Hollow Blood (Sleepy Hollow Horrors, Book 1)

by Austin Dragon

  "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?"

  "But that's not true, surely," Julian added.

  Marshal came out of his trance and focused. "In war, sometimes you have to think like that or you go insane."

  "I know what you mean."

  "I did manage to save the lives of some fellow soldiers in battle and get me some commendations and more medals, as if I needed any to begin with."

  Julian nodded, impressed. "You were a good man, Marshal."

  The Marshal smiled slightly, but didn't respond directly. Soldiers were always shy when it came to praise of their heroics. "You were under General Washington, too?" he asked. "You weren't old enough to be in the War."

  "I was a drummer boy. Barely taller than that rabbit we ate. I was with him at the beginning, including those early defeats. The British chased us out of New York. Hit by bullets twice—one knocked my drum right out of my hands and the other grazed my shoulder. But I made it out. A lot didn't. Washington was a fox though. And we have our independent nation. Well, the War is over."

  "Until the next one."

  "Heard anything about this fighting with the French?"

  "I told everyone at the time. The French are not our friends. They just hate the British more, that's why they helped us in the War."

  "I heard of this Quasi-War, but it's undeclared and way out at sea, far from here. They attacked us because we were trying to be cordial to the British."

  The Marshal looked squarely at Julian to answer. "Not that it matters. It's not here, so why concern yourself with it?"

  "I heard the French have good food though." Julian grinned, and Marshal smiled back. "Hopefully, nothing more comes of it."

  "You have an interest in the politics. I've never seen a more worthless occupation. Forget the French. We had our revolution against our monarchy, and they had theirs. Neither one of us knows where it will all end up. I have always thought that a man should know his station in life and not go beyond it, know his place and purpose in the world. We're just two marshals out here in the dark world. We're not heads of state, Marshal Crane. Our purpose is getting to your uncle."

  Marshal put his metal plate next to his leg and reached into his coat for his tobacco.

  "How long will it take for us to get there?" Julian asked.

  "We'll leave at sun-up and reach the next town by noon."

  "But how long for the whole trip?"

  "No more than a week to ten days, I'd say."

  "He's been that close all this time? How long will we be in the next town?"

  "Don't worry, Marshal Crane. We'll make it to your uncle. My business will take only a few days, and it's all on the way."

  Julian was satisfied as he drank from his cup, and the Marshal lit his cigar with a burning stick from the fire.

  "The Legend of the Headless Horseman." Julian laughed.

  "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," the Marshal corrected. "That's how it's said. Every secluded town creates its own superstitions. Sleepy Hollow is no different. Gives the people something to talk about and something to scare the children with."

  "Why don't you believe in ghosts and goblins, Marshal?"

  Marshal looked at him for a moment. "Because I don't."

  Julian drank again from his cup. He had the distinct feeling that the Marshal had just lied to him.

  The two men broke camp and rode out at sunrise. The early morning was colder than the previous night. Everything green around them had touches of dew as they rode north with the Hudson a quarter mile to their right flank. Julian wondered why they didn't ride close along the riverbank.

  "Why does your horse have two names like it was a human being?" Marshal asked.

  "Caleb Williams is a human being," Julian joked as he stroked his horse's mane. "What's the name of yours?"

  "Body Snatcher."

  The small talk between the men was light, and the ride was easy and uneventful as they made their way to town. The Battle of Stony Point under Mad General Anthony Wayne happened near this town of Waynesburg. Everywhere they rode or walked was some part of the new nation's history.

  As they neared the town, Julian noticed the presence, in significant numbers, of Negroes. However, none of them seemed to be there on their own accord. He realized that he hadn't seen one in the Tarry Town area. Most of the slaves filled wagons either moving into town or out. Despite key abolitionist leaders from the Governor on down and active abolitionist societies, African slave labor had been increasing in the States.

  "Quite the impressive place, a paragon of the principles of our new nation. All men are created equal," Julian said.

  The sarcasm wasn't lost on Marshal, who gave him a disapproving look.

  Other than the slave activity in and around town, it looked like every other New England town to Julian. They reached the sheriff's station and dismounted in unison. It was a solid brick block building that could double as a miniaturized fort if it had to. Julian tied up Caleb Williams to the post and stroked the horse's mane. He saw more than a few wagons of slaves passing by. The Marshal was suddenly right next to him.

  "I know that I don't have to tell a fellow lawman that we avoid and defuse confrontations. We don't instigate them."

  "You didn't like my commentary?" Julian was about to step away. The Marshal grabbed his arm.

  "If you want to be the Patrick Henry of the abolitionist movement, then do so after we've concluded our business and you and your uncle are off on your way away from me. I got to work with these people every day. You're just passing through. There's a time to fight and a time to keep quiet. Keep your opinions to yourself. Understand? You don't piss in another man's bed. Do you understand, Marshal Crane?"

  "I understand."

  Marshal let his arm go, and he took the lead to the town sheriff's building.

  "Marshal-Marshal!" The man behind a desk jumped up with a smile. "Back so soon." He shook Marshal's hand and patted him on the shoulder.

  "Had a change of plans."

  "You're welcome anytime, Marshal. Who's your friend?"

  "Sheriff, this is my colleague Marshal Julian Crane."

  "Hi, sonny." He shook his hand, too. "You're kinda young for a marshal."

  "I started when I was two years old," Julian joked. He glanced at the Marshal. "And the Marshal here was telling me outside how I had the perfect disposition for a lawman."

  Marshal smirked.

  "Yes, our Marshal has a gift for sizing up a man and knowing his strengths and faults. Have a seat, gentlemen."

  The Sheriff went back to his seat behind the desk. Marshal and Julian pulled up a couple of chairs from against the wall to the front of the desk and sat.

  "Where're your deputies?" Marshal asked.

  "Meyer is making rounds, which in his case means he's probably at the pub. De Wit just had a new son, so I gave him the day off to tend to the family. Do you need help with something? Well, you don't need our help anymore. You have your Marshal Crane."

  "I'm looking for Frenchie," Marshal said. "I have a warrant for him."

  "Frenchie? What'd he do now?" the Sheriff asked.

  "Murder," Marshal answered flatly.

  The Sheriff shook his head, but he didn't seem all that surprised. "We haven't seen him. Last time was...'round the time you were last here."

  "Spread the word that I'm looking for him. We'll be here today and then poke around in town the next day before ridin' out. He always stays in the area, so if I miss him this time, I'll get him on the way back," Marshal said.

  "I'll notify my deputies." The Sheriff grabbed his hat from the corner of his desk. "Let's walk down to the pub for a meal."

  "You can tell me who Frenchie is," Julian added.

  The door flew open and one of his deputies ran in. He immediately noticed the Marshal. "Marshal, thank God you're here, too!"
>
  "What's wrong?" the Sheriff asked.

  The deputy answered, "There's a warpath of Indians headed this way, Sheriff! With rifles. Thousands of them. They'll massacre the entire town!"

  Detour

  "Let's go by Ichabod another time."

  No matter how big a town became or how sophisticated and civilized its people felt they were, all of it was no more than a stone's throw from sheer panic and lawlessness. Men hastily constructed a barricade on the main road into town, while others were boarding up all windows of the buildings. Women gathered all children and headed to the church in the center of town that was being remade into a fortress.

  Others, most of them visitors, were doing the opposite. They were gathering their belongings as fast as they could to get out of town. All the slave traders had already cut out for points in every direction. However, any town of greater size and safety was more than forty miles away.

  "We can never seem to get away from the killin'," the Sheriff had said aloud in frustration before sending his men off to secure the town and get ready to ride.

  The Sheriff may not have been as efficient as Tarry Town's Mr. De Graaf, but they did their best. All places of business were closed, women and children were indoors, and all excess able-bodied men, beyond those needed to protect homes and businesses, were assembled in groups on the main streets to protect the town.

  It was all reminiscent of Tarry Town making preparation for Julian's one-man warpath against Brom Bones. Julian still felt shame in the pit of his stomach. He would never have been able to forgive himself if he had killed the man in front of his family. The Marshal's words were correct. They were lawmen, and lawmen were supposed to behave in a certain way, not in any way they pleased.

  He thought of the different people of Sleepy Hollow and wondered if he would see them again. He was still a bit sore at Knickerbocker, though he had no reason to be. He wondered what Hans was doing that moment. It was fitting that he was Ichabod's Executor of Estate. Ichabod was the epitome of gregariousness, while Van Ripper was the most crotchety, old man you could ever meet, but he noticed that the man was always friendly towards him. Ichabod was their mutual bond, and that made them a kind of family themselves. He also thought of Katrina Van Brunt and how he wished he could apologize to her in the sincerest way he could manage. Their son was just a child and probably had already forgotten the whole incident with his father being alive and well. Brom and he did understand each other. It was a terrible mistake, people were injured, but no one was killed. But he still wanted to apologize to him directly.

  Maybe he would have a chance to do so, but perhaps he was making more of it than he should. That chapter of his life was over. The next one would be the important one: to be united with his dear Uncle Ichabod. That funny looking man whose appearance and smile could send a child into a fit of laughter. Julian smiled to himself and wondered how meeting the man only once in his life as a young boy could leave such an unwavering determination in him these many years later to either find out that his uncle was alive and well or destroy the man who removed him from this earth.

  "The troops are already at the fort waiting," the Sheriff said as he led Marshal and Julian through the crowds, all men on horseback. "We have plenty of ammunition in town, but the problem is the lack of men who can shoot straight."

  "Are these U.S. soldiers? Any with soldiering experience?" Marshal asked.

  "No, all reserves, men from town. I'm one myself," the Sheriff answered.

  "Sheriff," called out a man in the lead of a half-dozen riders. He stopped in front of them. "Fort Clinton is sending a detachment. We'll make our stand there."

  "How many men do you think we'll have?" the Sheriff asked.

  "At least a hundred."

  "Hope that's enough," said one of the deputies.

  "Did you hear what caused the warpath?" the Sheriff asked.

  "No, Sheriff. We don't even know which tribe it is."

  "Don't we have treaties with the Five Nations?" Julian asked.

  All the men looked at him.

  "He's from the city," Marshal said.

  "Who are you, mister?"

  "U.S. Marshal Julian Crane."

  "Well, Marshal Crane, just because we have treaties with them doesn't mean all abide by it. The Iroquois Confederacy isn't one tribe. It's many. Some nice, and some not so nice."

  "I betcha a solid silver coin that the British are stirring them up so they can attack America again," another man said.

  "Did you hear that rumor about French navy ships firing on us?"

  "I thought they were our allies?" another man asked.

  "Tell them that. The British, French, Indians. We'll be at war with the whole lot of them before too long," a third man added.

  "Let's save the idle chatter for another time," the Sheriff interjected. "Marshal Crane, will you be joining this 'war dance' of ours?"

  "Sheriff, point me where you need me to be."

  The Sheriff nodded approvingly. "Good man. Gentlemen, let's get moving before the fighting starts without us."

  The plains were filled with riders all heading to Fort Clinton. There was no central authority. Men just heard that Indians were coming, U.S. soldiers were en route, and every able-bodied gun was needed to protect the region.

  Julian looked out across the plain at the assortment of men—small and large, tall and short, novice and expert—that had responded to the call to fight and protect. The behavior of men could often leave one disillusioned, but then there were times like these that made one proud to be a member of mankind.

  The two men were riding by themselves at the moment. "Why don't you forget about your uncle?" Marshal said. "I told you he's alive. You know he's living well. After all this, you can just ride on back where you're from and live well-off, too."

  "Marshal, let's be clear here. My uncle Ichabod isn't alive until I see him with my own eyes and we sit together and trade adventures the whole weeklong. Until then, my uncle is as imaginary as the Headless Horseman. And I shall never stop until I see my dear uncle. Nothing on this earth will deter me. After we're finished with this, are you taking me to him?"

  "I always do what I say. I said I'd take you to him, and I will."

  "Good, because he's either alive and well, or he's dead and there is a foul murderer to be dealt with."

  "Yes, the people of Sleepy Hollow had the misfortune of seeing that part of your blood oath."

  "I'm ashamed about that, but not why I did it. I will make deadly sure I'm right next time. But then, that will never happen. You will be taking me to him."

  "At our first chance, we'll get away," Marshal said.

  They rode quietly for a bit. Julian looked around the plains, confused, realizing they were riding away from the group.

  "I thought we were joining the Sheriff and the militia?" Julian asked.

  "They have plenty of men. If we don't go now, we could be bogged down here for weeks. Indians are a lot smarter than us. They don't come all at once when they fight. They scatter, confuse, back-track, and circle 'round."

  "I think we need to stay with your friend, even if it's out of fellow lawman courtesy. You said so yourself. You have to work with these people. We help him today, and he helps us tomorrow."

  Marshal smirked. "Do you want me to take you to your uncle or not?"

  Julian stopped his horse. "A day or two or a week is going to make a difference? If my uncle is alive and well, he will be so no matter when we get there. Or is there something more?"

  Marshall ignored him. "We'll get there when we get there then."

  "Then let's help your friend, the Sheriff."

  The day camp was sprawled across the plains. U.S. soldiers had already organized most of the camp, but more riders were always arriving. The Sheriff led both the Marshal and Julian to the commanding officer and introduced everyone.

  A scout rider barreled into camp toward the colonel.

  "Colonel, the warpath is within eyeshot."

&nbs
p; "Major," the Colonel yelled at a group of waiting soldiers in the camp. "Four men with me and have the rest of the troops mounted and ready. We will approach from their flank."

  "Colonel," the Sheriff interrupted. "We can accompany you."

  "Are you sufficiently armed?" the Colonel asked.

  "Guns, rifles, and as much ammunition as our horses can carry," the Sheriff answered.

  "Mount up and join my men then," the Colonel said.

  Most of the militia was already on their horses, forming a line as the Colonel, his four soldiers, the Sheriff, and the marshals rode to the front. At the hill, everyone saw them.

  The Indians were riding northeast slowly. All of them were in traditional dress, mostly animal hides, bright colors, and in moccasins; a couple of men had boots. There were only a few able-bodied men in the lead. More than half were old people, women, and children. None of them were holding weapons and there was no hostile demeanor about them.

  The Colonel looked at his soldiers. "Warpath?"

  "Colonel, that's what we were told," the soldier answered, sheepishly.

  "Get down there and find out what's happening," the Colonel directed.

  "Is it safe, sir?"

  "Maybe the little children will attack you and scalp you. Get down there!"

  The soldier rode off to the approaching group of Indians. The Colonel raised his right hand and waved slowly to and fro. They could see the Indian at the front of their party do the same back at them. They watched the soldier reach them and ride along the side. After a moment, he headed back.

  Marshal didn't even wait for the soldier to return before he gave Julian a disapproving look as he slowly shook his head.

  "Colonel." The soldier stopped his horse in front of them. "Oneidas. They were attacked and now are heading to Fort Clinton for safety. The Lakotas are the ones on the warpath. They have been attacking other pro-America Iroquois tribes. There are only about two dozen of them though, but they are well-armed."

  "Lakotas? They're a ways east from where they're supposed to be. Not the Mohawks or Senecas? They were the ones who fought on the side of the British," the Major said.