“Here they are,” she said and pulled a large cardboard box off the shelf and placed it on the floor.
Inside the box were pictures, newspaper clippings, memorabilia, and some letters.
“Look at whatever you want,” she whispered. “I don’t really know all that is here.”
I sat on the floor, legs folded, with the open cardboard box. I sifted through old photos of unknown people and places. I was looking for something. I didn’t know what would add to my investigation.
Peggy, seeing my interest, pulled down another box and sat beside me and she, too, studied the contents. “A lot of stuff, huh?”
“Yeah.” I kept digging.
The storeroom was quiet except for our shuffling of items from the boxes.
“I haven’t seen anything useful yet,” I said as I gathered up the photos and papers and dropped them back in the box. I stood and reached for a third box.
“Hey, Scooter. Here’s something that might be interesting.”
I sat next to Peggy. Our knees touched.
Peggy handed me an envelope, yellowed with age. And then, an extraordinary thing happened. Something that had never happened to me before. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
I froze. My mind went blank. This was a new experience, but I didn’t want Peggy to know that. I wanted to be cool, but I felt hot and itchy. What was I supposed to do? Oh sure, I had seen Kemo Kelley on TV when he had been kissed by good-looking women, but he was a grownup. What’s a kid supposed to do?
“Peggy, Peggy. Where are you?” A voice came from the main part of the store.
“That’s my brother,” said Peggy. “I’ve got to go. Take the letter and whatever other stuff you want. Just get it back to me sometime. Put the boxes back. I’ll go out first. When you hear me say ‘ice cream’ you come out. I’ll see you at the counter.”
I stood like a paralyzed sloth, my mouth agape. “Uh, okay,” I stammered as I took the unread letter and some photographs and carefully placed them under my shirt, and then returned the boxes. Quickly, I moved toward the storeroom door. I opened it slightly and listened.
Peggy and her brother, Joe, were standing at the counter with a customer.
“Have you tried our new chocolate fudge ice cream, Mrs. Campbell?”
I peeked out to make sure the coast was clear, then wove slowly through the aisles from the back of the store to the checkout counter.
With her brother standing next to her, Peggy leaned closer to me. “So, how do you like New Dry Gulch?”
“Fine,” I grinned. “Better all the time.” Yes, I’m pretty cool, I thought.
Joe Glotz walked around from behind the counter. “Stay away from my sister, kid.” His eyes narrowed as he spoke to me. “I mean it.” Then turning to his sister, he said, “Let’s go, Piggy. It’s time to go home.”
“Mom said you’re not supposed to call me that, Joey. I’m telling.”
Peggy turned and sashayed toward the door.
From the open doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “See you later, Scooooter.” Opening her parasol, she giggled as she twirled it, then followed her big brother down Main Street.
Just as they left, Mary walked in laughing so hard she could barely stand up straight. She pointed at me. “Well, I was going to see if you wanted to go riding later today, but it looks like you have a girlfriend.”
“That’s not funny. Kemo Kelly says girls are for suckers.”
But I wondered. I patted the letter and photos under my shirt. Could Kemo be wrong this time?
Chapter 29: The Letter
That evening at the dinner table, I passed around the items Peggy had given me to Mary, Carlos, and Uncle Armando. We each examined the various items and showed one another things of interest. Many were photos of the Glotz family, we guessed, with some of lawmen and other distinguished individuals in the store. We laughed at the uncomfortable clothes the women had to wear and the beards some of the men had.
Mary looked at the yellowed envelope and carefully slid out the letter. It was a little brittle, but she was able to open it without damage. She suddenly became quiet as she read the contents. “Oh my gosh,” she said. "Listen to this…
’Dearest Susan,
I hope this letter finds you and our baby son in good health. I regret to tell you that I have some bad news. It is the worst news possible. Before I continue, however, I want to tell you how much I love you and how much you and young Barthinius mean to me. My time with you has been the happiest of my life. I mourn that I will not be able to watch our young son grow or be able to see you again.
’Yesterday, I was convicted of a crime I did not commit—murdering the Sheriff of Dry Gulch, California. To my knowledge, I never laid eyes on the man, but despite my protests and the fact that I couldn’t provide an alibi for the time of the killing, I was pronounced guilty. Someone planted the mask worn by the infamous Faceless Bandit in my saddlebag. On that evidence alone, I was sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. The sentence is to be carried out tomorrow, July 23, 1873 at 1:00 P.M.
’I believe I know who the murderer is, but I am unable to tell you. The Deputy Sheriff would not allow me to mail this to you if I did, and I wanted to tell you of this situation myself. My soul will be unable to rest in peace until my name has been cleared of this terrible injustice.
’Susan, you and Barthinius will be in my final thoughts on the morrow.
’Your loving husband,
William.’
“What could be worse than being hanged for a crime you didn’t commit?” said Mary. “And I believe him.”
“So, it’s true,” I said. “He wasn’t guilty.”
“That’s the missing letter. The Deputy must have never mailed it. William wanted his wife and family to believe he was innocent,” said Uncle Armando.
“We need to solve this mystery,” I said.
Chapter 30: Reluctant Agreement
“His honor, the mayor of New Dry Gulch, and his three brilliant advisors,” Chuck announced as Uncle Armando, Carlos, Mary and I entered Upchuck’s.
Cheers, laughter, and friendly boos accompanied us to our table near the front window where the sheriff was enjoying Upchuck’s mystery stew, a house specialty.
“Sheriff, may we join you?” asked Uncle Armando.
“Please do,” he gestured for us to pull out a chair.
“The County Clerk for all of Appaloosa County, and coin collector extraordinary,” announced Chuck, as a large, heavyset, bushy, bearded man entered the eatery. The large scar on his left cheek became flush as polite applause followed Chuck’s announcement.
“Back here, Fletcher.” A man waved from the rear of the restaurant.
I leaned over to Carlos and whispered, “Isn’t that the guy who was with the Glotz kid the other day?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s Fletcher Tibbs, the man I was telling you about. He’s the expert on our local history,” explained Uncle Armando.
“Sheriff, these kids had quite an adventure the other night.” Uncle Armando nodded to me. “Tell Sheriff Duncan the story.”
“When I got to the part where I aimed my flashlight on the man and yelled ‘He’s right over here, Sheriff’, he took off running, stumbling and cursing, away from where I was. It was scary, but also really kind of funny.” I had to chuckle as I thought about that big, clumsy oaf running away from a kid, falling down, tripping over logs, bushes and I guess grave stones as well. The sheriff was amused as he heard the details and the more he heard about it, the harder he laughed, giving away to a deep belly laugh until tears rolled down his cheeks. Soon we were all laughing.
Customers at nearby tables, overhearing the story, passed it along, and soon almost everyone in the restaurant roared with amusement.
When the chaos subsided, the sheriff turned to the kids. “On behalf of the Sheriff’s Department, thanks for scaring off that bum. Otherwise, I might not have had a good night’s sleep,” joked Sheriff Duncan.
“I don’t know, but we get a few strange people wandering through the hills. Someone writes a story about the 40,000 or so abandoned gold mines or lost coins, and up come the city folks with their fancy metal detectors trying to find a lost treasure. Some search late at night because they think they’re being followed and someone will steal their find.”
The sheriff turned to Armando. “Do you remember that guy a couple of years ago? He came up here with more equipment than the U.S. Army. Claimed he had a map where gold and silver coins were buried. Never found a thing.”
“Yes, I think I do remember.” Uncle Armando leaned back in his chair.
“So other than scaring the heck out of some poor guy, what’s new?” asked Sheriff Duncan.
“We’re trying find out where Sheriff Dell was shot,” I said.
“You mean geographically or physically?” Uncle Armando chuckled.
Mary, Carlos, and I looked at him as if he were speaking Greek.
Uncle Armando tried again. “You mean, where was he hit on his body, or where he was when he was shot?”
“The last one,” I said. “We kind of know where the place is from the news clipping at the grocery store, but we don’t know how to find it.”
The restaurant owner’s voice interrupted as a thin, well-groomed man entered. “New Dry Gulch’s number one grocer, hardware man, butcher, baker, and candlestick maker, George Glotz,”
More cheers, laughter, and friendly boos followed as Glotz acknowledged the greeting, then joined several other local business people in the rear of the restaurant.
“Where did the shooting take place?” asked Uncle Armando.
“Somewhere near the Old Irish Mine in an area they called Prospectors Canyon. Do you know where that is?” I asked.
“I have no idea. Of course, there were lots of mines in these parts at one time or another, and they all had names. Most of the mines weren’t successful. The Old Irish Mine might have been a recognized location a hundred years ago, but certainly not now, at least not to me. To make matters worse, the names of the mines were often changed so what was known as The Old Irish Mine may have been named something else later. In fact, the name could have changed more than once. But, just because I don’t know doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. Let’s ask,” said Uncle Armando.
He pushed his chair from the table, stood and called out, “Folks, listen up a minute. I have a question for you. My nephew and niece are trying to solve a mystery and are looking for the Old Irish Mine and/or Prospectors Canyon. The mine was active in the 1870’s and was probably a landmark. It’s supposed to be somewhere in this area. Any of you know where?”
“There was the Irishman’s Mine, but that was up near Nuggetville,” said a red-headed fellow sitting near the back.
“I think there was one called Irish Eyes Mine, but I don’t know if it was around here,” said a bearded guy at the next table.
An elderly chap sitting next to George Glotz said, “George, your family has been around this area for a long time. Did you ever hear of the Old Irish Mine?”
“No,” replied George sharply. “I don’t have any interest in old mines.”
“There should be some sort of record at the court house if the mine was registered,” said the guy sitting next to George Glotz. “At least that’s a place to start.”
Glotz glared at him.
“Fletcher.” A deep voice filled the room. “You’re the County Clerk. You know everything about this area. What do you think?”
Fletcher shrugged and shook his head.
“Well, thanks for your input. This project should keep these kids busy for the rest of their visit.” Uncle Armando smiled, waved, and sat down. “It’s a good suggestion to check out the court house. Fletcher, can these kids come by your office this afternoon?”
“Sure,” grumbled the clerk, “but I don’t know what I can tell ’em. Our records don’t go back that far.”
Chapter 31: Who to Believe?
A large red and white tour bus idled in the middle of Main Street, spewing diesel smoke. Smiling faces, most capped with white hair, looked out its side windows. Across the street, a Pepsi delivery truck was double-parked, the driver unloading cases of the drink for a casual café.
Down the street and around the corner from the County Court House, Mary, Carlos, and I sat on the shaded side porch of the restored California Hotel Restaurant, a can of soda sitting in front of each of us on the round table. Happy groups of travelers monopolized the covered outdoor refreshment area. Requests to say ‘cheese’ and camera clicks echoed from every corner.
The tourists were jovial, exhilarated. Mary, Carlos, and I were not.
“We weren’t looking for a history lesson,” I grumbled.
“I don’t care how you pan for gold,” griped Mary.
“All we learned after two hours with Fletcher was that they revised the mining process to use cyanide instead of mercury in 1890. That doesn’t help us one bit,” groaned Carlos.
“Where’s the Old Irish Mine or better yet, Prospectors Canyon? He tells us, ‘I think you have some bad information. You can’t believe those old newspapers.’ If Fletcher is such an expert on history, how come he hasn’t even heard of those places?” I asked.
“You’d think he’d be excited about learning of an old mystery that happened around here,” said Carlos.
Mary twisted her hair around her index finger. “Did you notice his reaction when we told him about the letter written by William Kayne? He seemed sort of startled or something. Maybe Mr. Tibbs knows more than he’s telling.”
“Yes,” I said. “He did appear a little jumpy after that.” I took a sip of Dr Pepper and slid back in my chair. “We have the directions from the newspaper article at Glotz’s store. It said the mine was south of town. Of course, that would be south of Dry Gulch not New Dry Gulch. There was something about a rocky pass southeast of the Old Irish Mine. But Mr. Tibbs said there was never any mining in that area.”
“Who are we going to believe?” asked 3J.
“The newspaper article. After all, the story was reported at the time it happened. Even if Mr. Tibbs is telling us what he thinks, it’s been eighty-something years since the shooting.” I got up from the table and pitched my soda can into a garbage barrel.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I think he is lying and I am usually pretty good at detecting a lie. Right Scooter?”
“Yes, you are,” I responded as I recalled the several times she caught me with a falsehood.
“Did the newspaper say how far south of town?” asked Mary.
“I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Tibbs said that many mine tunnels collapsed, usually at the entrance because the dirt is softer there. That means we could go past the mine and never even know it,” said Carlos.
“Actually, it’s not the Old Irish Mine we need to find. That’s just a landmark. It’s Prospectors Canyon we’re looking for. Of course, the local historian never heard of that either. According to the news article, that was where the gun fight took place,” I said. “Or as Kemo Kelly would say, that was the scene of the crime.”
“It sounds like something we would notice if we saw it. ‘Prospectors Canyon.’ It must be a high rock formation, but I guess you have a lot of those around here,” said Mary.
“You got that right. That’s what mountains are, just big rock formations,” Carlos laughed.
“Scooter, what do you expect to find if we locate the Old Irish Mine and Prospectors Canyon?” asked Mary.
“I don’t know. All I know is it’s a place to start.”
Chapter 32: On the Trail Again
The sun peeked over the eastern horizon. The temperature was cool, particularly in the shaded areas. In the corral, four horses shifted slightly as they were saddled and bridled. Their hooves sank into the soft dirt of the enclosure. Their breath misted in the cool morning air. We sto
red the sack lunches and drinks Mrs. Miller prepared in the saddlebags.
I removed my Chicago Cubs baseball cap and slid an Iowa Hawkeye sweatshirt over my Chicago Bears t-shirt. I put my hat back on. Mary pulled a pale blue sweatshirt embroidered with daisies over her head. 3J and Carlos buttoned heavy flannel shirts over their t-shirts.
Now a familiar path, I took the lead. This wasn’t a horseback ride with friends just for fun. No, this was work—private investigator work on horseback. Perhaps traveling the same route William Kayne took many years before in his quest for a better life. A clue to help vindicate the Kayne name, I thought. That’s my goal.
Mary, 3J, and Carlos said they thought it would be interesting to discover an eighty-year-old crime scene, but I knew they just wanted to go on a horseback ride.
I learned from Mr. Tibbs that most of the young men who traveled to California during the gold rush days expected to make their fortune in six months or so, and then return to their wives and families in the East. Such was not the case for most of them, and definitely not for William Kayne.
After resting the horses by the stream, we continued our westward journey galloping up a golden grassy knoll, past clusters of oak trees, scrub brush, and pine. The route took us into a valley spotted with poppies and buttercups, then up a hill—the hill, overlooking the ghost town of Dry Gulch.
Chapter 33: Finding an Alpaca
“Hey, Scooter,” Carlos shouted. “Do you have a clue where we’re going or what we’re looking for?”
“Yeah. We need to find the Old Irish Mine. When we find it, we’ll know we’re on the right path. It’s supposed to be south of Dry Gulch, but with the way this trail zigzags, I’m not sure if we’re still heading south.”
“Yeah, especially with your sense of direction,” Mary said.
“I’d think the mine would be on a recognized trail if the mine was an important one. When we come to a fork in the trail, we may have a problem,” I said.
“That mine was active a long time ago, so whatever trail it was on may long be gone. How will we even know if a mine is here? Mr. Tibbs said the entrance of the mine tunnels is what caved most often,” 3J said.
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