three o'clock in the morning
Five minutes later , on a borrowed horse , John Folsom was galloping like mad for home . A door in the high board fence at the rear of his house shot open just as he was darting through the lane that led to the stable . A woman 's form appeared in the gap -- the last thing that he saw for a dozen hours , for the horse shied violently , hurling the rider headlong to the ground . At three o'clock in the morning , while the stars were still bright in the eastern sky , the little party of troopers , Dean at the irhead , had ridden away from the twinkling lights of camp , and long before sunrise had crossed the first divide to the north , and alternating trot , lope and walk had put miles between them and Fort Emory before the drums of the infantry beat the call for guard mounting . At ten o'clock the party halted under some spreading willows , deep in a cleft of the bold , high hills that rolled away toward the Sweetwater valley . Horses were unsaddled and picketed out to graze . A little cook fire was started close to the spring that fed the tiny brook , trickling away down the narrow ravine , and in a few moments the aroma of coffee and of appetizing slices of bacon greeted the welcoming nostrils of the hungry men .