He slept, too, without dreams, and without awakening
until the morning, when he shared a solid breakfast with the family.
Dick obtained at the farmhouse a fresh supply of cold food for his
saddle bags, to be held against an emergency, although it was likely now
that he could obtain all he needed at houses as he passed. Receiving
the good wishes of his hosts he rode on through the hills. The intense
cold which kept troops from marching much really served him, as the
detachments about the little towns stayed in their camps.
The day was quite clear, with the mercury still well below zero, but his
heavy clothing kept him warm and comfortable. His great horse showed no
signs of weariness. Apparently his sinews were made of steel.
Noon came, but Dick did not seek any farmhouse for what was called
dinner in that region. Instead he ate from his saddle bags as he rode
on. He did not wish to waste time, and, moreover, he had taken his
resolution. He would go near Pendleton. It was on his most direct
route, but he would pass in the night.
As the cold twilight descended he came into familiar regions. Like all
other young Kentuckians he was a great horseman, and with Harry Kenton
and other lads of his age he had ridden nearly everywhere in a circuit
of thirty miles around Pendleton.
It was with many a throb of the heart that he now recognized familiar
scenes. He knew the fields, the forests and the houses.
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