The old lobo scrambled to his feet. Lady Ebony’s flank was turned to him. He leaped and his fangs sank deep, driving toward the tendons of her leg. He did not waver and spring away. He struck with savage recklessness. His sharp fangs severed the tendons and Lady Ebony went down. Instantly the whole pack swarmed over her, tearing at her sleek coat.
Midnight plunged on across the meadow. The pack was so busy tearing at the black mare that they did not follow him. He reached the ledge trail and plunged up to a shelf where there was room for him to whirl about. He stood staring out across the meadow, listening to the snarling of the pack as they fed on the carcass lying in the snow. He was still standing there when the pack turned away from the bloody bones of his mother and began looking for him.
They picked up his trail and raced across the gleaming snow. He watched them come, and courage, the courage of a cornered animal, plus the wild and savage fighting heart given him by the chestnut stallion came to him. He shrilled a challenge and reared up on his hind feet, his little ears laid back, his teeth bared.
The old lobo was the first to leap up the ledge trail. He lunged at the black colt. Midnight’s lashing hoofs met him and sent him tumbling back upon his leaping sons. The bachelors swept past their father and closed in. They were not so hungry but the blood lust ran hot within them. They wanted to kill again and their easy victory over the mare made them feel certain of their victim.
One of the youngsters leaped at Midnight’s throat. Two lashing hoofs met the gray body in mid-air. The killer screamed with rage and pain as his body writhed on the snow. He slid down toward the canyon rim and over the edge, hurtling into the shadowy depths below. Another youngster leaped and was smashed back.
The pack backed away from the flailing hoofs. Their bellies were gorged with meat and much of their savageness had left them. There was no way to surround the colt or to leap at his flanks. They sat down on the snow and glared at him, their yellow eyes flaming eagerly, their red tongues dripping as they extended above white fangs. The old lobo licked his wounds and growled deep in his chest.
Midnight waited, poised. But they did not attack again. One killer lay dead at the base of the canyon wall, while another crawled around on the snow, snarling and whimpering, his ribs caved in by the hoofs of the little stallion. Presently the old lobo got to his feet. He made a feint toward Midnight, but when the pounding hoofs lifted menacingly he turned and trotted away with his pack close behind him. They paid no attention to the wounded wolf.
Out on the meadow Midnight heard them pause at the carcass of his mother and begin feeding again. He stood for a long time listening, nickering softly, calling to his mother, trying to tell her that he had beaten the pack. There was no answer except the pack’s snarling and the yelp of a coyote that had smelled the fresh blood and come to the edge of the woods to wait until the gray ones were done with their banquet.
Midnight stood guard until the pack finished worrying the bones in the meadow. After they had loped away into the timber he turned back to the shelter and stood waiting for his mother.