But on we had to go until we reached the spot where we had decided to hide our booty. There we quickly deposited the gelignite, all except two sticks which I kept for a decoy. These I threw on the roadside at the spot where we eventually abandoned the horse. For months later, day after day, police and soldiers actually walked over our dug-out, but never discovered it. They had been deceived by the two loose sticks, and kept themselves warm by digging trenches all over the country, but their search was in vain. When we had hidden the booty our trouble began. The poor old horse could go no further. Besides we had no desire to keep him much longer, for he would only furnish the enemy with a clue to getting on our track later. We left him on the roadside and went our way. A few hours later that district was spotted with khaki figures, for the horse was found that evening at Aileen Bridge, about four miles from Tipperary town on the main road to Thurles. Difficulties were now looming up before our eyes. Tipperary was no longer safe. The weather was against us. We were tired with the excitement of the day, and the suspense of the days before, but we could not think of rest for a long while yet. The weather was intensely cold, and, to make things worse, it started to snow. That not only added to our difficulties, but there was the danger that if the snow lodged we might easily be traced. At Ryan’s Cross, near Aileen Bridge, we abandoned the horse. Then we turned to the right. Previously we had been going north, but now we went south-east, and gradually south towards where the Galtee mountains towered above us. We walked forty miles over these mountains and valleys, for like many before us we felt that they would give us hope and shelter. All through the ages since Geoffrey Keating penned his famous _History_ when there was a price on his head, the Galtee mountains and the Glen of Aherlow have been the first refuge of the Tipperary felon. We had travelled four miles after leaving the horse when we took our first rest at Mrs. Fitzgerald’s, of Rathclogheen, near Thomastown. There we had our first square meal since my mother gave us breakfast early that morning, and right heartily we enjoyed the ham and eggs and tea our hostess set before us. It was in that house that our famous countryman, Father Mathew, was born.