"No, he hasn't! It's the black, I tell you. See! There, he's kicked the Angel halfway across the mesa."
Now it was the Angel's turn to do some kicking. He did, and with terrific effect. Both hind hoofs were planted in the black's abdomen. Not once, but again and again. Yet the black was not thus easily defeated. With the sledge-hammer blows raining all over him, he struggled to his feet, and, with a desperate lunge, fastened himself upon the neck of his adversary.
Back and forth struggled the black and the white now, like a pair of wrestlers.
"Now, who do you think's got him, hey?" laughed Bud. "Why, the black'll eat his head off."
"I said Angel was going to win, and I think he is," retorted Tad. The white with a mighty toss of his powerful neck, threw Satan off, the fore feet of the Angel smiting and knocking Satan down.
Then followed a series of Gatling-gun-like reports as the Angel's hind hoofs beat a tattoo on the head of his prostrate victim.
The black was conquered.
Satan had been knocked out by the Angel, in the greatest equine battle that human eyes ever had gazed on.
"Aren't you glad I don't bet?" laughed Tad, his eyes flashing with the excitement of it all.
"I'd been willing to lose on that fight," grunted the cowboy.