His superior height enabled Alcatraz to rear
and fling himself clear, but his throat was bleeding when he landed on
all fours dancing with rage and the sting of his wounds. Yet he
refrained from rushing; he had been in too many a fight to charge
blindly.
The black, however, had tasted victory, and came again with a snort of
eagerness. It was the thing for which Alcatraz had been waiting and he
played a trick which he had learned long before from a cunning old
gelding who, on a day, had given him a bitter fight. He pitched back, as
though he were about to rear to meet the charge, but when his fore-feet
were barely clear of the ground he rocked down again, whirled, and
lashed out with his heels.
Had they landed fairly the battle would have ended in that instant, but
the black was cat-footed indeed, and he swerved in time to save his
head. Even so one flashing heel had caught his shoulder and ripped it
open like a knife. And they both sprang away, ready for the next clash.
The grey mare who had run so gallantly at the hip of the leader now
approached and stood close by with pricking ears. Alcatraz bared his
teeth as he glanced aside at her. No doubt if he were knocked sprawling
she would rush in to help her lord and master finish the enemy.
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