The snow settled down and down. At night it froze but not with the bitter hardness of the deep winter. Each day the snow sank lower and packed harder. It shrank until bare patches of meadow appeared. Then it retreated into the spruce where it would make its last stand against the sun. There were blustery days when snow fell and raw winds blew, but this was spring and nothing could halt its coming.
The wolves and the coyotes raced across the bare ground, leaping over the dirty drifts in the shade, racing on and on, as fast as the steady wind which blew up out of the green valleys below. The wolves were not seeking prey, they were running in pairs, leaping through the dusky twilight or the pale moonlight, seeking romance on distant ridges, trysting places under the stars.
The resurrection came swiftly. Grass sprouted and flowers shoved forth their buds, some of them poking out their hardy blossoms at the edges of the drifts in the twilight of the woods. But the real and certain arrival of spring was announced by the yellowbelly whistlers. They awoke and came out of their dens to blink at the sun. They romped across the bare meadow and bounded among the rocks at the base of the castles. A day or so after the whistlers had come out the calico chips appeared. They had been ready for some time but had been careful not to hurry.
One day the chipmunks appeared. They held a concert at once, and the meadow rang with their “chock, chocking.” The fat little brownies came with the chipmunks. They selected stones and spent much of their time sitting in silence looking down into the blue valley. Only the cabin at the edge of the timber remained lifeless and dead. It went on sleeping. Its one dusty window stared out drearily on the lively scene. Its door did not open to let the spring air into the cabin, there was no one to open it. The willow chair sagged beside the doorstone. It sat there much as though it had stepped outside to wait for the owner of the cabin.
Midnight became restless. He raced around the meadow and mud flew from his hoofs as he splashed through puddles in the hollows. The only spot he avoided was the dog town. There the ground was soft and the holes made it treacherous. The dogs barked and scolded when he thundered past but they accepted him as one of them. He whinnied and kicked and pranced. The old whistler, perched on his high lookout, stretched his neck, chuckled several times, then pulled his head back into his ball of fur.
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.