The old silvertip shoved a swaying head over the edge and growled deeply, then he ambled down the trail and headed across the meadow, growling and grunting to himself. The yellow-belly sentinel blasted shrilly and the little dwellers of the meadow raced to their dens. The dogs slid down their runways and defiant “squit-tucks” came out of the ground. The silvertip paid no attention to the commotion he had caused. He strode on across the mesa.
Midnight dropped a few yards and landed with a thump on another ledge. A pile of earth matted with grass and berry bushes broke his fall. His head hung over a yawning chasm. Quickly he gathered himself together and scrambled to his feet. For a few minutes he stood pressing against the rock wall and trembling; he saw that he was on a ledge which sloped gently down to the meadow. There was no chance to leap back to the trail above, so he moved along the cliff, sliding, crowding against the wall.
He slid off the ledge onto solid ground matted with dry grass. He was in a cup-shaped hollow on the side of the canyon wall. He trotted through a matted tangle of willow and brush to the edge of the basin. From where he stood he could look down into Shadow Canyon. He could see the foaming waters of the Crazy Kill River. But a sheer wall prevented him from climbing down, so he explored the hollow.
There were not more than seven acres in the basin. Aspens grew close together over most of the ground, except in the center where a beaver colony had cut them away. In this clearing nestled a tiny lake. Two old beavers were swimming around in the water, inspecting the horseshoe-shaped dam at the lower side. When Midnight halted at the edge of the water the old beavers dived, slapping their tails with explosive sounds.
Midnight turned away from the lake. He did not like the confining feel of this little mesa. He limped as he walked and his shoulder pained him, but he was not hurt badly. He wandered all the way around the mesa and discovered no trail leading off it except at the lower end where a ten-foot crevice cut through a ledge along the side of the canyon wall. He turned back and began feeding uneasily on the green shoots pushing up through the dead grass.
The old beavers came up again and set to work. A ptarmigan strutted in the dry leaves under the aspens and a snowshoe rabbit hopped out of a thicket. The big bunny sat down and began nibbling on a tender weed-stalk.
9. Prisoner
Midnight fed on the rich, new grass until he was no longer hungry, then he made another trip around the rim and along the cliff wall. He wanted to escape from this tight little pasture. The only avenue of escape lay across the crevice and along the ledge beyond. Midnight stood at the edge of the yawning abyss and shook his head restlessly. The leap was a long one, too long for him to try.
The little stallion turned back to the beaver lake. The pair of beavers were busily lacing willows along the top of their dam. As they wove the willows into place they plastered black mud on them. They were master engineers, and their dam was sturdy and strong. They stopped work and gazed at Midnight but they did not plunge into the water. They accepted him as one of the dwellers of their little world under the rim, a harmless animal who would not attack them.