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.