There was little hesitancy in Black Bart.

He merely paused to sniff the foot of Randall Byrne, snarl, and then trotted with a limp towards the corrals.
Here, in a small enclosure with rails much higher than the other corrals, stood Satan, and Black Bart made straight for the stallion.

He was seen from afar, and the black horse stood waiting, his head thrown high in the air, his ears pricking forward, the tail flaunting, a picture of expectancy.

So under the lower rail Bart slunk and stood under the head of Satan, growling terribly.

Of this display of anger the stallion took not the slightest notice, but lowered his beautiful head until his velvet nose touched the cold muzzle of Bart.