Part 10

Death held the little meadow in its bloody grip. The grass was marked by twisted bodies. But Midnight knew there was one avenue of escape. When the mares hesitated before the guns of Shorty and Cal he attacked their flanks with fury and drove them on. This was not just the way Tex had planned it. He had figured that the fire from the oaks would make the band circle back around the meadow, giving his men at the lower end a second chance to kill. He had been sure the band would mill around and around the mesa until all were shot down. Now he sat in his saddle waiting grimly. It looked as though he would have to turn them.

Midnight had driven the mares into full gallop again. Many went down as they swept close to the oak clump where the two men were hidden, but they charged straight past. Suddenly the vicious crack of a rifle broke from the edge of the aspens. Tex had opened fire, his carbine working with speed and murderous accuracy. In the hail of lead mares went down, bucking and twisting. The attack was too much for the remnant of the band. They dodged and tried to double back. Midnight reared and plunged at them, screaming madly. The bewildered and panic-stricken animals turned toward the rim and the black stallion sent them plunging toward it. When they would have halted at the dizzy drop, with its matted and ragged rocks, he lashed them on over the edge. They tumbled downward, plunging, rolling, sliding, and twisting. One mare went down with a broken leg, another struck a jagged pinnacle of rock and rolled over. Behind them Midnight and the pinto took the leap as they came to it.

Tex lowered his rifle. His eyes were on the black stallion and there was an excited gleam in them. He had never seen such a magnificent beast or such a feat of reckless daring. But all these feelings were over-shadowed by something else. He was looking at the long legs, the powerful chest, and the slender body of the stallion. He was sure he knew the sire and the dam who had brought him into the world. Here was the son of the chestnut stallion and Lady Ebony! He wet his lips and then grinned eagerly. He did not give the escape of a small part of the herd any thought. His mind was making plans, leaping ahead to what he would tell Major Howard. He was remembering the voice of Sam saying that Lady Ebony would come back to the high country. He was roused by Shorty’s amused voice.

“What’s eatin’ you? You look like you was seein’ angels or somethin’. Me, I’m plumb sick to my stummick.” Shorty moved over to where he could see the trail the band had made in escaping. He bent forward and stared at it. “You don’t mean to say some of ’em went over the side here?”

Tex nodded, reloaded his carbine, and made ready to end the misery of the mare who had broken her leg.

“How many got away?” Shorty asked. He had a sudden suspicion that Tex had not taken full advantage of his chance to clean out the band. Certainly the slope where the wild ones had plunged down to safety was open and within easy range of the spot where Tex was planted.

“Ten head and a stud,” Tex said and spoke as though to himself.

“Must have been a fire-eater of a stud to force them mares down over a cliff like that,” Shorty said with a quick grin.

“He’s a fire-eater,” Tex agreed softly.

The other boys had ridden up and were looking at the trail. Cal spoke in his slow drawl.

“I passed up one shot an’ you can report it to the major if you want. I had a broadside at a black stud but jest couldn’t find my sights for watchin’ him tear into those mares.”

“That stud learned something here today that he won’t forget,” Tex said grimly.

“I’ll bet a month’s pay we don’t ever catch that bunch in a place like this again,” Shorty said.

The others grinned. They knew the stallion would be wiser and more wary now that he had met the guns of men. They were not sorry he had got away. Any horse that would lead a crazy charge down the face of a brush-matted cliff deserved a break and was no scrub. One of the others said:

“I caught a glimpse of him through the dust. He’d make any of the major’s blooded stuff look like a broom tail if they were stood up side by side. Can’t figure where such a hoss could have come from, must be a freak.”

Tex grinned but said nothing. He knew where the big black came from. As he moved away he remarked:

“I reckon he might have some good blood in him.”

A plan was forming in the mind of the range boss and he was eager to work it out. He wanted to be alone so that he could get it all ready. He turned to his men.

“You boys ride on down to the ranch and report to the boss. Tell him I’m staying on the trail of the ones that got away. I’ll be in late tonight.”

Shorty grinned. “Figure you might be lucky enough to dab a rope on that black?” he asked.

“I’d trade every horse in my string but the bay for him,” Tex admitted.

Shorty laughed. He had missed the real significance of the remark. He thought Tex wanted the black as a saddler. Tex was a nut when it came to saddle stock. He remarked in an amused voice:

“It’ll be a case of sneaking and trailing from now on, and when you do dab a rope on him you’d best have some help handy. That baby bites and kicks like a cougar.”

Tex nodded full agreement as he rode away from the men. He took the regular trail off the mesa and rode around to the foot of the cliff. He had no desire to send the bay down over the trail the black had made for the mares. At the bottom of the cliff he picked up the trail and followed it. He did not have to dismount to tell the tracks of the stallion and those of the mares. The tracks of the leader were clean and deep, with perfect alignment. The trail led up the mountain in an almost straight line and the horses did not halt until they reached the barrens high under the rims of the Crazy Kill peaks.

As he rode along Tex planned his course of action. He would ambush the black and drop a rope on him. Taking him now would be possible, Tex figured, because the black was still a colt and could be handled if properly worked. If he stayed in the wild another year he might develop into a horse that could never be broken. He was just learning the tricks of leadership; that was shown by the trap the mares had walked into. Tex grinned eagerly as he planned. He was sure he could convince the major, once he looked at the midnight black, that his theory about Lady Ebony was correct.

He was also sure that, once convinced that Sam had not stolen the mare, the major would get the old man out of the pen quickly. Major Howard was an influential man and a determined one when he set out to do anything. He was a shrewd judge of blooded horses, and that would help.

Tex was eager to capture the black at once. He had a feeling that if Sam was ever to come back to his high mesa he would have to be set free that summer. He had talked to the warden and to the doctor at the prison and both agreed with him. It was Tex’s way never to consider failure. The bay he rode was the fastest horse on the range and Tex had accumulated some money and a great many possessions betting on his speed. He was at his best in rough country where sure-footed accuracy counted for more than speed, and he was powerful enough to handle the black once Tex roped him. The bay could lay a five-year-old maverick on his side without budging when the bulk of the critter hit the rope.

Tex halted behind a clump of bushes on a ridge and sat looking up a long, narrow valley. His keen eyes lighted up with excitement as they rested on a small band of horses feeding close to the timbered edge of the valley. He spotted the black stallion with a pinto filly feeding beside him. Deliberately Tex studied the ground and laid plans. It would take most of an hour to circle the band so as to have the timber as a screen for his approach and the wind right. And his plan called for sending them back into the lower country instead of higher into the barrens where trailing would be tough. He was sure the band would feed for at least an hour. The mares were fagged and hungry, he could see that, even at a great distance. Heading the bay up a narrow ledge, he climbed to the top of the rim overlooking the valley and dropped down on the far slope.

The pace Midnight had set in driving the mares into the high barrens had taxed their strength. They had finally refused to go any further and he had let them pause to feed and rest. But he was nervous and kept moving about, jerking his head high, sniffing and snorting. The excitement of the battle on the mesa below was still in him. He lacked the experience of the chestnut stallion and he did not know the country into which he was headed. Instinct had made him strike for the barrens, but he did not know where to go now that he had reached the rough country. So he let the mares feed while he moved about pulling a mouthful of grass here and there. The pinto stayed close by him as though sure he would protect her from all danger.

Midnight fed above the mares and close to the narrow trail leading up to a saddle on the ridge above. The meadow was really a bench with a rock wall on one side and a slope on the other. It lay along the edge of a deep canyon but it was not a trap as the little meadow had been; it was wide open at both ends and timber grew close, affording shelter which could be reached in a few seconds. Midnight watched the trail above and the meadow below, he tested the air, and he listened.

Suddenly he stiffened, his nostrils flaring as he listened intently. The sound of a loosened stone had come to him. The pinto sensed something and edged close to his side. Midnight snorted warningly and the mares instantly lifted their heads, ready to leap to cover.

Then Midnight saw a rider come charging out of the timber above him. The man was mounted on a bay gelding and he was standing up in his stirrups whirling a rope around his head. The bay was reaching out with powerful strides which carried him over the rough ground at terrific speed. Midnight shrilled a warning to the mares. The pinto froze into terrified stillness. She did not run but stood rooted beside Midnight, staring at the oncoming rider. Midnight expected the roar of guns but no explosions came. He was sure other men were hidden below to cut off any retreat. But he was on the wrong side of the band of mares to drive them upward. He did what the charging cowboy least expected, something the chestnut stallion never would have done. He laid back his ears, bared his teeth and charged straight at the bay, screaming his challenge as he leaped forward.

Tex was startled by the action. He gave the bay his head so the big horse could save himself. The bay swerved, dodging aside as he would have dodged the charge of an infuriated bull. The loop Tex was swinging sagged and jerked into a useless snarl as the bay lunged aside. Midnight plunged in and reared, lashing out with his hoofs, reached for the bay with his teeth. His pounding hoofs missed the saddler but his teeth nipped a gash in the horse’s flank. The bay was a high-spirited, nervous beast. He plunged and ducked his head. Grunting and snorting he started to pitch. Tex had to ride as he had never ridden before to control his mount. He saw Midnight whirl past, then wheel to charge again--the black stallion had gone stark mad. His hand dropped to the butt of his forty-five. He might have to shoot the big fellow to save himself. He jerked out his gun and fired twice into the air over Midnight’s head.

The crashing reports jarred some of the rage out of the black stallion. He pivoted rapidly. In that moment Tex got the bay under control and jerked in his rope. The shot had helped quiet the saddler. With the pinto at his side Midnight broke for the trail leading upward.

Tex set his spurs and sent the bay thundering after the black stallion. This was just what he wanted. He worked desperately to swing out a loop. The black had a hundred yards of go in the open the way he was headed. With the big colt running away Tex could drop a rope on him and pull him down. He raised himself in the stirrups and swung out his loop. Then Tex’s eager grin vanished. The black stallion was running away from his bay! He was leaving the fast saddler behind in a way that made the saddler seem slow. Tex overhauled the pinto and passed her. She was running her best, with neck stretched out and mane flowing, heading upward in an attempt to follow the black.

Tex held on until the black stallion thundered out into the saddle above and vanished down the far slope. He had not used his spurs on the bay. He knew his horse had given everything he had. On the ridge Tex pulled up while the bay blew and pawed. Suddenly Tex laughed. He had never seen such speed. Now he was certain he had to capture the big fellow. He just couldn’t have a horse on the range that was faster than the one he owned. Then his laugh died away. He had a more important reason for catching the black; in the excitement he had forgotten it.

Midnight charged through the timber and kept going until he reached the bottom of a canyon. He halted in a dense growth of river alder and called long and loud to the pinto. From far up the mountainside she answered him. Her call was frantic and excited. Midnight listened and heard a shout from the man who had chased him. He kept still for a long time. Finally he called to the pinto again and she answered him from lower down the slope. She was hurrying to him as fast as she could make her way down the rough slope. Midnight waited and listened. After a time he decided the bay and his rider were not coming down into the canyon. He could hear the pinto rattling stones and nickering eagerly but there was no other sound.

The pinto broke into the alder stand in answer to Midnight’s call as she reached the bottom of the canyon. They stood close together, watching and listening.

Up on the ridge Tex turned the bay and headed him back down to the long meadow. Night would soon settle and he would have no chance to trail the black after dark. His best course was to follow the mares and drive them into the lower country so that the black stallion would have to come down to round them up. He sent the bay galloping along the trail the fleeing mares had made as they raced off the bench.

Deep in the canyon Midnight was undecided what he should do. He was certain he could not stay where he was. The man would be sure to follow them. He finally followed his instinct, which was to put many miles between himself and the country which had proved so dangerous. He did not have a strong urge to follow the mares and round them up. His instincts for leadership were not strong enough to make him look for them. He knew of only one place where he had always found safety and where he had never been attacked. That place was the little meadow under the rim below the high mesa. With a snort he headed up the sloping side of the canyon.

The high mesa was far across the mountain on the southern edge of Major Howard’s range lands. The old mares had led the band along the backbone of the continental divide and down into the lower valleys. Midnight’s wild instinct led him unerringly toward the place of his birth and early colthood. All that first night the two horses moved steadily south and east, climbing upward, following the twisting course of the divide. At dawn Midnight and the pinto fed close to a stand of balsam and spruce. Five mule deer and a band of elk fed on the same meadow. Midnight had a feeling that the deer and the elk would take alarm if anyone approached, or it might have been his early friendship with the old timber-line buck that made him select the spot as a feed ground.

The deer and the elk paid little attention to the two horses. They recognized them as friends and harmless. Neither of them was tainted by man smell or the reek of a saddle blanket pungent with leather oil.

Midnight had learned another of the lessons of the wild, a lesson that had long since been mastered by the elk and the deer. He would feed at dawn and at dusk, when the dim light made rifle sights blur and when the eyes of the upright walking killer play tricks on him. All other wild things had learned that this was the law. The sunlighted meadows were death traps by day, but in the soft dusk of early morning or evening there was safety. The big killers obeyed the rule but they did it as much because their prey came out of hiding at that time as for protection.

The band of elk was headed by a lordly bull who was master of the ten cows by virtue of his power and savage willingness to battle any other bull who challenged him. As soon as his own sons grew to the age where their antlers began to spread into sweeping weapons and their desires led them to notice the cows he drove them out of the band. They were then lone bulls for a time until they were able to win a harem of their own. Nor was he satisfied with defense of his cows. He challenged the world to come and try to wrest supremacy from him. His battle moods came in midsummer and fall when his shoulder veins were swelling with hot blood, and his antlers had hardened to polished lances of bone.

The old wapiti bull was beginning to feel this pugnacious mood. For weeks he had been rubbing and polishing his antlers. They gleamed like the varnished surface of a piece of fine furniture. During the gray of dawn he had fed near the cows. Now that the white light from the sun-bathed peaks above was making the meadow bright he began to show signs of restlessness. The cows fed on, eager to fill their paunches before they sought deep cover to lie down. The old wapiti shook his horns and lifted his muzzle. He trotted to a little knoll well above his band. He was filled with courage and desire, proud of his fine antlers, conscious of the power within his twelve hundred pounds of weight. He halted and filled his lungs with air, raised his muzzle, and poured forth a guttural roar that increased in pitch to bugle tones, higher and higher until it was a blasting whistle which screamed through the still air of the mountainside. The high notes quavered and faded, ending in a half dozen savage grunts. The old bull seemed to know that he had just executed one of the most inspiring pieces of music in all nature’s mountain songs. He shook his head and listened intently.

From a ridge above the challenge of the lord of the band was answered. The challenger’s bugle was not so high and shrill nor so powerful, but it was eager and defiant. The bull on the knoll shook his head and grunted angrily, then he lifted his muzzle and sent his call ringing out through the high, thin air. Again the challenge was answered. A young bull was coming down the slope.

In a few minutes the challenger appeared, breaking out of the spruce at a trot, his head swinging back and forth. He was lighter than the old bull by a few pounds and his antlers were not so well filled, but he was big boned and young, a lone knight seeking the end of the lonesome trail, desiring to take his place at the head of a band of cows.

The old bull squealed a few short, sharp blasts, his horns swept low, he charged to meet the invader. The young bull came on, his pace increasing to a fast lope. The two great brutes crashed together, their horns locking as they grunted and twisted. For several minutes they tussled in this manner, each trying to sweep the other off his feet. The young bull was forced to his knees but came up with a lunge which set the old one back. Then they parted and backed away, heads still lowered, spreading horns protecting vital parts of their bodies. For a moment they halted with eyes glaring and breath whistling into the grass, then they charged again and the force of the impact sent them both to their knees. The old bull was well aware of the advantage his few extra pounds gave him and he kept hammering away, thrusting the youngster to his knees, eager to weaken him so that he would expose himself to the ripping thrust of horns.

The combatants had moved down the slope and the young bull was now on the downhill side, moving slowly toward the spot where Midnight and the pinto stood watching the battle. A yellow band of sunlight had slipped out across the grass. The mule deer, led by an old doe, had slipped into the timber to seek a hiding place for the day. The cow elk ceased feeding and stood watching the combat out of calm eyes which betrayed no hint of favor for either warrior. They would accept the lordship of the winner without question. After all, their real leader was a wise old cow who knew the ways of the trail and the best hiding places. The lord of the herd was master only for the time of the love moon.

The smaller bull began to retreat a little before the onslaught of the old bull. They had been fighting a quarter of an hour and the youngster’s wind was beginning to give out. They had backed away, the challenger still savagely willing to charge but very short of breath. As they lunged together, the young bull went down; this time one foot slipped and he fell sidewise. Instantly the monarch shook his horns free, backed away a step and lunged, his lances lowered. The sharp daggers of bone ripped into the side and flank of the young bull. He floundered and struggled as the death wound racked him, then he got to his feet with an effort. Staggering but with his defenses again down and ready he lunged at the old bull. The monarch smashed at him. This time he was down with his whole side exposed and the victor was on him.

But the old bull was at the end of his strength, too. He tried to tear his adversary into shreds but did not have the power. After a half dozen weak thrusts he backed away and stood, blowing and grunting savagely, while the youngster got to his feet and staggered toward the woods seeking a secluded spot where he could lie down.

Midnight snorted and pawed. The cows shook their heads and turned toward the woods following the lead of the wise old cow. With a savage grunt the monarch trotted after them.

Midnight turned away. With the pinto filly at his side he trotted into the timber and there they bedded down for the day. That night they moved again, heading along a ridge with the white stars lighting the rocky trail. All night Midnight kept going and dawn found them at the edge of the high mesa. With the gray light about them they fed close to Sam’s deserted cabin. Midnight felt safer in these familiar surroundings. Even the cabin seemed to give a friendly protection to him. He crossed the meadow and halted near the head of the trail leading down into Shadow Canyon. The pinto was afraid of the cabin at first but when Midnight walked up to it in passing across the meadow and sniffed about, she joined him. The man smell was dead and old. It lacked the pungent freshness which roused fear and caused flight.

The old yellowbelly whistler mounted his perch on the high rock and sounded an “all’s-well” whistle. The mesa came to life with the chipmunks singing their chorus, the prairie dogs barking, and the other chips racing about. With the coming of life to the meadow Midnight headed down the trail to cover.

The two horses came to the crevice which lay across the ledge trail. It was no longer a barrier, being filled with rocks and torn tree trunks with gravel piled in the cracks. Midnight moved down into the sunken mass and over it. Together the two plunged up the far side. Now Midnight felt secure. With the high walls towering above him and the sheer drop into Shadow Canyon guarding the lower side, there was only the entrance across the debris-filled crevice and that was hidden from the main trail by bushes screening the rocky ledge.