It was a stout-legged piebald with the tell-tale Roman nose obviously designed for hard and enduring battle.

He was a fighting horse as plainly as a terrier is a fighting dog.
Arizona Charley, a tall man off a horse and walking with a limp, moved slowly about the captive, grinning at his companions.

It was plain that he did not expect the stranger to survive the test.
A brief, deep-throated shout from the crowd.
"There's Perris!" cried Corson.

"There's Red Perris, I guess!" Marianne gasped.
It was the devil-may-care cavalier who had laughed and fought and whistled under the window of her room.

He stepped from the thick of the circle near Rickety and responded to the voice of the crowd by waving his hat.