Around Boonesborough there was no straight road for such a race, so it was decided that the contest was to be a go-as-you-please affair, extending half a mile up the river trail and back. The turning point was a large flat rock, at which was stationed a man who checked off the runners as they came up and made the turn.
Seven boys and young men took part in the contest, the youngest being fifteen and the oldest twenty-two. The boy of fifteen was tall and slim, with a pair of legs that were almost as nimble as those of a deer, and more than one spectator picked this lad, whose name was Darry Ford, as a winner. A young man of twenty named Jackson, and another named Ferris, were also favorites.
“Harry, you have got to run well to come in ahead on this race,” said Joe as he and his chum put off to the starting point. “Both Jackson and Ferris have entered, and Darry Ford is to be in it, too.”
“I’m going to run as well as I can,” answered Harry.
“If I was you I’d take it a bit easy going down to the rock. Remember, the way back is uphill.”
“Yes, I’ll remember that, Joe. Do you know the one I fear the most?”
“Jackson?”
“No.”
“Then Ferris?”
“Neither. It is Darry Ford. He has such long legs, and his wind is splendid. He’ll get back uphill without trouble,” said Harry.