Part 9

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.

The moon swung up over a spruce ridge and flooded the valley with white light. The wise old mare selected a sheltered little meadow for a stopping place. It was small and the band of thirty horses had to crowd close together, but it smallness offered protection against cougars and wolves. The cunning and harsh leadership of the chestnut stallion had taken much of the natural wariness away from the mares. They had always depended on him to guide them.

Late that night Midnight had his first chance to take his place as protector and lord of the band. The mares and the colts had bedded down. Midnight and the pinto had raced around the clearing and come to a halt on a wooded knoll overlooking the meadow. They stood close together, snorting and pawing and playing. They pretended to see forms in the black shadows under the spruce. While they were standing there a lank cougar passed below the high point. His nose wrinkled and his long, black-tipped tail lashed as he scented the mares and colts sleeping in the open.

Circling to windward the yellow killer crept to the edge of the meadow. He was looking for the sentinel he expected to find on guard over the band. When he saw no guard he snarled softly and his yellow eyes flamed. He peered intently at the bedded horses and his eyes fastened on a colt standing close to his mother who was lying in a deep hollow. The colt’s head was down and his furry rump was toward the king cat.

Silently, like a tawny shadow, the cat slid through the grass toward the unsuspecting colt. When he was within striking distance he drew his powerful legs under him and flattened his head between his massive forepaws. His long claws moved slowly in and out, sheathing and unsheathing their sharp points; his lips pulled away from his fangs.

Up on the knoll Midnight was dancing on his hind legs, his ears back, his bared teeth reaching to nip at the neck of the pinto. She whirled and lashed out at him with her slender feet. Midnight dodged the blows and crowded against her, shoving her roughly to one side. She laid back her ears and sunk her teeth into the loose skin of his shoulder.

The pain angered Midnight and he whirled to teach her a lesson. His lunge was halted as the savage scream of the cougar cracked the stillness. His forefeet struck the ground with a thud and he stood beside the pinto, staring toward the mares. The frightened whinny of a colt mingled with the cry of the big cat. That cry from the stricken colt sent a surging rush of rage through Midnight. He plunged straight down the slope toward the spot where the cat had made his attack. In the meadow the mares had lurched to their feet and were snorting and milling about. With a ringing call the black stallion charged to the rescue.

The cougar had landed on the colt’s back, striking him down instantly. The little fellow was dead in a moment. Standing on the limp body of his victim, the yellow killer faced the angry mares who plunged around him. Midnight charged through the circle and leaped at the killer, his ears laid back, his battle cry ringing. This was something the cougar had not expected. He had decided there was no stallion with the band. Now he arched his back and reared to meet Midnight. He lashed out at the black as he came in.

The cougar stayed a minute too long in facing the enraged Midnight. He expected the stallion to swerve and rush past, but Midnight did not swerve. He lifted his forefeet and struck straight into the face of the killer. His smashing hoofs descended on the head and shoulders of the king cat. The blows sent the cat rolling and tumbling over and over on the grass. Instantly the mares joined the attack. Once a leader had braved the terrible fangs and claws of the cat they were ready to finish the job.

Screaming and rolling, the cougar tried to escape, to get to his feet and leap clear of the smashing hoofs, but the hoofs beat him down and trampled him. Teeth tore at him as he twisted and lashed. His claws and teeth were poor protection against the sharp hoofs of the horses. He was battered back on the grass each time he tried to get his feet under him. In a minute’s time he was a bloody pulp and the mares had backed away. They stood in a circle around him, their nostrils flaring, their eyes rolling.

Midnight danced about snorting and blowing excitedly. He was aware again of his power and was beginning to understand the job he had taken over from the chestnut. The mares stood waiting for him to decide what should be done. When he did not offer to lead them away from the scene of the kill an old mare struck out and the others followed except the mother whose colt was dead. She stood over him nickering and calling, trying to get him to his feet.

The pinto went with the mares. She had been badly frightened by the attack and wanted to stay close beside her mother. Midnight trotted after the band and stood by while they bedded down in another meadow near the scene of the attack. He walked around sniffing and snorting, expecting another cougar to come out of the night. When nothing happened, he lay down for a few hours’ rest just before dawn. One of the old mares at once got up and set to feeding apart from the herd. She seemed to sense that Midnight had much to learn about leadership.

The next day the band fed in the meadow until the old mare decided they should move on. Midnight did not offer to lead them, so she struck out. They headed deeper into the lush grass country. They passed many white-faced cows and yearling steers. Occasionally a lordly bull would saunter out of the shade to watch them. The band had invaded Major Howard’s finest grass belt. They did not know the danger this would bring, all they thought of was the fine grass and the plentiful supply of water in the clear, rushing streams. There was aspen shade for the middle of the day and there was spruce timber for shelter from the sudden and violent thunderstorms with their cold rain.

The band soon forgot the chestnut stallion. Midnight was an easy master. He let them wander where they wished. But he was a fierce and terrible fighter when roused. They accepted him without much concern, giving way to his few demands.

The thunderstorms seldom lasted over half an hour and the spruce needles shed the rain. Midnight was happy in the easy life. The pinto played with him, racing over the grass in the mornings or at dusk. She did what he demanded without making any demands of her own. And now Midnight had begun to watch for enemies while the herd fed. He was slowly learning what was expected of him.

12. Doom of the Band

Tex dropped the saddle he was dragging across the yard. He faced Major Howard, his lean face expressionless. The major was out of sorts that morning and when he was in such a mood he was short-spoken. In his irritation he did not notice that Tex was not in a jovial frame of mind either.

“The boys tell me there’s a band of thirty wild horses down on the aspen range. I want you to take a crew up there and clean them out.” He added as an after-thought, “Use rifles and make sure none of them get away.”

Tex scowled. He was dead set against shooting any sort of horse, even a scrub.

“Why not round ’em up and sell ’em?” he asked.

The major grunted disgustedly. He could never understand the quirks in the nature of his range boss. Tex knew the wild horses were worthless on the market. They would be tough and mean to handle, half of them never could be broken, and they would not bring ten dollars a head. To the major this was a simple matter of business. Tex did not object to raising fine cattle for slaughtering, therefore he should not object to killing a few head of worthless horses. The major spoke impatiently.

“You know it would cost more to corral and handle that bunch than we could get out of them,” he snapped. “Kill them all. While I had more open range than I could use I wasn’t so particular, but I’ve just bought two big herds of whitefaces. It will take every foot of grass I own to run them.” The major noticed that Tex was not convinced. He added more quietly, “This is business, big business.”

“I reckon so,” Tex answered as he reached down and caught the horn of his saddle.

The major was ruffled by Tex’s reply.

“If you don’t want to handle this job I’ll get another man to take charge of it.”

“I’ll handle it,” Tex said grimly. Then he added almost to himself, “I thought that chestnut stud was the smartest hoss on the range. Never figured he’d trail his herd down into cow country where the boys ride regular.”

“Well, he has and I want that scrub stuff killed,” the major answered.

Tex dragged his saddle into the corral and whistled to his bay gelding. The bay trotted to meet him and Tex let his mouth relax into a grin as he patted the big fellow’s neck.

“I reckon we’ll have to do the dirty work,” he said softly.

Tex picked four men to go with him, men who could handle saddle carbines expertly. He did not want any careless shooting. The kills would have to be clean. When he explained the major’s orders to the men they growled but none of them refused to go. They all shared Tex’s dislike for the job, but they would carry out the boss’s orders.

The execution crew rode away from the ranch with thirty-thirty rifles slapping under their stirrup flaps. The boys who had reported to the major had given the location of the herd. Tex did not expect to find the band where the boys had seen them, but by riding to that meadow they could pick up the trail. Thirty horses would leave plenty of tracks.

Tex speculated gloomily on the foolish turn the habits of the wild band had taken. The big stallion at their head must have lost his cunning or else he had met with disaster and a younger leader had taken his place.

Silently the men rode through the timber and up the long ridges leading out of the lower valley. They entered the aspen belt and took a trail which ran along the top of a rocky ridge. From that ridge they crossed over to another and finally followed a red-granite cliff wall which led them into a narrow meadow. Towering rims of granite formed a half circle around the meadow with scattered spruce close to the wall on the lower side where the meadow broke off into the lower country. The entrance to the narrow valley was grown over by a stand of young aspen trees. Tex hoped to pick up the trail of the herd in this meadow and follow it from there. He halted his men in the dense cover and scowled across the meadow.

At the upper end fed the band of wild horses he sought. They had not moved their feed ground since the boys had first located them. Tex was disgusted with them; they were acting like brood mares in a farm pasture.

“The chestnut stud isn’t running that bunch,” he said gruffly.

The men nodded agreement and Shorty Spears, horse-breaker for the ranch, spoke up.

“Must be an old mare at the head of that herd. This is just the spot an old biddie would pick, grass knee-high, water close in.”

Tex nodded. He was studying the band carefully. Finally he gave his orders.

“Two of you take the upper side along the wall. Keep in the brush cover until you work your way down close to them. Make clean jobs, no gut shooting or broken legs. Shorty, you and Cal take the lower side along the rim. They won’t break down over that wall. I’ll wait here in the outlet and pick off any that break past you boys. They have to come out this way. Now get going.”

The men divided forces and rode away. They were eager to get a bad job done. It would be no sport for them, shooting down a band of mares and colts. The horses were trapped and would be helpless before the repeating rifles. Tex watched them go. He noted grimly that even the wind was against the wild horses. They had no sentinel posted and Tex could spot no stallion among them. The execution should be quick and complete.

Midnight fed beside the pinto filly. They had just finished a race around the meadow and were standing in a clump of young spruce and balsam looking down over the lower valleys. The rim at their feet broke off steeply. It was matted with brush; ragged rocks jutted up through the green leaves. The black stallion was nervous and uneasy, though he did not know why. He had a feeling of confinement, similar to that he had felt while he was a prisoner on the meadow below the high mesa. He tossed his head and pawed, snorting impatiently. He was making ready to drive the band out of the closed meadow.

With a sharp nicker he whirled and laid his ears back. The pinto edged away from him. With mane flaring and tail flowing around her heels she kicked high into the air and dashed away toward the mares. Midnight charged after her, sending his warning call ringing across the meadow. The mares jerked up their heads and stared at him, then looked around uneasily to see what had startled him. When they saw nothing they fell to feeding again. They had no intention of leaving this horse heaven until they were driven out, and their experience with Midnight did not make them leap into action the way a command from the chestnut would have acted on them. This meadow was a safe retreat from cougars and wolves. No killer could slip up on them with the steep rim on one side and the high walls on the other.

Reaching the first mare, Midnight rushed at her, and when she did not leap away he fastened his bare teeth on her rump. The mare squealed in pain and surprise. Humping her back and bucking up and down she fled before his lashing attack. Midnight rushed at another and sent her staggering as his powerful chest smashed into her. It had taken him days to get worked up to this nervous and panicky pitch, but he was roused now and meant to drive the band out of the meadow.

He was swinging around the band, slashing at the mares with his teeth or crashing into them to get them to hurry when the silence of the valley was shattered by two crashing reports from near the base of the cliff. An old mare near Midnight staggered, turned halfway around, then sank to the grass without making a sound. Another mare plunged into the air and slid on her side until she came to rest in a grassy hollow, her legs beating the air in jerky spasms. The two shots did more to snap life and action into the band than Midnight had been able to accomplish. The mares charged wildly toward the aspen grove which marked the outlet to the trap. Mothers crowded colts along as fast as the little ones could run. The spitting and crashing of rifles echoed along the canyon wall and mares plunged into the grass mortally wounded at every leap the band took. A cloud of dust rolled up behind the charging band and in that cloud of dust Midnight ripped and lashed as he drove the wild ones on.

The pinto filly had rushed to her mother when the first two shots rang out. Together they were leading the flight. Suddenly the mother swerved and staggered, plunged down into the grass. The pinto planted her feet and halted. Her sudden checking of speed saved her from a bullet which had been aimed to break her neck. The lead burned across her forehead raising a red welt. The little mare whirled and plunged back into the mass of plunging horses. She found Midnight savagely working to force the pace, and crowded close to him.

The charging rush of the mares was checked and they swerved in bewildered fashion as a new burst of flame and death leaped at them from a scrub-oak clump on the edge of the rim well down toward the aspen grove. Mares collapsed and colts leaped and ran about wildly. Midnight had only one thought, to drive the mares out through the aspen grove and into the open country. This was his first meeting with the deadly guns of man and, like all wild things, the death which struck from far off filled him with terror. But he did not desert the mares. A great rage possessed him and almost crowded out the terror. Screaming and biting he worried the flanks of the rapidly thinning band.