At length
he came to a quivering stand twenty yards away, head up, ears back, a
very statue of an angry and proud horse. Obviously it was a challenge,
but Alcatraz was too happy in his new-found brothers to think of battle.
He ducked his head a little and pawed the ground lightly, a horse's
age-old manner of expressing amicable intentions. But there was nothing
amicable in the black leader. He reared a little and came down lightly
on his forefeet, his weight gathered on his haunches as though he were
preparing to charge, and at this unmistakable evidence of ill-will,
Alcatraz snorted and grew alert.
If it came to fighting he was more than at home. He was a master. More
than one corral gate he had cunningly worked ajar, and more than one
flimsy barn wall he had broken down with his leaning shoulder, and more
than one fence he had leaped to get at the horses beyond. With anger
rising in him he took stock of the opponent. The black lacked a good
inch of his own height but in substance more than made up for the
deficiency. He was a stalwart eight-year old, muscled like a Hercules,
with plenty of bone to stand his weight; and his eyes, glittering
through the tangle of forelock, gave him an air of savage cunning.
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