The Columbia herald. [volume] (Columbia, Tenn.) 18??-1935, 1892-10-28
RUN DOWN BY BLooDHoUNDs.
The story of n Fugitive Who Was Run
to the Death.

The story of a Fugitive Who Was Run
to the Death.
In the gray Of morning, as people began
to move inside the stOCkade an alarm was
raised that "A prisoner had escaped. \
pri"OnCr meant : ate COnVlCt-a man
overworkcd, underCel and treated worse
| than n decent man treats his dog. Life
IN state prison is ease and luxury com
pared with life in a convict camp. Men
go out of prison to reform and hold up
their heads again among their fellow men.
Men leave a convict camp wrecked in body
and soul-degraded until they abhor them
selves
who is it9"
Big Jack Long"
Get out the dogsl"
"Ah, now, we are to sec man hunt
with bloodhoundsl Man often hunts down
man, but there is no ferceness in the pur
suit, no longing for blood, no wild run
across rough fields and through thick for
ests Here the fugitive not only seeks lib
erty, but flies for his life.
Big Jack Long, who had been whipped
only the day before-who had been worked
like an OK when well and treated worse
than Il brute when ill-whO had years yet
to serve and had nothing to hope fOr-had
slipped his chains during the night and
found a way over the stockade. Two or
three of the guards said they had expected
something of the kind for several weeks.
two or three others hoped he had got far
enough away to give the dogs good run
and arouse their savage ire.
One-three-ffve of them-real blood
hounds, which have tracked down many a
fugitive and wet their lips with his blood
and torn his quivering flesh with their
sharp fangsl They know what is wanted
As they are led out they tug and strain
and 90 wild with excitement. A guard
brings out the blanket from the rude bed
on which Big Jack has slept so long, and
the dogs tear it TO pieces in their growing
Impotence. They have completed three
quarters of circle around the stOckade
when they suddenly strike the scent There
is no holding them now. Their Impotence
has turned to fury.
The convict knew that blOOdhOunds
would take up his trail. He knew the
wonderful keenness of their scent, the APP
palling persistency with which they would
follow on, their mad eagernesS to oy ertake
and pull him down. His flight was hope
born of despair. He ran straight away for
half a mile. Then he doubled back and
crossed his trail. bent to the right bent to
the left, zigzagged like Il serpent making
its progress. lie forced his way through
thickets, he sped swiftly through the pine
WOODS, ne CEtSSGG GlCttIliES auu lettllCO
ravines and clambered up rocky hillsdes
Once he found a running brook and cried,
Thank GodH as he stepped into the shal
low water and felt that his trail was hid
den at last. But after a journey of few
rods the creek lost itself amid such a
tangle of vines and bushes and drift that
he had to Chamber out again. He ran on
and on, taking but little heed of his route,
but feeling that each yard carried him
nearer to liberty. He was miles away and
still pushing ahead when the east grew red
with the glory of the coming sunrise.
"Oul oul oup'
Big Jack Long stopped dead in his
tracks. Had the mournful tones of a fu
neral bell come down to his ears on the
morning air he would have been aston
ished. Now he was appalled, The dogs
had been let loose on his trail. The blood
hound bays only when he has lost the
scent for moment or when he sights his
quarry. Big Jack had staggered through
a swamp scarce needing where his ex-
hRusted limbs were taking him, and the
dogs were at fault for moment, Did you
ever see bloodhound trailing q mRns His