The master of the hounds
and several of the other riders struck off across country on the trail,
taking fences and stone walls at full gallop.
I noticed that my uncle and several elderly gentlemen stuck to the road
and kept at a more moderate gait. The eyes of the spectators were all
on me. I don't know what they expected me to do, but at any rate they
were disappointed. To their manifest disgust I stayed with the people
on the road.
Shortly we came to a tavern and I went in and nerved myself with a
stiff drink, also I had a bottle filled with liquid courage, which I
took along with me. Just by way of making a second fiasco impossible I
took three more drinks while I was in the bar, then I galloped away and
soon overtook the hunters.
The first trail of the hounds had proved false. Two miles further on
they struck a true trail and away they went at full cry. I had now got
used to the saddle and the gait of my horse. I also had prepared myself
in the tavern for any course of action that might offer.
The M.F.H. began taking stone walls and hedges and I took every one
that he did. Across the country we went and nothing stopped or daunted
me until the quarry was brought to earth. I was in at the death and was
given the honor of keeping the brush.
At two o'clock that afternoon I took my departure for the West. Mr.
Frank Thompson, of the Pennsylvania Railroad, who had ridden my famous
buffalo horse, Buckskin Joe, on the great hunt, sent me to Chicago in
his own private car.
Pages:
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251