I had the Frisco Railroad on my right, and the Illinois River on my left.
Not far from where the railroad crossed the river lay the town of Tahlequah.
I knew if I bore to the right I would find the railroad, and if I bore to the left I had the river to guide me.
Some time that night, I crossed the river on a riffle somewhere in the Dripping Springs country.
Coming out of the river bottoms, I scatted up a long hogback ridge, and broke out on top in the flats.
In a mile-eating trot, I moved along. I had the wind of a deer, the muscles of a country boy, a heart full of dog love, and a strong determination.
I wasn’t scared of the darkness, or the mountains, for I was raised in those mountains.
On and on, mile after mile, I moved along. I saw faint gray streaks appear in the east.
I knew daylight was close. My bare feet were getting sore from the flint rocks and saw briers.
I stopped beside a mountain stream, soaked my feet in the cool water, rested for a spell, and then started on.
After leaving the mountain stream, my pace was much slower. The muscles of my legs were getting stiff.
Feeling the pangs of hunger gnawing at my stomach, I decided I would stop and eat at the next stream I found.
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