Juan, the _mozo_ overtopped him by nearly half a head, and was as broad or broader in the shoulder.

His body, a dull brown in colour, showed smoother than that of his enemy, the muscles not having been brought out by unremitted exercise.

Yet under that bulk of flesh there lay no man might tell how much of awful vigour.
The loop of the war club would not slip over his great hand.

He caught it in his fingers and made the weapon hum about his head, as some forgotten ancestor of his, tall Navajo, or forgotten cave dweller, may have done before the Spaniard came.

The weapon seemed to him like a toy, and he cast his eye about for another more commensurate with his strength, but, seeing none, forgot the want, and in the sheer ignorance of fear which made his bravery, began the fight as though altogether careless of its end.
White Calf was before his people, whose chief he was by reason of his personal prowess, and with all the vanity of his kind he exulted in this opportunity of displaying his fitness for his place.