The Hollow Tree Mystery

by Chuck Myers

  * * * * *

  The next day Garren began the hardest part of his job. He enjoyed what he did once he knew who the "bad guy" was, but the work of investigating was still something he was learning to appreciate. Once the criminal was exposed, and he could wade in with fists or guns, he felt comfortable - his strength and speed made him aware that he was uniquely qualified to do those things. But he was just coming to realize that investigating was a big part of this new job of his, for now he just wished he had someone else that could do it for him. He couldn't afford to miss anything with this case, the community - and the Hawthorn family in particular, needed the encouragement. He realized how much he had to learn in the area of fighting crime.

  "The man who really knows how to get things done as a Marshal is Ross Peters," another Marshal had informed him several weeks earlier.

  "Well, Ross, whoever you are," Garren whispered. "I could sure use you now."

  His first stop was at the house where the men had stayed that were known to be friends and accomplices of the man who had shot Mike. Sam had informed him that he and several others had all looked the place over and found nothing, but Garren had received a lot of training that they hadn't gotten. He was hoping that he could find something they had missed.

  When he arrived at the house he approached the door with caution. Turning the knob he allowed the door to swing all the way open, but he didn't step inside. Instead, he stood in the doorway and looked over the interior.

  The shack was what people referred to as a dug-out. Built into the side of a hill, the back wall was composed of the dirt that made up the far side of the bank next to the river. For that reason Garren didn't have to take much time to look there, but the rest of the house was something else. There was a simple rough table sitting in the center of the room, with a single chair. A bed had been built into the left side wall, if one could call it a bed, it was more of a odd kind of hammock with a number of straps made of old canvas and a straw filled tick. The walls were made of relatively small logs, reflecting the difficulty of finding decent lumber, and the shelves around the fireplace were very coarse - at best.

  Garren's first impression was that Sam had been right, there simply was no place in which something of value could be hidden. There was nothing suspicious about anything he could see. He immediately felt a level of let-down that there seemed to be little chance of finding anything of importance.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, Garren found himself talking quietly out-loud. "This is what my training was all about. I am expected to see things, to look in places, that others wouldn't. Get busy and find out if you're a legitimate Marshal or not."

  The first thing he did was pick up a heavy stick lying amount the rubble in one corner. With everything piled around, he began to wonder if the clues were going to be hidden somewhere under the garbage.

  "They sure weren't tidy housekeepers." Garren smiled as he realized he was talking to himself again. "That's one thing I've learned since coming west; a horse or an empty room, they're both good places to talk to one's self."

  With his stick Garren began tapping the walls, floor, and other furnishings of the room. He was listening for a hollow sound, an empty place. The tapping took two hours, and uncovered nothing!

  Frustrated, Garren sat down on the bed and wondered what to do next. He seemed to have no leads, no idea where to turn. Then, when hope seemed to be rapidly rushing unimpeded toward the western horizon, he noticed something. From the bed his perspective was slightly different. From the bed he could see the ridge-line of the roof. From there he could see the part of the outer wall that could not be seen otherwise. He obviously couldn't see it from the door.

  "It's there." Garren spoke out-loud yet again, but this time without so much as a hint of realization. "There's a natural compartment up next to the roof."

  He grabbed the chair and set it just inside the door. Climbing onto the seat he was able to reach up into the gap he had seen from the bed. Sure enough, tucked into that small gap was, what appeared to be, a single piece of paper.

  Slowly he pulled the paper from the hole. Even as he did so he realized that there were other sheets in the space. In five minutes he had five sheets laying side by side on the table before him. Each one was carefully folded. Upon opening them he was able to tell that each one was written by the same hand. And each one had a remarkable amount of writing covering the surface.

  There was no light in the room apart from that which would come from the fireplace, and he realized that it had gotten quite late as he worked. He was holding the sheets only inches from his eyes, and still struggled to make out what had been written. He finally had to admit that he would have to wait for morning. He was thankful that he had been able to at least glance at all five pieces before the darkness curtailed his activities.

  He lay in the dark, choosing to stay right there in the house, and thought over the little bit he had been able to read. The writer, whomever that might be, had started by asking a man named Roger to come to Valley County, Nebraska. He mentioned some of the things which Garren already knew, such as the war going on over the new school. The author mentioned that he was looking for people who "had no problem voting for something they had no tie to." Then the letter had gone on to ask the reader if they were willing to vote "nay" or "yea" based solely on the desires of the writer.

  The writer must be George McMillan. Garren wasn't talking out-loud anymore, he was simply thinking things through.

  The next two letters were further correspondence between Roger, and Garren was now sure that the writer was indeed George; and the letters gave directions on how to handle the upcoming vote. There really was nothing new in either letter that Garren could tell, but it did help the Marshal build a case of duplicity in the murder, and the third letter was signed "George".

  The murder itself was set out in the fourth letter. Mike Mortensen had taken a very vocal tack in his opposition of what George wanted to do with the whole school debacle. There were no names in this letter, but the writer indicated that he would give the reader five hundred dollars when the deed was done. The idea was to ask to use the man's horse, and when he refused shoot him with a hasty statement that he Mike has stolen the horse earlier over at Broken Bow. It was a flimsy excuse at best, but the men didn't seem to be worried about the law reaching this particular area.

  There's no doubt that this Roger is the guilty party, and these letters are enough proof to have the man arrested - if we can find him. Garren lay on the bed, looking up at the dark ceiling, finishing off the day with an inventory of each letter.

  The fifth letter might end up being the most important one for Garren, he just wasn't sure how. It was a map of some kind, of that he was sure. There were a number of specific tree-shaped figures, obviously drawn to set them apart. If he could figure out where the map started at - one of the shapes looked a little bit like it could be another dug-out - he might even be able to trail the man. He somehow felt that this was a map to the man's hiding place. The words "you'll be safe here" scribbled in a corner were a real give-away.

  Several hours later Garren suddenly sat straight up from a deep sleep. He had subconsciously had an odd thought, it had revealed itself as a dream - then the dream had become only too real, and the reality destroyed the dream. At least that made as much sense as anything else for his strange action.

  The dug-out could possibly be this very house where he was at right now. He could be within a few hundred feet of the man at the very moment. But he would have to trail the man there using the simplified map he now had in his possession. He would probably even need to try to do it in the dark to cut down on the possibility of the man learning that he was being followed. And, maybe the hardest part, the final shape - the "safe place" - appeared to be a wheel with an arrow through it.

  Garren laid back down and tried to get his head around what that shape could be. Could the wheel be a hole? Could
the arrow show direction? A pipe? A hole? Something hollow? Of course, a hollow log or tree. Would a man actually hide for - what had it been - two weeks, in a hollowed out tree? It seemed unlikely, but it would explain why Sam was so sure that the man was still around.

  It was just about that time that Garren fell asleep again, so he was unable to put his plan into action. He awoke to the sun flooding through the empty spot of what functioned as a window. The room looked even worse in the clean, morning light.

  "Of course he might be willing to hide in a hollow tree," Garren spoke out-loud once again. "It's cleaner than this house."

  Standing outside the dug-out a few minutes later Garren was convinced that things wouldn't be so hard. There were several trees that fit the description on the map to perfection.There was no doubt that the map was meant to lead the man to a hiding spot from this very building.

  It took only a matter of minutes to work his way along the river. And, after turning off to the north one hundred feet or so further along he was able to see a huge tree through the openings in the smaller ones he was navigating. There on a low rise was a massive tree that appeared to have been struck by lightning many years before. The main, nearly black, trunk rose a full ten feet into the air. Protruding out of one side was a solitary branch, as crooked and gnarled as the rest of the scene.

  Garren moved cautiously up toward the monumental structure wondering if it was actually hollow. He could just see the dark void of a hole as a huge man came rushing out, yelling.

  "You'll never take me alive," the man screamed as he caught Garren in the side with a massive shoulder.

  A lesser man would have been out of the fight before it ever started. But Garren had instantly fallen back on years of preparation for this type of thing.

  Immediately upon being hit Garren allowed his legs to buckle, and he fell to the ground so that the momentum of his attacker carried him over the majority of Garren's body. At the same time he grabbed for the hips of the huge man and pushed. The combination of these two things resulted in an impressive nose-dive by the attacker straight over Garren's body. The combination of motions worked to flip the man head over heels into the dust beyond the Marshal. The man landed with a satisfying "Omph".

  Garren instantly sprang upright again, spun quickly, and prepared to fall on the man before he ever regained his feet. His only problem was that this large man was not all bluster and fat. He was amazingly nimble, and came to his feet even as Garren did; but he was breathing deeply and rubbing a shoulder; the same one intended to knock his opponent out of the fight before it ever got started. The force of the throw had buried the shoulder in the hard ground and injured the man.

  "You're under arrest for the murder of Mike Mortensen." Garren pointed at the man.

  Rather than answer, the man that must be Roger dove at Garren's feet. The move would have been effective if Garren had not been so well trained and prepared for this type of thing. Stepping off to one side the Marshal kicked the man in the side of the head as he went by. The sharp-toed boots that Garren wore tore a long gash down the murderer's cheek.

  With blood dripping from his chin, Roger rose more slowly. This time he was not so fast to attack the muscular man standing so calmly before him. Roger had won many fights in his youth, and was undefeated as an adult. His height had climbed to six feet four inches, and his weight was nearly three hundred pounds. Yet his latest opponent was defending his every move.

  Roger advanced more slowly the next time, ponderously throwing a sweeping hook to the side of Garren's head. It connected with a splat as the Marshal simply stood and absorbed the blow. A slight smile appeared on Garren's face as he struck back with a massive straight right stab of his own. The blow shook Roger to his very toes, and he knew he was in the hardest fight of his life.

  In the next few moments Roger seemed unable to land a solid blow. Everything he did seemed to slide off of angled surfaces and be countered by the quick-footed Marshal. Roger took blow after blow as Garren slowly and deliberately dismantled the pride of the highly confident outlaw.

  Half and hour later Roger Johnson was in custody. Garren had a severe swelling under his left eye from several powerful right hands from the man he had come to arrest, but Johnson was a broken, bloody mess. His nose was broken, and he was missing two teeth. He was quite sure that he had at least one broken rib. Never had Roger been hit so hard or so often in a fight.

  Garren placed the man on his spare horse and prepared to head back to Grand Island, but not before stopping by the Hawthorne house. He wanted to explain why he had not shown up at the house the night before. He also wanted them to know that they need not worry about this outlaw any longer.

 

  "Oh, your eye," Sarah blurted as he entered the yard. "Can I help?"

  "It's been worse than this on many occasions," Garren brushed the concern aside. "I'll be fine."

  Sam had seen Garren coming, and started back from the field where he had been gathering a little of the ruined crop. Garren waited for him to walk up before continuing.

  "I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality," the Marshal began, "and for your faith in our agency."

  "Thanks for coming," Sam replied. He extended his arm and Garren took it gladly.

  "May I say one more thing before I leave?" Garren struggled to know how to proceed - an uncommon event in his life. "I suppose by now you're convinced that you need to give up this silly dream. But I want you to know that your kind of people are what make this country what it is. I admire your strength, your optimism, and your faith. Please believe that you are what makes a new nation flourish - much more than us professional peace-keepers, law enforcement people, and career people ever could."

  Hours later Garren was well on his way to Grand Island, but Sam continued to think about what had been said. He was thinking of going back home. He had been considering giving it all up.

  But what would become of the farm, what would become of this fledgling community? "I'm staying right where I am," he spoke into the hot Nebraska sunlight. "The price may sometimes seem unmeasurably high, but I'll be what makes this new country succeed, if that's what's required."

  Sam turned back to his work, staring down the trail to the west. He envisioned a day when children played in the river and adults went about their work in this beautiful little valley. Other people just like him, committed to life in one of the most wonderful parts of this new nation.

  The End