The Haunted Hanging Tree Page 2

  Mom winced. “Frankie,” she spat to herself.

  “Indeed,” said Mary, with a smile.

  “Allow me a moment with my attorney,” said Mom. She and Dad went into the corner and whispered in hushed tones, before returning to face their two kids.

  “OK,” said Dad. “Here’s the deal with William T. Kayne. Everything the Professor said was probably true. And yes, you guys are related to him. We all are. William’s son dropped the ‘y’ from his name to avoid being associated with the Faceless Bandit when he ran for state senator of California back in the late 1800s.”

  “Why did you try to keep us from learning this?” I asked.

  “We heard the professor was giving a talk and we didn’t want you guys to get into another case that was over your head. That last one you had put you both in real danger. Your father and I are all for fun mysteries and pranks, but we’re still your parents. We can’t have you running around putting yourselves in harm’s way.”

  “But all this is 2,000 miles away in California. What makes you think we’d go out there to solve a mystery?”

  “Because your Uncle Armando and Cousin Carlos still live in New Dry Gulch where all this occurred,” said Dad.

  “Dwight!” hissed Mom.

  “Oops,” said Dad.

  “Hmm,” I said. “So, we’d have a place to stay…”

  “For-get it, kiddo,” said Mom, but Mary and I persisted as only kids can. After an hour of tense negotiations, the parents relented under the strict promise that Mary and I would behave and not put ourselves in any danger. Mom retired to the den to call Armando, her brother-in-law, and arranged the flights.

  Mary and I shrieked with joy, jumped up, and hugged our parents. We were going to California.

  Chapter 4: Getting Ready to Travel

  We had this cool tree house that we used as our office. Both Mary and I were pretty organized, and we used three-by-five index cards on a bulletin board in our tree house office to keep our suspicions straight. We tracked clues like unusual behavior, a slip of the tongue and news articles. We were really into being detectives.

  We were concerned about closing up our tree house office for several weeks that summer. We worried our leads would get cold, and the suspects would have time to conceal their activities, but this could be our biggest case ever.

  We had a week to prepare for our trip and we were resolved to make the most of our time.

  Several days before our flight, we rode our bikes down to the library to see if we could dig up any more dirt on the William Kayne mystery.

  Of the two of us, Mary was better at research. She was far more patient than I, who preferred to be in the moment. If you asked me what my idea of perfect happiness was, I’d say to be at the scene and looking for clues.

  I had mixed feelings about criminals. Sure, I didn’t like them, and I didn’t approve of them trying to steal, lie, and cheat. But, I had to admit, without them, my life would be darn boring.

  For a ten-year-old, I was pretty famous. The prior year, Mary and I had solved a counterfeiting case that had brought us attention across the state. I remember what one of the reporters had asked me when I was being interviewed. The reporter, a portly man who was clearly disgusted at having to treat a ten-year-old like a legitimate detective, asked me, with a not-so-obvious roll of the eyes, “What’s your secret? How do you solve cases?”

  I thought about it and replied with earnestness, “It’s not hard. The trick is that you can’t be afraid to go where the clues lead you. No matter what. Period.” The quote ended up in the local paper and it became about as close to a motto as I had. I even had it in big letters in our treehouse.

  Since then, our cases took a turn for the less glamorous. Lost cats, missing bicycles, the usual stuff. This was a chance to get back on track, to really test ourselves. Anybody (with the exception of Mrs. Lucerne) could find a cat. It would take a real pair of detectives to solve an eighty-five-year-old mystery, if there was one.

  Walking through the library, we found Professor Zaloumis chatting with the librarian.

  We waved, then made our way toward the card catalog section in the back of the building. The library was nearly empty, but there were a few regulars reading the newspapers and perusing the shelves.

  We both attacked the index cards in hopes of learning as much as possible about the Wild West of Dry Gulch, but weren’t able to find anything new. We were about to give up when we noticed Professor Zaloumis peering over our shoulders.

  “Hey guys. I see my lecture had quite an effect on you.”

  “It did,” replied Mary. “We learned we are actually related to William Kayne and we’re going to California to investigate in person. We have relatives out there who we can stay with. We’re just doing a bit of last minute research.”

  “Hmm, yeah, there isn’t much information about William Kayne. For this one, you may have to talk to the locals. Even though he’s long since dead, his legend still casts an eerie shadow over New Dry Gulch.”

  Chapter 5: Help from Frankie

  That night, Mary and I packed and discussed what we’d learned.

  “OK, here’s what we do know,” said Mary. “William Kayne was a convicted criminal who was hung for his crimes. He maintained his innocence until his dying breath. The money he allegedly stole was never recovered. Ever since then, the town where he died has had some horrible things happen to it. And, to top it off, the both of us are directly related to the deceased. That everything?”

  “I think so,” I said. “This is going to be a different kind of case. We’re going to be meeting some unusual people, and most of them won’t know us, or trust us. We’re going to have to be on our best behavior.”

  “You’re telling me to be on my best behavior?” asked Mary with a laugh.

  “Well, I’m saying it mostly for my own benefit,” I admitted. The doorbell sounded, and Mom called up the stairs.

  “Scooter, it’s Frankie to see you.”

  “Hmm,” I said, “I wonder what he wants. He never leaves his house from seven o’clock to eight when ‘Bugmania’ is on Iowa Public Radio.”

  “This must really be urgent,” said a sarcastic Mary.

  As it turned out, it was, but mostly to Frankie.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you before you left. I wanted to give you this guidebook on bugs and snakes. It’s saved my bacon on more than one occasion, and I’m sure you’ll be running across your fair share of reptiles out in California.”

  “Wow, thanks, Frankie! I’m sure it’ll come in handy.”

  “No problem at all. Just don’t lose it. Well, I gotta get back, I’m missing Bugmania and Iowa Public Radio doesn’t do commercials. Good luck!”

  Chapter 6: Meeting Carlos and Uncle Armando

  The next day was a slog. Mary and I headed for the airport early in the morning, knowing a long day of coach-class travel awaited us. Despite our protests, our parents insisted on making sure we were on the right plane before heading home.

  While waiting in line, Dad pulled me aside. “Remember, big guy,” Dad said, “be nice to Uncle Armando. He’s been through a lot with his wife dying, having to raise Carlos by himself. The last thing he needs is to be chasing you and your sister all over town.”

  “I got it, Dad. I got it. We’ll be good.”

  “That’s not good enough, Scooter. I want you to promise me. Your mom and I, we don’t want you and Mary to get in over your heads again.”

  “What do you mean, ‘again’? We nailed the counterfeiters.”

  “I know, buddy, I know. But you’re a kid. Don’t forget it, okay?” Dad smiled and roughed up my hair. “Because if I hear that you’re not good, you know what your mother and I are going to do? We’re going to stop calling you Scooter and start calling you by your real name. And we might just tell your teachers and friends to do the same.”

  “Hey, that’s a threat,” I said.

  Mom walked over. “Oh, you bet it is. Now, have a good time!”


  This was before jetways at airports, so we had to walk outside to the roll away stairs and climb into the airplane, and our adventure began.

  I scarcely remembered Uncle Armando or my cousin, Carlos. I hadn’t seen them for five years. The year after the visit, Carlos’ mom, who was my dad’s sister, died in a car accident.

  We stepped off the plane in Sacramento, California, accompanied by Debra, the flight attendant. Once inside the terminal, we met the stocky, black-haired man and smiling boy.

  Debra verified Uncle Armando’s identification before departing. Mary hugged Uncle Armando and Carlos. I shook their hands, then we followed Uncle Armando to claim our luggage.

  “I hope we brought the right stuff,” Mary said. “What’s the weather like in the summer?”

  “Sacramento gets pretty hot, but up where we are, in New Dry Gulch, it’s a little cooler, and almost always dry,” Uncle Armando said.

  “Why is it called ‘New’ Dry Gulch?” I asked. “Was there an ‘Old’ Dry Gulch?”

  “Yes,” Carlos piped in. “Only it wasn’t called ‘Old’ Dry Gulch, just plain Dry Gulch, right Dad?”

  “Right you are, Carlos. Both towns were gold rush towns. The mines around New Dry Gulch were discovered a year or so later than Dry Gulch. Around 1910, a fire burned the town of Dry Gulch to the ground. I guess you could call it a ghost town now.”

  Uncle Armando and Carlos helped Mary and me lug the bags to a red Jeep Utility Wagon and stow the suitcases in the back.

  As the Jeep eased around the curves of the paved back road, Mary asked, “How big is your town?”

  “It’s a lot smaller than Elm City, Iowa. Our population is only about twenty-two hundred people, the smallest county population in California,” Uncle Armando said with pride.

  “My dad’s the mayor, huh Dad,” said Carlos.

  “Well, it’s a part-time job, and the main reason is because no one else wants the job.” He chuckled. “Our town is small, but there is a lot of interesting history around the area.”

  “Do you know about our great-great-grand-dad, William Kayne?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s quite a story. Supposedly, Kayne sent a letter to his wife telling her of his innocence, but apparently it never got to her.”

  “Tell ’em about the gun, Dad,” said Carlos.

  “The only worldly possessions that William owned were his horse and saddle, and his gun belt and six shooter—a Colt revolver. I have his gun belt and six shooter locked up at home. They’re real antiques now.”

  “Do you think he was innocent, like he said?” I asked. “Cause he was convicted.”

  “Well, I’d like to think so,” said Uncle Armando, “but I guess we’ll never know for sure, will we?”

  Chapter 7: New Dry Gulch

  New Dry Gulch didn’t look like any town Mary or I had seen, even though Iowa had its share of small towns. Wooden sidewalks high above the street, store buildings with false fronts, many with balconies or porch covers. It was just like in the movies, except there were trucks and cars instead of horses. There was something else different—no Younker’s Department Store, Rexall Drug, or Hy-Vee Grocery stores.

  “Wow,” said Mary. “What a cool town.”

  “We’re proud of it,” said Uncle Armando. “We’re trying to keep it as authentic as possible. The town was founded in 1852, and it’s been the county seat since 1856.”

  We turned left on Nugget Street, drove up a steep hill for two blocks, then turned right on Gold Avenue. Uncle Armando parked in front of an old, dark red brick building.

  “You shouldn’t park in front of a fire station, should you?” I asked tentatively.

  Both Carlos and his dad laughed.

  “This isn’t a fire station,” said Carlos. “This is where we live.”

  “But it says ‘Engine Company’ right above the door,” I said.

  “It used to be a firehouse,” explained Uncle Armando. “We tried to keep the old firehouse look. We live upstairs. The downstairs is our garage. There is even a fire pole to slide down if you like. C’mon, Carlos. Let’s show them the place. Then we’ll go out to New Dry Gulch’s best pizza place.”

  “You mean New Dry Gulch’s only pizza place, don’t you?” Carlos laughed.

  Chapter 8: Who’s Glotz?

  Because of the two-hour time difference between Iowa and California, I woke up about 6:30 the following morning. Carlos had shared his room with me while Mary had a room down the hall. With Carlos still sleeping, I tiptoed to the kitchen and found Uncle Armando eating Cheerios. Mrs. Miller, the live-in housekeeper, was washing dishes at the sink.

  Mary stumbled in a few minutes later, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “Where’s Carlos?” asked Mary.

  “He’s still asleep.”

  “Well, I’m off to work,” said Uncle Armando. “I like to get in early to handle my paperwork.”

  “At City Hall?” I asked.

  “No, this is for my other business. I’m an insurance agent. My office is above the old Grand Hotel, downtown.” He gulped down a last spoonful of cereal. “You guys have fun today.”

  “I hope we can check out the town,” I said.

  “Carlos will show you around, all six blocks. It won’t take long.”

  After breakfast, the three of us kids gathered in the front room of the old firehouse. The windows provided a panoramic view of downtown New Dry Gulch.

  “Let’s go,” Carlos said, turning away from the windows. “You want to take the stairs, or the quick way down?”

  “The quick way,” Mary and I answered together.

  Carlos demonstrated how to hold onto the old brass fire pole, then made a smooth, quick decent to the lower level. Mary followed without a problem. It looked easy, but I went down too fast and landed on my butt.

  “Looks like you need a little practice,” said Mary, laughing.

  In the garage, three old bikes leaned against the wall. Mary, Carlos, and I each grabbed one bike and headed downtown.

  Mary and I liked the town immediately. A town square, with a white, elevated bandstand, stood in the center of the business area. Alongside it a stream had been dammed up to provide a wading area for kids. Behind the bandstand was a baseball diamond.

  “Hey, 3J,” Carlos yelled at a kid in the stream. “Come here, I want you to meet my cousins.”

  “That’s his name? Why is he called that?” I asked.

  “Because his real name is John Joshua Johnson, but since his dad’s name is John and his uncle is Joshua, everyone just calls him 3J.”

  “Cool name,” said Scooter, thinking of his own unfortunate moniker—Barthinius.

  A lean, ebony-skinned boy with short curly black hair and dark eyes approached. His dripping red swim trunks left a trail of water behind him. He seemed to be a couple of years older than Carlos and me, about Mary’s age.

  “3J, meet Scooter and Mary, my cousins from Iowa. Scooter and Mary, this is 3J.”

  “Howdy. Is this your first visit to New Dry Gulch?” asked 3J.

  “Yes,” replied Mary. “In fact, it’s our first visit to California, or any place outside Iowa.”

  “Well, I’ve never been too far out of California,” said 3J. “Only Nevada.”

  “3J’s dad runs the stables on the edge of town. Dad and I keep our horses there. Most of the town people do—the sheriff, the county clerk, almost everyone,” said Carlos.

  “You have horses?” I asked.

  “Sure. 3J and I ride all the time. Right, 3J?”

  “Right. We have a lot of open space around here, and we can ride for miles without ever crossing a paved road. Sometimes we camp out, it’s really great. Anytime you and Mary want to go, we have plenty of horses you can borrow. They’re all pretty gentle, so you don’t have to worry if you’re not experienced.”

  “Experienced?” said Mary. “Does riding a pony in a circle at the county fair count?”

  3J and Carlos laughed.

  “Don’t sweat it,
Mary,” said Carlos. “The horses do all the work. There’s really nothing to it.”

  “Well, I’m going back in the water.” 3J nodded at Mary and me. “I really mean it about riding horses whenever you want. See ya.”

  “Are you guys ready to tour the rest of the town? We’ll stop by Dad’s office, and see if he’ll take us to lunch,” said Carlos.

  We biked down Main Street. Traffic was light. A Golden Retriever sitting in the cab of a pickup truck loaded with camping gear looked hopefully at us as we passed. Dozens of people roamed the main street dressed in shorts and t-shirts, many with cameras strapped around their neck. Flags and pennants fluttered from the front of the picturesque stores and shops.

  “There sure are a bunch of antique stores and cafes, at least compared to Iowa,” said Mary.

  I noticed something else. The grocery store, the hardware store, the service station, and the real estate office all had the same name: Glotz. Glotz Grocery, Glotz Hardware, Glotz Real Estate. Hmm, I thought, pulling out a three-by-five note card and making a notation. I wonder who Glotz is.

  Chapter 9: The Office

  We parked the bikes in a rack in the town square. A boy who looked four or five years older than me and a bearded man dressed in old-fashioned clothes passed us. The man wore huge, scuffed, black cowboy boots that looked uncomfortable. The boy stared at Carlos, but didn’t say hello. Neither did Carlos.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s the Glotz kid, and Fletcher Tibbs, the county clerk and owner of the coin shop.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “The Glotz kid?” asked Carlos, rolling his eyes. “I just try to stay out of his way.”

  “Weird boots the man was wearing,” I said. “He must have really fat feet.”

  Carlos led Mary and me along the sidewalk sheltered by balconies and colorful awnings to the Grand Hotel. Inside, we crossed the small lobby to a wide, circular staircase. The old wooden stairway creaked as we climbed one floor to Uncle Armando’s insurance office.