Word: forests
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Suddenly, high up on Usher Top Mountain, hundreds of feet above the river, everything in the darkened forest turned silent. Chapman pulled his Smith & Wesson .38-cal. Chiefs Special from his shoulder holster. At 2:10 a.m. Sandy led him to a pile of wet leaves and began wagging her tail. Beneath the foliage, Ray was lying on his back with his arms straight out, as though he had been crucified...
...ultimate weapon of any hunt in the wilderness is, of course, the bloodhound. Sammy Joe Chapman, chief supervisor of the Brushy Mountain prison kennels, had only two fully trained hounds available for the forest searches: Sandy and Little Red. The other nine were still in training. Consequently the FBI brought in its own pack of bloodhounds. But when the feds gave their dogs some convicts' garments to sniff, just like they do in the movies, the locals scoffed. "Pure Hollywood," said one. Chapman put his dogs in pursuit by taking them to a single fresh track that gave them...
...blend all local smells together, making them indistinguishable to a hound. Thus when thunderstorms hit the Cumberlands last week after a dry spell, Don Daugherty knew by his old mountaineer's instinct that Ray's hours of freedom were coming to an end. "Rain washes out the forest," he says, "and makes all scents new and tracking a lot easier." But, admits Sammy Joe Chapman, "for a 49-year-old man who didn't know the mountains, James Earl Ray really didn...
...Father's Six, located on Bow St. next to the cleaner's, is a raunchy, sticky-floored hole designed for people who want to get loaded as fast and as cheaply as possible. If you don't mind being proofed at the door, and fighting your way through a forest of sweaty, drunken bodies to a sticky table where you can drink, listen to blaring bad jukebox music and look at posters advertising specials on the walls, you'll like Father...
...track on slanting and creaking wooden beams the train offers a view of an area easily ignored by those who only see Boston when they shuttle from Harvard to the airport or the Amtrak station. The area is very poor and very black. One ride from Washington down to Forest Hills is the best reminder that ours is not the best of all possible worlds. Forest Hills, the end of the line, is on the edge. North lie graffitti and broken glass. South stand houses and big old trees on thick lawns. Stand in the middle and figure...