"Don't play with danger." His father always said to him. Julian and his friends were reckless little boys. He now thought to himself how much like Brom Bones and his Sleepy Hollow Boys he and his friends must have been. They all probably would have been part of the same gang had they lived in the same town.
When he was a kid, there was a vicious dog in town, and Julian was determined to be the terror of the animal. As he waited near their neighbor's house, he could smell the beautiful aroma inside from his hiding place. The neighbor's wife always baked pies at the beginning of the week. He crept in and snatched a full pie right from the kitchen table when the mother left to attend to her new baby.
He had it all planned and could barely stifle his own giggling. He'd find that vicious dog, sneak up to it, and hurl the pie at its face. It would be stunned and run off yelping down the street. He'd be the hero of the town, and all his mates would brag about what he did for weeks.
When little Julian launched the pie from his hand into the dog's face, he did not expect what happened. It did not jump or run away yelping. It glared at him with a meanness that scared Julian to his toes. The dog attacked him and proceeded to maul him until passersby kicked the dog senseless to get it to finally stop attacking. The only story that went through town was how the vicious dog, foaming at the mouth so profusely, nearly devoured young Julian. He never told anyone that the foaming was the filling from a pie he'd stolen. Though the neighbor's wife kept the front door locked after that day.
His father always knew the truth somehow. His mother cried over him but his father only stared at him. "You keep playing with danger and someone will end up dead. Your mother won't be able to kiss your cheek and make it all better." He did listen, for a time. His adolescence brought the recklessness back, and it would take another event so horrific that it still came to him in nightmares to make him stop for good. But now there was this.
Later, there was the sight of the undertaker riding up the street with the cheap, pine box with Frenchie's body inside headed for the cemetery. Unlike the amiable Mr. Berg in Sleepy Hollow, this town's undertaker looked like a living ghoul. Most of the teeth were gone from his mouth and, as skinny as his uncle Ichabod was, this man's body was skeletal. He touched his black hat as he passed in his dusty black clothes.
The Marshal killed a man in cold blood. He saw it with his own eyes. He was "two men" as that bounty hunter had said. Why not run? Run now, just as the bounty hunter told him to do, but Julian refused. He had to know what the Marshal had planned. He had to know where he was leading him and why. He had to verify what his gut was already telling his head about his uncle and the "good" Marshal. He had to play with danger again, this time.
He told many, many people to always listen to their gut, and especially if their head was telling them something different. When it came to danger, your gut feeling was always superior to your intellect. Humans were animals, and that gut feeling is what kept the species alive. Intellect was the pompousness that grew over the centuries from humans believing they were too good for those innate animal instincts that served them so well over the ages. If you turn to walk down a dark alley and your gut tells you not to, then don't. If you're riding alone down a deserted path and your gut tells you that someone is watching you, then you are being watched. If you're gut tells you that Marshal is going to kill you the first chance he gets...
"My little detour is done," Marshal said to him. "We'll finish up with the Sheriff and go."
"Will we not stay in town the night?"
"I don't see why we need to. It'll take us a few days to get there and we have some good hours of light before we have stop to set up camp. We stay and who knows what other people or causes will come up to delay us again."
Julian smiled. "Since we'll be in the open for a few days, let's stay the night in town. I'll take a hotel bed over the cold ground any day, even if it's only one night. We can leave at dawn."
"Yes, Marshal Crane."
The sun peeked across the horizon as the men rode out as planned. Marshal took the lead and Julian stayed close. He eyed the Marshal's horse and thought to himself—Body Snatcher. He remembered thinking to himself at the time that it was a peculiar name for a horse. Maybe it had even more of a meaning than he knew. Julian started to recall everything the Marshal had said from their first meeting.
Anyone else would probably have run away from the Marshal as soon as they could. The Marshal was probably thinking Julian was "stuck" with him for the trip to Ichabod, but that wasn't it at all. If Ichabod was truly alive, he didn't need the Marshal or anyone else to find him. Julian wanted to play this cat-and-mouse game to the end.
But the question did enter his head. Who was the cat? Who was the mouse?
They came across a large wagon train that was also heading north and were welcomed in to join them. It was made up of about thirty families with children and about forty or so men. Their redheaded leader was happy to have not one but two marshals to accompany them.
Marshal and Julian rode next to their leader at the front. His horse looked much like Caleb Williams, but the man's saddle was ornate for a simple shopkeeper.
"The saddle has been in my family for so many years that we forgot who its first owner was and the history around it. I will pass it down to my son and he to his. That's how we do things. We keep 'em to last.
"How long have you been lawmen?" Red asked them.
"Seven years," Marshal answered.
"Just over a year for me," Julian said. "But both of us are ex-soldiers too, from the War."
"We are so happy you marshals came upon us." Red smiled. "God must be looking down upon us."
"What's that around your neck?" Julian asked.
"Oh, my silly rabbit's foot charm," he answered. "A gift from my late mother. I wear it for her, but it has given me good luck over the years."
"How long have you been on the trail?" Marshal asked.
"Three weeks. We're almost to our destination, just south of the Canadian border. We're going to make a new life for ourselves."
"It gets cold up there," Julian said.
"We are stout folks. When a man has a home to call his own, no weather is too harsh, no matter where it is."
"You and your people sound like the kind of folk I'd expect to head out west," Julian added.
"Well, we are not that brave, at least not yet. Maybe one day we will."
The climate had already started to get chillier, but with the nearing of the end of October and moving north towards the Canadian border, there would be some mornings and nights that would be downright frigid—a small taste of the coming winter.
"What's it like to be a lawman?" the son asked. The boy was seventeen years old, and the eldest of Red's children.
"It's a good feeling," Julian answered. "Keeping the peace."
The Marshal stifled a smile. Julian felt no need to share with the young man his recent hypocritical actions.
"You're protecting the people but it's more than that," the son continued. "You are the good fighting the forces of evil. That's what you do. How do you marshals feel about that?"
"I never thought of it that way, but...yes you have it right. But I would say all of us do our part to fight the bad in our own small way or in big ways when needed. It doesn't matter."
"How do you feel about it, Marshal?" the son asked.
Marshal looked at him a moment and his gaze moved down to the ground. "I'm not sure. I'll think on it and let you know my answer."
"Oh don't mind him, Marshal," Red interjected. "My son should be a philosopher. The only problem is no one will pay you a living to be one."
Julian said to the son, "There's nothing wrong with a good hobby to occupy your time."
The son nodded.
"Do you expect any trouble on the trip, Marshal?" Red asked.
"None at all," Marshal responded. "Your wagon train should reach Middletown on schedule without incident."
"When do you have to turn off?"
> "We'll be able to stay with you until sometime tomorrow, but you'll be fine without us."
"I wish you could see us 'til the end. I know it would make everyone feel easier."
"You'll be fine."
"I'll tell the women to try to coax you to stay with some of our downright, heavenly home cookin' away from home."
The men laughed. "We like that kind of coaxing," Julian added.
The trek was as smooth as could be. The wagons stopped midday along the river for the lunch meal, and rest and water for the horses. The marshals learned that the group was originally from the Carolinas but wanted to find wide-open space to form their own town. The allure of the "new" was still a powerful feeling among a lot of people. Many were content being settled in an established town, but there were plenty who were adventurers at heart. It was a feeling Julian himself could relate to. Most of America remained uncharted land.
When time came to make their final stop for the night, the wagons were arranged in a circle, a few men were posted at the perimeter to guard, and people settled in around the roaring fire made in the center of camp. Most relaxed by the campfire, eating supper and would pass the time with a good ghost story for at least a couple of hours.
Julian sat on the ground comfortably with one knee propped up and his forearm and chin resting upon it. Marshal was lying flat on the ground with the rim of his hat covering his eyes and nose. He had no interest in ghost stories.
A man was serious in his recounting to the group. "I've met many a hunter, especially those who've been closer to the far northern colonies, I mean states, and Canada who have seen it."
"What was it?" one of the smaller children asked.
"No one knows. They first thought it was a giant bear of some kind. We've only explored the eastern seaboard of this continent, and so much of it is unknown, especially moving west. There could be countless species of animals we haven't encountered yet. This beast must be at least twice the height of a normal man, but it's not a bear. It's man-like."
"How they know how tall it is?" the same boy asked.
"The size of its feet," the man answered. "And it naturally walks on two feet. Bears will walk on all fours most of the time and leap up on two legs only when they want to get something up high or terrify its prey."
"Big feet, huh?"
"Yep."
"There're all kinds of legends about people turning into animals and animals turning into people. Maybe it's one of them. It could be a whole tribe of them and they change to get away. I learned about it from the Indians. There's even have a fancy word for it. 'Trans-morg' or something such like. The people trans-morg into animals or animals trans-morg into people."
"Witches have done that for centuries. That's why you have to burn them," one of the women said.
"It's called transmogrification," another man butted in.
The storyteller began again. "Yep, that's it. Just because we have all our book-knowledge and conveniences in these modern times, we mustn't forget that there is still the supernatural. I've seen it."
"Oh, what about the sea monster Rip saw last year?" a man called out. The statement got a whole round of acknowledgment from the camp.
"Did they find it again?"
"No, they searched that whole river right out to the Atlantic."
"Tell me what it looked like," the boy asked.
"It was some kind of giant sea serpent encased in a shiny slime."
"The water is the most dangerous place. You can never see what's lurking beneath the surface," a woman said. "You will never see me or my children swimming in any river or lake."
"I was by Pennsylvania, and they told me about the Dark Trapper that prowls those parts," one man said. "We just found out about it, but the Indians have known about him for centuries."
"Centuries?" the boy asked.
"It's the size of a man, covered in fur skins, including its fur cap. It has fox feet, clawed hands, and no face."
"No face?" the boy asked. "Then how does it eat?" People laughed.
"How am I supposed to know? All I know is it hunts men. A man thinks he tracking a fox or coyote and it's the Dark Trapper. It kills the men and scatters their remains throughout the forest."
"It has to do that because it has no mouth to eat," a woman blurted out. People began to laugh again.
"Tell me about this Headless Horseman I heard about around a place called Sleepy Hollow," Julian called out. "How do you kill it?"
Everyone turned to look at him.
"You can't kill a ghost, sonny," an old man answered.
"Every ghost or goblin can be defeated," Julian said. "Maybe you don't know the one I mean."
"Oh, we do," the old man countered. "The Legendary Headless Horseman. The Galloping Hessian of Sleepy Hollow. Had his head blown clean off by a cannon ball in the War, and now he haunts the region in search of it and carries off any unfortunate victims who come across his path. Haunts the region by night, and must return to the town's church graveyard before sunrise."
"You can't kill it, but you can drive it off for a short time," another man said. "You have to stay beyond the reach of its power. It can't cross water so you cross a bridge and your safe, but..."
"But what?" Julian asked.
"It can throw its horrible missile—that devilish pumpkin—at you no matter how far you run. It can get you that way."
"Sonny, the key to defeating it is its lair. The land it dwells in and where it rests when the sun rises until night comes for it to ride again. Destroy that place and you destroy it," the original storytelling man said.
Other people in the camp agreed, and Julian sat quietly in deep thought.
The man continued with his ghost stories to occupy the camp until it was time to sleep.
Julian happened throw a glance over at Marshal. He was no longer lying flat but sitting upright, glaring at the storytelling man. The fire glistened in the Marshal's eyes. He was boiling with rage.
About Marshal
"Julian Crane is done dead?"
Both men thought to themselves that they would never want to be out in the open in this land at night or during any inclement weather. The wind seemed chillier, shadows seemed to take on a life of their own, and darkened forests were especially to be avoided. The trees always looked like they would jump up and run after you at any moment. A day ago, they could have sworn that two crows they saw had been talking to each other, but immediately stopped when they realized the men were there. This was one creepy place, and neither man could think of any other that was more so.
Two days before, they came across a man originally from a nearby town that said he had been hunting a deer when it double-backed at him and tried to bite him with what he swore were fangs. Of course, the account elicited loud laughter from the men crowding the local tavern, until he said he had been near the town of Sleepy Hollow and then proceeded to lift up his shirt and show them all the visible bite marks into his side.
The Headless Horseman was supposedly gone. However, did the Horseman make the land haunted, or did the haunted land attract the Horseman to begin with? But then again, all of it could have all been figments of their minds after years of hearing any number of ghost stories about these parts, and who knew how much of it was from pranksters.
"So this is Sleepy Hollow, the place with all those stories of the Headless Horseman?" the younger man asked.
"Yep," the older man on point answered. "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."
The two riders moved at a relaxed pace, as if they didn't have a care in the world. Their horses were old but still reliable. Their clothes were older but kept them as comfortable as needed for the weeklong trip to the Tappan Zee area.
The younger man asked, "Have you heard of any stories recently from there?"
"No, but that doesn't mean there aren't any. Towns are like their own world. All kinds of things can happen and no one living in another world will know anything about it."
"But we used to hear about them all t
he time. I remember. But nothing for a long while."
"Yep, several years back there were lots of jabbering about them and their Headless Horseman. But people get bored and look for the next story."
"What happened to this Headless Horseman's head?"
"He was supposed to be some kind of Hessian soldier whose head was taken clean off by cannon fire. The story goes that he patrolled nightly for it, and went after the lone, unsuspecting traveler, too. Probably to get theirs instead."
"That's one way to keep people off your roads at night." The younger man laughed.
"We're not here to fool around." The older man got more serious.
"I know." The younger man decided to change the subject back to what they had spent most of their days planning. "Do you think we'll catch up to him?"
"Maybe."
"Do you think he's the one behind it?"
"We don't know if there is even a crime yet."
"We know there is. We don't know how bad yet, that's all."
Old-timer Mr. Berg stood on the corner of the main street into town, his hands holding the lapels of his coat. He watched the two riders draw nearer with his pipe hanging from his lips like always. He had noticed the men when they were about a half-mile out.
Only now had Tarry Town gotten back to normal after the whole "Julian Affair," but people's nerves were still fragile. Town leaders had put out the word to look out for any other out-of-place strangers coming into town. They were not about to allow any other visitors smooth-talk their way into homes or the town again. No one expected to see Julian Crane again, but they especially wanted to make sure he didn't come back to start a whole new bit of chaos.
"Hello, sir." The older man of the two riders had a big bushy mustache.
"Hello," Berg casually answered.
The younger man looked like he could be the older one's son.
"Do you have a town lawman I could speak to?" the older man asked.
"Can't say we're big enough for all that, but soon. Why do you need a lawman? Are you reporting something or turning yourself in before someone has to report you?"
Hollow Blood (Sleepy Hollow Horrors, Book 1) Page 12
