Part 8

The chestnut was wild with savage rage. He thundered after the flying colt, but though he strained every muscle he could not overtake Midnight. Nor could he seem to outwind or tire him. The colt raced and dodged without seeming to feel the terrific pace. Around the mesa they raced, then around again. The chestnut began to tire. His breath was whistling from his nostrils and his flanks were streaked with lather. Suddenly he swerved and came to a halt beside the band of mares. Blowing and snorting he pawed defiantly, challenging Midnight to come and fight. Midnight halted and nickered eagerly to the pinto filly.

The pinto answered his call. This angered the chestnut and he whirled to lunge at her. Before the little mare could leap aside, his big body smashed against her and his teeth sank deep into the fleshy part of her back. Squealing and kicking, the pinto sprawled on her side in the grass. The chestnut reared threateningly as she scrambled to her feet. With a squeal of fright the pinto darted out of the band and ran away across the mesa. The chestnut did not follow far. He was watching Midnight, fearing the black would try to steal some of his harem.

Midnight leaped after the pinto. He soon overtook her and raced along beside her. The chestnut stallion was furious. He forgot the other mares and plunged after the colts. His speed was great enough to overtake the pinto, and he forced her back into the band. Midnight charged the big fellow and the chestnut whirled to give battle. The filly raced in among the mares and stood watching.

The chestnut was eager to close with Midnight again. He lunged in and his weight sent Midnight staggering back. Then he lunged once more, before the black could get his balance. He landed squarely against Midnight’s shoulder and the colt went down. He rolled and lunged while massive hoofs pounded him and the chestnut’s teeth ripped gashes along his side. Finally Midnight staggered to his feet. He ducked drunkenly and saved himself from another smashing blow from the shoulder of the chestnut. Pain stabbed through his shoulder joint and hampered his speed as he tried to run away. The chestnut sensed that his victory was about to be complete. With squeals of triumph he charged on the colt. Midnight thought of the ledge trail where he had always found haven when wolves and cougars came. If he could reach that ledge he would make a stand.

Desperately the little stallion plunged toward the castle rocks. The chestnut overtook him and smashed him aside, but Midnight dodged and raced on, not stopping to fight. Again the chestnut smashed him, his teeth ripping gashes across Midnight’s rump. The black staggered and weaved under the terrible battering but he kept going. He reached the ledge and plunged upward with the chestnut slashing at his back, trying to smash him to the ground where he could finish the fight.

Midnight tried to whirl about on the ledge. He suddenly realized that if the big fellow got him trapped in the shelter at the end of the trail the chestnut would kill him. He managed to turn around and face the charging leader of the band. They smashed together and Midnight went down, sprawling and kicking on the narrow ledge. He rolled over and his hoofs slid over the rim. In a moment he was sliding down over the edge.

Screaming and pawing, the chestnut glared over the rim. He saw his adversary land on a shelf below and stagger slowly to his feet. The big stallion raced up and down the trail but saw no way to reach the colt below.

* * * * *

The spot where Midnight landed was only a few yards below the place where he had landed when the silvertip shoved him over the edge. He got to his feet panting and blowing. For a long time he stood trembling, favoring his pain-raked shoulder. Then with a squeal of defiance he hobbled along the ledge and down to the little meadow where he had lived before the band came to the mesa. He was eager to cross the crevice again and join the horses above, but when he reached the aspen grove he halted to ease the pains shooting through his shoulder. After a bit he moved on. He halted at the edge of the crevice and stood listening. He did not try to leap across the narrow chasm, he would have to wait until the pain left his shoulder. Above he could hear the triumphant snorting and calling of the chestnut stallion. Slowly he turned and walked back to the aspen grove. After a time he lay down on a bed of dead leaves and grass.

He lay still and listened. From the mesa came the sounds of the feeding herd. For a time the chestnut pranced about nickering and snorting. The mares fed eagerly, not paying any attention to him, except when he came close to one of them. The ears of the little horse in the aspen grove followed every sound intently. He snorted and struggled painfully to his feet when the chestnut blasted a warning to the mares. There was a rolling thunder of hoofs as the wild band charged across the mesa and into the timber. Midnight tried to race to the crevice but at the first step he stumbled and almost fell. Slowly he hobbled to the edge where he stood shaking his head and calling loudly. The rhythm of the pounding hoofs died away quickly and Midnight was alone again. He turned back and hobbled at a slow walk toward his bed in the aspen grove.

In the days which followed Midnight listened for the sound of racing hoofs and the whinny of the band, but the big stallion did not lead the mares back to the high mesa. He ranged far up on the side of the Crazy Kills where the trails were steep and broken and the meadows small and surrounded by dense cover. In the barrens close to timber line few cattle ranged and none of Major Howard’s riders cared to make the steep climb, knowing the stray cows that climbed up that high would come down long before roundup time.

Midnight dropped into his former way of living. As soon as his shoulder became sound he began making his usual rounds of the little race course. And many times he charged to the edge of the crevice where he would slide to a halt and stand snorting and shaking his head. His leg was still stiff, too stiff for so long a jump, and he did not have the nearness of mares to fill him with wild excitement. He did not forget the wild band and the pinto filly, but his wild desire for freedom was not hot and driving. His body filled out and his legs and chest took on a ruggedness which made him lose the coltish look.

The old beavers increased their efforts. Helped by a brood of 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.