"The Governor and I are friends. He knew what he was signing."
"Mr. Crane, a whole lot of folk told me what happened today and what could have happened today all because of you and what you set into motion. Can you explain yourself?"
"There's nothing to explain. My uncle Ichabod Crane was murdered and I'm hunting the murderer."
"Ichabod Crane murdered? That schoolmaster who supposedly disappeared from the Hollow about a decade ago? Why do you say he was murdered?" the Marshal asked.
"'Cause he was," Julian snapped back.
The Marshal looked to be stifling a chuckle. Julian's eyes narrowed, wondering what was so amusing to the lawman.
"Ichabod Crane isn't murdered, Marshal Crane. He's alive and well," the Marshal said.
"Alive?" Julian couldn't believe his ears.
"Ichabod's alive," Hans repeated, as shocked as Julian.
"Yes, I saw him."
Julian jumped up from his chair. "Saw him?"
The Marshal continued, "Yes, maybe six months ago. Is that what all this trouble is about? Why you were gonna kill Mr. Van Brunt, a leading member of this town, and why he was gonna kill you?"
"Why wouldn't you have told anyone such a thing?" Hans asked.
"He promised me to secrecy, but under the circumstances...Well then, let's put an end to all this foolishness. Get your things and get your horse, Marshal Julian Crane. I'll take you to your uncle to see for yourself. Though, I suspect that either you or Mr. Van Brunt will try to kill him for real for putting folks through all this chaos in the streets."
Part II
THE MARSHAL
Omen
"Follow me to Ichabod Crane, see!"
Damian Marshall was the U.S. Marshal for the region going on seven years. It was something that the local townspeople were proud of. He had a good reputation and did not drink or carouse around like many of his colleagues in nearby townships. It was always about duty with him, and he was also known for his tenacity in tracking down criminals, his objective fairness, and even a tender side. On more than one occasion, he helped a young man get back on the right track in life when he started to stray. Everyone just called him Marshal.
However, Julian noticed that Hans didn't take to him at all. There seemed to be a history between the men but neither would speak of the particulars. It had to do with more than the opposing views of Hans, a true believer in the Horseman, and the Marshall who supposedly often said, "There is no such darn thing as a headless horseman." Julian's sentiments exactly, but he still trusted Hans Van Ripper over any other person in these parts, including the Marshal.
"Marshal Crane, I'm going to get back to town and smooth over all the hot feelings people have over you. I've never seen the good people of Sleepy Hollow develop such a bad disposition towards someone so fast. The only people they hate more are the British Reds and the Indians who sided with them, and you ain't them. You've made a mess of your reputation in these parts for a long time to come."
"It wasn't intentional, Marshal."
The Marshal shook his head. "Maybe you shouldn't have come into this town with your one-man revenge play. We are supposed to be lawmen. How close did you come to killing Mr. Van Brunt?"
Julian looked on without answering.
"As I thought. You do know if that had happened and if Mrs. Van Brunt didn't gun you down right there on the spot, every man in the town, and I do mean every, would have shot you dead in an orgy of violence. And that little piece of paper you have from the Governor would have been as worthless to you as a rabbit with no legs in a den of foxes."
"Marshal, I do understand how bad things could have become today. I have already admitted I was wrong. I'm sorry for all this."
"I sure hope so. I truly hope you are. Get your things and we can get going when I return."
There wasn't anything for Julian to gather together. Everything he owned was in his saddle pack on Caleb Williams. The Marshal rode back to Tarry Town with his men. "We leave at first sunrise," were the last words he said to Julian.
Hans seemed relieved to have him gone from his land. He moved about his house doing chores, more to pass the time than for a specific purpose. Julian could sense that he was happy to have company and eager to say something, but didn't.
"Mr. Van Ripper, thank you for putting me up here on your property. I hope it will not cause you any trouble in the town."
Hans smiled. "I'm an old man. Only Old Man Van Tassel has been in Sleepy Hollow longer than me. I don't mind them, and they don't mind me. But you're welcome. What do you expect to find on this trip with the Marshal?"
Julian gave him a questioning look.
"Ichabod is dead," Hans said. "And no man did it. I told you that the first day we met and you almost killed an innocent man by your own admission. Now the Marshal rides in here and you're about to ride off again on a—"
"Mr. Van Ripper, a U.S. Marshal tells me that my uncle is alive, knows where he is, and will take me to him. I'm I supposed to say, 'Oh no, Marshal, my uncle Ichabod is dead. He was taken away by the Horseman?'"
Hans thought for a moment. "Yes. You should go."
Julian felt bad about giving offense to the man. "One of two things is going to happen. Either I won't be back as I'll be with my uncle or I'll be back and we'll put together a super posse to hunt down this Horseman of the Hollow."
Hans smiled at him. "I'll see you when you get back then."
The Marshal had Julian promise not leave Hans's property. Emotions were still too high, and though a full-scale shoot-out had been averted, there was no need to tempt chance. Julian occupied his time with writing a letter to his folks. He hadn't seen them in over a year, and he liked to keep them abreast of his adventure-filled life. But Julian finished early and decided to make one stop before his midnight rendezvous.
"The Marshal?"
"Yes, I'm going to have some dealings with him and want to know what kind of man he is," Julian said to the man.
The Tappan Zee was a growing area but it was still small compared to towns he was accustomed to, and he was a city dweller himself. He promised not to wander around Sleepy Hollow or set foot near Tarry Town but that left everywhere else that was in close riding distance. Julian wanted to get additional supplies for the trip, but also get some community references about the Marshal.
"The man is a saint," the man said. "He's been the marshal for these parts for years. I never heard a bad word spoken about him."
"You can count on him to keep the peace. He's a thinking lawman and not quick to shoot. I've seen him calm more situations down by talking than from any gun. He's known for that," said another man.
"Back a couple of years ago, there was a big fire in town and he personally ran in and saved an entire family—man, woman and child."
"Yes," the second man remembered.
"That's what he did without any regard for his own life. He could have gotten burnt up in the fire himself but that didn't stop him from saving that family."
Julian spoke with several other people in Sing-Sing, and all the accounts were the same. The Marshal had a good, solid reputation throughout the region and probably would be its marshal for decades if that was what he wanted. Everyone knew him, from the smallest child to the oldest person.
Hans had lent him his coat and an old hat, which was his only disguise, and he kept off the main road from and back to Han's place. He had gotten back almost two hours ago, and it was time for his last bit of business for the long day.
It was dark and he had to hold his watch piece close to the table lamp to see the time. Julian softly closed the door behind him as he made his way outside by moonlight. He stood on the hill that Brom's man Ayden used to spy on the Van Ripper cabin, just as he was now doing. All he could hear was the occasional sound of crickets and the wind blowing through the trees. With the Sabbath stillness of the night, he could see why Sleepy Hollow was given to all manner of accounts of strange sights and sounds. He personally would never live in such
an eerie place.
There it was. He saw the lamp in the distance moving towards him.
"Mr. Crane?" He heard the man's voice before he was in full view.
"Yes. It's not Sleepy Hollow's favorite specter."
"Ha. I hope you didn't have long to wait. It can get especially spooky standing out in a Hollow night all alone. You should have been here at the height of the Horseman's nightly rides as he looked for his head through the countryside and among the graves in the churchyard. There would be times a lone wolf in the hills would give out a howl that would make the hairs of your back tingle. No wolves anymore, though. People move in and the critters move elsewhere. But still, no man should be alone out here at night."
"I'm never alone, Mr. Knickerbocker," Julian said.
"Oh yes, the Good Lord you mean."
"Him, too, but I meant this." He pointed to his gun belt.
The man gave a muffled laugh.
"Did you hear what happened in town?" Julian asked.
"Everyone has."
"I came close to gunning down an innocent man in front of his infant son, and it was all set in motion by a letter from you."
Knickerbocker could see Julian's angry look in the moonlight.
"Sorry, Mr. Crane. I can only tell you what I saw and what I heard. Brom Bones rode into the blacksmith's the following night after your uncle disappeared because his horse lost its shoe. He was bragging on how he put an end to that 'rooster neck Ichabod.' He said he'd never be seen again. He said he was buried so far in the ground that he'd never be seen again. The blacksmith asked him if he killed the poor schoolmaster and Brom said emphatically, 'Yes, Mr. Blacksmith, that is what buried so far in the ground so you'll never be seen again, means.'"
"What else?"
"And like I said in the letter, Brom had a look of knowing whenever the subject of Ichabod's demise came up, and he burst out in laughter at the mention of the Horseman's pumpkins. There is nothing else."
"Well Brom Bones didn't kill him. This Marshal said he saw my uncle six months ago and is taking me to him."
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Crane. I told you what I saw and heard. Oh, and Brom said he even killed that mangy horse Ichabod was riding."
"Why didn't you tell me that before?"
Knickerbocker hesitated. "Why is that important? You wanted to know about your poor uncle, not his poor horse."
"That poor horse belonged to Hans Van Ripper, and the horse returned to his cabin after Ichabod disappeared."
The man swallowed hard. "I didn't know that. Hans's horse? I am sorry, Mr. Crane."
"Brom Bones was telling tales to keep up his devious reputation in town."
"Yes, that is what he was doing. I should have thought of that. I guess in my heart I never believed Brom could kill someone like that. I'm sorry."
"I hope that you are. I could have killed a man in front of his wife and child. I'm not here to put an innocent man's blood on my hands."
"But you don't believe in the Horseman?"
"No, I don't believe in any ghost or goblin."
"I am so sorry, Mr. Crane. It was not my intent to cause all this trouble or get Brom killed. He was a big bully to me and anyone not part of his Sleepy Hollow Gang, but I swear I didn't want to see him or anyone killed."
"Forget it. I know you had no malicious intent. I blame myself. I believed what I wanted and did not look any further when I should have."
The man managed a faint smile. "But Mr. Crane, soon you'll be reunited with your long, lost uncle. This will have a happy ending for you after all."
A faraway wolf's howl pierced the silence of the night. The men couldn't help but to glance at one another.
Trek
"Riding we will go! Ichabod, here we come!"
The rabbit dropped lifeless in an instant. The Marshal was a crackerjack shot from even this distance, using a pistol rather than a rifle.
"We got supper," the Marshal said as he stood.
Other than securing the day's food, the only other excitement, if it could be called that, was the two men taking the flatboat to cross the Hudson River. Caleb Williams had done it many times before, but was always feisty when time came to get on a boat for a water ride.
When they rode out of Sleepy Hollow at sunrise, the countryside was both hospitable and inviting. The terrain looked magical with its trees of yellow, orange, and purple leaves. Squirrels were chasing each other up one trunk to another, and small birds were darting from branch to branch. Julian took it as a sign of good things to come for their trip at hand. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be. The land fancied you when you were departing, as you were no longer a stranger. Otherwise, all it had for you were fearful sights and sounds.
Under the night moon, the two men sat around the campfire eating the last portions of meat from their flat metal plates between swallows of coffee. Julian ate with his bare hands. Marshal ate his meal with a hunting knife in each hand, which drew Julian's attention.
"Ever had to use those on anything walking on two legs?" Julian asked.
Marshal pulled a small bone from his teeth. "Many times. You know the life. Days and weeks alone in the wild, with only your horse for company. A hungry bear would be the nicest thing you'd run into. Anyone else and they'd kill you in your sleep to get your horse, your boots, the possessions in your pockets, or because maybe they liked your hat. You never know who's skulkin' about, waitin' to drag you away. We may be lawmen, but there is no law way out here."
"How long have you been marshaling?"
"When did the Act go into effect? 1789? Yes, so I became a U.S. Marshal right from the start. I was a sheriff in Charleston, down in South Carolina, and before that, in the War."
"Whose command were you under?"
"I was under General Washington, the American Fabius himself."
Julian wasn't sure if the latter phrase was praise or scorn. "I was in the War, under Washington, too. Boston, New York, New Jersey. Crossed the Delaware to defeat the Hessians at Trenton. After, his army had to split, so I was assigned to a detachment to protect the Hudson River area. Probably not too far from where we are now."
"I joined him when they marched to Valley Forge."
"You were at Valley Forge?"
Julian perked up to hear more. He had heard many stories of the ordeal and none of it was good. But he never had come across a soldier who could give him a personal and direct account until now. He noticed that the Marshal sat quiet, as if he had to sort through the bad images in his mind until he was able to fashion the appropriate words to follow.
"I was. Thousands of men not cut down by British guns or bayonets but by the elements. Thousands died. Freezing to death in the worst winter cold anyone could remember, succumbing to every manner of disease, and starving to death. We had no supplies, no food. Men walked without even a pair of shoes on, leaving bloody footprints behind in the snow or their rotted off toes.
Julian noticed how Marshal was almost in a trance as he recounted the story.
"The Oneidas helped us there, I was told."
"They brought corn for food. If not for that, we all might have died. We lost nearly half our men and hundreds of our horses before they arrived."
"I can't even imagine the horror," Julian said consolingly.
"For King and country, my childhood friends and I joined the War. Throw off the slave chains of the monarchy to be our own free nation. I remember the speeches well, my friends and I. We eagerly joined the Continental Army, joined Washington just before Valley Forge. How were we to know it would be the worst winter ever recorded? Instead, we found ourselves in an encampment of horrors—disease, cold, filth, death, dead men, dead horses, no one really expecting to survive except the chosen ones. However, for those of us not born with such fortune, one must create it for ourselves in life.
"My first friend died of dysentery. They always invent fancy names or use Latin ones to describe the vile. He died from endless liquid feces passing from his body filled
with blood on one end, and endless vomiting from the other end. An infection the dumb doctors called it. He wasted away prostrate in his own filth."
The Marshal looked as he spoke to Julian, but his mind was elsewhere. The memories of his deeds flashed before his eyes. A pale, gaunt man laid motionless on the ground as a younger Marshal strangles him to death.
"The doctors used all kinds of words you never heard before or could pronounce if you had to. All a facade for their own ignorance of what killed him, despite all their high medical learning and expertise they claimed to have had.
"My second friend died from typhoid fever. His chest was covered in these reddish spots. No one could comfort him with his nervous fever and headaches. He had no strength to move from his bedroll. The delirium got worse. His fever got so high we thought he might burst into flames."
The sick man's eyes widen as a young Marshal leans down over him and covers the man's mouth. He punches him unconscious before strangling him.
"He died emaciated and broken.
"My third friend died from the flu. Can't remember the fancy medical term for it...yes, influenza. He became a shivering mass from the endless chills of the fever, his nose would never stop running, and there was the coughing. He was also too weak to move and he complained that his muscles ached. The wintry cold only doubled his shivering until one day his shaking stopped, as did every other of his life functions."
The man stares up in fear with his watery, red eyes as a young Marshal pounds the man to death with his fists.
"The Indians came with the food and foreign officers came to train us up into real soldiers. It would be as if Valley Forge never happened. As if none of those men ever died in those horrible ways before their time. All that matters is the higher purpose.
"You see that much death, over and, over. Men's lives become meaningless. They can live or they can die. A death is only to serve the purpose of others. The life of man is not worth anything at all. What does it matter?"
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