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.

“I’ve been robbed!” Mrs. Lear proclaimed wildly.
“Hoofbeats on the Turnpike” ([See Page 100])

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 polished floor of the Star business office. With a flourish, she pushed a slip of paper through the bars of the treasurer’s cage. She grinned beguilingly at the man who was totaling a long column of figures.

“Top o’ the morning, Mr. Peters,” she chirped. “How about cashing a little check for me?”

The bald-headed, tired looking man peered carefully at the crisp rectangle of paper. Regretfully he shook his head.

“Sorry, Miss Parker. I’d like to do it, but orders are orders. Your father 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 on Dad until I’m blue in the face,” she grumbled. “Talking to a mountain gives one a lot more satisfaction.”

“Now you know your father gives you almost everything you want,” the treasurer teased. “You have a car of your own—”

“And no gas to run it,” Penny cut in. “Why, I work like a galley slave helping Dad build up the circulation of this newspaper!”

“You have brought the Star many new subscribers,” Mr. Peters agreed warmly. “I’ll always remember that fine story you wrote about the Vanishing Houseboat Mystery. It was one of the best this paper ever published.”

“What’s the use of being the talented, only daughter of a prosperous newspaper 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 get any 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 asked doubtfully:

“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. He said no more of your checks were to be cashed without his approval.”

Unfolding several crisp new bills from his wallet, the treasurer offered them to Penny. She gazed at the money with deep longing, then firmly pushed it back.

“Thanks, Mr. Peters, but it has to be Dad’s money or none. You see, I have 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. Her mother was dead, but though she had been raised by Mrs. Weems, a faithful housekeeper, she was not in the least spoiled. Nevertheless, because her father, Anthony Parker, publisher of the Riverview Star was indulgent, she usually had her way about most matters. From him she had learned many details 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 she remain downhearted. As she walked down the long hallway, its great expanse of polished floor suddenly looked as inviting as an ice pond. With a quick little run she slid its length. And at the elevator corner she collided full-tilt with a bent old man who hobbled along on a crooked hickory cane.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Penny apologized. “I didn’t know anyone was coming. I shouldn’t have taken this hall on high.”

The unexpected collision had winded the old man. He staggered a step backwards and Penny grasped his arm to offer support. She could not fail to stare. Never before in the Star office had she seen such a queer looking old fellow. He wore loose-fitting, coarse garments with heavy boots. His hair, snow white, had not been cut in many weeks. The grotesque effect was heightened by a straw hat several sizes too small which 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 a cracked 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 this building?”

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,” he explained carefully. “I want everybody who takes the newspaper to read it. I got cash money to pay for it too.” He drew a greasy bill from an ancient wallet and waved it proudly before Penny. “Ye see, Miss, I got cash money. I ain’t no moocher.”

Penny hid a smile. Not only did the old man look queer but his conversation was equally quaint. She thought that he must come from an isolated hill community many miles distant.

“I’ll show you the way to the ad department,” she offered, guiding him down the hall. “I see you have your advertisement written out.”

“Yes, Miss.” The old man hobbled along beside her. “My old woman wrote it all down. She was well edijikated before we got hitched.”

Proudly he offered Penny the paper which bore several lines of neatly inscribed script. The advertisement, long and awkwardly worded, offered for sale an old spinning wheel, an ancient loom and a set of wool carders.

“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’ jeans that’d wear like they had growed to his hide. But they ain’t no call for real weavin’ no more. Everything is cheapened down machine stuff these days.”

“Where is your home?” Penny questioned curiously.

“Me and my old woman was born and raised in the Red River Valley. Ever been 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 breath away. 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. An employee 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 have the old fellow leave name and address.

“You were saying something about haunts,” she reminded him eagerly as they walked away from the desk. “You don’t really believe in ghosts do you, Mister—”

“Silas Malcom,” the old man supplied. “That’s my name and there ain’t a better one in Hobostein County. So you be interested in haunts?”

“Well, yes, I am,” Penny admitted, her eyes dancing. “I like all types of mystery. 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. It read:

“Five hundred dollars reward offered for any information leading to the capture of the Headless Horseman. For particulars see J. Burmaster, Sleepy Hollow.”

“This is a strange advertisement,” Penny commented aloud. “The only Headless Horseman to my knowledge was the famous Galloping Hessian in the story, ‘Legend of Sleepy Hollow.’ But in reality such things can’t exist.”

“Maybe not,” said the old man, “but we got one in the valley just the same. An’ if what folks says is so, that Headless Horseman’s likely to make 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 was he merely trying to lead her on with hints of mystery? At any rate, the bait was too tempting to resist.

“Tell me more,” she urged. “Exactly what do you know about this advertisement?”

“Nothin’. Nary a thing, Miss. But there’s haunts at Sleepy Hollow and don’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 Hobostein County paper only the previous week. The words themselves rather than the offer of a reward enchanted her.

“Headless Horseman—Witching Rock!” she thought excitedly. “Why, even the names scream of mystery!”

Aloud she urged: “Mr. Malcom, do tell me more about the matter. Who is Mr. Burmaster?”

There was no answer. Penny glanced up from the advertisement and stared in astonishment. The elderly man no longer stood beside her. Not a soul was in the long empty hall. The old man of the hills had vanished as quietly as if spirited away by an unseen hand.

CHAPTER
2
PLANS

“Now what became of that old man?” Penny asked herself in perplexity. “I didn’t hear him steal away. He couldn’t have vanished into thin air! Or did he?”

Thinking that Mr. Malcom might have gone back to the want-ad department, she hastily returned there. To her anxious inquiry, the clerk responded with a grin:

“No, Old Whiskers hasn’t been here. If you find him, ask for his address. He forgot to leave it.”

Decidedly disturbed, Penny ran down the hall which gave exit to the street. Breathlessly she asked the elevator attendant if he had seen an old man leave the building.

“A fellow with a long white beard?”

“Yes, and a cane. Which way did he go?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“But you did see him?” Penny demanded impatiently.

“Sure, he went out the door a minute or two ago. He was talking to himself like he was a bit cracked in the head. He was chuckling as if he knew a great joke.”

“And I’m it,” Penny muttered.

She darted through the revolving doors to the street. With the noon hour close at hand throngs of persons poured from the various offices. Amid the bustling, hurrying crowd she saw no one who remotely resembled the old man of the hills.

“He slipped away on purpose!” she thought half-resentfully. “He gave me the newspaper clipping just to stir my interest, and then left without explaining a thing!”

Abandoning the search as hopeless, Penny again reread the clipping. Five hundred dollars offered for information leading to the capture of a Headless Horseman! Why, it sounded fantastic. But the advertisement actually had appeared in a country newspaper. Therefore, it must have some basis of fact.

Still mulling the matter over in her mind, Penny climbed a long flight of stairs to the Star news room. Near the door stood an empty desk. For many years that desk had been occupied by Jerry Livingston, crack reporter, now absent on military leave. It gave Penny a tight feeling to see the covered typewriter, for she and Jerry had shared many grand times together.

She went quickly on, past a long row of desks where other reporters tapped out their stories. She nodded to Mr. DeWitt, the city editor, waved at Salt Sommers, photographer, and entered her father’s private office.

“Hello, Dad,” she greeted him cheerfully. “Busy?”

“I was.”

Anthony Parker put aside the mouthpiece of a dictaphone machine to smile fondly at his one and only child. He was a tall, lean man and a recent illness had left him even thinner than before.

Penny sank into an upholstered chair in front of her father’s desk.

“If it’s money you want,” began Mr. Parker, “the answer is no! Not one cent until your allowance is due. And no sob story please.”

“Why, Dad.” Penny shot him an injured look. “I wasn’t even thinking of money—at least not such a trivial amount as exchanges hands on my allowance day. Nothing less than five hundred dollars interests me.”

“Five hundred dollars!”

“Oh, I aim to earn it myself,” Penny assured him hastily.

“How may I ask?”

“Maybe by catching a Headless Horseman,” Penny grinned mischievously. “It seems that one is galloping wild out Red Valley way.”

“Red Valley? Never heard of the place.” Mr. Parker began to show irritation. “Penny, what are you talking about anyway?”

“This,” explained Penny, spreading the clipping on the desk. “An old fellow who looked like Rip Van Winkle gave it to me. Then he disappeared before I could ask any questions. What do you think, Dad?”

Mr. Parker read the advertisement at a glance. “Bunk!” he exploded. “Pure bunk!”

“But Dad,” protested Penny hotly. “It was printed in the Hobostein Weekly.”

“I don’t care who published it or where. I still say ‘bunk!’”

“Wasn’t that the same word you used not so long ago when I tried to tell you about a certain Witch Doll?” teased Penny. “I started off on what looked like a foolish chase, but I came back dragging one of the best news stories the Star ever published. Remember?”

“No chance you’ll ever let me forget!”

“Dad, I have a hunch,” Penny went on, ignoring the jibe. “There’s a big story in this Headless Horseman business! I just feel it.”

“I suppose you’d like to have me assign you the task of tracking down your Front Page gem?”

“Now you’re talking my language!”

“Penny, can’t you see it’s only a joke?” Mr. Parker asked in exasperation. “The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow! That story was written years ago by a man named Washington Irving. Or didn’t you know?”

“Oh, I’ve read the ‘Legend of Sleepy Hollow,’” Penny retorted loftily. “I remember one of the characters was Ichabod Crane. He was chased by the Headless Horseman and nearly died of fright.”

“A nice bit of fiction,” commented Mr. Parker. He tapped the newspaper clipping. “And so is this. The best place for it is in the scrap basket.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t!” Penny leaped forward to rescue the precious clipping. Carefully she folded it into her purse. “Dad, I’m convinced Sleepy Hollow must be a real place. Why can’t I go there to interview Mr. Burmaster?”

“Did you say Burmaster?”

“Yes, the person who offers the reward. He signed himself J. Burmaster.”

“That name is rather familiar,” Mr. Parker said thoughtfully. “Wonder if it could be John Burmaster, the millionaire? Probably not. But I recall that a man by that name built an estate called Sleepy Hollow somewhere in the hill country.”

“There!” cried Penny triumphantly. “You see the story does have substance after all! May I make the trip?”

“How would you find Burmaster?”

“A big estate shouldn’t be hard to locate. I can trace him through the Hobostein Weekly. What do you say, Dad?”

“The matter is for Mrs. Weems to decide. Now scram out of here! I have work to do.”

“Thanks for letting me go,” laughed Penny, giving him a big hug. “Now about finances—but we’ll discuss that angle later.”

Blowing her father an airy kiss, she pranced out of the office.

Penny fairly trod on clouds as she raced toward the home of her chum, Louise Sidell. Her dark-haired chum sat listlessly on the porch reading a book, but she jumped to her feet as she saw her friend. From the way Penny took the steps at one leap she knew there was important news to divulge.

“What’s up?” she demanded alertly.

“Hop, skip and count three!” laughed Penny. “We’re about to launch forth into a grand and glorious adventure. How would you like to go in search of a Headless Horseman?”

“Any kind of a creature suits me,” chuckled Louise. “When do we start and where?”

“Lead me to a map and I’ll try to answer your questions. Our first problem is to find a place called Red Valley.”

For a half hour the two girls poured over a state map. Hobostein County was an area close by, while Red Valley proved to be an isolated little locality less than a day’s journey from Riverview. Penny was further encouraged to learn that the valley she proposed to visit had been settled by Dutch pioneers and that many of the original families still had descendants living there.

“It will be an interesting trip even if we don’t run into any mystery,” Louise said philosophically. “Are you sure you can go, Penny?”

“Well, pretty sure. Dad said it was up to Mrs. Weems to decide.”

Louise gave her chum a sideways glance. “That seems like a mighty big ‘if’ to me.”

“Oh, I’ll bring her around somehow. Pack your suitcase, Lou. We’ll start tomorrow morning bright and early.”

Though Penny spoke with confidence, she was less certain of her powers as she entered her own home a few minutes later. She found Mrs. Weems, the stout, middle-aged housekeeper in the kitchen making cookies.

“Now please don’t gobble any of that raw dough!” Mrs. Weems remonstrated as the girl reached for one of the freshly cut circles. “Can’t you wait until they’re baked?”

Penny perched herself on the sink counter. Reminded that her heels were making marks on the cabinet door, she drew them up beneath her and balanced like an acrobat. Forthwith she launched into a glowing tale of her morning’s activities. The story failed to bring a responsive warmth from the housekeeper.

“I declare, I can’t make sense out of what you’re saying!” she protested. “Headless Horsemen, my word! I’m afraid you’re the one who’s lost your head. The ideas you do get!”

Mrs. Weems sadly heaved a deep sigh. Since the death of Mrs. Parker many years before, she had assumed complete charge of the household. However, the task of raising Penny had been almost too much for the patient woman. Though she loved the girl as her own, there were times when she felt that running a three-ring circus would be much easier.

“Louise and I plan to start for Red Valley by train early tomorrow,” said Penny briskly. “We’ll probably catch the 9:25 if I can get up in time.”

“And has your father said you may go?”

“He said it was up to you.”

Mrs. Weems smiled grimly. “Then the matter is settled. I shall put my foot down.”

“Oh, Mrs. Weems,” Penny wailed. “Please don’t ruin all our plans. The trip means so much to me!”

“I’ve heard that argument before,” replied Mrs. Weems, unmoved. “I see no reason why I should allow you to start off on such a wild chase.”

“But I expect to get a dandy story for Dad’s paper!”

“That’s only an excuse,” sighed the housekeeper. “The truth is that you crave adventure and excitement. It’s a trait which unfortunately you inherited from your father.”

Penny decided to play her trump card.

“Mrs. Weems, Red Valley is one of those picturesque hidden localities where families have gone on for generation after generation. The place must fairly swim with antiques. Wouldn’t you like to have me buy a few for you while I’m there?”

Despite her intentions, Mrs. Weems displayed interest. As Penny very well knew, collecting antiques had become an absorbing hobby with her.

“Silas Malcom has a spinning wheel for sale,” Penny went on, pressing home the advantage she had gained. “I’ll find him if I can and buy it for you.”

“Your schemes are as transparent as glass.”

“But you will let me go?”

“I probably will,” sighed Mrs. Weems. “I’ve learned to my sorrow that in any event you usually get your way.”

Penny danced out of the kitchen to a telephone.

“It’s all set,” she gleefully told Louise. “We leave early tomorrow morning for Red Valley. And if I don’t earn that five hundred dollar reward then my name isn’t Penny Gumshoe Parker!”

CHAPTER
3
INTO THE VALLEY

The slow train crept around a bend and puffed to a standstill at the drowsing little station of Hobostein. Louise and Penny, their linen suits mussed from many weary hours of sitting, were the only passengers to alight.

“Yesterday it seemed like a good idea,” sighed Louise. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

Penny stepped aside to avoid a dolly-truck which was being pushed down the deserted platform by a station attendant. She too felt ill at ease in this strange town and the task she had set for herself suddenly seemed a silly one. But not for anything in the world would she make such an admission.

“First we’ll find the newspaper office,” she said briskly. “This town is so small it can’t be far away.”

They carried their over-night bags into the stuffy little station. The agent, in shirt sleeves and green eye shade, speared a train order on the spindle and then glanced curiously at the girls.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes,” replied Penny. “Please tell us how to find the offices of the Hobostein Weekly.”

“It’s just a piece down the street,” directed the agent. “Go past the old town pump, and the livery stable. A red brick building. Best one in town. You can’t miss it.”

Penny and Louise took their bags and crossed to the shady side of the street. A horse and carriage had been tied to a hitching post and by contrast an expensive, new automobile was parked beside it. The unpaved road was thick with dust; the broken sidewalk was coated with it, as were the little plots of struggling grass.

In the entire town few persons were abroad. An old lady in a sunbonnet busily loaded boxes of groceries into a farm wagon. The only other sign of activity was at the livery stable where a group of men slouched on the street benches.

“Must we pass there?” Louise murmured. “Those men are staring as if they never saw a girl before.”

“Let them,” said Penny, undisturbed.

Two doors beyond the livery stable stood a newly built red brick building. In gold paint on the expanse of unwashed plate glass window were the words: “Hobostein Weekly.”

With heads high the girls ran the gantlet of loungers and reached the newspaper office. Through the plate glass they glimpsed a large, cluttered room where desks, bins of type, table forms and a massive flat-bed press all seemed jammed together. A rotund man they took to be the editor was talking to a customer in a loud voice. Neither took the slightest notice of the girls as they pushed open the door.

“I don’t care who you are or how much money you have,” the editor was saying heatedly. “I run my paper as I please—see! If you don’t like my editorials you don’t have to read them.”

“You’re a pin-headed, stubborn Dutchman!” the other man retorted. “It makes no difference to me what you run in your stupid old weekly, providing you don’t deliberately try to stir up the people of this valley.”

“Worrying about your pocketbook?”

“I’m the largest tax payer in the valley. If there’s an assessment for repairs on the Huntley Lake Dam it will cost me thousands of dollars.”

“And if you had an ounce of sense, you’d see that without the repairs your property may not be worth a nickel! If these rains keep up, the dam’s apt to give way, and your property would go in the twinkling of an eye. Not that I’m worried about your property. But I am concerned about the folks who are still living in the valley.”

“Schultz, you’re a calamity-howler!” the other accused. “There’s no danger of the dam giving way and you know it. By writing these hot editorials you’re just trying to stir up public feeling—you’re hoping to shake me down so I’ll underwrite a costly and unnecessary repair bill.”

The editor pushed back his chair and arose. His voice remained controlled but his eyes snapped like fire brands.

“Get out of this office!” he ordered. “The Hobostein Weekly can do without your subscription. You’ve been a pain to this community ever since you came. Good afternoon!”

“You can’t talk like that to me, Byron Schultz!” the other man began hotly. Then his gaze fell upon Louise and Penny who stood just inside the door. Jamming on his hat, he went angrily from the building.

The editor crumpled a sheet of paper and hurled it into a waste basket. The act seemed to restore his good humor, for with a wry grin he then turned toward the girls.

“Yes?” he inquired.

Penny scarcely knew how to begin. Sliding into a chair beside the editor’s desk, she fumbled in her purse for the advertisement clipped from the Hobostein Weekly. To her confusion she could not find it.

“Lose something?” the editor inquired kindly. “That’s my trouble too. Last week we misplaced the copy for Gregg’s Grocery Store and was Jake hoppin’ mad! Found it again just before the Weekly went to press.”

“Here it is!” said Penny triumphantly. She placed the clipping on Mr. Schultz’ desk.

“Haven’t I had enough of that man in one day!” the editor snorted. “The old skinflint never paid me for the ad either!”

“Who is J. Burmaster?” Penny inquired eagerly.

“Who is he?” The editor’s gray-blue eyes sent out little flashes of fire. “He’s the most egotistical, thick-headed, muddle-brained property owner in this community.”

“Not the man who was just here?”

“Yes, that was John Burmaster.”

“Then he lives in Hobostein?”

“He does not,” said the editor with emphasis. “It’s bad enough having him seven miles away. You don’t mean to tell me you haven’t seen Sleepy Hollow estate?”

Penny shook her head. She explained that as strangers to the town, she and Louise had made no trips or inquiries.

“Sleepy Hollow is quite a show place,” the editor went on grudgingly. “Old Burmaster built it about a year ago. Imported an architect and workmen from the city. The house has a long bridge leading up to it, and is supposed to be like the Sleepy Hollow of legend. Only the legend kinda backfired.”

“You’re speaking about the Headless Horseman?” Penny leaned forward in her chair.

“When Burmaster built his house, the old skinflint didn’t calculate on getting a haunt to go with it,” the editor chuckled. “Served him right for being so muleish.”

“But what is the story of the Headless Horseman?” Penny asked. “Has Mr. Burmaster actually offered a five hundred dollar reward for its capture?”

“He’d give double the amount to get that Horseman off his neck!” chuckled the editor. “But folks up Delta way aren’t so dumb. The reward never will be collected.”

“Is Delta the name of a town?”

“Yes, it’s up the valley a piece,” explained Mr. Schultz. “You don’t seem very familiar with our layout here.”

“No, my friend and I come from Riverview.”

“Well, you see, it’s like this.” The editor drew a crude map for the girls. “Sleepy Hollow estate is situated in a sort of ‘V’ shaped valley. Just below it is the little town of Delta, and on below that, a hamlet called Raven. We’re at the foot of the valley, so to speak. Huntley Lake and the dam are just above Sleepy Hollow estate.”

“And is there really danger that the dam will give way?”

“If you want my opinion, read the Hobostein Weekly,” answered the editor. “The dam won’t wash out tomorrow or the next day, but if these rains keep on, the whole valley’s in danger. But try to pound any sense into Burmaster’s thick head!”

“You started to tell me about the Headless Horseman,” Penny reminded him.

“Did I now?” smiled the editor. “Don’t recollect it myself. Fact is, Burmaster’s ghost troubles don’t interest me one whit.”

“But we’ve come all the way from Riverview just to find out about the Headless Horseman.”

“Calculate on earning that reward?” The editor’s eyes twinkled.

“Perhaps.”

“Then you don’t want to waste time trying to get second-hand information. Burmaster’s the man for you to see. Talk to him.”

“Well—”

“No, you talk to Burmaster,” the editor said with finality. “Only don’t tell him I sent you.”

“But how will we find the man?” Penny was rather dismayed to have the interview end before it was well launched.

“Oh, his car is parked down the street,” the editor answered carelessly. “Everyone in town knows Burmaster. I’d talk to you longer only I’m so busy this afternoon. Burmaster is the one to tell you his own troubles.”

Thus dismissed, the girls could do nothing but thank the editor and leave the newspaper building. Dubiously they looked up and down the street. The fine new car they had noticed a little while earlier no longer was parked at the curb. Nor was there any sign of the man who had just left the newspaper office.

“All we can do is inquire for him,” said Penny.

At a grocery store farther down the street they paused to ask if Mr. Burmaster had been seen. The store keeper finished grinding a pound of coffee for a customer and then answered Penny’s question.

“Mr. Burmaster?” he repeated. “Why, yes, he was in town, but he pulled out about five minutes ago.”

“Then we’ve just missed him!” Penny exclaimed.

“Burmaster’s on his way to Sleepy Hollow by this time,” the store keeper agreed. “You might catch him there.”

“But how can we get to Sleepy Hollow?”

“Well, there’s a train. Only runs once a day though. And it went through about half an hour ago.”

“That was the train we came in on. Isn’t there a car one can hire?”

“Don’t know of any. Clem Williams has some good horses though. He keeps the livery stable down the street.”

Their faces very long, the girls picked up their overnight bags and went outside again.

“I knew this trip would be a wash-out,” said Louise disconsolately. “Here we are, stuck high and dry until our train comes in tomorrow.”

“But why give up so easily?”

“We’re licked, that’s why. We’ve missed Mr. Burmaster and we can’t go to Sleepy Hollow after him.”

Penny gazed thoughtfully down the street at Clem Williams’ livery stable.

“Why can’t we go to Sleepy Hollow?” she demanded. “Let’s rent horses.”

Louise waxed sarcastic. “To be sure. We can canter along balancing these overnight bags on the pommel of our saddles!”

“We’ll have to leave our luggage behind,” Penny planned briskly. “The most essential things we can wrap up in knapsacks.”

“But I’m not a good rider,” Louise complained. “The last time we rode a mile I couldn’t walk for a week.”

“Seven miles isn’t so far.”

“Seven miles!” Louise gasped. “Why, it’s slaughter.”

“Oh, you’ll last,” chuckled Penny confidently. “I’ll see to that.”

“I am curious to see Sleepy Hollow estate,” Louise admitted with reluctance. “All that talk about the Huntley Dam interested me too.”

“And the Headless Horseman?”

“That part rather worries me. Penny, do you realize that if we go to Sleepy Hollow we may run into more than we bargain for?”

Penny laughed and grasping her chums arm, pulled her down the street.

“That’s what I hope,” she confessed. “Unless Sleepy Hollow lets us down shamefully, our adventure is just starting!”

CHAPTER
4
A STRANGER OF THE ROAD

Even for late September it was a warm day. The horses plodded slowly up a steep, winding trail heavily canopied with yellowing maple leaves. Louise and Penny swished angrily at the buzzing mosquitoes and tried to urge their tired mounts to a faster pace.

“I warned you this trip would be slaughter,” Louise complained, ducking to avoid a tree limb. “Furthermore, I suspect we’re lost.”

“How could we be, when we haven’t turned off the trail?” Penny called over her shoulder.

She rode ahead on a sorry looking nag appropriately named Bones. The animal was more easily managed than the skittish mare Louise had chosen at Williams’ Livery Stable, but had an annoying appetite for foliage.

“Mr. Williams’ directions were clear enough,” Penny resumed. “He said to follow this trail until we reach a little town named Delta.”

“Providing we survive that long,” Louise interposed crossly. “How far from Delta to Sleepy Hollow?”

“Not more than two or three miles. And once we get down out of these hills into the valley, the going should be much easier.”

Penny spoke with forced cheerfulness. In truth, she too had wearied of the trip which in the last hour had become sheer torture instead of adventure. Her freckled face was blotched with mosquito bites. Every hairpin had been jolted from her head and muscles fairly screamed a protest. Louise, on an unruly horse, had taken even more punishment.

Penny gave Bones a dig in the ribs. The horse quickened his step, weaving a corkscrew path around the trunks of the giant trees.

Gradually the tangle of brush and trees began to thin out. They came at last to a clearing at the brow of the hill. Penny drew rein beside a huge, moss-covered rock. Below stretched a beautiful rich, green valley through which wound a flood-swollen river. From the chimney-tops of a cluster of houses smoke curled lazily, blending into the blue rim of the distant hills.

“Did you ever see a prettier little valley?” Penny asked, her interest reviving. “That must be Delta down there.”

Louise was too weary to look or answer. She slid out of the saddle and tossed the reins over a tree limb. Near by a spring gushed from between the rocks. She walked stiffly to it and drank deeply of the cool water.

“Lou, the valley looks exactly as I hoped it would!” Penny went on eagerly. “It has a dreamy, drowsy atmosphere, just as Irving described the Sleepy Hollow of legend!”

Louise bent to drink of the spring again. She sponged her hot face with a dampened handkerchief. Pulling off shoes and stockings, she let the cool water trickle over her bare feet.

“According to legend, the valley and its inhabitants were bewitched,” Penny rambled on. “Why, the Indians considered these hills as the abode of Spirits. Sometimes the Spirits took mischievous delight in wreaking trouble upon the villagers—”

Penny’s voice trailed off. From far down the hillside came the faint thud of hoofbeats. The girl’s attention became fixed upon a moving horseman on the road below.

“Now what?” inquired Louise impatiently. “Don’t try to tell me you’ve seen the Headless Horseman already?”

“I’ve certainly seen a horseman! My, can that fellow ride!”

Louise picked up her shoes and hobbled over the stones to the trail’s end. Through a gap in the trees she gazed down upon a winding turnpike fringed on either side with an old-fashioned rail fence. A horseman, mounted on a roan mare, rode bareback at a full run. As the girls watched in admiration, the mare took the low fence in one magnificent leap and crashed out of sight through the trees.

“You’re right, Penny,” Louise acknowledged. “What wouldn’t I give to be able to ride like that! One of the villagers, I suppose.”

The hoofbeats rapidly died away. Louise turned wearily around, intending to remount her horse. She stared in astonishment. Where the mare had grazed, there now was only trampled grass.

“Where’s my horse?” she demanded. “Where’s White Foot?”

“Spirited away by the witches maybe.”

“This is no time for any of your feeble jokes, Penny Parker! That stupid horse must have wandered off while I was admiring your old valley and that rider!”

Penny remained undisturbed. “Oh, we’ll find the mare all right,” she said confidently. “She can’t be far away.”

The girls thought that they heard a crashing of underbrush to the left of the trail. Investigation did not disclose that the horse had gone that way. They could hear no hoofbeats, nor was any of the grass trampled.

“I’ll bet White Foot’s on her way back to Williams’ Stable by this time,” Louise declared crossly. “Such luck!” She sat down on a stone and put on her shoes and stockings.

“We didn’t hear the horse run off, Lou. She can’t be far.”

“Then you find her. I’ve had all I can stand. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I wish I’d never come on this wild, silly chase.” Tears began to trickle down Louise’s heat-mottled face.

Penny slid down from Bones and patted her chum’s arm awkwardly. Louise pulled away from her.

“Now don’t give me any pep talk or I’ll simply bawl,” she warned. “What am I going to do without a horse?”

“Why, that’s easy, Lou. We’ll ride double.”

“Back to Williams’ Stable?”

“Well, not tonight. It’s getting late and after coming this far it would be foolish to turn around and start right back.”

“It would be the most sensible act of our lives,” Louise retorted. “But then I might know you’d insist on pushing on. You and Christopher Columbus have a lot in common!”

“We came to find out about that Headless Horseman, didn’t we?”

“You did, I guess,” Louise sighed, getting up from the rock. “I just came along because I’m weak minded! Well, what’s the plan?”

“Let’s ride down to Delta and try to get a room for the night.”

Louise’s silence gave consent. She climbed up behind Penny on Bones and they jogged down the trail toward the turnpike.

“It’s queer how White Foot sneaked away without making a sound,” Penny presently commented. “According to the old legend strange things did happen in the Sleepy Hollow valley. The Spirit was supposed to wreak all sorts of vexations upon the inhabitants. Sometimes he would take the shape of a bear or a deer and lead bewildered hunters a merry chase through the woods.”

“You’re the one who is bewitched,” Louise broke in. “And if you ask me, you’ve been that way ever since you were born. There’s a little spark—something deep within you that keeps saying: ‘Go on, Penny. Sic ’em, Penny! Maybe you’ll find a mystery!’”

“Perhaps I shall too!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’ve turned up some dandy news stories for your father’s paper. But this is different.”

“How so?”

“In the first place we both know there’s no such thing as a Headless Horseman. It must all be a joke.”

“Would you call that advertisement in the Hobostein paper a joke?”

“It could have been. We don’t know many of the facts.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Penny guided Bones onto the wide turnpike. Before she could add more, Louise’s grasp about her waist suddenly tightened.

“Listen, Penny! Someone’s coming!”

Penny drew rein. Distinctly, both girls could hear the clop-clop of approaching hoofbeats. Their hope that it might be White Foot was quickly dashed. A moment later the same horseman they had observed a few minutes earlier, swung around the bend.

The young man rapidly overtook the girls. From the way he grinned, they suspected that they presented a ridiculous sight as they rocked along on Bones’ swaying back. He sat his own horse, a handsome roan, with easy grace.

Louise tugged at her skirt which kept creeping above her knees. “He’s laughing at us!” she muttered under her breath.

The rider cantered up, then deliberately slowed his horse to a walk. Louise stole a quick sideways glance. The young man was dark-haired, about twenty-six and very good looking. His flashing brown eyes were friendly and so was his voice as he spoke a cheery, “’Lo, girls.”

“Hello,” Penny responded briefly. Louise immediately nudged her in the ribs, a silent warning that she considered the stranger “fresh.”

Nevertheless, Penny twisted sideways in the saddle the better to look at their road companion. He wore whipcord riding breeches and highly polished boots. From the well-tailored cut of his clothes she decided that he too was a comparative stranger to the hill country.

“Not looking for a horse by any chance, are you?” the young man inquired.

Louise’s snub nose came down out of the sky. “Oh, we are!” she cried. “Where did you see her?”

“A mare with a white foot? Her left hind one?”

“Yes, that’s White Foot!” Louise exclaimed joyfully. “The stupid creature wandered off.”

“Saw her making for the valley about five minutes ago. Like enough she turned in at Silas Malcom’s place.”

The name took Penny by surprise. Although she had hoped to find the old man who had visited the Star office, she had not thought it possible without a long search.

“Does Mr. Malcom live near here?” she inquired.