THE SCARECROW RIDES (27 page)

“My poor friends,” he said sadly, “you have brought this calamity
upon yourselves. I can do nothing for you, it seems.”

Turning his pony, he rode up the beach with his Dragoon escort, who
passed him by the sentry and watched him jogging across the Marsh until
he disappeared into the mist.

Now not far from Mother Handaway's isolated cottage was a gipsy
encampment. It was towards this that Dr. Syn directed his pony.

Dr. Syn had a shrewd idea that some of the gipsies would be awake on
the night of the run, as it was the cheapest means of obtaining liquor,
so he was not surprised at being challenged as he rode into the circle
of caravans.

It was a gipsy lad of about eighteen who demanded what he wanted.

“I must see your leader, Silas Pettigrand,” he replied.

“The chief is asleep and must not be disturbed. You must see him in
the morning,” said the gipsy lad, with his hand turning the pony's
bridle.

Dr. Syn leant from the saddle and whispered a Romany pass-word.

In three minutes, Silas of the Pettigrands stood before him.

“You know my people, it seems,” said the gipsy, by way of greeting.

“In Spanish America—yes,” replied the doctor. “I wish to purchase
the black horse you have tethered behind your caravan. I noticed it
yesterday as I rode up to the hills, and it is a horse after my heart,
and I have need of him.”

“He would be difficult for you to manage after that pony. He is a
wild fellow. My own sons can hardly sit him.”

“That is my trouble, not yours,” replied the vicar, “and it is good
in that you will be all the more ready to sell.”

“Oh, they will break him in time, when he will be the more
valuable,” argued Silas.

“But I prefer an animal of my own breaking,” replied the parson.
“How much?”

“It is an animal of mettle,” went on the gipsy. “But since you come
here with such a message on your lips as you gave my youngest son, I
will not ask more than twenty guineas. I confess though, I took him for
ten from a hunting squire in Sussex who was afraid of him and glad to
see him go.”

“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” quoted the parson, “and you
are honest with me since your tribe are horse dealers. I will give you
thirty guineas. That is twenty for the horse and ten for your Romany
oath of silence concerning the transaction.”

“You have him then,” answered the old man, “and I will include
saddle and bridle.”

“I shall not need a saddle—but a bridle—yes, and a pair of spurs
until the animal and I are better acquainted.”

“You are a horseman, evidently,” said the gipsy in admiration.

“You will hide my pony till I call for it in the dawn, and I will
come to your caravan now and pay you the gold. I must also change my
clothes there.”

The gipsy led him to his caravan, took the money and the oath of
silence, and then left him to change his clothes, while he went out to
cover the pony with a cloth.

Accustomed as he was to strange transactions with queer customers,
old Silas could scarce believe his own eyes when his visitor
reappeared.

The neat parson had given place to the devil in rags.

It was not only the blackened tow-curls which streamed from the
battered three-cornered hat that gave such a fiendish look to the face,
but rather a cruel, reckless deviltry that flashed from the eyes and
smiled through the tight-set lips. This had obliterated a good face
with the stamp of hell.

Striding towards the coal-black horse and leaping on to his back
with the accustomed ease of a circus rider, the weird figure spoke to
the gipsy in an altered—a croaking, raucous voice. “I shall visit you
before the dawn, and we will breakfast together. You will find my
contribution to the feast in the near-side pannier upon the pony. And,
by the way, look after my pony, for I shall return to you on foot and
must ride it back to Dymchurch, after I have bestowed this magnificent
creature in hiding. All very mysterious, eh, friend Silas of the
Pettigrands? But believe me, it is not for myself but many others for
whom I go adventuring. I am secure in your silence?”

“To you I can speak when to others I must keep silent,” replied the
gipsy solemnly. “For many years the safety of James Bones, the
highwayman, has been in my care. Let that satisfy you that I trust you
as you may trust me. It is a life bargain.”

“Then till the dawn—good tenting,” cried Dr. Syn.

As though objecting to the bargain of these weird men, and certainly
disapproving of yet another human being thinking he could master him,
the black horse reared and plunged furiously.

“You see?” said the gipsy, not displeased that the animal was
behaving as he had prophesied.

“And you will see,” retorted the rider with a laugh, as he dug in
the spurs deliberately.

Off went the beast with a scream of rage across the field, leapt the
broad dyke on to the road, and the gipsy listened to the ring of the
hoofs as he galloped along it.

Meanwhile he saw the weird figure chased, encircled and again
uncovered by the sinuous ghostly ribbons of mist.

Fifty yards ahead the road curved to avoid the dyke, but Syn kept
his wild steed straight at it, took off from the road, cleared the
water easily and thundered on; took the next dyke and the next in full
career, and so across four fields till he reared up at the door of
Mother Handaway's hovel.

Whatever the old woman's creed was, she not only looked like a
witch, but thought herself one. Her appearance, which had gone a long
way to establish her reputation as a witch, was exactly what was
expected from such a title. Her features were pinched, her sharp curved
nose and pointed chin guarded her one-toothed mumbling mouth like a
pair of nutcrackers. Her eyes were beady and bright and protected by
thick grey eyebrows that matched the straggly beard upon her chin. Her
hair hung loose in long rats' tails. Her fingers were long and bony,
and for ever clawing something invisible as she mumbled. She was
hump-backed and in the worst weather she would not wear shoes or
stockings, but would hobble along in a quick running glide upon bare
feet.

Needless to say, her reputation as a witch was not only encouraged
by her own pride in her power, but by many stories that were spread
about her by the Marsh people. Several people took their oath at having
heard unearthly shrieks coming from the hovel at night and some went so
far to assert that the oily smoke that coiled from her chimney stack
took on the most weird shapes of devils and foul beasts as soon as it
escaped into the air. The place had a weird fascination for cats, and
people said that she summoned them to assist her in her evil practices,
and certain it was that the most domesticated hearthside puss that once
got her call was never seen again by the owners.

Perhaps this fact could account for the weird shriekings, as the
first thing Dr. Syn noticed was a newly-skinned cat's coat nailed to
her door.

Mother Handaway had heard the thud of the horse's hoofs getting
nearer and nearer and instead of being surprised she seemed to expect
that the wild animal was bringing her a visitor, for she flung open the
door, covered her face with her skinny claws, and prostrating herself
whimpered: “Hail, Master.”

Behind her back was an evil-smelling cauldron that bubbled over the
fierce fire and Dr. Syn guessed that the old hag had been attempting to
raise the devil. Well this time he saw to it that she was not
disappointed, for he had every reason to get the woman into his power,
so making the horse rear, plunge and scream with rage, he himself let
out the most diabolical yowlings of satanic laughter.

“Aye,” replied Syn in a truly terrible voice, “I am your Master.
Your Master the Devil. But see to it that you tell no one that I favour
you by appearing to you in the flesh, for if you do they will seize you
for the witch that you are. Take this bag of guineas”—and he flung
down the half-filled sack upon the threshold. “Each coin is stamped
with King George's head and spade, though it was minted in the furnaces
of Hell. With it I buy your stable, in which you will hide and keep my
horse. You will feed it as you are directed. But have a great care that
no one sees it, for if they should, it will mean death. So long as you
keep it truly well and hidden you shall never lack for gold. Is it a
bargain?”

“Yes, Master,” answered the old woman. “But are you in truth Satan
himself that I have raised by my incantations?”

“Aye,” replied Syn in a deep voice. “But you must call me 'the
Scarecrow,' for as such I come to rule the Marsh. I shall bring my
horse to you before the dawn. After that, I shall send my chief
messenger to fetch the horse when I have need of him.”

“How shall I know him, Master?” asked the old woman.

“I will send him in the guise of a man who can be seen traveling the
Marsh without exciting suspicion. Do you know the sexton of Dymchurch?”

“Yes, Master. He is one of the few men who is not afraid to talk to
me,” replied the witch. “I know him well. He is often here with his
jokes, and he will generally bring me a drop of something to keep an
old body cheerful. He and his master, Dr. Syn, have often come to cheer
me.”

“The holy vicar of Dymchurch?” asked Syn scornfully.

“Aye, but he's a good man, for all his sanctity,” argued the witch.
“I mean, he is a man of wide sympathies. Both he and Miss Charlotte are
not ashamed of bringing me nourishing foods. We must take people as we
find them, Master.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Syn scornfully. “Good people are my enemies, but I
own they have their uses, even to me. Encourage them to visit you, for
it will be for your own safety and the safety of my horse if people see
them visit you. And I have no blame for you liking them. Were Dr. Syn
less full of sanctity I would embrace him gladly as my servant. He is
too good to tempt. Are they your only visitors?”

“I see very few, Master,” went on the old woman. “No one else comes
near me, and I never speak to anyone unless I have to buy something at
the shops, which is seldom.”

“And that suits my purpose well,” went on Syn. “Discourage visitors.
Frighten them away. I am glad your acquaintances are so scarce.”

“There is another man who is good to me. I forgot,” added the old
woman. “He also is good to all the poor and is loved by them, although
he is accounted a wicked man with a price on his head. I speak of
Jimmie Bone, the highwayman. When the chase is hot I harbour him.”

“Well that, too, is good,” continued Syn, “for he is a fellow that I
may yet have use for, and this would be a convenient meeting place. See
to it, though, that none of these visitors sets eyes on my horse.”

“What must I call the horse, Master? Does he answer to a name?”

“He is called Gehenna, and he is wild and fierce. If you so much as
lay hands on him, he'll send you to hell before your time.”

“But his grooming, Master?”

“He will be groomed very well without your help. You have but to see
that his manger is well supplied.”

All this time the horse had been standing stock still as though
wondering what manner of man this was upon his back, and just how he
could succeed in throwing him. The rider had won the first round in
that he had brought him to rest at the hovel. Suddenly he plunged and
reared, but Dr. Syn swung him round and gave him both spurs. The horse
leapt forward and feeling the spurs drive into him relentlessly,
galloped away into the rushing mists.

Meanwhile Mother Handaway barred her door and emptying the bag of
guineas upon the old table she fell to counting them, and then she
tried each coin separately and found that although minted in Hell, they
all rang true.

The storm now took a curious turn. The wind increased till it became
a gale and before its fury the mist shrouds leapt as though the Marsh
were invaded by sheeted giants. Then a stinging sleet shattered down in
a torrential burst. The frozen shafts of rain stung the horse into
madness, and Dr. Syn used the cruel elements to subdue the vice in the
horse. He kept the animal facing the storm till he had mastered his
spirit then at last, when he turned his back to the storm, he knew that
the animal was his. The spirit was still there, the high fierce mettle,
but the viciousness had gone as far as he was concerned. Then Syn drove
the spurs in again and rode like the wind and with the wind towards the
distant sea-wall. The pursuing sleet gave the horse pace and in company
with the whirling shapes of flying mist, the black animal galloped with
the weird black figure of the Scarecrow on his back.

And the thrill of it went to Syn's head like wine and he laughed
aloud. “Even the elements are on the devil's side to-night. On,
Gehenna. On. Faster, you great brute. Faster. The devil in scarecrow's
rags rules the Marsh and he rides to Hell on Gehenna. On. On. Faster.”

On the beach the soldiers tried valiantly to keep their fire alight,
for it was to serve as a beacon to the cutter. But the wind had arisen,
and already the waves in the Bay were dashing up against the shingle.
It was doubtful whether the cutter would brave such a storm. Blinded
with smoke, the Dragoons kept piling on driftwood, while the rain ran
from their brass helmets. Suddenly one of them cried out: “Look!”

At the same moment a piercing laugh echoed from the sand-hill behind
them. Even the officer, Captain Faunce, was transfixed with horror at
the spectral horseman that had appeared upon the sky-line. It seemed
that the storm had opened hell gates to let the devil ride out.

But their superstitious dread was given the lie by the horseman
himself, for after his maniacal laugh, which made his black mount rear
and scream, in a derisive voice he cried out: “Leave these poor fools
alone. I'm the man you want. Grinsley, the murderer. But you won't
catch me this side of hell.”