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.