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The Haunted Hanging Tree
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The Haunted Hanging Tree
David and Michael Krumboltz
Austin Macauley Publishers
The Haunted Hanging Tree
About the Authors
Copyright Information
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1: A Diversionary Tactic
Chapter 2: A Similar Name
Chapter 3: The Shocking Truth
Chapter 4: Getting Ready to Travel
Chapter 5: Help from Frankie
Chapter 6: Meeting Carlos and Uncle Armando
Chapter 7: New Dry Gulch
Chapter 8: Who’s Glotz?
Chapter 9: The Office
Chapter 10: Bullets Have Fingerprints
Chapter 11: The Ball Game
Chapter 12: Can Mary Play Baseball?
Chapter 13: Glotz Grocery Store
Chapter 14: The Hanging Tree
Chapter 15: Mysterious Dream?
Chapter 16: Old West Days
Chapter 17: The Competition
Chapter 18: The Doctor’s Offer
Chapter 19: Bullet Facts
Chapter 20: The Hanging Tree Revisited
Chapter 21: Star Light… Star Bright…
Chapter 22: Boot Hill
Chapter 23: The Discovery
Chapter 24: Scooter Confesses
Chapter 25: Following the Stranger
Chapter 26: Not a Dream
Chapter 27: Asking for Help
Chapter 28: The Newspaper Article
Chapter 29: The Letter
Chapter 30: Reluctant Agreement
Chapter 31: Who to Believe?
Chapter 32: On the Trail Again
Chapter 33: Finding an Alpaca
Chapter 34: Old Irish Mine
Chapter 35: Trapped
Chapter 36: It’s Dark in Here
Chapter 37: Up and Out
Chapter 38: Paint Helps
Chapter 39: Prospector Canyon
Chapter 40: Inspecting Prospector Canyon
Chapter 41: Scooter vs. a Rattlesnake
Chapter 42: The Town Meeting
Chapter 43: “Barthinius… Beware”
Chapter 44: Mysterious Wind
Chapter 45: You’re Not Done
Chapter 46: Faceless Bandit Revealed
Chapter 47: Scooter Talks
Chapter 48: Forgee
About the Authors
David Krumboltz is a professional freelance columnist for the East Bay Times in San Francisco, California. He is the co-author of Counterfeit Detectives, a children’s mystery.
Michael Krumboltz holds a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, has written extensively for Yahoo and is currently employed as a writer by Netflix.
Both authors live in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Copyright Information
Copyright © David & Michael Krumboltz (2019)
The right of David & Michael Krumboltz to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528919234 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528962612 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgments
A special thanks to authors Gay Carter and Penny Warner, who have been most helpful as mentors, teachers, and cheerleaders in getting this book completed.
Prologue
Funerals are usually sad occasions, but in the case of my older sister, Mary Kane Dixon, while it was sad, it was also full of snickers and outright guffaws. Friends and relatives told of her childhood antics as well as some in her later life. Attendees came away believing she lead a productive and interesting life, filled with love and humor, but cut short by illness.
Her two young grandchildren couldn’t believe the stories they heard as they had only known their grandmother in her declining years when she was stern, humorless, and even grumpy. At the reception following the service, ten-year-old Emily led her eight-year-old brother, Jack, over where I was sitting.
“What was Grandma really like?” asked Emily. "Were you involved with those pranks too?
They climbed onto the couch, one on each side of me, looking for answers. I briefly closed my eyes and my mind drifted back to my childhood. I realized that these two kids weren’t too different from the way Mary and I were at their ages. They were eager to learn about their grandma, and I was eager for them to know my best friend and sister as I had known her: The grandma they never knew.
I told a story that I knew my sister would have loved to tell her grandkids herself.
Chapter 1: A Diversionary Tactic
It was the summer of 1955, on a Saturday, when I peeked out from inside the laundry hamper. I’d been crouched inside all morning, hiding amidst dirty socks and wet towels, all in hopes of nabbing whoever had been rubbing shoe polish on my comb. I’d suspected it was Mary, but in our family, one never knew.
We were a family of pranksters and our parents were often the worst of the bunch. Sometimes I felt I was the only mature member of the family and I was only ten years old. My father, Dwight Kane, was most feared as the district attorney in town, but on nights and weekends he was known for jumping out of closets in gorilla masks or giving us a scare. Once he gave us kids vanilla ice cream cones made from cold mashed potatoes.
The shoe polish mystery had been dogging me for several days. I didn’t like being tricked just as much as I didn’t like oily black sludge stringing through my strawberry-blond hair. Through process of elimination, I discovered that it couldn’t have been my mother, though it was certainly not below her sense of humor. The first time I found the shoe polish, she’d been at the university.
My father, likewise, had been eliminated. He had been out of town on business. So, that left my older sister and biggest rival, Mary, as the only logical suspect.
I had been in the hamper for an hour, and thought about quitting for the day to work on more pressing cases. I had been hired that morning to find a lost cat by our neighbor, Mrs. Lucerne. She had at least twenty cats already, but apparently every single one was important to her because she had offered me a handsome finder’s fee to track down the missing feline.
Just then a noise came from the hall. I ducked back down into the hamper. As far as anyone knew, I was at my friend Frankie’s house, playing the board game Clue. I had loudly announced my plans that morning, hoping the suspect would think the coast was clear.
The footsteps got closer and through the wicker of the hamper, I could see the suspect’s shoes. The black hightops were on tiptoes. I strained my eyes and saw, written in ink on the side of the left shoe, ‘Slugs rule!’
“A-ha,” I yelled, leaping from the hamper, an accusatory finger already pointed at the guilty party. “Frankie! I should have known!”
Frankie dropped the shoe polish tin and started to run, but not before I reached out and grabbed his shirt. Still standing in the hamper, I was dragged across the tile floor as Frankie laughed and tried to escape. “You little…” I yelled.
“I’ve heard that story a hundred times,” I said. “You were caught, Frankie. Caught red-handed and now you’re trying to throw me off the scent. I wasn’t born yesterday, buddy.”
Suddenly there was a voice from inside the shower.
“Oh, let him go, Scooter.” It was Mary. She pulled the curtain back and stepped over the rim of the tub.
“Wait,” I said. “Why are you in the shower?”
“Keeping tabs on you, of course. Someone’s been trying to pick the lock on my diary.”
“Oh, very nice. So, you suspect me, your law-abiding, crime-loathing, brother.”
“I do more than suspect, Scooter.”
I was about to protest, but thought better of it. For as good as I was at solving mysteries, my sister was an absolute pro at picking out a lie. I had learned the hard way that it was almost always better to remain silent.
To my left Frankie tiptoed out of the bathroom.
“Whoa, not so fast Frankie. You say you’re a patsy? Well, you better start talking.”
I loved to talk tough, but Frankie knew I wasn’t really upset. We had an unspoken agreement that Frankie had a responsibility to try to trick me and Mary. It was like he was doing us a favor, keeping our skills sharp.
“Yeah,” said Mary, wedging her way in between us. “Start talking.”
Frankie, who could never resist Mary’s feminine charms, quickly admitted that it was our mother who had hired him to keep Mary and I busy that Saturday. “She said she wanted to make sure you two stayed away from the library,” Frankie said.
“Wait, what?” I said. “Mom is usually begging us to go to the library, and now she wants us to stay away?”
Frankie shrugged, oblivious to the machinations of deceit that ran through the Kane family. His passion was bugs, not mysteries (although anything slimy would do).
He opened his mouth, about to change the subject and talk about the most recent ‘legendary’ episode of Bugmania when he realized Mary and I were already walking down the stairs.
“Yo, Frankie,” said Mary. “Move it or lose it. We’re going to the library.”
Chapter 2: A Similar Name
All three of us hopped on our bikes and peddled furiously toward our small town’s downtown. We lived in Elm City, Iowa, home of Eastern Iowa University. Our mother was a professor in the school’s criminology department. I liked to think that between my dad’s job as district attorney and my mom’s extensive knowledge in all things criminal, our careers were darn near inevitable.
Still, I couldn’t help but notice that my parents weren’t as encouraging as they used to be. In our most recent case, in which Mary and I had helped bring down a real counterfeiting ring, we had gained notoriety in town. And as proud as our parents were, they were also worried about the danger we had put ourselves in.
Our threesome arrived at the library, and noticed a large crowd in the back of the building. Mary walked up to the circulation desk and asked what was going on.
“Professor Zaloumis is in town to speak about his new book,” said the librarian, as if that statement of fact told everything Mary needed to know.
“I see. And he is…?” pressed Mary.
The librarian, clearly flustered at Mary’s ignorance, thrust a flyer in her face and then joined the rest of the crowd. The flyer read: ‘Professor Emmitt Zaloumis visits Elm City to give a talk about Justice in the Old West. Saturday at noon at the downtown library. Arrive early for best seats.’
“This makes no sense,” whispered Mary to Frankie and me. “Why does Mom care if we learn about the Wild West?”
“No idea,” I said. “Let’s go listen and maybe we can figure it out.”
We walked toward the rear of the library and found all the seats had already been taken. We put on some nametags at the request of one of the organizers. The only available seats were in the front row.
The librarian walked to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Today we have a special guest from the west coast. Professor Emmitt Zaloumis has flown out to, among other things, talk to us about his knowledge of the old west. Professor, please take it away.”
A slim, bushy-haired man sauntered to the front of the room. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for the kind introduction, ma’am.” I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the professor send a wink over to the librarian. She was certainly blushing as if he had.
"As she said, I am a professor out in California in a town north of the San Francisco Bay Area called Humboldt. I’m here in Elm City to do some research at the University’s library.
“So, what do I do, exactly? Well, a lot of stuff. Humboldt is a small-ish school and I’m required to wear a lot of different hats. But the topic I love most is learning and teaching about the old west. How many of you have an interest in that time in our great nation’s history?”
A few kids raised their hands.
"Hmm, not too many. I’ll see if I can change that. See, what I love most about the old west is the justice system. It wasn’t like today, when people can appeal their convictions and lawyers argue with each other for years on end. No, sir. Back then the process was much quicker and not always fair.
“I’m sure you kids know something about being treated unfairly, or being accused of something you didn’t do, right? Like when your mom accuses you of stealing a cookie without any proof? Well, that’s how it worked back in the Old West, only the stakes were a lot higher. Men, and occasional women, were often accused of crimes without any compelling evidence.”
Mary raised her hand. “If there wasn’t any evidence, how were the people ever convicted? Even back in the Old West, you still needed evidence to get somebody in trouble.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, little lady. And I’ll tell you how. Eyewitnesses. An eyewitness is somebody who claims to have seen the alleged crime in action. Most of the time, the witnesses were reliable and truthful. But not always. Right now, I’m working on a book about some of the more famous cases.”
“Like what?” said Frankie. Mary and I looked at each other. It was the first non-bug related question he’d made in a long time.
“Well,” said the professor, "there are plenty of tales about horse thieves being hung and cattle rustlers finding themselves at the end of an unforgiving rope. But I’m interested in a different story. It’s the story of a guy who, like a lot of people of that time, dreamed of striking it rich in the gold rush. He left his family and young son back east and headed to California.
"At first he did okay. He made a little cash and started to build a modest home for his family. He wanted them to move out West to live with him as soon as he could afford it. But he got desperate. He missed his family so much he took to criminal acts as a way to speed up the process. He always wore a black cloth to cover his face.
"The robberies continued for several years, and each time the ‘Faceless Bandit’ escaped capture. Finally, in the summer of 1873, after a bank robbery, the sheriff trapped the bandit in a cave in the foothills. A gunfight ensued and the sheriff was killed.
“The citizens were outraged and demanded justice. The deputy sheriff took on the investigation and three days later, arrested the man in the local saloon. Someone had found a black cloth mask in his saddlebag. A few days later, he was hung.”
“That is pretty flimsy evidence,” Mary whispered
"For whatever it’s worth, he maintained his innocence up until the very end. I’ve researched this story quite a bit and can almost recite his final words by heart. He stood up on the hangman’s deck as the townspeople looked on. He was defiant. After the preacher asked him if he had any last words, he stepped forward to the edge of the platform, high above the town and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I stand before you an innocent man. I am about to die for something I did not do. I suspect the guilty party is among you. My presence, my soul will not leave
your town as long as my name is synonymous with crime and murder. I will be here until I am cleared.’
“The townspeople didn’t much like threats, and neither did the executioner. The man was quickly hung from the strongest branch of the strongest tree just outside of town. Since that time, the town was flooded, suffered other misfortunes, and finally burned to the ground. Was this accused criminal, this Faceless Bandit, as he was called, responsible? There are some that claim, even to this day, that the old hanging tree is haunted with his spirit.”
“Well,” said Mary, “was he guilty?”
“You’ll have to buy my book to find out,” said the professor to a loud round of laughs. “Only kidding. Actually, nobody knows. But thinking about it sure is interesting, isn’t it?”
I could barely breathe, but I managed to blurt out a question that had to be asked. “What was his name?”
The professor looked right into my eyes, then down at my nametag. A grave smile appeared across his face. “Well, it was a lot like yours. William T. Kayne. Kayne was the last man ever to be hung in Dry Gulch,” the professor said.
Chapter 3: The Shocking Truth
There was no such thing as business as usual at the Kane household. That night was particularly chaotic. As soon as our parents got home from work, Mary and I pulled them into the living room and began to grill them.
“So, we had quite an interesting day,” said Mary, the interrogation expert. “Care to guess what we did?”
Mom and Dad glanced at each other, but remained silent. Like me, they knew the perils that came with getting caught in a lie in front of Mary.
“Please allow me, Mary,” I said. I cleared my throat for emphasis. “It’s an interesting day when you not only learn that your own mother conspired to put shoe polish in your comb, but that both parents have been engaged in a mass conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy,” laughed Mom. “Really, Scooter. Don’t overplay your hand, here. What are you talking about?”
Mary spoke up, playing the bad cop in this situation. “What he’s talking about,” said Mary, “is the fact that you and your husband have been hiding certain familial bits of history from us.”
The Haunted Hanging Tree