I wasnít such a big rider for one thing, which can be hell on a man.
The lanterns in the steeple gleamed like teeth.
I have a phobia about teeth, especially if they glow in the dark.
The horse could smell my terror, but luckily he only ran faster and cleaved to the road.
Strands of his mane numbed my fingers.
It was a clear night and sound carried.
On the carriage path, the late gallop was enough to catch the ear.
But it was my voice that roused them, my hoarsening cry reaching a half-mile ahead.
When I finally got to the river, they were already lined up with their fifes and their guns.
I rode back to Boston with bruised balls, filching apples.
Things got worse after that.