The Hanging Tree: A True Story

The rolling fields and quiet towns of Ripley County, Indiana had long been a place of hard work and simple living, but beneath the surface, a darker current had begun to flow. By the late 19th century crime had crept into the community, and at its heart stood five men whose names sent chills through every citizen in town.

Lyle Levi had been the first to turn to crime. A former Confederate soldier, he had returned home to find honest work scarce and his temper short. A natural leader, Levi used his charm and influence to gather others like him—men who found the law to be more of a suggestion than a rule. His saloon in the “Texas” district of Osgood became a den of vice, a meeting ground where money changed hands, liquor flowed freely, and criminal enterprises were planned. It was here that he met William Jenkins, a man whose fists had settled more disputes than words ever could. Jenkins, also a former Confederate soldier, had a reputation for being ruthless, a man who enjoyed the fear he instilled in others.

Henry Schuster was the gang’s burglar, a shadow slipping through windows and forcing open safes with the precision of a master thief. Unlike Jenkins, who thrived on brute strength, Schuster found pleasure in the thrill of the job, always boasting about how no lock could keep him out. Then there was Clifford Gordon, the youngest of the group at just twenty-two. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in recklessness. Gordon idolized Levi and Jenkins, eager to prove himself to men he saw as legends of lawlessness. Rounding out the group was Albert Andrews, whose name carried a bitter irony. His father had been a respected Union veteran, but Albert had forsaken his family’s good name for a life of crime. Angry over his failed marriage, he found solace in the gang’s illicit lifestyle.

Their crime spree was relentless. They targeted isolated farmsteads, waiting until nightfall to break in and terrorize families. Witnesses recounted tales of the gang tying up homeowners, forcing them to watch as their savings were stolen and their livestock slaughtered. One harrowing account came from a young woman in Friendship, Indiana, who had been forced to stand by as Jenkins beat her father nearly to death for refusing to open the family’s safe.

The gang also grew bold in the towns, robbing businesses in broad daylight. At a general store in Milan, Schuster and Gordon held the clerk at gunpoint while Levi calmly emptied the register. A few days later, they intercepted a stagecoach on its way to Versailles, making off with a shipment of gold coins bound for a bank in Cincinnati. Gordon fired a shot at one of the guards, wounding him, before they rode off laughing into the woods.

It was the Woolley store robbery that finally sealed the gang’s fate. The burglary, bold and reckless, left too many clues. A broken carriage wheel outside the shop belonged to none other than Levi himself. A witness, local blacksmith James Holloway, had seen Levi and his men earlier that day, their pockets jingling with stolen silver. When the sheriff put the pieces together, he wasted no time.

Levi, along with his men—William Jenkins, Henry Schuster, Clifford Gordon, and Albert Andrews—was arrested and locked away in the Versailles jailhouse. But justice was slow, and the townspeople had no patience left.

By the night of September 14, 1897, a mob had gathered outside the jail, their faces illuminated by flickering torches. Among them was Thomas Reid, a storekeeper who had been robbed twice, and Charles Porter, a former deputy who had once tried to bring Jenkins in himself. Reid had nearly lost his business after one of the gang’s robberies, while Porter bore a scar on his cheek—a gift from Jenkins during a failed arrest attempt. The men whispered among themselves, voices taut with anger. Then, someone gave the order.

They stormed the jail, overwhelming Sheriff John Thompson and his deputies. The sheriff, recognizing the fury in their eyes, pleaded for reason, but it was too late. Gunshots rang out, and the prisoners were dragged from their cells. Levi fought back, cursing and swinging at his captors, but a rifle butt to the temple sent him to the ground. Jenkins, defiant to the end, was shot twice in the chest before being hauled outside.

Under the cold gaze of the moon, the mob led them to the large elm tree at the edge of the cemetery. Jenkins screamed in defiance, while Schuster wept and begged for his life. But mercy was in short supply that night. One by one, they were strung up, their bodies swaying in the breeze as the townspeople watched in silence.

The Hanging Tree had not been a stranger to death. Long before that fateful night, it had been the site of other lynchings, particularly of Black men accused of crimes without trial. Whispers of wrongful hangings and racial injustice clung to its branches, making it a place of dark history. Some in the town claimed that those lynched at the tree, guilty or not, haunted the area, their voices carried by the wind through the cemetery.

By dawn, the mob had dispersed, leaving only the sheriff and a handful of men to cut the bodies down. No one would ever be charged for the lynching. The law had failed, and the people had taken justice into their own hands.

For years, the tree stood as a silent witness to that night and the brutal racial injustices that had occurred before, its gnarled branches reaching toward the sky. Those who passed by would whisper of the lynching, some calling it justice, others a stain upon the town’s soul. But the memory never faded. Ripley County had made its mark in history, and The Hanging Tree remained a symbol of a time when fear ruled the night, and the line between justice and vengeance blurred beyond recognition.