youngsters, they cut trees and peeled bark from early morning until
late at night. They had long since ceased to worry about being about by
daylight. The seclusion of the little meadow had changed their habits a
great deal. Their storehouses were bulging but they worked feverishly
anyway, as though they were facing a famine period. And they built
houses over the land openings where their runways came to the surface
of the meadow, tall piles of mud and sticks, laced together and padded
down into a tough, warm masonry which would keep out the biting frosts
of winter. Midnight watched them lazily. He could not know they were
expecting another hard winter. But he did have an uneasy feeling when
the first frosts came. The wild strain in his blood stirred and he
would have left the high country had he been free to go. One morning he
trotted to the edge of the meadow and found it white with glistening
frost. The white carpet disturbed him. He rushed to the edge of the
crevice and stood there snorting and pawing. But he did not try the
long jump.
The frosts deepened. The aspen leaves swirled down to cover the roots,
the bulbs and the seeds bedded under the soft loam. The grass turned
brown and the big spruce trees standing close to the wall moaned as a
cold wind swept down from the new snow fields high on the barren peaks
of the Crazy Kills. The haze of an Indian summer day was swept away by
the first snow of winter and again the world turned white and the air
became snapping cold. Midnight put on his heavy robe of shaggy hair
which turned the sharp blasts whirling downward.
The snow deepened and Midnight dug for grass. He moved his bedground to
a needle-padded spot under a giant spruce where the snow never fell.
Now he was interested only in a battle to keep his belly filled. He was
still growing and his body demanded food for new muscles and sinews as
well as for warmth. The storms came and the snow on the meadow became
deeper and deeper. The mesa above was lashed by bitter winds but the
sheltered meadow did not feel their lash. On its surface the snow
settled down in loose, deep smoothness which formed a warm blanket for
the grass and the flowers. Great drifts formed along the rim above,
fanned out by the wind and the drifting snow on the upper bench. Their
white lips thrust far out over the edge of the canyon like the rounded
curves of giant mushrooms.
One moonlit night as Midnight lay on his dry bed of needles he heard
a strange sound and felt the earth tremble under him. The sound came
from the rim above. He peered upward but could see nothing except the
protruding snowbanks and the gleaming whiteness of the world outside
his shelter. The sound was a deep, grating rumble that reminded him
of distant thunder. One of the overhanging lips of snow had broken
under the great weight of tons of snow and had settled down. For a
few minutes it moved slowly, grinding rocks off the wall, settling,
sliding, packing the snow into ice. Then its speed increased and the
dull rumble broke into a terrible roar as thousands of tons of snow
shot downward. Midnight leaped to his feet and trembled as he watched.
The mass of snow plunged and boiled as it shot downward. It seethed
around a stand of spruce. The big trees, many of them several feet
through at the butt, jerked and swayed like saplings, then went down
to be swallowed up by the maelstrom of ice and snow. Boulders were
torn from their beds and from the face of the cliff. They were ground
to sand in the maw of the slide. The whole cataract became dirty gray
in color. Its roar shook the mesa as it poured into Shadow Canyon.
A startled snowshoe rabbit, routed from his bed under a fallen log,
leaped into the air, plunged forward, then bounced high as the dirty
mass caught him. For a moment he hung above the seething mass, then
dropped into it and vanished, ground to nothingness.
The slide struck the lower end of the little mesa. It shot into the
deep crevice, filling it full, then boiling over to roll on down into
the main canyon. It cut a swath through the spruces and aspens growing
on the steep slope of the big gulch. The timber went down like grass
before the bar of a mowing machine.
The white death was only a few seconds in passing but it struck fear
into the heart of the black stallion. He snorted and pawed excitedly.
And he was not alone in his fear. Up on the high mesa the old
timber-line buck, who had returned to his feed grounds, leaped from his
bed under a spruce. He stood staring out into the white world, rigid,
shaking his heavy antlers and grunting. Every wild creature within
hearing stopped and listened, tense, ready to break and run. They all
knew the terror of the white death and each knew that to try to dash
away would be useless because of the terrible speed and the uncertainty
of the course it would take. They would try to run if it came hurtling
upon them, but until they saw it they did not move. It was an hour
before Midnight bedded down again.
In the morning the colt plowed his way to his feed ground near the
beaver lake. He stood for a time staring at the spot where the crevice
had been. The deep fissure was filled with dirty snow, yellow,
resin-oozing timbers, torn and ripped apart, and broken boulders. It
was packed as hard as the frozen surface of a lake. Carefully Midnight
ventured out on it and found it solid. His weight did not make it
settle at all.
He worked his way step by step across the dirty snow, then headed up
the trail leading to the meadow. The snow was so deep he had to plunge,
rising on his forefeet and lunging. When he rested the snow pressed
close against his sides. Coming out on top he halted to look out across
the meadow. A sharp, icy wind cut at him and loose snow swirled around
his legs. He saw the old timber-line buck digging for weeds near the
timber. Midnight whinnied eagerly and plunged toward the ancient one.
The old buck jerked up his head and watched Midnight as he floundered
across the mesa. They met and stood staring at each other for some
time. Finally the buck turned his back and began digging again.
Midnight set to work pawing for grass.
Bitter winds swept across the meadow and cut through Midnight’s shaggy
coat. Snow swirled before the wind and piled into deep drifts. The mesa
was more bleak and icy than the little meadow under the rim. And the
grass was not so good when it was uncovered. But the black stallion
had companionship of a sort. He worked busily all that day to fill his
belly with grass. At dusk he headed toward his haven under the rim.
Darkness settled before he reached the canyon trail and the moonlight
gleamed on the snow. Midnight was tired when he reached his dry bed
under the big spruce.
After that he stayed on the bench under the rim. It was warmer down
under the wall and the grass was easier to get. He could dig without
much effort. Now that he knew he could leave the little mesa whenever
he chose he did not want to go.
Up on the high mesa the old buck was finding life hard. He had no help
in digging for food and his legs were stiff, with a tightness he had
never felt before. Age was slowing the spring in his powerful muscles.
His horns still held patches of velvet. The patches clung in dry, furry
spots on his polished lances. The old buck had not had the energy to
polish them and scrub them as he should have. Midnight did not know
that he had deserted his friend at a time when the ancient monarch
needed him badly.
Late one afternoon the black stallion was startled by a familiar cry.
A pack of lobo wolves had swept out of the spruce at the edge of the
meadow above. Their cry came when they sighted the old timber-line
buck, and the cry was the cry of the kill. Midnight plunged to his
shelter under the big spruce and stood there tossing his black mane.
His eyes rolled white and he snorted savagely.
Up on the mesa the old buck had whirled about to dash for the safety of
the timber and the castle rocks. He had ample time to escape and should
have outdistanced his pursuers, but his stiffened legs refused to lift
with the smooth power he had always possessed. Before he was halfway to
cover the pack was leaping around him, their yellow eyes flaming, their
red tongues jerking over white fangs.
There on the flat mesa the old monarch made his last stand. With
sweeping, thrusting antlers he met the leaping attack of the gray
killers. They darted and lunged and dodged around him, keeping up a
mad chorus of yelping and snarling. The old buck could not guard his
vital parts against all the wolves. One after another they slid under
his frantic, thrusting antlers to rip gashes in his flanks and legs.
Snorting and blowing savagely he fought with horns and lashing hoofs.
The wolves knew they would win and they kept up their ripping, tearing
tactics, never fastening on the big fellow long enough for his sharp
hoofs to strike them. Weakened by the loss of blood, staggering as
each new wound opened, the old fellow fought his way stubbornly toward
the timber. Every foot of his retreating trail was marked by bloody,
trampled snow.
One of the wolves, taking advantage of the slowing thrusts of the
old buck’s antlers, dodged in and slashed the tendons of a hind leg.
Slowly, with antlers still lashing, the old monarch settled down into
the snow and lay beating with his forelegs and jerking his head.
Instantly every wolf was on him and their howls were more savage than
before.
The end of the monarch was the destined end of all wild dwellers. The
end of a life of struggle and constant alertness. The law of the wild
was fulfilled. While youth and vigor gave him power and speed the buck
lived and went his way, but when that strength slipped from him he went
down before the gray killers.
Under the big spruce Midnight stood listening to the growling and
snarling of the pack as they tore the warm flesh from the bones of the
old buck. He watched and waited, expecting the pack to come leaping
down the ledge trail and across the slide-filled fissure. But they did
not scent him because the wind always blew off the high mesa and seldom
came up out of the canyon except in the spring. When the killers had
stripped the bones and cracked the ones their powerful jaws could break
they left the mangled carcass and raced away through the moonlight,
seeking another victim.
Then the little fox came out of his den and a pair of coyotes trotted
up from the shadows under the spruce at the lower end of the mesa. The
little fox and the coyotes fought over the bones, dragging them away to
spots where they could lie down and gnaw them or crack them and lick
the still warm marrow fat from their centers.
11. New Trails
Spring came with a chinook and a sudden thaw which broke a week of
bitter weather. The transformation was in the nature of a miracle.
Soft breezes blew up from the valleys, warm winds which settled the
snow and filled it with water. Midnight smelled the earthiness of the
wind from the lowlands and pranced eagerly. A change as sudden as the
change in the weather had come over him. For months he had given all
his attention to the gnawing hunger which was always demanding more dry
grass; now he was stirred by another urge. He wanted to be free to run,
to seek something he did not understand.
Shaking his head he galloped through the slush and mud to the ledge
trail. The dirty ice filling the crevice had not settled. The force of
the slide had packed it so hard that it melted only a little on the
surface. Midnight walked across the fissure and up the ledge trail.
He stood on the edge of the meadow and looked across its gleaming
surface. With an eager nicker he plowed through the wet snow. The old
timber-line buck was not there to greet him and the only answer to his
call was the harsh and irritated chatter of a crested jay in the timber.
Midnight moved out on the mesa and began pawing for grass. He was
hungry and now that he was in the open he did not know what he desired
or where he wanted to go, so he set to feeding. After a time he moved
down beside the castle rocks and stood staring into the smoky haze of
the valley country.
Toward evening he went to the castle rocks and climbed up to the
shelter he had shared with Lady Ebony. He sniffed about, pawing and
snorting as he smelled cougar scent. The cat smell mingled with the
pungent odor coming from the pack rat’s nest in the corner. The cat
smell was cold but it stirred him to uneasy anger. He tore to bits the
bed of sticks where the king cat had slept, scattering them about on
the rocky floor.
That night the cold came again and the slushy snow froze into a coating
of ice. In the morning the meadow was locked under a thick rust of icy
armor and Midnight was forced to work hard to get a meal. For several
weeks he battled to keep his stomach filled. But with the passing of
each day the air grew warmer and softer, the snow settled, and bare
spots began to appear. Midnight was able again to eat his fill. He
raced around the meadow giving play to his powerful muscles. He was big
and strong; another season would see him a magnificent black stallion.
As the snow line crept back into the timber to make its last stand in
the shadows under the spruce, the buds on the trees burst and the first
flowers shoved their heads out of the ground. Green shoots pushed up
through the dead grass. Their lush juices tantalized the black horse.
He could not get enough of them, yet he could not let them alone. His
efforts always ended by his eating a great deal of the cured grass in
order to fill his belly.
The bears came ambling across the meadow in pairs and singly to slide
down the leaning spruce for their spring meeting before the flowering
of their love moon. The wolves ran under the spring stars or howled
on barren ridges. Midnight did not pay much attention to the gray
killers. He had come to know by their howls when they were hunting and
when they were serenading. The old tom cougars stalked through the
timber while the she-cats sought them out, which is the way of the big
cats. And the little folk left their winter dens to race about in the
warm sunshine. The yellowbelly whistlers blasted their shrill warning
from the sentinel stone while the calico chips and the rockchips
stayed within the protected area where they could pay attention to the
warnings given by the whistlers. The hawks circled in the blue above,
billowing with the gusts of spring wind, while the eagles circled high
above them in the still upper air. One day the chipmunks came out and
the meadow rang with their chock-chock song as they celebrated their
awakening.
In all this celebrating and excitement the cabin at the edge of the
meadow stood silent and disconsolate, dead and lifeless. It seemed
older and more weathered than before. The weeds on its dirt roof did
not break into green foliage as soon as those in the meadow. One of
the eaves boards had given way, letting the dirt covering slip from a
corner of the roof and exposing the split slabs beneath. The spring
showers made little gullies and seams which looked like wrinkles. At
the door the willow chair lay on its side, tipped over by the snow or
some inquisitive visitor who recognized that the man smell was long
cold and dead.
Midnight visited the cabin often, smelling about. He used its rough log
corners as a scratching post against which he leaned and rubbed while
he grunted with pleasure. The rubbing loosened mats of hair from his
sides and soon his coat was sleek and shining, new as the blue flowers
crowding the shady spots at the edge of the timber. As spring advanced
Midnight became more nervous. He ran more often and for longer at a
time, sometimes circling the meadow several times before halting to paw
restlessly. He did not leave the meadow but he was always listening and
often paused to call shrilly.
Down on the desert the chestnut stallion and his band had met with an
ordeal unusual for them. There had been only light snows all winter
and the spring rains had been so light they did not settle the dust
or harden the sand. The grass was short and poor in quality. The big
stallion had trouble forcing the mares to do as he wished. The wise
old ones knew that there was grass and water in the mountains and were
determined to head that way. Finally the chestnut gave in and led them
toward the Crazy Kill Range. They worked their way quickly through the
foothills where cowboys were shoving white-faced cattle out on the
spring range. The mares would gladly have stayed to feed and put some
fat on their lank frames in the low country where the grass was growing
lustily, but the chestnut drove them higher, toward the bleak meadows
under timber line where the riders would not come.
One morning the band arrived at the high mesa overlooking Shadow
Canyon. The mares and colts came up the narrow trail first, with the
chestnut bringing up the rear. When they broke from the canyon they
spread out and began feeding. The pinto filly was the second one to
reach the mesa. She was stronger and tougher than any of the other
mares and had stood the winter better.
Midnight was resting in the timber close above the clearing by the
cabin when the pinto and her mother walked out into the tall grass. He
plunged to his feet and whinnied loudly. The mare halted and looked
at him without answering his call, but the pinto tossed her head and
nickered eagerly. With a flash of her heels she trotted to meet him.
Midnight charged across the grass and slid to a halt beside her. The
pinto pivoted and lashed out at him with her trim heels. Midnight
dodged and the filly headed across the meadow with the black swinging
along at her side. They raced the full length of the mesa and back
again, to halt at the base of the castle rocks where they stood,
snorting and prancing.
Their second run took them charging through the band of mares spread
out on the meadow. The scrawny colts in the band bounced after the
fleeting racers until they were outdistanced while the mares watched
without interest. Just at that moment they were far too busy pulling
grass to care about this black stallion.
The chestnut trotted out on the meadow and stood looking about for
danger signs. He sighted the black and the pinto racing across the
grass and his eyes rolled, his ears flattened, and he blasted a savage
challenge.
Midnight and the pinto whirled and were standing on high ground at the
upper end of the mesa. The pinto tossed her head and leaped away toward
the mares as she saw the lord of the herd charging toward her. Midnight
sent his own challenge ringing across the meadow as he leaped to meet
the big stallion. His feelings were much different than they had been
at their first meeting. Now he was eager to accept the challenge to
battle, and savage rage, as great as the rage of the chestnut, filled
him. He had his father’s fighting blood in his veins.
The two stallions crashed together and the greater weight and power of
the chestnut sent Midnight staggering back. He was not yet so rugged
and heavy as his father. He recovered his balance and reared with teeth
bared and hoofs pounding. The master of the band raised his massive
hoofs and struck back as he reached for Midnight’s neck with his teeth.
The two stood like boxers, hammering away at each other. Again Midnight
was pounded back.
The chestnut had only one idea in his head and that was to smash this
black stallion who had dared challenge his mastery. It would not have
mattered had he known that Midnight was his son. He was sure he would
soon end the career of the black; he knew his advantage and rushed upon
the colt with savage eagerness.
Midnight met the next charge and was hammered back once more, giving
ground slowly as the heavy hoofs pounded him and the bared teeth ripped
tufts of hair from his shoulders and neck. Slowly the chestnut pushed
him toward the rim of the canyon. But Midnight refused to turn tail and
run. This time he had a different urge to keep him fighting. He was
not a lonesome colt seeking companionship, he was a stallion desiring
the rightful place of a leader. He could easily have outdistanced
the chestnut had he chosen to flee, but he was filled with hot rage.
He had a wild desire to kill the big stallion who was battering him.
Slowly he gave ground, moving down the gentle slope of the mesa toward
the rocky edge of the canyon. Behind him the walls of Shadow Canyon
dropped away in a sheer face a hundred feet in height. There was no
brush-padded ledge close under the rim at that point, but the black
paid no attention to the danger.
Foot by foot the two moved down the slope. Blood spurted from wounds on
shoulders and necks. The smell of it increased the fury of the battling
stallions. Their savage screams rang through the spruce timber and
echoed back from the walls of the castle rocks.
The chestnut reared and plunged, eager to smash his antagonist to the
ground. Midnight met the smashing charge with counterblows, but he
was driven backward though he remained on his feet. A red wound gaped
on his chest and blood trickled down across the white splash on his
forehead but his fury was so great that he did not feel the pain. His
hind feet struck solid rock and stones flew into the canyon behind
him. He was poised on the very edge of the chasm. Then he saw his
danger, as he shifted sidewise to dodge the blows of the big stallion.
His hind feet were planted inches from the rim as he reared to meet
another attack. The chestnut was blind with fury, he did not see the
sheer drop ahead. With a terrible scream he lunged.
Midnight had met every charge squarely, desiring only to match blows
with his foe, but the dizzy space under his feet made him suddenly
change his tactics. He leaped aside to avoid being shoved over the
edge. The chestnut’s lunge carried him forward like an avalanche. Too
late he saw the rim and the empty space ahead. Plunging and sliding he
shot toward the abyss. Midnight’s rump was toward him and close. With
a shrill cry the black lashed out with his hind feet. His hoofs landed
against the side of the struggling stallion poised on the dizzy height.
The chestnut might have saved himself but for that hail of blows. With
a defiant, savage squeal he plunged into space.
Midnight whirled about and stood with lowered head, hot breath
whistling through his flaring nostrils, his eyes rolling so that their
white rims gleamed in the morning sunlight. He watched the body of the
chestnut turn over and over in the air as it shot down to land in a
mangled heap on a pile of rocks. Stamping and snorting he waited for
the chestnut to get to his feet and start back to finish the battle.
The chestnut did not move, but lay, a mangled heap of broken bones
and twisted muscles at the foot of the cliff. Midnight challenged his
adversary many times as he stood there on the high rim. When he got
no reply he turned toward the mares who had not stopped their eager
feeding. The pinto nickered eagerly and left her grass pulling to trot
toward him. The mares lifted their heads for a moment as he came
closer. Midnight trotted to them, dancing as he approached.
With the pinto beside him he raced once around the meadow, then the two
joined the mares. Midnight was too excited to start feeding. He walked
around sniffing at the colts, edging up to the mares. The old ones laid
back their ears and warned him to keep his distance. When he tried to
nose one of their colts they humped their backs warningly. But they
accepted him as the master of the band and waited for him to assert
himself in the savage and harsh manner to which they were accustomed.
But Midnight lacked much in leadership. He really wanted to be a member
of the band and not a leader. He wanted to play with the pinto filly.
His rage had cooled and with it had gone much of the strange power
he had felt while battling the chestnut stallion. The pinto did not
understand why she was interested in Midnight but she stayed close to
his side and divided her attention between him and the lush grass.
Toward evening the mares became restless. They were used to seeking
cover before night fell. One old mare moved away from the band. She
had decided that this new leader was not going to seek a safe retreat.
She shook her head, then moved into the timber. The others followed
her with Midnight and the pinto coming along behind, nipping at each
other and making a great show of kicking their heels and lashing at
each other. And the old mare changed the course the chestnut had so
insistently followed. She headed across the ridge and down into a deep
valley.
The mares followed their new leader. They expected the chestnut
stallion to come charging through the woods after them to drive them
back toward the high ridges, but they did not want to go higher and did
not intend to head that way until he came.