The Highwayman of Moor's Gap

Here's how our fourth grade teacher, Erskine Batson, first told us about the Highwayman -  

“This place is full of history,” Erskine told us, shaking his head a little. “Surprising that nobody seems to talk about it.
“As the story goes, Uncle Jasper says there was a famous robber that hid out in these woods. He robbed the stage coach on several occasions, and always got away with it. Rode a beautiful Andalusian horse he’d bought from the Moor, the inn keeper. For years he pestered travelers on this road, stole gold and silver coins and jewelry.
He finally got caught. A troop of soldiers was layin’ for him out here in the woods, one night. Shot him right here, in front of the inn.
“They called him the Highwayman,” Erskine added as he snapped the stem off a dead weed and started scratching the back of his head with it.
“Uncle Jasper says he’d never harmed a soul. Stole a bunch of loot, though. President James Buchanan hisself had put out a warrant for our Highwayman, put a bounty on his head, because of this being an important travel route down through here to the southern shipping ports.”

It seemed to me like Erskine’s tale had finally jogged something loose in my brain. 
“The Highwayman? I’ve heard Papa Jasper sing that song about the Highwayman! It’s a sad song.” 

“Um hm,” Erskine agreed. “He sang that song for me just a few days ago, when I was pickin’ at him for information. It’s a sad tune, all right. But the song was originally copied from a poem written by an Englishman named Alfred Noyes, about a robber highwayman in old England. But it’s so close to the same story that happened here, Uncle Jasper says when he was a boy, everybody thought the song was written about the Moor’s Gap highwayman. The poem, too. A strange case of coincidence. King George’s army killed the highwayman in England, and it was the local militia killed our highwayman here on Moor’s Gap Road. Shot him dead, with his sweetheart lookin’ on.”

Erskine sighed and turned to face me and my cousin.

“The moral of the story is, crime doesn’t pay,” he concluded.

The Witches of Moonlight Ridge

Moonlight and Witches at North Shelby Library

October 24th at the North Shelby Library

On Tuesday evening I was honored to present a Moonlight Ridge program at the beautiful North Shelby Library. We had a lively discussion about magic, mysteries, childhood adventures, and Halloween happenings. It's always such a pleasure to connect with readers who find delight in Lily Claire and WillieT.'s extraordinary escapades and recall unique childhood memories of their own. 

Thanks to Michelyn Reid for inviting me to North Shelby County, for the warm hospitality, and the enjoyable get-together.

Evergreen, the Beautiful Witch of Moonlight Ridge

The first printing of The Witches of Moonlight Ridge is all sold out. Second printing is here, just in time for holiday gifting. An added feature: a beautiful photo of our mysterious Evergreen, AKA Bessie Penny, thanks to the Hugh Mangum Collection and the generosity of the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Duke University.

Goodreads Witches Giveaway

Are you a member of Goodreads? You can enter the Goodreads Giveaway for a chance to win a free copy of The Witches of Moonlight Ridge.

Contest runs from February 28 to March 14, 2017.

           Mr. Erskine straightened up and looked around. We heard old Bu, the hoot owl, calling from somewhere far out in the woods, and a flock of big black crows flew over and landed in a tree beside us.

            “It’s gettin’ late,” Erskine told us. “I’d better get you young people home on this Halloween night.”

            Witch Boy chose that quiet moment to let loose a loud, nerve shattering series of barks. The crows left the tree with a noisy flapping of wings, their harsh raspy voices cawing and fussing as they went.

            “Look here, it’s about to get dark on us,” Erskine announced. “We’ve stayed too long out here tellin’ tales. We best hurry on down the mountain while there’s still light enough to navigate.

            “Come on, dog,” he commanded, but Witch Boy ran off into the woods.

            “He’ll foller us,” Willie T. assured our teacher. “You don’t have to call him.”

            Erskine grabbed hold of our hands in an exuberant grip, me on one side and Willie T. on the other, took a deep breath and broke out singing the end of the Highwayman song in a strong and surprisingly pleasant voice.

            “And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees …”

            And that’s the last sound we heard before the ground disappeared from beneath our feet.