I could hear the sound of shoveled dirt being piled on dry leaves. I checked my watch. It was two-forty-five. I’d been watching this man for about thirty minutes.
What could he be looking for? The idea of stealing from the dead disgusted me. I had to stop this.
The half-moon slid behind thick clouds. In the sudden darkness, I couldn’t see what was happening, but I heard grunts and groans from the man as if he were tugging or lifting something cumbersome. A heavy thud indicated something large fell to the ground. The man muttered a muffled curse. After more grunting and clumsy footsteps, he moved away.
Keeping low, I inched forward. When the clouds moved and the moon’s glow returned, I saw the man straighten a headstone and pick up the shovel.
I edged back where a large boulder blocked his view. I had to do something to stop this evil man.
I moved toward the man in the graveyard. I scooped up several rocks, the size of eggs.
The man was stomping the dirt around a headstone. He stopped and looked around, holding his hands around his eyes, apparently to get a better view his surroundings.
As if I was trying to throw a runner out headed to home plate from center field, I hurtled a rock to the right of the grave robber. It hit a tree trunk.
The man turned and froze in place.
I lofted a second rock to the man’s left. It stuck a gravestone marker with a sharp retort. Frantically, the man turned in circles. I lobbed a third rock over the man’s head. The man twisted around, searching for the cause of the threatening noises.
I ducked behind a boulder and I sort of cleared my throat. I was plenty nervous as I aimed my big flashlight at the stranger and turned it on. Using my deepest voice, I yelled, “HE’S RIGHT OVER THERE, SHERIFF. IN THE GRAVE YARD.”
That man started running and stumbling and cursing as he headed the opposite way from where I was hiding. I could hear him falling down and tripping over bushes and fallen tree trunks. I could hardly wait to tell the others.
Chapter 26: Not a Dream
After my return from Boot Hill, Mary, Carlos, 3J, and I talked into the early morning hours. They had no idea who the grave robber could be. What would motivate a person to rob graves?
“You should have seen him,” I told the gang. “I didn’t think a big bruiser like that could run so fast. I heard him fall at least three times.”
Mary laughed quietly. She wanted to rehash the incident, but her eyes wouldn’t stay open.
Finally, fatigue outmatched the group’s excitement, and we all crawled into our sleeping bags and drifted into a heavy sleep.
Hours later, I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Mary, Carlos, and 3J were up tending to the horses. I crawled out of the tent, stretched, scratched my head, and pulled the bill of my baseball cap down to shade my eyes. I paced nervously as I surveyed the area. I could see the ghost town below and imagined how the town would have looked when William Kayne rode in on that fateful day in 1873. Unpainted buildings behind an elevated wooden sidewalk. Bearded men in dark clothing wearing six-shooters on their hips, and women in long full dresses. Dusty, dirt streets with hitching rails in front of the shops. Horseback riders and men driving horse and wagons going about their daily business. Swinging bar room doors welcoming cowboys and gamblers into dark interiors. The vision seemed so clear to me.
Because of my adventure with the intruder at Boot Hill, I didn’t get much sleep. Yet, I felt rested, having slept later than the others, thanks in part to the shade of the massive Hanging Tree.
I watched Mary, 3J, and Carlos climb the hill toward me.
Mary and 3J were holding hands. They were all laughing. I guessed they were discussing the events of the previous night.
By nine o’clock, it was bright but still cool as the sun began to warm the day. I pulled my Iowa Hawkeye sweatshirt over my head. A gentle breeze blew through the trees. The long dry grass moved back and forth like golden waves on a sandy beach. I looked down into the valley where Dry Gulch once stood. An eerie feeling of isolation and solitude came over me. Not a sound of civilization could be heard. No voices other than our own. This was how it must have been many years ago, I thought. Riding the West. Quiet and peaceful, yet dangerous, as William Kayne had discovered.
# # # # #
Mary and I rode side by side on the overgrown path leading away from Boot Hill.
“William’s marker was kinda harsh,” I commented. “Murderer.”
“Remember, he was convicted of murdering the sheriff. The town’s folks probably wanted everyone who saw his grave to know what he was. The sheriff was very popular,” said Mary.
“He was probably lucky to have a marker at all.”
“How did you know where to look?” asked Mary. “And don’t give me that tree nonsense.”
“Yeah,” yelled Carlos from behind. “How did you know?”
I thought about how to answer. Who would believe me? I already had a reputation for exaggeration, and if I said the Hanging Tree, it would just get worse. But I did learn it from the tree, didn’t I?
“Well, are you going to tell us?” asked 3J.
“It wasn’t that hard,” I finally said. “I… I mean, haven’t you guys ever seen Western movies? All those Western towns had a ‘boot hill’ and the bad guys were buried in the corner away from the good citizens. William was considered a bad guy and had no relatives here. I was just lucky to guess the right one.”
“I’ve heard of lucky guys before, but if I knew you were this lucky, we’d have had you play the shell game at the Old West Days,” said 3J.
As we rode in silence, Mary eyed me. Finally she said, “You know, I think it’s easier for me to believe the tree story than it is to believe this incredible luck you’re having.”
I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.
3J riding Thunder led Carlos, Mary, and me out of Dry Gulch. The horses climbed carefully up the rocky path.
At the top of the hill, as we passed the Hanging Tree, I whispered, “Thanks.”
A gust of wind lifted my baseball cap, spun it around, and dropped it back on my head, visor facing backwards.
Chapter 27: Asking for Help
“We don’t even know where Sheriff Dell was when he got shot, do we?” Mary asked.
She and I sat sprawled in the living room of Uncle Armando’s old converted firehouse.
I pulled my baseball cap off and scratched my head. “Let me think… wait, I remember. The professor said the shootout took place at a cave. All we have to do is find it.”
“If we can. There’s probably a ton of caves around here, plus it was over eighty or so years ago,” said Mary. “But, maybe Carlos or Uncle Armando knows where the cave is.”
“We’ll ask when they come home,” I said.
A few minutes later, Carlos sauntered into the room, an envelope in his hand.
“Scooter, did you see this letter that came for you?” asked Carlos.
“No, who is it from?”
“It doesn’t say.” Carlos reached out. “Here.”
I looked at the letter and studied the ordinary white envelope with my name and Carlos’s address printed in block letters. The postmark read Angel’s Camp, California, a town not far from New Dry Gulch. No return address.
“Strange,” I said as I slid my finger under the envelope flap and removed the letter.
“Who is it from? What does it say?” asked Mary.
"It’s like some sort of riddle. You know, from magazines or advertisements or something. Look!
“It’s signed ‘A. Friend,’” I said.
“What does it mean?” Carlos looked at his cousins.
“Mary, you’re good at puzzles. What do you think?” I asked.
“Hum… the R U part is easy. That means ‘are you,’” said Mary. “The pictures are harder.”
“The first picture looks like a witch or ghost or something,” said 3J.
“And the second is a picture of a needle and thread,” said Carlos.
“Maybe
it means we are looking for a needle in a haystack,” I said. “But maybe that’s an Iowa expression.”
“How about the next picture of that funny looking man? If we figure that out maybe the needle and thread will make sense,” said Mary.
“Looks like my history teacher,” 3J laughed.
“He sure has a big nose,” I said. “Then there is that ‘sy’ after it.”
“I’ve got it,” said Mary. “The first picture isn’t a ghost or a witch. It’s the letter ‘Y.’ ‘Why are you… something… something… sy?’”
“Yeah, good,” I said. “But what does the needle and thread mean?”
“What about the rest of it,” said Carlos. “It looks like a rope and a safe and some sheep.”
Mary stared at the sheet of paper in silence. She twisted her long hair with her index finger. “Okay, I’ve figured it out. How about you guys?”
“Not yet. Probably some kid playing a trick on us,” I suggested.
“But what does it mean?” asked Carlos.
“Think about it,” said Mary smugly. “You’ll get it.”
“I give up,” said Carlos.
3J and I gave up too.
“Okay,” said Mary. “The first part says ‘Why are you so nosey.’ And the rest says ‘Knot safe 4 ewe.’ Get it? Sheep are sometimes called ewes, so the ending says, ‘not safe for you.’”
“Pretty clever,” said Carlos.
Mary studied the note and said, “The question is, is this a threat, a warning, or just a joke?”
“I think we should keep this to ourselves. You know how adults are,” I said. “Agreed?”
Carlos and 3J nodded their heads.
“For now,” said Mary. “I agree, but just for now.”
# # # # #
When Uncle Armando returned home, I asked him if he knew where the shootout took place. “It happened in a cave,” I told him.
Uncle Armando thought for a moment, then said, “Not a clue. I guess I never heard that part of the story before. In a cave, you say. Hmm… we have some old mine shafts, but I don’t know of any caves, not any big ones anyway.”
“Nuts,” I said. “There goes that idea. I guess we need a plan B.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Mrs. Miller called from the kitchen.
Mary and I joined Uncle Armando at the dining table as Carlos entered the room.
“What’s for dinner, Mrs. Miller?” Carlos grinned in anticipation of her answer.
“Your favorite,” Mrs. Miller said. “Rattlesnake stew.”
Mary and I looked at each other. “Rattlesnake stew?” we said in unison.
“It’s really good. Don’t you have that in Iowa?” asked Carlos.
“Heck no,” I said. “We don’t even have garter snake stew.”
Uncle Armando, Carlos, and even Mrs. Miller burst out in laughter.
“We’re just kidding you.” Uncle Armando smiled at us young Iowans. “We’re really having chicken stew, which tastes very much like rattlesnake stew.”
Hmm, I thought. If rattlesnake stew tastes like chicken stew, how do I know which one I’m eating?
As I picked around the meat in this stew, I asked Uncle Armando, “Do you have any idea how we can find out about the cave?”
Uncle Armando swallowed a mouthful of stew, then replied, “Well, you may want to try the library. But that sheriff was shot more than eighty years ago. I doubt it they have any news articles from that far back. And there’s the county clerk, Fletcher Tibbs. He’s sort of the unofficial historian around here. He’s a little kooky, but kind of an interesting guy.”
“Kooky?” I asked.
“Yes. You may have seen him. He dresses like he’s living in the 1850’s and has a big bushy beard. He likes antiques and old coins—in fact, he has a little coin shop. He lives on a hill at the edge of town in a big old house by himself. I guess it isn’t fair to call him kooky, but he is definitely the most superstitious man I’ve ever met.”
“He sounds like a good one for us to talk to,” I said.
“Do you think Dr. Jones might know about caves?” asked Carlos.
“He might,” said Uncle Armando. “I’ll ask him.”
Chapter 28: The Newspaper Article
“I need a couple of things from the store, Carlos,” Mrs. Miller said as she stood in the kitchen viewing the contents of the pantry. “I’ll make a list.”
“Anyone want to go with me?” Carlos asked.
“Sure, I’ll go,” I said.
“You guys go ahead. I’ll meet you there in a little while,” said Mary.
“Okay,” said Carlos. “See you later.”
Carlos grabbed a backpack and followed me down the fire pole into the garage. We retrieved the bikes, and then headed down the hill to Glotz Grocery.
At the store, we leant our bikes against the building. Carlos picked up a basket inside and checked his list. “Lunch meat, bread, mustard, salad mix, and cookies of choice,” he read.
“What kind of cookies do you and Mary like?” Carlos asked.
“Chocolate chip,” I said, even though Mary preferred oatmeal.
After Carlos picked up all the items, he placed them next to the old brass cash register.
“Hi, Carlos. Will this be all for you today?” A tall, slim woman dressed in old-fashioned clothes looked at Carlos.
“Nope, I forgot the mustard.” Carlos turned to go back, then stopped and said, “Mrs. Glotz, have you met my cousin, Scooter. He’s visiting from Iowa. Be right back.” Carlos then headed to the back of the store.
“Hi Scooter. Welcome to New Dry Gulch. I hear your sister is here as well.”
“Thanks. Mary is at the house. I think she’s coming down in a few minutes.”
“Good. I’d like to meet her, too.”
Mrs. Glotz moved away to help another customer. I eased over to the historical display case on the wall.
There it was, right in front of me, the newspaper article dated July 21, 1873. I slapped myself on the forehead. Kemo Kelly never would have forgotten this. I moved closer and studied the clipping.
‘With astounding speed, Deputy Jeremiah Glotz arrested the man believed to be the infamous ’Faceless Bandit’ yesterday. The suspect, a stranger in Dry Gulch, was captured without resistance at the Gold Nugget Saloon around four o’clock. He appeared stunned by his arrest.
’Local citizens praised Deputy Glotz for his prompt action, ending the string of robberies that has plagued the area for several years. Approximately twenty banks and businesses were robbed during that time. The stolen gold and silver coins have not been recovered.
’The elusive bandit timed his activities when Sheriff Dell and most of his deputies were out of the area. The sheriff intended to be away on the day in question, but had a last-minute change of plans. Once the robbery of Kaplan’s General Merchandise and Grocery store was reported, Sheriff Dell pursued the desperado south of town through the rocky pass southeast of the Old Irish Mine.
’At some point in the chase, Sheriff Dell lost track of the suspect, but later cornered him in Prospectors Canyon. A shootout followed leaving Sheriff Dell dead…
‘…Deputy Jeremiah Glotz, who took charge of the investigation and tracked down the suspect within days, said, ’I’ve captured a very dangerous man… I was suspicious of him the minute I saw him… I’ve made this town safe for all law-abiding folks… I will make sure we have quick and proper justice…’
‘After the arrest, Rancher Kelly Muldoon joked with Deputy Glotz that he had made the arrest even though he didn’t have his badge. The Deputy was heard saying, “I don’t need no stinkin’ badge to arrest a murderer”.’
I looked over at the old ‘tintype’ photograph next to the newspaper article. Sure enough, there stood Deputy Jeremiah Glotz with his prisoner. Glotz wasn’t wearing a badge.
An uneasy feeling came over me. I stood motionless, trying to understand its meaning. I sniffed the air—a sweet scent like flowers. I heard a soft swishing sound, someone mov
ing quietly toward me. I turned.
“Neat pictures, huh?” Peggy Glotz tilted her head coyly.
I gulped hard, my face turned red. “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Very interesting.”
Peggy pushed up the sleeves of her long, starched, olive-colored dress. All the store employees wore similar costumes. I tried to be cool as I took in her bright blue eyes and long brown hair. Probably eleven, I thought, maybe eleven and a half.
Peggy leaned against her closed parasol. “That’s my great-great-granddaddy. He was the Deputy Sheriff back in the olden days.” She smiled at me. “I hear you are investigating some old hanging or something like a detective or sheriff or something. Is that true? My stupid brother says your great-great-granddaddy murdered the sheriff and was a robber.”
“I’m a P.I., sort of a detective. I’m always working on some mystery. Who knows, maybe your brother is right. I’m just trying to find out for sure.”
Her blue eyes looked directly into mine. “Maybe I could help. Would you like to see more pictures and stuff? They’re in the storeroom.”
“Sure, that would be great.” I followed her to the back of the store.
She pushed open a heavy wooden door and let it close behind us. One small window allowed scant light into the dark storeroom. Peggy looked at me like no other girl had ever looked at me. She reached for my hand. I really didn’t know what to do.
“Come here,” she said leading me behind a tall shelf loaded with boxes.
I was more than a little uncomfortable as Peggy held on to my hand. I had seen Kemo Kelly, my TV detective idol, get important information from girls, and I thought more pictures could prove useful so I didn’t pull my hand away. Of course, those pictures could prove my great-great-grandfather was a thief and murderer.
In a dark aisle, surrounded by ceiling high shelves, Peggy turned and faced me. She stood close and finally let go of my hand. “We have a box, or two around here somewhere.”
I got a whiff of something that smelled sweet as Peggy brushed past. My hands began to sweat.
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