The Haunted Hanging Tree Read online

  Uncle Armando rose from his chair, came around his desk, and put his large arms around the three of us. “Welcome to my humble office,” he said.

  I studied the room. Along one wall stood mismatched metal file cabinets. Behind Uncle Armando’s oversized desk was a credenza which held a Monroe Calculating Adding and Accounting machine, as well as an Underwood typewriter.

  “What’s that?” I pointed to a rifle on the back wall.

  Uncle Armando lifted the gun from the rack. “This is an old Remington rifle, the kind the pioneers used when they were making their way West. Of course, it no longer works. I collect items from the early days in California. The other antique gun I have is the one that belonged to your great-great-grandfather, which I keep locked up at home.”

  He showed the rifle to Mary and me, then returned it to the rack.

  "And this is a picture of the original Dry Gulch, taken in 1870’s. See here? The way they used to tie up their horses? That’s the saloon where William Kayne was arrested. They hung him two days later.

  “It’s almost noon. I’ll take you to my favorite place for lunch,” said Uncle Armando.

  “I sure would like to see where the old saloon was,” I said.

  “If you guys want, we can ride horseback to the old Dry Gulch. It’s not that far,” said Carlos.

  “Wow. That would be cool,” I said.

  Chapter 10: Bullets Have Fingerprints

  Carlos, Uncle Armando, and I strolled along the uneven wooden sidewalk, while Mary clicked off some pictures with her ever-present camera. I was surprised at how busy the business district of New Dry Gulch was, a lot busier than the main street of Elm City. Most of the street parking was full. Sightseers clicked their cameras at the restored western buildings. The Californian Hotel and the Royal Saloon seemed to be two favorite subjects for the cameras. Both buildings were now restaurants, and they appeared to be doing a good business with the tourist trade.

  As we walked, a warm breeze fluttered the awnings over the wooden sidewalk.

  “Even Elm City has buildings taller than two stories,” I whispered to Mary.

  Uncle Armando led us toward an old single-story building.

  “We’re going to eat where the locals eat. It used to be the stagecoach station. Not as fancy as the Californian or the Royal. It’s almost like it was in the old days, plus it’s at the upper end of Main Street out of the tourist traffic. Chuck, the owner, doesn’t like tourists, so he calls his place Upchuck’s. That seemed to keep the tourists out. The name is nasty, but the food is tasty.”

  When Uncle Armando opened the door to the restaurant, a voice boomed, “His Honor, the Mayor.” Chuck smiled and waved at us as we filed in.

  Uncle Armando received a smattering of polite applause from the other patrons. A portly man in the back shouted, “I promise to vote for you if you give no speech.” Laughter filled the room.

  Uncle Armando waved to the group. “Distinguished citizens of New Dry Gulch,” he began, “and I use the term loosely. You know my son, Carlos. We have the pleasure of my nephew and niece visiting from the great state of Iowa. Please say hello to Scooter and Mary Kane.”

  “Hello, Scooter and Mary,” the group responded in unison.

  We were embarrassed by all the attention, but Carlos assured us this happened frequently with favorite customers. Chuck seated us at a large table near the front.

  “What a cool place,” I said. “I need a souvenir.” I picked up a book of matches from the table that had a picture of the restaurant on the cover.

  When the door opened again, the restaurant owner bellowed, “The town’s leading veterinarian and county coroner.”

  “Hello, Doc,” yelled the patrons.

  A short, slightly overweight man with a bushy white beard entered. The narrow white band of hair contrasting with his tanned bald head almost looked like a halo. He smiled and gave a modest bow.

  “Hi, Doc,” said Uncle Armando. “Come and join us. I’d like to introduce you to our guests.”

  Doc nodded to Mary and me as he settled into a chair next to Carlos.

  I leaned forward. “What’s a coroner?”

  “Well, hopefully, you will never have to use my services,” Dr. Jones chuckled. “In cases of violent, sudden, or unusual deaths, a coroner’s job is to determine the cause of death. You know, like an accident, or when foul play is involved. Usually around here it’s accidents. This is a pretty quiet town. But even here there are mishaps. That, and being the only veterinarian in town, keeps me quite busy.”

  “Have you had some interesting cases?” asked Mary.

  “Oh, yes. We’ve had a few exciting situations since I became coroner.”

  “Can you tell us one?” I asked.

  “Well, let me think… hmm… there was a situation several years ago. Do you remember the Smith case, Armando?”

  “The so-called ‘hunting accident?’” said Uncle Armando.

  “Yes, this fellow, Luke Smith, told the sheriff that he and his wife were out walking in the woods during deer hunting season. It was a Saturday afternoon, as I recall. He said a hunter’s stray shot killed his wife, right in front of him. He was upset, very emotional at the time. He and his wife had been married for years, and from all outward appearances, they were a happy couple.”

  “Did they live here in town?” I looked at Uncle Armando for the answer.

  “Actually, they lived out on a small ranch.”

  “Carlos, did you know them?”

  “I used to see them in town once in a while,” said Carlos.

  “Wow,” I said.

  The doctor continued, “Of course, there were no witnesses, and the man had no criminal record so the consensus was that it was just an unfortunate accident.”

  “But it wasn’t?” asked Mary

  “No. The case might have ended there except for one thing. Mr. Smith had recently purchased large life insurance policies on his wife and himself. Your uncle, who had sold Smith the policies, reported it to the sheriff.”

  “Awesome,” I said.

  “When he heard about the insurance, the sheriff became suspicious. The fellow’s story was simple and there was no way to disprove it. But as any experienced law man knows, in a murder case, the most logical suspect is the spouse of the deceased.”

  “Was it the husband?” I looked at Doc.

  “Yep, it sure was. The sheriff got a search warrant for the Smith home. It was quite a surprise to Luke Smith, because up until that time he had no idea he was even a suspect. Anyhow, the sheriff found Luke’s hunting rifle in the house. A ballistics test proved that it was the gun that killed Mrs. Smith.”

  “What happened then?” asked Mary.

  “Luke was convicted of murder in the first degree and is now in Folsom Prison.”

  “What are ballistics tests?” I asked.

  “When a gun shoots a bullet, it leaves unique lines and grooves on that bullet that are unlike those from any other gun, much the same as everyone’s fingerprints are different. By matching up the markings of a test bullet and the bullet that killed Mrs. Smith, the authorities were able to prove she was killed with Luke’s gun.”

  “Hmm… interesting,” I said. “I’ll have to remember that. Bullets have fingerprints.”

  Chapter 11: The Ball Game

  After lunch, Uncle Armando returned to his office, while Mary, Carlos, and I continued to tour New Dry Gulch. We rode our bikes by the library and Carlos’ school. Turning left on Stage Coach Trail, we passed the County Court House, built in 1856. It was a simple, wood building painted white with blue trim. On the roof stood a bell tower with a large bell that warned the citizens of emergencies, such as forest fires or other dangers. In front of the building, two flag poles were positioned, one flying the Stars and Stripes, the other the California Bear state flag.

  On Posse Road, we passed a small one-story building with signs that identified it as the City Hall and the Sheriff’s office. A uniformed officer dressed in khaki with
a white cowboy hat, and a holstered gun at his side, was leaving the building.

  “Hi, Carlos,” he said.

  “Hi, Sheriff Duncan.”

  “How’s the team doing?”

  “So far so good, but we have a tough one this afternoon.”

  “Who are you playing?”

  “The Howling Springs Coyotes.”

  “I hear they have a mighty good team this year. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff, we’ll need it.” Carlos sighed.

  After zigzagging through town on our bikes, we returned to Carlos’ home. Carlos opened sodas and a bag of pretzels.

  “I have to leave for the baseball game in a few minutes. We play down at the square near where you met 3J. Do you want to come along?”

  “Sure,” said Scooter. “Wanna come, Mary?”

  “Okay, I guess so. Who did you say you’re playing?”

  “The best team in the league—The Howling Springs Coyotes. I just hope we have enough kids to make up a team today,” said Carlos.

  Chapter 12: Can Mary Play Baseball?

  Twelve players for the Howling Springs team showed up in twin station wagons with ‘Go Coyotes’ hand painted on the side windows. They sported dark blue uniforms, with bold white numbers, and white baseball pants. Each player wore identical shoes. Even their two coaches were in uniform.

  Only eight kids showed up to play for the New Dry Gulch team, most arriving on bicycles. They wore jeans and t-shirts, and none of them matched. Their team was called ‘The Bandits.’ They coached themselves.

  “Looks like we’re a little short of players today,” 3J said to Carlos. “We need nine players if this game is going to count in the standings.”

  “Remember, Mike is visiting his grandma this week.” Carlos turned to me and asked, “Scooter will you play? That will give us nine guys,”

  “Yeah, I’ll play.” I turned my Chicago Cubs baseball cap visor to the front.

  “What do you guys play? Six innings?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Carlos said. “Scooter, you play first base. I’m the catcher and 3J pitches.”

  Mary wandered over to the small stands under the shade of some giant oak trees and sat next to a girl, probably a little older than me, dressed in an old-fashioned dress.

  After 3J had taken some warm-up pitches, Carlos and I joined 3J on the pitcher’s mound.

  “Did you see that kid wearing number nine?” 3J said. “If he’s twelve or under, then I’m six years old. He’s bigger than my dad.”

  Surprisingly, the teams evenly matched. At the top of the sixth inning, the score was two to two. 3J walked the first batter. The second batter hit a grounder to the third baseman. The runner on first headed for second, plowing into the Bandits’ second baseman, knocking him to the ground. The batter was called out on first, but the Bandits’ second baseman, shaken from the collision, had to leave the game.

  3J nodded at Carlos and me for a meeting on the mound. “What are we going to do now?” asked 3J. “We have to forfeit the game if we don’t have nine players.”

  “Maybe we can get Mary to play,” I suggested.

  I hollered to Mary to come down to the field.

  As Mary stood to climb down the bleachers, I saw the girl in the old-fashioned dress wave to me, but I pretended not to notice.

  “Does Mary know anything about baseball?” Carlos whispered to me as Mary approached.

  Trying to keep a straight faced, I said, “Mary, these guys wonder if you know anything about baseball.”

  “Sure,” said Mary. “Someone throws the ball and someone tries to hit it. It doesn’t look too hard to me.”

  “Well,” said Carlos, “she can play right field. She can’t hurt us much there.”

  Mary, being left-handed, took a while to find a glove. She then trotted out to right field, and the game resumed.

  The next Coyote batter hit a pop fly to the short stop, for the second out. The big guy stepped to the plate.

  “Go, Hulk, go,” came the yells from the Coyote bench. “You can do it, Hulk.”

  Even the umpire looked small next to the Hulk.

  From the way he was standing, I could tell he was trying to hit it to right field.

  Carlos gave 3J the sign for a low, outside pitch.

  CRACK!

  A perfect connection. The ball lofted high and deep into right field. The runner took off from second base.

  The Coyotes jumped up, yelling and waving their arms.

  “Go, Hulk, go.”

  “Atta boy, Hulk.”

  Carlos threw his catcher’s mask on the ground in disappointment. 3J, standing on the mound, shook his head in disgust.

  Mary ran back to the edge of the baseball diamond, looked up, and snatched the fly ball over her left shoulder for the third out.

  The Coyotes were dumbfounded.

  So were the Bandits. With the score still tied at two, the joyous Bandits ran back to their bench while the dejected Coyotes took the field.

  The Bandits had one player on second base and two outs. It was Mary’s turn to bat.

  “Let’s see,” she said to Carlos and 3J. “Do I hold the fat end of the bat or the skinny end?”

  I had to chuckle as 3J and Carlos looked at each other and shook their heads.

  As Mary walked to the plate, I sensed I was being watched. It’s a detective thing, being able to detect it without even seeing. Kemo Kelly, my favorite TV detective, had the same ability.

  I turned to observe the small crowd. The girl in the dress was still there. For a nanosecond, my eyes locked with hers. She waved. I felt my face flush. I turned back to watch the game.

  Carlos nudged me. “Looks like you’ve got a fan. She’s been staring a hole in the back of your head all game long.”

  “Whadya mean?” I said.

  “Peggy Glotz. The girl in the pink frilly dress.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. There she was, long dark hair, cool blue eyes, a big smile, twirling a parasol. “Another Glotz?”

  Carlos’ smile gave me the answer.

  At the plate, Mary faced the pitcher.

  “Girl!” shouted the Hulk from the pitching mound. “Move in.”

  The Coyote infield and outfield moved in. The outfielders were almost to the infield, the infielders half way to the plate.

  Mary knew exactly what she was doing as she choked up on the bat.

  The first pitch came across the plate and Mary swung daintily, missing it by a good three feet.

  The Coyotes almost fell over with laughter. The Hulk turned to his fielders and said something. They all laughed and moved two steps closer.

  The Hulk looked at his catcher for a signal. He shook it off. He shook off the second sign.

  Mary no longer looked helpless. She had a determined look on her face, which seemed to amuse the Hulk.

  The Hulk floated a waist-high curve ball. Mary stepped into the ball, swinging the bat like a major league slugger. The crack of the bat meeting the ball silenced the Coyotes and brought wild cheers from the Bandit’s bench.

  The ball lifted like a jet plane, rose over the infielders, and continued to climb over the head of the outfielder, who had moved in from shallow right. Finally, it descended beyond the playing field, rolling into the woods.

  Mary trotted around the bases, passing the stunned and silent Coyotes. 3J, Carlos, and I, along with the rest of the Bandits, high fived Mary at home plate.

  Mary turned to Carlos and 3J. “I guess you hold the skinny end of the bat, huh?”

  Chapter 13: Glotz Grocery Store

  “Carlos, would you bike down to the grocery store and get some milk?” asked Mrs. Miller, the housekeeper.

  “Sure.” Carlos turned to Mary and me. “You guys wanna come along?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I’ll stay and talk to Mrs. Miller,” said Mary.

  Carlos and I slid down the fire pole, jumped on our bikes, and headed to Glotz Grocery.

  The sign on the buildi
ng said ‘Glotz Grocery and Mercantile, est. 1873.’ Painted white with green trim, the historic building had a balcony suspended over the sidewalk, and an overhang that draped the balcony. Supporting the balcony and overhang were four graceful arched pillars. Behind the big plate glass windows of the large two-story building was a display of grocery and general merchandise items characteristic of the gold rush days. A showcased box of oatmeal, a can of lard, large bars of soap, and an old pickaxe accented the store’s history.

  The store looked as if it was still the 1870’s. Employees dressed in the fashions of the day, similar to the dress Peggy Glotz wore to the baseball game. Many items had to be retrieved by store employees using long sticks with hooks to pull them from the top shelves. There was an aroma of aged wood, grains, spices, and leather goods. Sales were rung up on a huge, brass antique cash register.

  I felt the worn, uneven wooden floor beneath my feet. Carlos and I passed an antique glass display case, with arrangements of flour, rice, tins of tea, and sacks of beans, all packaged as they would have been when the store first opened. I paid little attention to the merchandise displayed. I did notice the wall behind the counter with several glass cabinets featuring pictures of the store’s grand opening. One with a Wells Fargo wagon and one with Jeremiah Glotz, the founder of the store, and Glotz family members who worked in the store.

  Next to the pictures was a small, locked glass cabinet—a case displaying a six-shooter and gun belt. A brass plaque on the case stated ’Gun and Gun Belt owned by Jeremiah Glotz, circa 1870.

  Carlos and I eased around the end of the sales counter to get a closer look at photographs of the store’s founder, Jeremiah Glotz. One photo showed him sitting on a horse drawn wagon with a sign ‘Glotz Grocery and Mercantile.’ In another he sat on a black stallion, waving his hat and wearing a silver star on his vest. I noticed one of the points on his badge was missing.

  The next item in the case stopped me in my tracks.