Then next morning while Midnight was feeding close to the beaver lake he met another stranger. The animal was not large and it waddled along at a slow pace. It had long, yellowish hair and it seemed too dull-witted and slow to be dangerous. Midnight advanced. The dull-witted one lifted the hair on his back but otherwise paid no attention to the little horse.
Midnight had never met a porcupine. He thought the spines sticking out of his back were long hairs. The dull gnawer of bark sat down when Midnight got close to him. Only his tail moved, jerking up and down. Midnight extended his soft muzzle and sniffed in a friendly manner. He kept his legs planted wide so that he could leap if the porky came to life suddenly and attacked him. The gnawer did not move, he huddled into a ball of spiny fur, pulling his head back until only the tip of his snout showed. Midnight tossed his head and pawed, his nose extended closer as he sniffed and sniffed. Suddenly he felt a quick stab of pain in his tender muzzle. He leaped back with a snort. An ivory barb that was half black with ebony stuck out of his lower lip.
Midnight galloped away through the aspens, across the little meadow to the far side. The pain in his lip increased as the barb dug deeper. He halted and thrust his muzzle into the fresh, black dirt of a pocket-gopher mound. He raked his nose back and forth in the damp earth. The cool dirt soothed the burning sting but it also drove the barb deeper into the tender flesh. Midnight next tried rubbing the wounded spot against the trunk of a tree. The quill caught in the rough bark and pulled free. It came away red with a little piece of Midnight’s flesh clinging to it.
After that he left the dull gnawer of bark strictly alone. The porky fed on the meadow or in the tops of the low bushes where he hung like a spiny ball. His clicking grumble could be heard at any time during the day.
And each day Midnight circled his prison seeking a way to get off the mesa. He was uneasy and wanted more room. There was plenty of feed and there was water, but there was no room to gallop. The confinement worried him. He was not like the dull porky or the beavers, he was used to wide spaces and an elevation from which he could look down on the world. From the little mesa he could see nothing but trees, the canyon wall, and the lake.
One day late in the spring two men rode down past the cabin at the edge of the mesa. The meadow was green with waving grass, flowers rioted in their hurry to produce seed before the brief high-country summer slipped away. The ridges were blue with lupine or gold with mountain daisies. In the shade clumps of columbine lifted their delicate blue bells, exposing white hearts. Major Howard and his range boss, Tex, were riding together.
Tex halted near the upper end of the meadow. He slid to the ground and bent over a scattered mass of bones. Major Howard lighted his pipe and waited. The eyes of the range boss were intent. He remained bent over the bones so long that the major spoke impatiently.
“What’s so interesting about a pile of bones?”
Tex straightened and his eyes wandered to Sam’s cabin thoughtfully.
“Winter kill by a pack of wolves,” he said briefly.