A wedding was looked forward to with much pleasure by old and young.  Practically, it meant the only gathering of the settlers which was not accompanied by the work of reaping the harvest, building a cabin, planning an expedition to relieve some distant settlement, or a defense for themselves.  For all, it meant a rollicking good time; to the old people a feast, and the looking on at the merriment of their children—­to the young folk, a pleasing break in the monotony of their busy lives, a day given up to fun and gossip, a day of romance, a wedding, and best of all, a dance.  Therefore Alice Reynold’s wedding proved a great event to the inhabitants of Fort Henry.

The day dawned bright and clear.  The sun, rising like a ball of red gold, cast its yellow beams over the bare, brown hills, shining on the cabin roofs white with frost, and making the delicate weblike coat of ice on the river sparkle as if it had been sprinkled with powdered diamonds.  William Martin, the groom, and his attendants, met at an appointed time to celebrate an old time-honored custom which always took place before the party started for the house of the bride.  This performance was called “the race for the bottle.”

A number of young men, selected by the groom, were asked to take part in this race, which was to be run over as rough and dangerous a track as could be found.  The worse the road, the more ditches, bogs, trees, stumps, brush, in fact, the more obstacles of every kind, the better, as all these afforded opportunity for daring and expert horsemanship.  The English fox race, now famous on three continents, while it involves risk and is sometimes dangerous, cannot, in the sense of hazard to life and limb, be compared to this race for the bottle.

On this day the run was not less exciting than usual.  The horses were placed as nearly abreast as possible and the starter gave an Indian yell.  Then followed the cracking of whips, the furious pounding of heavy hoofs, the commands of the contestants, and the yells of the onlookers.  Away they went at a mad pace down the road.  The course extended a mile straight away down the creek bottom.  The first hundred yards the horses were bunched.  At the ditch beyond the creek bridge a beautiful, clean limbed animal darted from among the furiously galloping horses and sailed over the deep furrow like a bird.  All recognized the rider as Alfred Clarke on his black thoroughbred.  Close behind was George Martin mounted on a large roan of powerful frame and long stride.  Through the willows they dashed, over logs and brush heaps, up the little ridges of rising ground, and down the shallow gullies, unheeding the stinging branches and the splashing water.  Half the distance covered and Alfred turned, to find the roan close behind.  On a level road he would have laughed at the attempt of that horse to keep up with his racer, but he was beginning to fear that the strong limbed stallion deserved his reputation.  Directly before them rose a pile