I pointed, “Is that Boot Hill?”
“It’s the hill to the left of that big boulder,” said 3J.
“Let’s ride over there and see what we find,” I suggested.
“Honestly, Scooter. What is it with you and cemeteries? What do you expect to find?” asked Mary.
“I wonder if we can find the old sheriff’s grave as well as our great-great grandfather’s.”
The horses trod slowly down the path that used to be the main street and past a stone wall that had once been part of a building. A rocky trail led across the flat land. Cross trails marked where streets used to be. Rusty buckets, wagon wheels, weather worn burned wooden planks scattered about, showed traces of the town that had disappeared so many years ago.
“It’s pretty here,” said Mary. “The mountain peaks in the distance, the peacefulness of the valley, the clean, fresh air. It must have been a wonderful place to live.”
“And die,” said Carlos. “This is Boot Hill.”
We climbed off the horses and wrapped the reins around an old cemetery fence post.
“I don’t know what I expected, but it sure wasn’t this,” I said. The area was filled with scrub brush, and other than an occasional fence post, there was nothing to designate a cemetery. “I thought the headstones would be neater and all standing.”
“Me too,” said Mary. “Of course, with the town burning down in 1910 or whenever, I guess we should have expected this.”
“There are headstones,” said 3J. “If you walk through there, you’ll find some. Of course, most have fallen over. Many of the markers are faded and hard to read.”
We climbed a gradual hill into the cemetery, where a few shaggy pine trees struggled for survival. Clumps of undergrowth with areas of bare earth and stone separated gravesites. The air was as still as the souls resting in the graves.
Spreading out in different directions, we explored the graveyard.
“Here’s one,” I said as I lifted a worn, white marker.
“What does it say?” asked Mary.
“It says, ‘R.I.P. To the memory of Zerelda Rentschler, beloved daughter of Fred and Trisa Rentschler, who departed this earth on 5 April 1871, born 29 September 1867, age three years six months six days.’”
“How sad. Not even four years old,” said Mary.
“In the old days, diseases spread through towns like crazy. Doctors didn’t have the medicine they have now, so sometimes families lost two or three children within months,” said 3J.
“Here’s another one,” I said. I bent down and brushed the dirt away from the marker. “It’s kinda hard to read, but I think it says, ‘John T. Husokowski, 1838–1860. Second Best Gun Fighter.’ What do you suppose that means?”
“I’d guess that means he got into a gun fight with the best gun fighter and lost in 1860,” said Carlos.
“Those must have been hard times,” said Mary. “The movies always make it look exciting, but with all the disease and the gun fights going on back then, it makes me glad I’m living now.”
“I wonder if we can find Sheriff Dell’s grave.” I brushed past several more markers.
“Who is Sheriff Dell?” asked Mary.
“Who was Sheriff Dell,” I corrected. “He was the man our great-great-grandfather was accused of killing.”
“How do you know his name?” asked Mary.
“Well, I… I… well, um… I just do. I must have read it somewhere,” I said. I didn’t want to tell Mary in front of Carlos and 3J that I’d learned it (or dreamt it) from the Hanging Tree. In fact, I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to tell Mary at all.
I turned and looked back at the trail we’d just traveled. At the top of the hill stood the Hanging Tree. I pulled the visor of my baseball cap lower to block the sun, cupped my hands around the visor, and stared at the tree. Give me a sign, I thought, so I know this is not a dream.
Not a wisp of a breeze. Not even a sound from birds. Only the sound of 3J, Carlos, and Mary tromping around the graveyard.
“Here’s another one,” 3J called out. “It says, ‘William J. Zunkel, 1827–1873. Killed in a barroom brawl.’ Wow. I never saw this one before.”
Mary asked me, “Why do you think Sheriff Dell is buried here?”
“I’m not sure he is, but it would make sense.” I continued to stare at the Hanging Tree.
Even though the air was still, the leaves on the distant giant oak started to waver. I stared in disbelief. Was the Hanging Tree, or rather my great-great-grandfather, sending me a message?
“3J, is it always this still?” Mary moved closer to 3J. “I mean, there’s no breeze at all.”
“I never thought about it. Quiet as a grave, as they say, huh? It is kind of eerie, isn’t it?” I glanced again at the Hanging Tree. My mouth dropped open. I shook my head and stared at the tree again.
All the other trees and tall grass stood motionless, but the Hanging Tree leaned, as if being blown by a heavy wind. Were the leaves pointing?
I turned, “Hey, you guys. Look how windy it is on the top of the hill. See the Hanging Tree?”
Mary turned and looked up the hill. “It doesn’t seem windy to me.”
“Me either,” said 3J. “It’s as calm up there as it is down here.”
“Where are you looking?” Carlos scanned the area.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you all blind?” I said. I turned to check again.
The magnificent tree was leaning, almost like it was pointing.
“I think you better have your eyes checked when we get home,” said Mary.
“You don’t see the leaves moving?” I pointed. “Leaning that way?”
“You could have seen a gust of wind, I suppose,” suggested 3J.
I stood silent.
Mary, Carlos, and 3J turned back to study the graveyard some more.
“Here’s a broken headstone. Both parts are here, but it’s hard to read,” said Mary.
3J moved to Mary’s side. He stooped to read the headstone, brushing the dirt from the letters.
I glanced up the hill again. The tree leaned to the South, just as it had before. Without taking my eyes from the tree, I yelled, “Mary, 3J, Carlos. Look at the tree now!”
They stood and looked at the distant hilltop. “Honestly, Scooter. I think you’re going bonkers,” said Mary.
I couldn’t believe it myself. I rubbed my eyes. The tree leaves continued to flutter, yet my companions couldn’t see it. What did the ghost tell me? That I was his last hope? Was William Kayne trying to point the way to the sheriff’s grave?
Mary and 3J moved away from me, up the small incline of Boot Hill. They stopped by a broken headstone.
“Maybe I can make it out,” said Mary, “I think it says ‘R.I.P. Gay Carter, Native of Ohio.’ I can’t quite read the rest.”
3J brushed away the dirt. “I believe it says, ‘She lived by the Golden Rule. 1851–1888.’”
“It doesn’t seem like they lived very long,” said Mary. “What does R.I.P. mean? This is the third time we’ve seen it.”
Carlos came over to take a look. “It means to let the soul rest in peace. I’ve heard souls can’t rest if they died by violent means, or by accident early in life. That’s where ghost stories come from.”
Chapter 23: The Discovery
“Do you believe in ghosts?” asked Mary.
“No, I think it’s just something grownups tell us kids to scare us. How about you? What do you think about ghosts?” asked 3J.
“Well, I don’t know.” Carlos’ voice was tentative. “I’ve heard of strange things happening that could have been from ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in them,” said Mary. “I’ve never even known anyone who knew anything about a ghost.”
I pretended not to hear 3J ask Mary, “What does Scooter think?”
“No one could ever convince Scooter that there are ghosts. He thinks that it is all make believe.”
She would soon learn differently.
“
We should start back,” said 3J. “We need to finish setting up camp for the night.”
“I’m ready,” said Mary. She turned toward me and shouted, “Scooter, are you ready to go?”
“No, hang on a minute. I want to check something out.”
I walked to my left, trying to read names on the gravestones. I turned over markers lying face down, brushed away the dirt, then shook my head and moved on. I looked back up the hill. The Hanging Tree was bending as before, but this time I said nothing to the others. If this was going to be just between the tree and myself, so be it. I continued to move left.
I saw Mary look up the hill. The tree was leaning, almost pulsating, like a moving arrow sign at a county fair attraction. Mary made no comment. So that was it. Only I see it.
I continued to move in the direction the tree pointed. I could see rows of graves, and there was an order in the arrangement. The tree was still fluttering toward the South. I moved over two more aisles.
Like a baseball batter at the plate, I checked for instructions, but not from the third base coach. Squinting and holding my hand to my visor, I stared at the tree.
The tree was still. The leaves limp. I wondered, what does that mean? Am I at the right spot now?
I continued to gaze at the tree. Once again, the leaves were swirling, but this time the tree bent away from me, toward the East.
I nodded. I understood. Or I thought I did. I moved East across one aisle, then another, keeping my eyes on the tree. The strength of the wind blowing the leaves was visible, yet I didn’t feel a breeze. I moved past two more rows.
I didn’t read the headstones. I watched—waited for a signal. Then it came. The tree straightened, the leaves hung limp. No movement of any kind. Was there more? I watched and waited. No further signs.
“Scooter, let’s go,” said Mary impatiently.
“Hang on. I’ll be with you in a minute.” I continued to stare at the tree. No movement, nothing, nada, zip.
I looked down. To my left was the outline of a gravesite bordered by weather-worn redwood. The corner posts had rotted away. A limestone marker lay face down on the rocky soil.
My heart was pounding as I approached the stone and tried to lift it. It was heavy, but with effort I pulled it up and propped it against the wooden border rail. The lettering was filled with dirt and mud.
“Hey, you guys,” I called. “Bring some water over here. I think I found an interesting one.”
3J set his backpack down and pulled out a thermos of water. “I have an old rag. Do you want it?”
“Yeah, that might help,” I said.
I dampened the rag and began to wipe away the dirt and grime. The letters were remarkably clear, probably because the stone had been face down for so long.
Can you read it?" asked Mary.
I washed the rest of the dirt from the lettering. A shiver raced down my spine. Goose bumps covered my arms. “It says, ‘Sheriff Jesse Dell, 1835–1873, Murdered in the line of duty.’ Wow, and then they hung our great-great-grandfather.”
“What are you doing now, Scooter?” asked Carlos.
“While we’re here I want to check something else out.” I hopped over scrub brush in the abandoned cemetery and moved decisively toward a corner where there were no standing markers.
“What’s he looking for?” asked Carlos.
“I don’t know about that cousin of yours.” 3J shook his head.
Carlos, and 3J returned to their horses. Mary followed me.
I stepped carefully over the graves. I turned and looked up the hill at the Hanging Tree. Cupping my hands around the visor of my hat, I stood motionless, and then nodded as if in agreement.
I dropped my hands to my side and moved four paces to my left. Again, I checked the tree, then dropped to my knees and began to lift a heavy head stone. I struggled with it until it flopped over. I took off my sweatshirt and wiped away dirt and mud.
The color drained from my face. Again, goose bumps appeared on my arms.
Mary was observing me. “Scooter, are you all right?” said Mary.
I pointed at the headstone.
Mary moved over to the marker, grabbed my sweatshirt, and wiped away more dirt and read, “‘William Kayne, Murderer, 1849–1873.’”
Chapter 24: Scooter Confesses
With the horses unsaddled and settled, we plopped down on white nylon ground covers in front of the tents.
“What did Mrs. Miller pack for us to eat?” 3J began to dig into the basket of chips, Cheetos, sandwiches, peanut bags, drinks, cookies, and canned baked beans. “Looks like it’s peanut butter and jelly this time,” he said.
“Oh, oh,” said Mary. “Looks like a light meal for you, Scooter.”
“Why?” 3J looked up from the basket. “There’s plenty for everyone.”
“Scooter has arachibutyrophobia,” said Mary. “Can’t eat peanut butter.”
“I’ll just have some potato chips and some baked beans.” I held out my hand. 3J passed the basket to me.
“This place is beautiful.” Mary watched the descending sun. “I can see why people wanted to move west.”
When darkness set in, Mary and I crawled into one tent, Carlos followed 3J into the other.
I was tired but couldn’t sleep. I had to tell Mary.
“Mary,” I whispered, “You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Something strange happened today. I can hardly believe it myself. I’ll tell you, but I don’t want you tell 3J or Carlos, okay?”
“Sure, sure. What happened?”
“The Hanging Tree told… er… rather showed… well, not exactly showed, but pointed the way to the sheriff’s grave and also to William Kayne’s.”
Mary leaned on one elbow and stared at me. “A talking tree?” Mary frowned. “Give me a break.”
I faced my sister. “I never would have thought so either, until today. I think it is more accurate to call it a ‘haunted’ tree. And just because we never heard of a haunted or talking tree doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.”
“How did it show you?”
“The tree leaned in the direction I was supposed to go. I don’t know if it was a mysterious wind, or what.” The words sounded unconvincing, even to me.
“The tree leaned? That was the message you received?” Mary’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes, first in one direction, and then in another. That’s how I found the graves.”
Mary shook her head. “No way will I believe this one, Scooter. Remember, 3J and I looked at that tree and it was perfectly still.”
“I think the tree only talks to me.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Well, how else would you explain how I found the graves?” I asked.
“Blind luck?” Mary shrugged her shoulders. “You walked around, looked down, turned over some headstones, and there they were. You were just plain lucky.”
“I think it was more than luck. The tree told me exactly where to look.” I began to feel my confidence wane.
“Did the tree tell you it was William Kayne?” asked Mary.
“Well… not exactly. But it… He calls me Barthinius and said he… it wants me to help him,” I explained.
“Help him? Honestly, Scooter, sometimes I think you are completely nuts. How are you supposed to help him?” Mary shook her head and gave me a look that said you’ll never get me to believe this.
“He said he didn’t kill the sheriff and wants me to prove it. I’m going to need some help. After all, that is the real reason why we are here. Will you help me?”
“Well, I’ll go along with the crime solving idea, but just don’t ask me to believe that talking tree stuff.” Mary pulled the top of her sleeping bag up to her chin.
“Good. Thanks. The question is where do we start? I always ask myself where would Kemo Kelly start.”
“Scooter, that’s just a TV show.” Mary yawned. “But, okay, where would Kemo Kelly start?”
“He’d start at the scene of the cri
me. Of course, his cases aren’t over eighty years old,” I admitted. “We need to find where the shooting took place.”
Chapter 25: Following the Stranger
I looked at the luminous dial on my Timex watch. It was two-fifteen in the morning. The night was quiet. Even the air was still. Mary turned in her sleeping bag, letting out a soft sigh. I lay still. My eyes wide open. There it was again. A sound. Something or someone was moving through the darkness. It didn’t seem close by, maybe below the plateau where we were camping. Probably a deer.
I rolled over on my side, closed my eyes, and tried to sleep. Then I heard a branch snap, a sliding sound, and a muffled curse.
“That’s not a deer,” I mumbled to myself. I unzipped my sleeping bag, slipped on my shoes, and grabbed a large flashlight.
Outside the tent, I stood and listened. Not a sound from my fellow campers. Over the rise of the hill, I heard heavy footsteps crunching dry leaves and twigs. I moved toward the noise.
I used my best detective footwork, stepping lightly to avoid detection. At the edge of the hill, I saw a big, burly man, with a beard, wearing a western style hat, carrying a backpack and a long straight object. Maybe a rifle? I decided to follow the stranger.
Carefully climbing down the steep incline, I kept a safe distance behind the mysterious man. He moved quickly using a small flashlight to light the path. I stumbled over a branch. The stranger stopped, turned, and gazed in my direction.
I froze. The man cupped his hands around his ears, apparently listening for some clue. Minutes passed, feeling like hours to me. I could see the man, not clearly, but enough to know where he was. He seemed to be staring right at me.
Then the unknown visitor resumed his trek, occasionally stopping to glance over his shoulder, then moving ahead again. I ducked behind trees, rocks and bushes, staying as low to the ground as possible.
I was so intent on following the man and not being caught, I didn’t notice where he was headed.
Boot Hill.
He moved the long, narrow object from his shoulder and appeared to be searching for something in the graveyard.
A shovel, I thought. The man is a grave robber. How low can you get?
The Haunted Hanging Tree Page 6