On each side of the field the other members of the two bands of horses, stood stolidly observing the conflict. Neither side made an effort to partic.i.p.ate in the battle.

Here and there a colt would break away and gambol out into the field, only to be recalled by a sharp whinny from its mother.

"It's queer they do not take a hand," marveled Tad.

"No; they never do. They look to their leader to fight their battles for them. When the battle is ended you will notice something else that will interest you."

"What?"

"You'll see when the time comes. Now watch them go at it."

And they did. It appeared as if each of the combatants was determined to put a quick end to the conflict. There was no lost time now. It was give and take. Blow after blow resounded from their hoofs. Now, one of the contestants would stagger and fall, only to be up and at his adversary, while their lithe, supple bodies flashed in the bright sunlight till the watchers' eyes were dizzy from following their rapid evolutions.

"I wish the boys might see this," breathed Tad, fascinated by the sight in spite of himself.

"So do I," grinned Bud.

"Did you ever see a battle of this kind?" asked the lad.

"Not like this. I've seen stallions fight, yes, but never such a sc.r.a.p as this. Looks as if they'd be fighting all day. But they won't."

"Why not? They seem as strong as when they began."

"They are, but they're getting careless. They're taking longer chances every round. First thing you know, one of them will get kicked into the middle of next week. Whoop! That was a dandy!"

The Angel had planted both hind hoofs fairly on the side of Satan's head.

Satan had gone down. But when the white stallion made a leap, with the intention of springing upon his prostrate victim, the black rolled to one side, and in a twinkling had fastened his teeth upon his adversary's leg.

Only for a brief second did he cling there, then throwing himself out of the way sprang to his feet. The two animals met with a terrific crash, head-on.

Biting, kicking, screaming out their wild challenges of defiance the battle waxed hotter, faster and more furious.

The mares in the herds showed signs of uneasiness. They might have been observed tossing their heads and shifting almost nervously on their feet, but making no effort to move away or out into the field.

"Are the mares getting excited?" asked Tad in wonder.

"No. They see one of the stallions is going to get his knock-out in a minute."

"Which one?"

"I don't know."

"But how can they tell that, if we are unable to see either one of them weakening?"

"More ghost telegraphy, I guess," answered Bud, not for an instant removing his gaze from the fascinating scene before him. He, too, was becoming excited. He could scarcely restrain himself.

All at once, despite his caution, Bud Stevens uttered a whoop.

"The black's got him!"

"No, the Angel's got him!" shouted Tad Butler excitedly.

"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.

"Is he killed, do you think?" asked the lad.

"No; he's just dizzy after the wallops he got on the head. You'll see him get up in a minute."

The Angel had backed off a few paces and there he stood, head erect, waiting as motionless as a statue until the moment when his fallen adversary should rise, if at all.

Slowly the black pulled himself to his feet. His head came up. He eyed the now calm white stallion half hesitatingly.

The watchers fairly held their breath, for it was a dramatic moment.

"They're going to fight again," muttered Tad.

"He's licked! He's got enough!" exclaimed Bud.

The black turned his back upon the white stallion, and with lowered head, dejection and humiliation apparent in every line, every movement of his body, walked slowly back to his own band.

The Angel followed at a distance, almost to the lines of the enemy.

Then he paused, galloped back to the center of the field, and throwing up his head uttered a long, shrill scream of triumph.

One by one the mares of Satan's band detached themselves from his ranks, and, with their colts, trotted across the field to join the Angel's band.