Part 7
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.
Midnight drowsed, his eyes fixed lazily upon the leaning spruce. Suddenly they popped wide open. He saw a big brown bear slide off the rim above and come down the trunk, sliding and scraping the bark loose in a shower of wood bits. The bear was descending tail first, moving around the tree as he came down.
The black colt scrambled to his feet. The memory of the savage silvertip was fresh in his mind. He tossed his head and snorted loudly. The brown bear halted his descent and peered down at him, then began to slide again. Then Midnight saw another bear, larger than the first, swinging off the mesa above. The big fellow came down amid a shower of bark and twigs. Midnight whirled and fled as far as he could get away from the spruces. He halted and stood watching the two bears, ready to dodge and run if they charged at him.
The two bears paid no attention to Midnight. They grunted and growled as they walked into the aspen grove, where they prowled about rooting into the dead leaves, overturning rotting logs. Then both sat up letting their big paws droop over their shaggy bellies. They sat looking up at the spruce trees. Down the leaning tree came two more bears. Midnight pawed frantically but he was as far away from the bears as he could get. The two newcomers joined the first pair in the aspen grove. There was much growling and grunting, with many deep woofs added. Midnight remained where he was, trembling and pawing the ground. Within an hour seven bears had arrived by way of the leaning spruce, and the grove was noisy with their gruff voices.
One he-bear walked to an aspen tree. Lifting himself to his full height he gashed a mark on the trunk with his teeth. Another male, who had been sitting watching him, got to his feet and walked to the tree. He gashed the tree higher than the other had been able to reach. Then a big fellow with a furry red face strolled to the tree. He grunted several times as he stood up. He marked the tree a full six inches above the highest mark, then dropped to the ground and faced the other bears. The males backed away from him as though recognizing his superior prowess. He strolled to one of the she-bears and nosed against her. She accepted the caress and the big male turned toward the spruce trees. He ambled to the leaning tree and started to climb. The she-bear followed him obediently.
One of the other males edged close to a female, rumbling in his chest as he moved toward her. Another male stepped forward and the two big fellows faced each other. An angry argument followed. The aspen grove rang with the roars of the two males, but they did not fight. One of them backed away and the other led the she-bear to the sloping spruce in triumph. They went up the tree and out on the mesa.
There were two males and one female left. The smaller fellow, a smudged, black-faced bear, had edged close to the last she-bear. He woofed and grunted in an attempt to get her to go with him, but she just sat and looked up into the aspen branches. The larger he-bear walked toward her. The little bear with the black face crowded in front of her, growling warningly.
The big bear shuffled up to him, reared, and cuffed him hard alongside of the head. The little fellow danced up and down and his roars shook the branches of the aspens and echoed along the rock walls, but he backed away from the she-bear.
The big fellow walked around her and grunted deeply. Then he headed toward the leaning tree against the wall. She followed him while the little bear sat with a sad expression on his face watching them. He remained where he was until they had climbed out onto the mesa above. He whined a little, ambled to the tree, and began climbing out of the basin.
The love moon of the bears had risen. This secluded spot was the scene of their first summer romancing. The pairs would wander away into the woods and remain together for a while. Midnight did not understand the nature of the gathering, but he did realize that they had not come to the mesa prison to attack him. He edged out toward the grove which reeked with bear scent. Snorting and jerking his head, he trotted around to the lower end of the mesa where he nibbled a few blades of grass. The wind carried the strong bear smell to him and he moved to the upper end again where he bedded down for the night.
Then next morning while Midnight was feeding close to the beaver lake he met another stranger. The animal was not large and it waddled along at a slow pace. It had long, yellowish hair and it seemed too dull-witted and slow to be dangerous. Midnight advanced. The dull-witted one lifted the hair on his back but otherwise paid no attention to the little horse.
Midnight had never met a porcupine. He thought the spines sticking out of his back were long hairs. The dull gnawer of bark sat down when Midnight got close to him. Only his tail moved, jerking up and down. Midnight extended his soft muzzle and sniffed in a friendly manner. He kept his legs planted wide so that he could leap if the porky came to life suddenly and attacked him. The gnawer did not move, he huddled into a ball of spiny fur, pulling his head back until only the tip of his snout showed. Midnight tossed his head and pawed, his nose extended closer as he sniffed and sniffed. Suddenly he felt a quick stab of pain in his tender muzzle. He leaped back with a snort. An ivory barb that was half black with ebony stuck out of his lower lip.
Midnight galloped away through the aspens, across the little meadow to the far side. The pain in his lip increased as the barb dug deeper. He halted and thrust his muzzle into the fresh, black dirt of a pocket-gopher mound. He raked his nose back and forth in the damp earth. The cool dirt soothed the burning sting but it also drove the barb deeper into the tender flesh. Midnight next tried rubbing the wounded spot against the trunk of a tree. The quill caught in the rough bark and pulled free. It came away red with a little piece of Midnight’s flesh clinging to it.
After that he left the dull gnawer of bark strictly alone. The porky fed on the meadow or in the tops of the low bushes where he hung like a spiny ball. His clicking grumble could be heard at any time during the day.
And each day Midnight circled his prison seeking a way to get off the mesa. He was uneasy and wanted more room. There was plenty of feed and there was water, but there was no room to gallop. The confinement worried him. He was not like the dull porky or the beavers, he was used to wide spaces and an elevation from which he could look down on the world. From the little mesa he could see nothing but trees, the canyon wall, and the lake.
One day late in the spring two men rode down past the cabin at the edge of the mesa. The meadow was green with waving grass, flowers rioted in their hurry to produce seed before the brief high-country summer slipped away. The ridges were blue with lupine or gold with mountain daisies. In the shade clumps of columbine lifted their delicate blue bells, exposing white hearts. Major Howard and his range boss, Tex, were riding together.
Tex halted near the upper end of the meadow. He slid to the ground and bent over a scattered mass of bones. Major Howard lighted his pipe and waited. The eyes of the range boss were intent. He remained bent over the bones so long that the major spoke impatiently.
“What’s so interesting about a pile of bones?”
Tex straightened and his eyes wandered to Sam’s cabin thoughtfully.
“Winter kill by a pack of wolves,” he said briefly.
“A horse the boys missed in the roundup?” the major asked with a show of interest.
Tex nodded. “Some hide and hair left,” he said and his slow smile showed for a moment. “I reckon this hoss was Lady Ebony.”
The major did not dismount. But he turned his horse and stared down at the bones. He knew what Tex was thinking and it irritated him. He shook his head grimly.
“Couldn’t be,” he said shortly.
“I figure it that way,” Tex answered. “It explains a lot of things fer me.”
“You never did think old Sam stole that mare,” Major Howard said.
“No,” Tex replied quietly.
“I did and I still do. You cow-country boys are too soft-livered. The old fellow left his cabin for three weeks or so. He refused to tell where he had been. He had three hundred dollars in cash to pay an attorney. He refused to tell where he got the money.” The major’s lips pulled into a tight line. “You’ll have to dig up more proof than that pile of bones.” He was staring at the desolate cabin, trying hard to urge away the doubt Tex had raised in his mind. Major Howard was at heart fair and honest. He smiled suddenly. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see that mare at one of the races this summer.”
Tex shook his head. “You won’t see her at any track, boss.” He paused and his gaze was somber; he was watching the chipmunks romping in the grass over by the castle rocks. Sam had brought those little fellers in. He’d be right surprised to know there was at least a half dozen more of them now. Tex made a mental note of the increase. He’d tell Sam when he stopped by to see him.
“The old fool is better off where he is. He has decent grub and a warm place to sleep,” the major said gruffly.
“He don’t seem much interested in anything. Did ask if the mare showed up, though, when I stopped by to see him.” Tex swung into his saddle.
“You let your feelings get the best of you,” the major said. It irritated him the way Tex stubbornly clung to his belief that Sam was innocent. “Besides, he came near killing a man,” the major added as though to clinch the argument.
Tex said no more. The major was not his kind. He was really a stranger in the high country, and a good deal of a tenderfoot in many ways. Like Sam, Tex had lived all his life in the rough mountain country. The range boss had long since ceased trying to understand his employer.
“I reckon he did plug that deputy,” he agreed. His manner and tone said plainly that he would have done the same thing.
They rode on in silence. Tex drew himself into his shell and spoke only when he had to answer a question, but he kept thinking about the pile of bones. He thought of Sam too. The last time Tex visited the old fellow Sam had a strange look in his eyes. Tex could not forget that look; it haunted him. It was a homesick, lonesome look.
10. Escape
Midnight was never quite satisfied within the confining walls of his prison. There was plenty of fine grass, shade, and water, but the constant feeling that he was being held a prisoner irked him. He worked out a route around the outer limits of the meadow which gave him a chance to run. There was an open stretch along the high walls. From there he made a trail above the beaver lake through a pile of slide rock that had fallen from the cliff above. The trail swung to the lip of the canyon, following a crooked course until it curved back and around the lake again. Big rocks and fallen trees offered barriers. The little stallion soon learned to take these barriers in clean jumps which sent the blood pounding through him.
The racing gave him an outlet for his energy, a chance to give play to his growing muscles. Snorting, shying, and whinnying shrilly he would race around and around, his mane and tail flying, his nostrils flaring. The exercise kept his body tough and hard. The blood of the chestnut stallion which flowed in his veins would not let him surrender to the peaceful existence offered by the sheltered meadow.
Midsummer found the little horse rapidly growing into a big and powerful brute with a body which combined the slender legs, the intelligent head, and the great heart of Lady Ebony with the rugged strength of his father. His eyes betrayed the wild horse in him. They flashed white rims when he was excited or angry and he bared his teeth savagely when roused.
One day Midnight heard sounds which excited him greatly. They came from the mesa above. He heard the pounding of many hoofs and above the nickering and snorting of mares rose the squeal of a stallion challenging the world defiantly. Midnight was resting in the shade of the aspen grove after a wild run around the meadow. He dashed out into the open and stood staring at the top of the canyon wall.
As he stood there a horse appeared. A pinto filly stood with lowered head looking down into the canyon. She was a trim little mare with a lithe, slender body and a yellow mane and tail which flowed in the breeze. Midnight called to her eagerly and she turned her head to locate him. Her ears pricked forward as she answered his call with a quick eager whinny. Instantly wild excitement surged through the black. He raced back and forth, keeping in the open, looking up at the pinto as he danced and kicked.
The little mare seemed to appreciate his efforts. She edged closer to the rim and nickered softly. The sound of her call sent Midnight leaping through the timber, pounding around the trail he had made. As he flashed into the sunlighted spaces below the rim he looked up to see her standing still, cut sharply against the sky, looking down at him. Again Midnight raced around his beaten pathway. As he flashed past the crevice which barred him from escape he halted and stared at the wide crack in the rock shelf. The trail beyond that fissure led to the little mare!
Midnight backed away a few yards, lowered his head, and sniffed. He suddenly lost his fear of the deep gash in the earth. With a defiant squeal he charged straight at the gaping crack. His flying hoofs sent rocks sailing into the canyon below. As he charged down on the barrier he gathered his hard muscles under him for the long leap. Like a black meteor he shot through the air. Leaping over barriers along this race course had given Midnight needed training. His body arched as he hurtled into space above the crevice. His forefeet reached for the far ledge, landed and clung while he lashed with his hind feet in an attempt to pull himself to safety. For a moment he hung there, poised above the chasm, plunging and struggling, then he stumbled forward, safe on the ledge trail.
Snorting and kicking, he pounded up the ledge until he came to the main trail leading out of Shadow Canyon. Doubling back along that trail he charged upward. With a clattering of loose stones he burst out on the edge of the meadow and halted to look for the pinto. The little mare had turned away from the rim. She stood looking at him, her neck arched, her mane blowing around her shoulders. She nickered and pawed at the grass tufts under her feet.
Midnight plunged toward her, eager to make friends. When he was within a few yards of her she whirled and fled. Midnight raced after her, calling wildly. The pinto ran toward the band of mares feeding in the center of the mesa. Above them the chestnut stallion stood guard, his sleek coat gleaming in the sun, his massive head erect. His protruding eyes watched the pinto as she raced toward the mares with the black colt close behind her. Midnight’s speed was greater than that of the little mare and he was soon racing shoulder to shoulder with her.
A scream of rage broke from the chestnut stallion. With ears laid back, nostrils flaring, he charged to meet Midnight. His teeth were bared and his eyes flamed. He meant to finish this young upstart at once. Midnight saw him coming and shoved over against the little mare, heading her away from the band. The boss of the herd came on at top speed. He was running at an angle to the course the two colts had taken.
Midnight had no fear of the big stallion. He was so wildly glad to see a band of horses that he had no thought of battling any of them. The chestnut came on with terrific force. He struck Midnight a smashing blow which turned the colt halfway around and sent him staggering. Midnight twisted and fought to keep from going down. The chestnut reared and lashed out with his forefeet. His teeth reached for the colt’s shoulder and his scream rang across the meadow.
As Midnight righted himself a terrible rage took him. He wanted to fight the big stallion, to smash him, to tear him. Swerving, he let the little mare dart into the band, then he whirled to meet the chestnut. The big stallion was eager for the kill. He had smashed young stallions before, driving them out of the band, and he expected to make short work of this fellow. Midnight answered the challenge by lunging to meet the leader’s second charge. The big stallion raised his heavy hoofs and met Midnight’s attack with smashing blows which battered the colt back. Pain brought a realization that the big stallion wanted to kill him just as the wolf pack had often tried. He dodged the next attack, but lunged in as the chestnut missed his target.
His feint only half saved him. The chestnut’s teeth ripped his shoulder and a crushing blow staggered him. Midnight leaped away from the next charge, which came as soon as the big fellow could wheel about. The little black was outweighed and his strength was nothing compared with that of the chestnut. The band of mares watched without showing much excitement. The pinto stood in their midst, her ears well forward, her eyes rolling.
When the chestnut charged again Midnight whirled and fled. He raced away down the meadow with the big stallion thundering after him. The chestnut was filled with savage eagerness. The victory was his and he meant to overtake this black stallion and kill him. But Midnight was the son of Lady Ebony, and had her fleetness. For a short distance he sprinted as fast as he could run and in that time discovered that he could easily outrun the big leader of the band. When he had satisfied himself of this he circled around the meadow whinnying defiantly and kicking up his heels.