With a wild plunge of speed Midnight charged past the old buck. The ancient monarch was a scarred warrior. He had been attacked by cougars before and had always managed to escape. This time he was trapped. He could not flounder to the deep, soft drifts in the spruce. Like any wild thing, he whirled to fight because that was all there was left for him to do. He had lived to old age in the high country because he had been able to meet desperate situations. When he whirled he lowered his sharp antlers until they formed a shield for his neck and shoulders.
The leap of the yellow killer had been aimed and timed so that its force would smash down on the back of the colt. Instead of smashing upon the unprotected back of the little horse the cougar landed upon the bony lances of the old buck. His hundred pounds of weight hurtling down on those horns would have been damaging enough, but the old timber-line monarch charged forward just as the cat landed, adding to the effectiveness of the defense. The buck was smashed back on his haunches, but instantly his powerful legs straightened and with a grunt he lunged again.
The lances of bone drove deep into the chest and neck and legs of the cougar. When the buck lunged he twisted those knives and drove them deeper. He ripped and tore in mad fury. Flight was forgotten now that he was in a battle. He thought only of destroying his attacker. The cougar was startled by this attack from a prey which had always fled in a wild fear before him. He screamed savagely as he struggled to toss his body out of the path of the ripping horns. Rolling over and over in the snow he scrambled away from the charging deer.
The buck made another lunge but the big cat had had enough. He bounded away across the snow leaving a trail of blood which froze in round red jewels on the crust.
The buck shook his head and snorted savagely. Midnight watched him from the safety of the ledge. Finally the little horse trotted down the trail to meet the monarch, who was stalking along, his rump patch fanned out, his breath whistling angrily. Midnight halted before the buck, and they stood looking at each other.
After that the bond was a little closer between the two. Midnight realized that there was safety in being close to the big buck. He was convinced the old fellow was the master of the yellow killers so terrifying to him. The monarch gave the matter no thought. He had escaped from another cougar, but he did not intend to allow one to get near him if his nose and his keen sight warned him in time. But he followed Midnight’s trail and ate the weeds and brush tips the little horse uncovered and left.
So the cold winter passed. The pair who came daily to the meadow kept vigilant watch for the killers and slipped away from the feed ground early each night. The little stallion was nearly as quick of sight and smell as the old buck by the time the snow began to soften. They were always hungry, never able to dig up enough grass and feed to fill their stomachs, but they were also wary and alert.
Spring waited for them on the snow-bound meadow one morning when they came down to feed. A chinook wind was blowing and the air was soft, promising life, alive with earthy smells carried up from the lower valleys where green things were already growing on the south slopes and in the canyons. Midnight bucked and pranced excitedly. The old buck shook his head and grunted. He was a sad-looking monarch now. His sides were thick with matted hair and he had shed one horn so that he was forced to carry his head on the side. He moved about more timidly and seemed eager to be near the black colt.