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An untamed horse.

I was the unfortunate possessor of an untamed and untamable Buchephalus that Alexander might have ridden, but that no rider on earth could control. I had experienced this on three former occasions. But what could I do, charge or not charge, that was the question. Although I knew full well that my wild charger would lead the van, of course I must charge. In our front was a heavily-wooded forest of pine scrub and black jack, through which ran a narrow country road. No time was to be lost, therefore there was little ceremony. The usual commands—trot march, gallop, charge—were omitted, and the gallant Shumate, who mustered the fifty, simply yelled ‘Charge,’ and away we flew down the winding road through that dark and dismal forest, all yelling like so many Comanche Indians. As the arrow from the bended bow flew my fiery horse. I had taken the precaution to put a jaw-breaking bit on his bridle, but it was of no avail.

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