The Haunted Hanging Tree Page 4

A newspaper ‘tintype’ photograph dated July 21, 1873, showed a smiling Jeremiah Glotz next to a handsome young man in handcuffs. The caption read ‘Deputy Jeremiah Glotz captures Faceless Bandit.’

  “That’s probably our great-great-grandfather,” I whispered to Carlos.

  Chapter 14: The Hanging Tree

  That afternoon, Mary, Carlos, and I rode the bikes to the Johnson Stables at the edge of town where 3J greeted us.

  “So, you’re ready to try a little horseback?” he asked us.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It looks like fun.”

  We moved to the corral and looked at the horses.

  “Wow, the horses seem bigger when you’re up this close,” said Mary.

  “Horses,” said 3J, “come in different sizes. It depends on their breed. We have Buckskin, Appaloosa, Palomino, and even some Mustangs, but I think you’ll like the Paso Fino breed. They aren’t too big. They’re gentle. Anyone can ride them.”

  Carlos and 3J climbed over the corral gate and grabbed two horses by their halters, clipped ropes to the halters and led the horses to the edge of the corral. They secured the rope around the fence and went into the barn to gather the riding equipment.

  Carlos said, “This won’t take long. We just have to put on a bridle and bit, and attach the reins, the saddle blanket, and saddle. Then we’re ready to ride.”

  3J and Carlos helped Mary and me climb into the saddle. It took a high step to get a foot in the stirrup, but we managed and swung our right legs over the back of the horses and settled into the saddle.

  “Always mount the horse from the left side,” said 3J. “That’s the way they’ve been trained. Some horses don’t like it if you mount from the other side.”

  “Not only is this horse tall,” said Mary, “it’s kind of fat. Sitting on one is like doing the splits.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen enough movies to know you say ‘gitty up’ to go, and ‘whoa’ to stop. Other than that, pull on the left rein to turn left, and the right to turn right. A light kick in the horse’s side when you say gitty up should make them, well, gitty up,” 3J grinned.

  “Another thing,” said Carlos. “You want to sort of stand and sort of sit in the saddle. By keeping your legs straight, your ride is smoother. Your legs and knees act as shock absorbers.”

  “Cool,” I said. “Let’s ride.”

  We headed out, 3J in the lead followed by Mary and me. Carlos brought up the rear.

  3J turned in his saddle to face us. “First, we’ll walk the horses. Then, when you’re comfortable, we’ll make them trot. When you think you’re ready, we’ll start to gallop. Horses love to run fast.” 3J lightly kicked his horse and the horse began to gallop.

  “3J is really nice, isn’t he?” Mary asked quietly.

  “Yeah, he has a cool name too,” I replied.

  “And he’s cute,” added Mary.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  3J stopped and waited for us to catch up.

  “Where to, Carlos?” asked 3J.

  “Let’s head over to Dry Gulch. We’ll show them the Hanging Tree,” said Carlos.

  “Okay, you guys ready to see if you can handle a trot?” asked 3J.

  “Let’s do it,” said Mary.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Gitty up,” yelled 3J. His horse immediately broke into a soft trot.

  “Gitty up, Paint,” I yelled.

  As the horses picked up the pace, I bounced uncomfortably in the saddle. Mary eased her horse into a relaxed trot catching up to Carlos and 3J.

  “You look like you’ve ridden before,” Carlos told Mary. “How about Scooter?”

  “No, neither one of us has had much experience.”

  “You’re a natural,” said 3J.

  “Thanks,” said Mary.

  Carlos slowed to let me catch up. “I think maybe your stirrups are too long,” said Carlos. “We’ll adjust them when we stop.”

  As I bumped along, I noticed the rolling hills were not unlike Iowa. The main difference was the Sierra Mountains, looming in the distance. Warm sun overhead in the blue sky, with light wispy clouds and a light breeze made it a perfect day. I noticed rock formations of varying sizes out in the open fields, almost as if they had been dropped randomly by some monstrous airplane. Clusters of giant oak and pine trees along with scrubby bushes peppered the landscape. So much space, more than what I’d expected.

  We rode over a hill and into a valley. A small mountain stream flowed at the base of the hill. Trees, shrubs, and bushes lined the banks of the creek.

  “We’ll give the horses a drink,” said 3J, as he directed his horse into the center of the stream. We all followed.

  “Easy there, Diamond,” Mary said to her horse as it lowered its head to drink. The horse’s action pulled Mary forward in the saddle. She held the reins loosely as she relaxed in the saddle.

  “How much farther?” I asked.

  “Just a couple of miles, I guess. I have some Kool-Aid in a thermos and peanut packages in my backpack. We’ll take a break there, before we ride back.” Carlos pulled on the right rein of his horse, kicked it lightly in the ribs, and it splashed across the creek.

  Twenty minutes later, we crossed a grassy knoll and looked west. Ahead was a high hill, taller than the surrounding hills, covered with long brown grass, waving gently with the breeze. Small rock formations were near the top. At the crest, like a lighthouse standing alone on a rocky cliff, was the magnificent silhouette of a single enormous oak tree—the largest Mary or I had ever seen.

  “There it is,” said Carlos. “The Hanging Tree.”

  Chapter 15: Mysterious Dream?

  Under the shade of the giant oak, Carlos passed out the Kool-Aid and pretzel packages.

  “I wonder which branch?” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Mary.

  “You know, the one they used to hang guys from.”

  “Yuk, Scooter, that’s awful. I’m going to walk around and take some pictures,” said Mary.

  “We’ll go with you,” said Carlos, nodding to 3J. “You can see where the old town used to be.”

  My butt was a little sore so I said, “I’m just going to sit and maybe stretch out.” I threw a handful of pretzels in my mouth and leaned back against the large trunk of the tree. It felt good, and I pulled the visor of my ball cap down over my eyes. I yawned and stretched out my arms. It was true, the horses did most of the work, but not all of it. I sighed, pushed down the stopper of the thermos bottle, dropped it beside me, and closed my eyes.

  The shade of the tree and the gentle breeze crossing the hilltop protected me from the warm summer sun. Ah, a perfect day, I thought. My mind drifted… drifted…

  “Barthinius… Barthinius…”

  I stirred.

  “Barthinius… Barthinius… an innocent man…”

  “Uh… what…” My eyes opened and I sat up straight. Tingles ran across my neck and shoulders.

  Mary ambled toward me. “Hey, look who came back to earth.”

  “You should’ve been with us,” said Carlos. “We saw a fox chasing a rabbit. One fast hare, I have to say. Found his rabbit hole just in the nick of time.”

  “Did you guys hear something just now?” I rubbed my eyes with my fists. “Like a voice, or something? Kind of soft, almost a whisper.”

  “You must have had a strange dream,” said 3J.

  “Yeah, maybe so. I guess I dozed off for a minute or so.”

  “Try half an hour,” Carlos laughed.

  I stared up through the branches of the great Oak tree. The leaves twisted gently in the summer breeze. I listened for a sound, or a sign of some sort. Was it just a dream? Or was it something else? I closed my eyes and placed the palms of my hands over them.

  “Scooter, are you all right?” Mary tugged at my arm.

  “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”

  “If you guys are still interested, we can ride down the hill to where Dry Gulch used to b
e,” said Carlos.

  “I’m game.” I pushed up to my feet.

  “Let’s go,” Mary said.

  “It seems weird.” I was holding on to the saddle horn as Paint carefully worked his way down the steep hill. “We could be riding the same trail they used to bring our great-great-grandfather to hang. Probably a bunch of guys on horseback following the Deputy Sheriff and his prisoner up the hill to watch him die.”

  At the bottom of the hill, 3J gestured toward dirt tracks. “This was the main street of Dry Gulch. That section of stone wall is all that’s left from some old building.”

  “Over there is an ore car they used in the mines.” Carlos pointed at a rusted, overturned vehicle with small railroad wheels.

  “If you look around, you can find tools and bed springs, maybe some old wagon parts from before the last fire that wiped the town out.”

  “How many people lived here?” asked Mary.

  “I think as many as two thousand in the early gold rush days, but at the end, when the last fire hit, there were hardly any,” answered Carlos.

  “I’ll bet Uncle Armando is glad he didn’t sell the fire insurance in this town,” I joked.

  “Yeah.” Carlos grinned.

  “Isn’t it interesting to think about those people who used to walk this street and shop in stores that are long gone? They worked here, had families here, and… and died here,” said Mary.

  3J pointed. “And when they died, they were buried over there. That was known as ‘Boot Hill.’”

  We looked over at the graveyard where clumps of long dry grass and scruffy weeds hid the markers of the abandoned, desolate cemetery.

  A short time later, 3J said, “I’ve got to get back to help my dad get ready for the weekend.”

  Chapter 16: Old West Days

  “This weekend, we’re celebrating Old West Days,” Carlos explained as Mrs. Miller made sandwiches for our lunch.

  “What’s Old West Days?” I asked.

  “It’s kind of like a county fair,” said Carlos. “There are rides and booths and horse racing and contests for the best tomato or zucchini. Things like that. There’s a rodeo and cattle contests—just a lot of stuff going on. It’s fun.”

  “Are you in any of the contests?” asked Mary.

  “No.” Carlos shook his head. “I like the rides and the races. Dad usually enters a fast draw contest. It’s for grown-ups only. It’s to see who the fastest draw with an old-fashioned six-shooter is. My dad always does pretty well. The guns they use have to have been made before 1900. You’ll see how it works.”

  Mary, Carlos, and I met 3J on the midway lined with colorful tents offering chances to win stuffed animals and other trinkets. To me, the Old West Days Celebration looked a lot like the county fair back in Iowa. Families roamed around the booths that displayed crafts, baked goods, and western gear. Instead of old tractors and farm equipment, there were antique covered wagons and other horse drawn vehicles exhibited. Clothing of the early west was featured, some on mannequins. All of it looked very uncomfortable. Cowboy hats, gloves, and ropes that hung on saddles were displayed with the chaps, jeans, and boots, some dating back one hundred years.

  There were carnival rides including the Dodgem cars and Tilt-a-Whirl. In front of one tent, a group of acrobats previewed their act. Five performers stood on top of each other’s shoulders, with the top man about fifteen feet in the air. Then gracefully, he somersaulted down to the ground. The small gathering applauded politely.

  A large, multicolored Ferris wheel with flashing lights grabbed our attention. We ran to get tickets. When the Ferris wheel stopped, Mary and 3J climbed in the first car. Their car swung back and forth as the attendant held the next car steady for Carlos and me. The chairs swayed every time the wheel jerked to a stop to allow others to board. After several jerky stops, we were at the top of the wheel.

  “Look,” Mary grabbed 3J’s hand. “We can see the whole town from here. There’s Main Street. And, there’s Carlo’s house.”

  “I see our stable,” 3J pointed. “I can even see my dad over there. Some of those horses in the corral will be racing later.”

  The Ferris wheel began to turn, the seat swung up, over, and down. The breeze created by the wheel felt good. As we started down, it seemed to me as if the chair was moving faster than I was, making my heart skip. “Great ride.”

  When the Ferris wheel stopped, we raced to the Dodgem cars. Bumper cars were my favorite. After I purchased a ticket, I ran to the nearest car. The others followed, ready to show off their skills and to out maneuver their friends. I soon found I wasn’t the only veteran of Dodgem. Friends bumped and bounced into each other and anyone else they could catch.

  “That ride was too short,” grumbled 3J when the cars came to a stop. “Maybe we can come back later for another ride.”

  Mary nodded. “Yeah, that was fun.”

  Chapter 17: The Competition

  “Let’s head over to the range. I think the old gun contest is about to start.” Carlos motioned for us to follow.

  “How does it work?” asked Mary.

  “It’s sort of like a tennis tournament,” said Carlos. “You know, they pair up against each other with the slower guy being eliminated. Of course, they gotta hit a target too. They start with sixteen guys who qualified earlier. It eventually gets down to two contestants using separate targets. The judge yells ‘draw’ and the two competitors draw and fire at their assigned targets. Speed counts, but only if they’re accurate. They measure from bulls-eye out. The closer to the bulls-eye, the better the score. Of course, they always use new targets for each set of contestants.”

  “You said Uncle Armando has done this before?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Carlos. “He’s been participating in this contest every year for as long as I can remember. He uses that old six-shooter he has.”

  “He does pretty well, too,” said 3J. “He came in second behind Mr. Glotz the last couple of years. They’re both good shots.”

  “We’re here,” said Carlos when they reached the bleachers. “Let’s sit up high so we can see better.”

  We stepped around and between people sitting on the weathered wooden bleachers already filled for the contest. We climbed to the top row and looked down at the hundred or so people waiting for the event to start.

  The range consisted of two separate areas for the two participants. A white chalk line on the ground marked the shoot line. The targets were placed on easels in front of a dugout hill, so the spent bullets burrowed in the carved-out dirt wall behind the targets.

  Vendors offering soft drinks, cotton candy, and peanuts marched up and down the stands, tempting the audience.

  “Just before the shooting starts,” said Carlos, “put your hands over your ears. It gets pretty loud.”

  “Ladies, gentlemen, boys, and girls,” said an announcer. “The contestants are paired up. When they hear, ‘on your mark, get set, draw’, each contestant will fire six shots. The judge will determine the winner based on accuracy. The winner advances and the loser is eliminated from the competition. Contestants, are there any questions?”

  The participants shook their heads.

  “There will be eight contestants in the second round, four in the third, and then the final round for this year’s champion,” the announcer continued. “Let’s begin.”

  After a hail of shots in the early rounds, the final matched up Mr. Glotz and Uncle Armando.

  We watched as the judge, announcer, and volunteers made preparations in a different area of the shooting range; the shooting distance looked almost twice as long as the qualifying range. The judge pointed to the lines where the participants had to stand.

  The announcer spoke into the microphone, “Defending champion Mr. George Glotz, and Mr. Armando Estrada, take your places.”

  The two participants poised, each with their right hand just over the handle of the six-shooter in their holster. A determined, unsmiling Glotz stood erect and didn’t look at his o
pponent.

  “You can do it, Dad,” yelled Carlos from the stands.

  Uncle Armando grinned and nodded his head, acknowledging the encouragement.

  The announcer boomed, “On your mark… Get set… Draw.”

  The experienced spectators covered their ears with their hands. Many stood to get the best view possible. We covered our ears as we stood on tiptoes to see over the heads of the grownups.

  The sound of twelve loud shots filled the air, and it was over. Nervous laughter and light applause floated from the stands as the audience and participants awaited the judge’s announcement of the winner.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it was a close contest, but we have a winner. The champion Old West Gunslinger for this year is none other than our Mayor, Armando Estrada!”

  The crowd cheered and applauded. Mr. Glotz walked toward Uncle Armando. Uncle Armando extended his hand. Glotz forced a grin as the two posed for a photograph.

  Uncle Armando waved to the crowd and raised his trophy in triumph.

  “Your dad is really good, Carlos. Congratulate him for me. I’ve got to go help my dad with the horses,” said 3J. “Maybe I’ll see you later on the midway.” He grinned at Mary.

  “We’ll watch for you,” Mary blushed, and quickly checked to see if I noticed.

  Carlos, Mary, and I went to find Uncle Armando. We found him surrounded by a group of people discussing the contest.

  “Good shooting, Dad,” said Carlos. “I knew you could do it.”

  “Congratulations, Uncle Armando,” said Mary.

  “That was really cool,” I said. “Just like the movies.”

  “Thanks, kids. I was lucky,” said Uncle Armando modestly. “With these old revolvers, you never know how accurate they’ll be. George is a tough competitor, and a darn good shot.”

  “Can we look at the shooting range?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said Uncle Armando. He turned to talk to Doctor Jones, who was waiting to offer his congratulations.

  “Let’s see if we can find some of the bullets.” I glanced at the hill of dirt behind the targets. “You look behind your dad’s target, and I’ll look behind this one.”