The Haunted Hanging Tree

by David Krumboltz

  “Hey, what’s this?” I removed a rubber band that held a paper to the handlebar. “It’s some sort of notice or something.”

  “Probably an advertisement,” offered Mary.

  “No. This is no advertisement.” I looked around, then read the note aloud. “Mind your own business, kid, or you’ll wind up in Boot Hill.”

  Chapter 43: “Barthinius… Beware”

  Several days later, Dr. Jones climbed into Uncle Armando’s red Jeep wagon. Mary, Carlos, and I sat in the back seat.

  “Well, Doc, are you ready to go?” asked Uncle Armando.

  “I think we’re all set. Sheriff Duncan will have some of his deputies at the Dry Gulch cemetery meet us. They’ll do the actual digging. We need to make sure they don’t damage anything that could be important in the investigation.” The coroner leaned back in his seat and said, “Let’s go.”

  “You want to stop for coffee?” Uncle Armando asked.

  “No thanks, I had three cups with breakfast,” replied Dr. Jones.

  We headed southwest on state highway 49. The early sun showed through the back window of the Jeep and warmed the back of our heads.

  “Scooter, do you think you can find Sheriff Dell’s grave again?” asked Dr. Jones.

  “Sure, I know exactly where it is. I can find it in a second.”

  “Dad, how do we get there in a truck?” asked Carlos.

  “The old dirt road to Dry Gulch was washed out years ago and never repaired. Of course, there was no need to since the town was abandoned. But we can follow the old route, and with four-wheel drive, we can get there.”

  Dit-do, dit-do, dit-do. The truck’s turn signals warned of the upcoming turn. Uncle Armando reached down to shift the Jeep into four-wheel drive. “Here’s our turn off. Hang on. It’s going to be a rough ride from here on out.”

  # # # # #

  The truck ride was almost as much fun as the scary rides at the Old West Days. All Mary, Carlos, and I could see was the bright blue sky as the nose of the Uncle Armando’s Jeep pointed upward, the tires spinning on loose rocks. Our backs pressed hard against the seat as the vehicle slid and climbed precariously to the crest of a hill. A big bump knocked my Chicago Cubs baseball cap to the floor of the truck.

  I picked it up and turned it around so the visor faced forward. I looked through the dust-covered windshield. A shiver went up my back as the truck engine roared and the vehicle skidded sideways before regaining its footing and continuing the ascent.

  All trace of the road gone, the truck bounded over rocks and scrub pines on its mission to the top. It was a different approach from our previous visits, but there was no question in my mind—we were headed for the Hanging Tree.

  Uncle Armando stopped the truck on a level area at the top of the hill. All four doors opened and the group spilled out.

  “Dad, was that really the ‘Hanging Tree?’” asked Carlos.

  “Yep, it sure was, son.”

  “Do you think the tree is haunted?” Carlos looked up at the tree.

  “No. That was the story when I was a kid, too. Some folks think there’s something to it. Personally, I don’t believe in ghosts. Now, your mother, that’s a different story. She claimed the tree actually talked to her. She could never convince me, though.”

  I looked at Mary, my eyes wide. Was there something to this haunted tree legend?

  “How about you, Dr. Jones?” asked Mary. “Do you think the ‘Hanging Tree’ is haunted?”

  The doctor smiled and shook his head. “I’m a scientist. I need scientific proof before I believe anything.”

  Everyone moved away from the tree except me. The others stood at the top of the hill and looked down at the ghost town of Dry Gulch. I walked closer to the tree, feeling a little nervous about being there. Uncle Armando’s and Dr. Jones’ comments made me feel silly thinking the tree could talk to me, or send me messages, or whatever it was doing, but now I had learned that Carlos’ mother, who was my dad’s sister, had similar experiences. She had been a Kane, too.

  “Ready to go, guys?” asked Uncle Armando. “Let’s roll. The sheriff and some of his people are already down there. Are you coming, Scooter?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll be right there,” I said.

  I smiled to myself as I observed the tree. It’s not just a tree. I chuckled and touched the tree trunk. I turned to follow the others to Boot Hill.

  I heard a rustling of tree leaves. I stopped and turned toward the tree.

  “Barthinius… Barthinius… Beware… Be strong… Be firm.”

  Chapter 44: Mysterious Wind

  Sheriff Duncan and the three deputies were gathered at Boot Hill. George Glotz, his son Joe, Fletcher Tibbs, the county clerk and local historian, and four county maintenance men leaned on shovels, waiting for direction.

  “Fletcher,” Sheriff Duncan said, “where is the grave of Sheriff Dell?”

  “Over here.”

  “This gravesite is either fresh, or it has been dug up recently,” said Sheriff Duncan.

  Joe Glotz and Fletcher exchanged glances.

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said the county clerk as he moved the dirt around with his boot. “There haven’t been any new graves in this cemetery since the town burned down more than fifty years ago.”

  “I’d say this grave’s been tampered with recently.” The sheriff turned to his deputies and said, “Check around to see if any of the other graves look this way. Maybe we’re dealing with grave robbers.”

  “Sheriff Duncan.” I was trying to get his attention. “Sheriff Duncan.”

  “Not now, son, I’m busy.”

  “But, Sheriff…” I tried again.

  “Leave him alone for now,” said Uncle Armando, putting his arm around my shoulders. “You’ve done your part. Now it’s up to the sheriff.”

  “But, Uncle Armando, that’s the wrong grave.”

  “Fletcher knows the history here. I doubt if he would make that mistake.”

  “Let me show you.” I grabbed Uncle Armando’s hand and pulled him toward another gravesite.

  “Armando,” called the sheriff, “can you come here a minute?”

  “Sure, Matt. Excuse me, Scooter.”

  “Dr. Jones,” I began. “Would you please…”

  “Sorry, Scooter. I need to assist the sheriff.”

  “But, it’s the wrong…” I looked up the hill. The Oak tree was swinging around like a cowboy twirling a lasso. Slow graceful swirls. I looked at the group. No one seemed to notice.

  Even though I didn’t feel the wind, an apparent gust lifted the sheriff’s hat right off his head and carried it across the graveyard.

  “That was quite a gust of wind.” The sheriff set off to retrieve his hat.

  “I didn’t feel any wind, Matt,” commented Armando.

  “Me either,” said Dr. Jones.

  “Well, I did,” Matt Duncan mumbled as he chased across the graveyard, then stooped down to grab his hat. It was resting on a grave marker. He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and mopped his brow. He stared at the marker and let out a low whistle. “Hey Doc. I think you better take a look at this.”

  The coroner came over, squatted by the sheriff, and read aloud, “Sheriff Jesse Dell, 1835–1873, Murdered in the line of duty.”

  The others trudged over to the sheriff and Dr. Jones.

  “That can’t be right,” said George Glotz. “Fletcher said Sheriff Dell’s grave was over there.” He glared at the county clerk.

  The county clerk looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “But… but… Sheriff Dell’s marker was on that other gravesite three days ago. I know… ah… well, I know because I… ah… checked.”

  “It’s not there now. It looks like we will be digging up two graves today. Luke, you and John start on this one, and Fred and Rusty, you take the second one. Don’t commingle the remains.”

  Chapter 45: You’re Not Done

  Mary, Carlos, Armando, Dr. Jones, and I plodded up the hill to Armando’s truck.
r />   “When will you start the examination?” asked Armando.

  “Probably this afternoon. We should know something in the next couple of days.”

  “I wonder how the county clerk became confused over the gravesites. He seemed so sure of the location. Said he saw the marker only three days ago.” Armando scratched his head. “He must have been disoriented. The two locations were in opposite corners of the cemetery, so he just got mixed up.”

  Why would the county clerk have been there three days ago? I wondered.

  “That was a lucky break when the wind took the sheriff’s hat,” said the coroner. “Otherwise, we would have definitely dug up the wrong grave.”

  As we reached the top of the hill and the hanging tree, I stayed back while the others continued toward the Jeep.

  I touched the trunk of the tree. “Did you have anything to do with the gust of wind down there?” Scooter whispered.

  “Ho-ho-ho… Why, Barthinius… you’re starting to believe in me, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I am. Did you switch back the grave markers?”

  “If not, the evidence would have been destroyed… You’re not done, Barthinius… I can’t yet rest in peace… You have to prove who shot Sheriff Dell.”

  “I think I know,” I said.

  “But you must be able to prove it to the community… You are a good detective…. Barthinius… I’m proud of you…”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “What?” Uncle Armando startled me with his sudden appearance.

  “Oh,” I said, “I said thanks. Thanks for bringing me along today.”

  I patted the trunk of the tree and sauntered over to the truck. A sudden breeze lifted my baseball cap and spun it around.

  Chapter 46: Faceless Bandit Revealed

  More citizens, intrigued by the new findings, attended the second town meeting at the high school gym the following week. To accommodate the crowd, extra chairs had to be set up. Even so, there was standing room only.

  Uniformed deputies greeted the local citizens and encouraged them to find seats. The evening meeting was supposed to start at seven-thirty, but with the excitement and large crowd, it was eight o’clock before Uncle Armando banged the gavel and brought the meeting to order.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of New Dry Gulch, may I have your attention please. We all know why we’re here. If you don’t, you must have been sleeping for the last week.”

  The audience broke into laughter, breaking the tension of the moment.

  Uncle Armando continued, “But in case you don’t know all the details, let me bring you up to date. Back in 1873, a very popular sheriff of Appaloosa County was shot and killed, probably ambushed by a man known as the ‘Faceless Bandit.’ The sheriff was Jesse Dell. Two days later, William Kayne, a stranger in Dry Gulch, was arrested, tried, convicted, and executed at the old Hanging Tree. Some believe to this day the Hanging Tree is haunted by his spirit.”

  Some in the audience nodded their heads in agreement while others snickered. One man wearing a bright red work shirt shook his head and laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair.

  Uncle Armando continued, "William Kayne maintained at that time he was innocent of the crime, and stated to the assembled witnesses, ‘My presence will haunt this town until my name is cleared.’

  “The sentence was carried out, and there were no more robberies attributed to the ‘Faceless Bandit.’” Uncle Armando stopped, reached for a glass of water, then continued, "From his jail cell, William Kayne wrote a letter to his wife who lived back east. In that letter, he professed his innocence and stated he knew who the guilty party was. Because the deputy sheriff screened the mail, William did not name his suspect. The letter was apparently never mailed, and only recently discovered.

  "We all know that many convicted criminals maintain their innocence, and the letter alone didn’t prove that William was innocent, but it did raise the question. William Kayne had never been in trouble with the law before and the only evidence they had was the mask found in his saddlebag. But the townspeople wanted quick justice and the hanging took place the same day of his conviction.

  "The case was forgotten until this summer, when my nephew, Scooter Kane, and his sister Mary, came to visit. They were curious and persistent in learning about their great-great-grandfather and my wife’s great-grandfather.

  "By now, you’ve all heard about Scooter finding the Deputy Sheriff badge with the Glotz name engraved on the back. I sometimes think the kid has supernatural powers. How he found that badge in a cave where apparently the shooting of Sheriff Dell took place is beyond comprehension.

  “Now, I’m going to turn the microphone over to Sheriff Duncan and then to Dr. Jones.”

  Dressed in a freshly pressed khaki uniform, the Appaloosa County Sheriff moved to the front of the platform and took the hand-held microphone from the mayor.

  "Four days ago, the Sheriff’s Department, along with Dr. Jones, our coroner, the mayor, and several others took four-wheel drive vehicles to the abandoned cemetery of Dry Gulch. Our purpose was to determine if the grave of Sheriff Jesse Dell could be located. We examined two sites, as there was some question as to the correct one.

  “We were looking for answers to two questions: First, could we satisfactorily identify the remains as those of Sheriff Dell? And second, would the fatal bullet be among the remains? The answer to both those questions is yes.”

  The tall, burly sheriff stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a shiny, silver object. "From one of the gravesites we recovered this badge belonging to Sheriff Jesse Dell. On the front it reads ‘Sheriff Appaloosa County’ and on the back is engraved ‘J. Dell.’ It’s of the same style as the badge found by Scooter Kane in a cave at Prospectors Canyon, engraved with ‘Glotz.’ So, there is no question that this badge was the official badge worn by Sheriff Dell.

  “Now, as far as the fatal bullet is concerned. Not only did we find a bullet, we found three slugs with the remains. To explain further, here is Dr. Jones.”

  “Thank you, Matt,” began the coroner. “As the sheriff stated, we recovered three bullets and determined they were from two different guns. After all this time, it’s impossible to determine which bullet was the fatal one. However, I conducted a ballistics examination and can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that none of the three bullets were fired by William Kayne.”

  The audience gasped. Uncle Armando had to bang his gavel several times to bring the meeting back to order.

  “Sheriff Duncan has more details about this.” Dr. Jones returned to his seat.

  “As most of you know,” the sheriff began, "we have an annual old time shooting contest every year at the Old Wild West Festival. One of the regular participants is our own mayor, Armando Estrada. Armando’s antique gun belonged to William Kayne, and by comparing the bullets found in the Dry Gulch cemetery with those fired from William Kayne’s gun, we could determine that William Kayne was not guilty of the crime of which he was charged.

  “I have begun the process with our County Attorney to have the records changed to reverse the decision and officially declare that William Kayne is innocent of all charges.”

  The stunned audience stared at the sheriff.

  “And there is something else that should be said here,” continued the sheriff. “If it were not for Scooter and Mary Kane, my son Carlos, and 3J Johnson, this never would have been discovered. Can we get these four persistent young people to come forward?”

  The crowd erupted in wild cheers, whistles, and applause.

  Mary, Carlos, 3J, and I approached Sheriff Duncan. One by one, the audience stood, continuing their applause. Sheriff Duncan and Dr. Jones came over to shake our hands. Uncle Armando hugged each of us.

  “To these four young people,” the sheriff stated as the crowd quieted, “I say thank you. Thank you for your persistence, your intelligence, and for reminding all of us in New Dry Gulch of the importance of seeking the truth no matter how long it takes.”
r />   The crowd applauded.

  “Sheriff Duncan,” a voice from the rear of the room shouted. “Sheriff Duncan, may I say a few words?”

  The sheriff looked over the heads of the crowd and acknowledged the man.

  “Certainly, George. Why don’t you come forward and use the microphone?”

  George Glotz walked to the front of the gym. The audience was suddenly quiet. He climbed on the speaker’s platform, took the microphone from the sheriff, and stared at the audience.

  “I am proud,” he said. "Proud of these children and of this town. I am proud of the officials you have before you and the job they have done and are doing to make our community what it is. I have a lot to be proud of, but there is something of which I am not very proud.

  “That something has to do with why we are all gathered here tonight and with events that took place eighty-two years ago. You see, what Sheriff Duncan and Dr. Jones did not tell you was that one of the bullets found with the remains of Sheriff Dell came from my great-grandfather’s gun, Deputy Jeremiah Glotz.”

  The audience gasped. People turned to one another and mumbled in numbed disbelief.

  “It appears that my great-grandfather was not only involved in the shooting of Sheriff Dell, and the arrest, conviction, and execution of William Kayne, he was, in fact, ‘the Faceless Bandit.’”

  The audience was stunned. Murmurs ran through the crowd.

  “There is another thing I’m not proud of.” George Glotz paced across the speaking platform. "I’m not proud of the way I handled this situation from the beginning. I’m not proud of the way I tried to stop the investigation. At the last town meeting, I boasted that I was the community’s largest taxpayer and implied that my feelings were worth more than anyone else’s. For this I apologize. I apologize to you, Sheriff Duncan, and to you, Mayor Estrada, and to you, the good citizens of New Dry Gulch.

  "This community has been good to the Glotz family, but it now appears the Glotz Family’s good fortune was accomplished at the expense of William Kayne’s life. While we cannot rewrite history, we can try to correct mistakes made in the past and make sure future generations know the true story of what happened, one July week in1873, in an old gold mining town known as Dry Gulch, California.