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Hoofbeats on the Turnpike
_By_ MILDRED A. WIRT
_Author of_ MILDRED A. WIRT MYSTERY STORIES TRAILER STORIES FOR GIRLS
_Illustrated_
CUPPLES AND LEON COMPANY _Publishers_ NEW YORK
_PENNY PARKER_ MYSTERY STORIES
_Large 12 mo. Cloth Illustrated_
TALE OF THE WITCH DOLL THE VANISHING HOUSEBOAT DANGER AT THE DRAWBRIDGE BEHIND THE GREEN DOOR CLUE OF THE SILKEN LADDER THE SECRET PACT THE CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN THE WISHING WELL SABOTEURS ON THE RIVER GHOST BEYOND THE GATE HOOFBEATS ON THE TURNPIKE VOICE FROM THE CAVE GUILT OF THE BRASS THIEVES SIGNAL IN THE DARK WHISPERING WALLS SWAMP ISLAND THE CRY AT MIDNIGHT
COPYRIGHT, 1944, BY CUPPLES AND LEON CO.
Hoofbeats on the Turnpike
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE 1 OLD MAN OF THE HILLS _1_ 2 PLANS _9_ 3 INTO THE VALLEY _18_ 4 A STRANGER OF THE ROAD _28_ 5 SLEEPY HOLLOW ESTATE _40_ 6 GHOSTS AND WITCHES _48_ 7 BED AND BOARD _60_ 8 A RICH MAN'S TROUBLES _70_ 9 STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER _78_ 10 BARN DANCE _86_ 11 THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN _93_ 12 PREMONITIONS _101_ 13 RAIN _107_ 14 A MOVING LIGHT _116_ 15 INTO THE WOODS _126_ 16 A FRUITLESS SEARCH _134_ 17 ACCUSATIONS _140_ 18 FLOOD WATERS _151_ 19 TRAGEDY _158_ 20 EMERGENCY CALL _165_ 21 A MYSTERY EXPLAINED _175_ 22 WANTED--A WIRE _184_ 23 TOLL LINE TO RIVERVIEW _192_ 24 A BIG STORY _199_ 25 MISSION ACCOMPLISHED _205_
CHAPTER 1 _OLD MAN OF THE HILLS_
A girl in crumpled linen slacks skidded to a fast stop on the polishedfloor of the _Star_ business office. With a flourish, she pushed a slipof paper through the bars of the treasurer's cage. She grinnedbeguilingly at the man who was totaling a long column of figures.
"Top o' the morning, Mr. Peters," she chirped. "How about cashing alittle check for me?"
The bald-headed, tired looking man peered carefully at the crisprectangle of paper. Regretfully he shook his head.
"Sorry, Miss Parker. I'd like to do it, but orders are orders. Yourfather said I wasn't to pass out a penny without his okay."
"But I'm stony broke! I'm destitute!" The blue eyes became eloquent,pleading. "My allowance doesn't come due for another ten days."
"Why not talk it over with your father?"
Penny retrieved the check and tore it to bits. "I've already worked onDad until I'm blue in the face," she grumbled. "Talking to a mountaingives one a lot more satisfaction."
"Now you know your father gives you almost everything you want," thetreasurer teased. "You have a car of your own--"
"And no gas to run it," Penny cut in. "Why, I work like a galley slavehelping Dad build up the circulation of this newspaper!"
"You have brought the _Star_ many new subscribers," Mr. Peters agreedwarmly. "I'll always remember that fine story you wrote about theVanishing Houseboat Mystery. It was one of the best this paper everpublished."
"What's the use of being the talented, only daughter of a prosperousnewspaper owner if you can't cash in on it now and then?" Penny went on."Why, the coffers of this old paper fairly drip gold, but do I ever getany of it?"
"I'll let you have a few dollars," Mr. Peters offered unexpectedly."Enough to tide you over until the day your allowance falls due. You see,I know how it is because I have a daughter of my own."
Penny's chubby, freckled face brightened. Then the light faded. She askeddoubtfully:
"You don't intend to give me the money out of your own pocket, Mr.Peters?"
"Why, yes. I wouldn't dare go against your father's orders, Penny. Hesaid no more of your checks were to be cashed without his approval."
Unfolding several crisp new bills from his wallet, the treasurer offeredthem to Penny. She gazed at the money with deep longing, then firmlypushed it back.
"Thanks, Mr. Peters, but it has to be Dad's money or none. You see, Ihave a strict code of honor."
"Sorry," replied the treasurer. "I'd like to help you."
"Oh, I'll struggle on somehow."
With a deep sigh, Penny turned away from the cage. She was a slim,blue-eyed girl whose enthusiasms often carried her into trouble. Hermother was dead, but though she had been raised by Mrs. Weems, a faithfulhousekeeper, she was not in the least spoiled. Nevertheless, because herfather, Anthony Parker, publisher of the _Riverview Star_ was indulgent,she usually had her way about most matters. From him she had learned manydetails of the newspaper business. In fact, having a flare for reporting,she had written many of the paper's finest stories.
Penny was a friendly, loveable little person. Not for long could sheremain downhearted. As she walked down the long hallway, its greatexpanse of polished floor suddenly looked as inviting as an ice pond.With a quick little run she slid its length. And at the elevator cornershe collided full-tilt with a bent old man who hobbled along on a crookedhickory cane.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Penny apologized. "I didn't know anyone wascoming. I shouldn't have taken this hall on high."
The unexpected collision had winded the old man. He staggered a stepbackwards and Penny grasped his arm to offer support. She could not failto stare. Never before in the _Star_ office had she seen such a queerlooking old fellow. He wore loose-fitting, coarse garments with heavyboots. His hair, snow white, had not been cut in many weeks. Thegrotesque effect was heightened by a straw hat several sizes too smallwhich was perched atop his head.
"I'm sorry," Penny repeated. "I guess I didn't know where I was going."
"'Pears like we is in the same boat, Miss," replied the old man in acracked voice. "'Lows as how I don't know where I'm goin' my own self."
"Then perhaps I can help you. Are
you looking for someone in thisbuilding?"
The old man took a grimy sheet of paper from a tattered coat pocket.
"I want to find the feller who will print this advertisement for me," heexplained carefully. "I want everybody who takes the newspaper to readit. I got cash money to pay for it too." He drew a greasy bill from anancient wallet and waved it proudly before Penny. "Ye see, Miss, I gotcash money. I ain't no moocher."
Penny hid a smile. Not only did the old man look queer but hisconversation was equally quaint. She thought that he must come from anisolated hill community many miles distant.
"I'll show you the way to the ad department," she offered, guiding himdown the hall. "I see you have your advertisement written out."
"Yes, Miss." The old man hobbled along beside her. "My old woman wrote itall down. She was well edijikated before we got hitched."
Proudly he offered Penny the paper which bore several lines of neatlyinscribed script. The advertisement, long and awkwardly worded, offeredfor sale an old spinning wheel, an ancient loom and a set of woolcarders.
"My old woman used to be one o' the best weavers in Hobostein county,"the old man explained with pride. "She could make a man a pair o' jeansthat'd wear like they had growed to his hide. But they ain't no call forreal weavin' no more. Everything is cheapened down machine stuff thesedays."
"Where is your home?" Penny questioned curiously.
"Me and my old woman was born and raised in the Red River Valley. Everbeen there?"
"No, I can't say I have."
"It's one of the purtiest spots God ever made," the old man said proudly."You never seen such green pastures, an' the hills kinda take your breathaway. Only at night there's strange creatures trackin' through the woods,and some says there's haunts--"
Penny glanced quickly at her companion. "Haunts?" she inquired.
Before the old man could answer they had reached the want-ad counter. Anemployee of the paper immediately appeared to accept the advertisement.His rapid-fire questions as he counted words and assessed charges,bewildered the old hillman. Penny supplied the answers as best she could.However, in her haste to be finished with the task, she forgot to havethe old fellow leave name and address.
"You were saying something about haunts," she reminded him eagerly asthey walked away from the desk. "You don't really believe in ghosts doyou, Mister--"
"Silas Malcom," the old man supplied. "That's my name and there ain't abetter one in Hobostein County. So you be interested in haunts?"
"Well, yes, I am," Penny admitted, her eyes dancing. "I like all types ofmystery. Just lead me to it!"
"Well, here's something that will make your pretty eyes pop." Chuckling,the old man fumbled in his pocket and produced a worn newspaper clipping.Penny saw that it had been clipped from the Hobostein County Weekly. Itread:
"Five hundred dollars reward offered for any information leading to thecapture of the Headless Horseman. For particulars see J. Burmaster,Sleepy Hollow."
"This _is_ a strange advertisement," Penny commented aloud. "The onlyHeadless Horseman to my knowledge was the famous Galloping Hessian in thestory, 'Legend of Sleepy Hollow.' But in reality such things can'texist."
"Maybe not," said the old man, "but we got one in the valley just thesame. An' if what folks says is so, that Headless Horseman's likely tomake a heap o' trouble fer someone before he's through his hauntin'."
Penny stared soberly into the twinkling blue eyes of her aged companion.As a character he completely baffled her. Did he mean what he said or washe merely trying to lead her on with hints of mystery? At any rate, thebait was too tempting to resist.
"Tell me more," she urged. "Exactly what do you know about thisadvertisement?"
"Nothin'. Nary a thing, Miss. But there's haunts at Sleepy Hollow anddon't you think there ain't. I've seen 'em myself from Witching Rock."
"And where is Witching Rock?" Even the words intrigued Penny.
"Jest a place on Humpy Hill lookin' down over the Valley."
Finding her companion none too willing to impart additional information,Penny reread the advertisement. The item had appeared in the HobosteinCounty paper only the previous week. The words themselves rather than theoffer of a reward enchanted her.
"Headless Horseman--Witching Rock!" she thought excitedly. "Why, even thenames scream of mystery!"
Aloud she urged: "Mr. Malcom, do tell me more about the matter. Who isMr. Burmaster?"
There was no answer. Penny glanced up from the advertisement and staredin astonishment. The elderly man no longer stood beside her. Not a soulwas in the long empty hall. The old man of the hills had vanished asquietly as if spirited away by an unseen hand.