him. He leaped and his fangs sank deep, driving toward the tendons
of her leg. He did not waver and spring away. He struck with savage
recklessness. His sharp fangs severed the tendons and Lady Ebony went
down. Instantly the whole pack swarmed over her, tearing at her sleek
coat.
Midnight plunged on across the meadow. The pack was so busy tearing at
the black mare that they did not follow him. He reached the ledge trail
and plunged up to a shelf where there was room for him to whirl about.
He stood staring out across the meadow, listening to the snarling of
the pack as they fed on the carcass lying in the snow. He was still
standing there when the pack turned away from the bloody bones of his
mother and began looking for him.
They picked up his trail and raced across the gleaming snow. He watched
them come, and courage, the courage of a cornered animal, plus the wild
and savage fighting heart given him by the chestnut stallion came to
him. He shrilled a challenge and reared up on his hind feet, his little
ears laid back, his teeth bared.
The old lobo was the first to leap up the ledge trail. He lunged at the
black colt. Midnight’s lashing hoofs met him and sent him tumbling back
upon his leaping sons. The bachelors swept past their father and closed
in. They were not so hungry but the blood lust ran hot within them.
They wanted to kill again and their easy victory over the mare made
them feel certain of their victim.
One of the youngsters leaped at Midnight’s throat. Two lashing hoofs
met the gray body in mid-air. The killer screamed with rage and pain
as his body writhed on the snow. He slid down toward the canyon rim
and over the edge, hurtling into the shadowy depths below. Another
youngster leaped and was smashed back.
The pack backed away from the flailing hoofs. Their bellies were gorged
with meat and much of their savageness had left them. There was no way
to surround the colt or to leap at his flanks. They sat down on the
snow and glared at him, their yellow eyes flaming eagerly, their red
tongues dripping as they extended above white fangs. The old lobo
licked his wounds and growled deep in his chest.
Midnight waited, poised. But they did not attack again. One killer lay
dead at the base of the canyon wall, while another crawled around on
the snow, snarling and whimpering, his ribs caved in by the hoofs of
the little stallion. Presently the old lobo got to his feet. He made a
feint toward Midnight, but when the pounding hoofs lifted menacingly he
turned and trotted away with his pack close behind him. They paid no
attention to the wounded wolf.
Out on the meadow Midnight heard them pause at the carcass of his
mother and begin feeding again. He stood for a long time listening,
nickering softly, calling to his mother, trying to tell her that he had
beaten the pack. There was no answer except the pack’s snarling and the
yelp of a coyote that had smelled the fresh blood and come to the edge
of the woods to wait until the gray ones were done with their banquet.
Midnight stood guard until the pack finished worrying the bones in the
meadow. After they had loped away into the timber he turned back to the
shelter and stood waiting for his mother.
8. The Strong Survive
When the little black stallion came out of his shelter the morning
after the wolf raid the sun was shining on the glare of ice which
covered the meadow. The old timber-line buck was plunging toward the
feed ground. Midnight whinnied eagerly for his mother and shook his
head impatiently. He was hungry and wanted her badly. When he got no
answer he moved down the ledge trail. At the spot where the wolves had
attacked him he halted and sniffed the snow, blowing loudly, pawing the
ground angrily.
He moved out across the meadow. The old buck lifted his head from a
hole in the snow and stared at him. Midnight whinnied again. He was
glad to see the buck calmly feeding. It drove away some of the fear
that he felt because he could not see his mother. The buck dropped his
head to feed. Midnight walked to the place where the snow was spattered
with blood. He sniffed and shied back. Standing with legs apart and
head bent forward, he looked at the frost-coated pile of bones lying
in the trampled snow. Breaking a trail around the spot he moved close
to the monarch and began breaking the crusted snow. The buck let him
feed close to his side but when the little horse would have shouldered
against him he jerked up his head and snorted. He shook his bony
lances threateningly and Midnight backed away.
Midnight set to work pawing, breaking the crust and scooping the
loose snow aside. He worked steadily all through the day, pausing at
intervals to call for his mother. Two lean coyotes came out of the
spruce and slipped across the meadow. A little fox thrust his sleek
head out of a thicket which had been swept clear of snow. He wrinkled
his nose as he crept forward. His furry, red brush waved back and
fourth. Hunger had driven the three hunters into the open in the white
light of day, hunger and the smell of fresh meat. The coyotes poked
among the bones gnawing and snarling. The little fox sat down to watch
and to wait. He was sure there would be a few bits of gristle left for
him.
Midnight snorted and shook his head at the coyotes. He pawed into the
drift savagely, then rushed at the coyotes as far as his trail went.
The coyotes leaped back from the carcass and faced him snarling and
snapping. Midnight stared at them for a long time, then turned and went
back to his feeding. He was learning the lessons of the wild.
A lynx cat with tufted ears and big furry pads on his feet thrust his
head from behind a drift. He, too, had forsaken the twilight of the
spruce country, which was his natural home. He blinked his eyes before
the glare of the sun and stared at the pair of coyotes and the little
fox. His nose twitched hungrily. He seldom ventured far from the green
dusk of the forest but he had eaten only one small morsel in two days,
a field mouse dug from the roots of a dead aspen tree. His green eyes
fixed on the little fox and he shifted his padded feet nervously. He
had feasted on fox before and the stringy meat was to his liking.
At the same moment the fox’s sharp eyes and pointed nose discovered
the lynx cat. Turning, the sly one raced over the crust toward his
burrow in the thicket. The lynx cat bounded over the snow, cutting
across to head the fox away from his hole. The little fox ran swiftly
but he had a greater distance to go. The cat closed in swiftly and the
fox whirled to face him. The lynx arched his back and circled slowly
around his intended victim. He knew the fox had deadly fangs and that
he would use them. The sly one was shy and timid but he could fight
when cornered. The air was filled with the yowling and spitting of the
lynx and the snarling of the fox. Both coyotes sat up and watched.
Midnight and the big buck jerked up their heads and stared at the
battlers. The old buck sniffed the cat scent and made off along his
trail to the timber. Midnight stood still. He was afraid but did not
know what to do.
The big lynx cat circled a second time. He was cautious even though he
was desperately hungry. With a lightning movement he leaped at the fox,
who was crouched down with his chest on the snow. The fox leaped to
meet him and slashed at him savagely. A big tuft of hair from the cat’s
neck scruff sailed high and floated to the snow. The cat backed away
spitting, his big feet planted wide apart.
When the lynx leaped back the little fox whirled and raced for the
timber. He had tricked the cat and his red tongue lolled out over
his white teeth very much as though he was laughing at his clumsy
antagonist.
The lynx bounded after him and the fox whirled again. Again the fox
made a stand and the dweller of the spruce twilight circled around
him. Again the lynx leaped and was met by the lashing fangs of the
slim hunter of mice. The cat leaped back and red drops of blood dotted
the snow. Both times his lashing paws had missed the dodging, weaving
fox. The fox whirled and ran, this time almost to his thicket. The
lynx bounded upon him and he whirled, his brush sweeping across the
glistening snow.
The lynx did not strike again. If the snow had been soft and loose he
would have been the victor and would have feasted upon the carcass of
the tough little fox, because his snowshoe feet would have carried him
over the surface while the fox floundered. The hard crust which spelled
death for the elk and the deer gave the little fox a surer chance to
live. Slowly the fox backed to his den under the bushes. He halted in
the opening and crouched there, his muzzle resting on his forepaws, his
little eyes flaming.
The lynx cat arched his back and sidled up to the den, spitting and
snarling. He halted well out of reach of the flashing attack of the
little hunter. He sat down and stared back at the fox. Finally he
walked away to a drift. He hoped the fox would venture away from his
hole under the bushes. But the fox could see the big fellow seated on
the drift. He drowsed, his eyes half closed, waiting for the killer to
tire and go his way. Finally the lynx cat got up and padded back into
the spruce.
Two eagles came and the great owls beat along the edge of the clearing.
The wolf pack raced down along the ridge at dusk, seeking the little
stallion. But Midnight and the old buck were safe in their shelters
long before dusk. Both remembered the experience of the previous night
and left the feed ground early. They bedded down on stomachs only half
filled, but they rested better than the killers who could not get even
half a meal.
* * * * *
There came days of sunshine and days of storm. When the blizzard came
the wind swept the new snow across the hard, smooth surface of the
meadow, piling it in the timber or swirling it into the deep canyon.
One cloudy day a lean cougar padded through the spruce at the upper
edge of the mesa. He halted and stared out over the sheet of glistening
ice. His yellow eyes suddenly flamed with eagerness. He had sighted the
timber-line buck and the little stallion. His amber eyes flicked over
the old buck and fastened on the colt beside him. His nose jerked and
the black tip of his tail twitched. It seemed almost beyond any good
luck to find a fat colt and a buck deer together. He had hunted for
days and was heading toward the lower country. The only living things
he had met were wolves and coyotes as hungry as himself.
The cougar moved to the edge of the woods, his eyes wandering over the
snowy expanse. It did not seem possible for the colt to escape him.
The little horse had a long way to go to reach cover. The snow was
crusted so that the killer could bound over it while the horse would
break through and flounder. He located a drift which ran out into the
meadow like the fin of a great fish. He would slip out along that fin.
He would not need to get close. His eyes roved eagerly over the meadow,
seeking to locate any weak point in his plan of attack.
Midnight and the old buck fed steadily, the buck following the trail
Midnight had broken. He was about twenty yards back of the little
stallion. Midnight pulled a tuft of grass up out of the snow and chewed
it eagerly. Swallowing it he ducked his head and nosed about for more.
He pulled another mouthful and looked around him. He was fast learning
the tricks of the old buck. Look, listen, test the air after every
exploration under the crust.
It was the buck who warned him of danger. The monarch snorted loudly
and whirled about. The wind had shifted and his keen nose had caught
cougar scent. Midnight looked and saw the gaunt killer rising above
the drift in a long, high leap. The big cat screamed savagely,
angered because he had been discovered before he was ready to attack.
Midnight plunged after the old buck. The cougar landed on the hard
crust, skidded, then righted himself and bounded again. His leaps
were terrific and carried him down quickly on the two struggling and
panic-stricken comrades. His ears were flattened and his tail was
lashing. His yellow eyes checked the distance he had to cover. His
last leap must send him smashing down on the back of the colt. His
tawny body shot upward and out in a twenty-foot leap, while his claws
unsheathed and he bared his fangs for the death thrust.
With a wild plunge of speed Midnight charged past the old buck. The
ancient monarch was a scarred warrior. He had been attacked by cougars
before and had always managed to escape. This time he was trapped. He
could not flounder to the deep, soft drifts in the spruce. Like any
wild thing, he whirled to fight because that was all there was left for
him to do. He had lived to old age in the high country because he had
been able to meet desperate situations. When he whirled he lowered his
sharp antlers until they formed a shield for his neck and shoulders.
The leap of the yellow killer had been aimed and timed so that its
force would smash down on the back of the colt. Instead of smashing
upon the unprotected back of the little horse the cougar landed upon
the bony lances of the old buck. His hundred pounds of weight hurtling
down on those horns would have been damaging enough, but the old
timber-line monarch charged forward just as the cat landed, adding to
the effectiveness of the defense. The buck was smashed back on his
haunches, but instantly his powerful legs straightened and with a grunt
he lunged again.
The lances of bone drove deep into the chest and neck and legs of the
cougar. When the buck lunged he twisted those knives and drove them
deeper. He ripped and tore in mad fury. Flight was forgotten now that
he was in a battle. He thought only of destroying his attacker. The
cougar was startled by this attack from a prey which had always fled in
a wild fear before him. He screamed savagely as he struggled to toss
his body out of the path of the ripping horns. Rolling over and over in
the snow he scrambled away from the charging deer.
The buck made another lunge but the big cat had had enough. He bounded
away across the snow leaving a trail of blood which froze in round red
jewels on the crust.
The buck shook his head and snorted savagely. Midnight watched him
from the safety of the ledge. Finally the little horse trotted down
the trail to meet the monarch, who was stalking along, his rump patch
fanned out, his breath whistling angrily. Midnight halted before the
buck, and they stood looking at each other.
After that the bond was a little closer between the two. Midnight
realized that there was safety in being close to the big buck. He
was convinced the old fellow was the master of the yellow killers so
terrifying to him. The monarch gave the matter no thought. He had
escaped from another cougar, but he did not intend to allow one to get
near him if his nose and his keen sight warned him in time. But he
followed Midnight’s trail and ate the weeds and brush tips the little
horse uncovered and left.
So the cold winter passed. The pair who came daily to the meadow kept
vigilant watch for the killers and slipped away from the feed ground
early each night. The little stallion was nearly as quick of sight and
smell as the old buck by the time the snow began to soften. They were
always hungry, never able to dig up enough grass and feed to fill
their stomachs, but they were also wary and alert.
* * * * *
Spring waited for them on the snow-bound meadow one morning when they
came down to feed. A chinook wind was blowing and the air was soft,
promising life, alive with earthy smells carried up from the lower
valleys where green things were already growing on the south slopes and
in the canyons. Midnight bucked and pranced excitedly. The old buck
shook his head and grunted. He was a sad-looking monarch now. His sides
were thick with matted hair and he had shed one horn so that he was
forced to carry his head on the side. He moved about more timidly and
seemed eager to be near the black colt.
The snow settled down and down. At night it froze but not with the
bitter hardness of the deep winter. Each day the snow sank lower and
packed harder. It shrank until bare patches of meadow appeared. Then it
retreated into the spruce where it would make its last stand against
the sun. There were blustery days when snow fell and raw winds blew,
but this was spring and nothing could halt its coming.
The wolves and the coyotes raced across the bare ground, leaping over
the dirty drifts in the shade, racing on and on, as fast as the steady
wind which blew up out of the green valleys below. The wolves were not
seeking prey, they were running in pairs, leaping through the dusky
twilight or the pale moonlight, seeking romance on distant ridges,
trysting places under the stars.
The resurrection came swiftly. Grass sprouted and flowers shoved forth
their buds, some of them poking out their hardy blossoms at the edges
of the drifts in the twilight of the woods. But the real and certain
arrival of spring was announced by the yellowbelly whistlers. They
awoke and came out of their dens to blink at the sun. They romped
across the bare meadow and bounded among the rocks at the base of the
castles. A day or so after the whistlers had come out the calico chips
appeared. They had been ready for some time but had been careful not to
hurry.
One day the chipmunks appeared. They held a concert at once, and the
meadow rang with their “chock, chocking.” The fat little brownies came
with the chipmunks. They selected stones and spent much of their time
sitting in silence looking down into the blue valley. Only the cabin at
the edge of the timber remained lifeless and dead. It went on sleeping.
Its one dusty window stared out drearily on the lively scene. Its door
did not open to let the spring air into the cabin, there was no one to
open it. The willow chair sagged beside the doorstone. It sat there
much as though it had stepped outside to wait for the owner of the
cabin.
Midnight became restless. He raced around the meadow and mud flew from
his hoofs as he splashed through puddles in the hollows. The only spot
he avoided was the dog town. There the ground was soft and the holes
made it treacherous. The dogs barked and scolded when he thundered
past but they accepted him as one of them. He whinnied and kicked and
pranced. The old whistler, perched on his high lookout, stretched his
neck, chuckled several times, then pulled his head back into his ball
of fur.
Midnight still used the shelter under the rim. Habit made him return to
it at dusk. The old timber-line buck knocked off his remaining horn,
then wandered into the twilight of the spruce and did not come out
again. He would seek a sun-drenched glade where he could nurse his new
antlers through the period when they were in the velvet. In a short
time nubbins of furry, blood-filled soft horns would appear, rising
from the scars of his old spread. During this time the monarch would
be quiet and shy. He would not fight and he would avoid charges which
would take him into the timber.
Midnight was climbing the ledge trail one night when he was faced by
a strange and terrible creature. A great silvertip, with the sleep of
winter still dulling his little eyes, came shambling down the narrow
ledge. He was gaunt and in a savage mood. Midnight had come to consider
this as his own trail. He had met the wolf pack almost on the spot
where he now stood. He snorted and reared on his hind feet. The old
silvertip kept on shambling toward him. Midnight laid back his ears and
squealed. The ledge was too narrow to turn about easily, and it was his
ledge.
Then the little stallion got a good whiff of rank bear scent and panic
seized him. He tried to whirl about but the ledge was too narrow. The
very thing that had made the ledge safe for him against the wolf pack
made it a trap now. He reared again and his trim hoofs lashed out at
the massive head and hairy chest of the silvertip.
The old bear saw the little horse for the first time when Midnight
reared. His great jaws opened and a roar came up from his chest. He
did not desire meat to eat, he wanted certain herbs and he wanted
cold water, things to help his shrunken stomach adjust itself. But he
never gave the trail to any except the skunk and the wolverine. In his
present mood he was ready to smash anything that tried to halt him.
He straightened up and stood like a shaggy giant, advancing as a
man would. One massive paw swept out. The blow struck Midnight with
glancing force. Had it landed squarely it would have finished him. It
over-balanced him and he slid off the trail. Kicking and lashing he
plunged over the canyon rim.
The old silvertip shoved a swaying head over the edge and growled
deeply, then he ambled down the trail and headed across the meadow,
growling and grunting to himself. The yellow-belly sentinel blasted
shrilly and the little dwellers of the meadow raced to their dens. The
dogs slid down their runways and defiant “squit-tucks” came out of the
ground. The silvertip paid no attention to the commotion he had caused.
He strode on across the mesa.
Midnight dropped a few yards and landed with a thump on another ledge.
A pile of earth matted with grass and berry bushes broke his fall. His
head hung over a yawning chasm. Quickly he gathered himself together
and scrambled to his feet. For a few minutes he stood pressing against
the rock wall and trembling; he saw that he was on a ledge which sloped
gently down to the meadow. There was no chance to leap back to the
trail above, so he moved along the cliff, sliding, crowding against the
wall.
He slid off the ledge onto solid ground matted with dry grass. He was
in a cup-shaped hollow on the side of the canyon wall. He trotted
through a matted tangle of willow and brush to the edge of the basin.
From where he stood he could look down into Shadow Canyon. He could see
the foaming waters of the Crazy Kill River. But a sheer wall prevented
him from climbing down, so he explored the hollow.
There were not more than seven acres in the basin. Aspens grew close
together over most of the ground, except in the center where a beaver
colony had cut them away. In this clearing nestled a tiny lake.
Two old beavers were swimming around in the water, inspecting the
horseshoe-shaped dam at the lower side. When Midnight halted at the
edge of the water the old beavers dived, slapping their tails with
explosive sounds.
Midnight turned away from the lake. He did not like the confining feel
of this little mesa. He limped as he walked and his shoulder pained
him, but he was not hurt badly. He wandered all the way around the mesa
and discovered no trail leading off it except at the lower end where a
ten-foot crevice cut through a ledge along the side of the canyon wall.
He turned back and began feeding uneasily on the green shoots pushing
up through the dead grass.
The old beavers came up again and set to work. A ptarmigan strutted
in the dry leaves under the aspens and a snowshoe rabbit hopped out
of a thicket. The big bunny sat down and began nibbling on a tender
weed-stalk.
9. Prisoner
Midnight fed on the rich, new grass until he was no longer hungry, then
he made another trip around the rim and along the cliff wall. He wanted
to escape from this tight little pasture. The only avenue of escape lay
across the crevice and along the ledge beyond. Midnight stood at the
edge of the yawning abyss and shook his head restlessly. The leap was a
long one, too long for him to try.
The little stallion turned back to the beaver lake. The pair of beavers
were busily lacing willows along the top of their dam. As they wove the
willows into place they plastered black mud on them. They were master
engineers, and their dam was sturdy and strong. They stopped work and
gazed at Midnight but they did not plunge into the water. They accepted
him as one of the dwellers of their little world under the rim, a
harmless animal who would not attack them.
Midnight trotted into the aspen grove and lay down. Above him green
buds were bursting and pale-green leaves had begun to show. The bushes
along the wall were leaved out and many flowers bloomed. The little
mesa lay facing the sun. Its protected acreage afforded growing things
a chance to get started before other mesas came to life. The spot
Midnight had picked for his bed was near the cliff face. He could see
the rim above. A group of five Englemann’s spruce grew near the wall.
Their straight trunks towered well above the rim and looked out across
the high mesa where the cabin stood. One of them grew so close to the
cliff face that its trunk touched the rim above.