tumbleweed proclaimed, “they won’t be able to see us while we work up our plan.”

We crept deeper into the woods. As I ducked under a low-hanging cottonwood branch, I caught sight of a pile of junk a few paces away. Tumbleweed continued forward, but I slipped toward the pile. Under a large tarp were two identical stacks of wooden crates, piled more than a head higher than me, and a third stack covered by coils of rope and bundles of wire. The lid of the top crate was slightly askew. I slid it off, my eyes widening at what I saw.

“Eugene, git over here!”