The winter following he was ordered down to Winnebago.
The village of Chicago was the nearest center of civilization. The only
way of reaching it was by wagon, and the journey consumed three months.
There was much gambling in the long still nights, and some drinking. In
lieu of the excitement of the gaming table, he took his fun in breaking
and riding wild horses, and hairbreadth escapes were the order of his
daily exercise. It was gambling, perhaps, but it developed the muscles
of mind and body.
His success with horses was remarkable. No animal that man has broken to
his use is keener to recognize a master and flout a coward than the
horse. No coward has ever been able to do anything with a spirited
horse.
He was wrestling one day with a particularly vicious specimen, to the
terror and anguish of Jim Pemberton.
"For de Lawd's sake, Marse Jeff, let dat debbil go!"
"No, James, not yet--"
"He ain't no count, no how--"
"All the more reason why I should be his master, not he be mine."
The horse was possessed of seven devils. He jumped and plunged and
bucked, wheeled and reared and walked on his hind legs in mad effort to
throw his cool rider. The moment he reared, the Lieutenant dropped his
feet from the stirrups and leaned close to the brute's trembling, angry
head.
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