He kicked high and hard, eleven hundred pounds of seasoned muscle concentrated in the drive.

The blow would have smashed in the side of a bull.

One hoof glanced off, but the other struck fair and full between the eyes of the mountain-lion.

The great cat spun backwards, screeching, but Alcatraz saw no more than the fall.
He fled up the mountain with fear of death lightening his strides, regardless of footing, crashing through underbrush, and came to the end of his hysterical flight at the crest of the slope.
There he paused, shaking and weak, but the mountain top was bare of covert, and scanning it eagerly through the treacherous moonlight he saw there was no immediate danger.

Down the Western slopes he saw a fairyland for horses.