The white death was only a few seconds in passing but it struck fear into the heart of the black stallion. He snorted and pawed excitedly. And he was not alone in his fear. Up on the high mesa the old timber-line buck, who had returned to his feed grounds, leaped from his bed under a spruce. He stood staring out into the white world, rigid, shaking his heavy antlers and grunting. Every wild creature within hearing stopped and listened, tense, ready to break and run. They all knew the terror of the white death and each knew that to try to dash away would be useless because of the terrible speed and the uncertainty of the course it would take. They would try to run if it came hurtling upon them, but until they saw it they did not move. It was an hour before Midnight bedded down again.
In the morning the colt plowed his way to his feed ground near the beaver lake. He stood for a time staring at the spot where the crevice had been. The deep fissure was filled with dirty snow, yellow, resin-oozing timbers, torn and ripped apart, and broken boulders. It was packed as hard as the frozen surface of a lake. Carefully Midnight ventured out on it and found it solid. His weight did not make it settle at all.
He worked his way step by step across the dirty snow, then headed up the trail leading to the meadow. The snow was so deep he had to plunge, rising on his forefeet and lunging. When he rested the snow pressed close against his sides. Coming out on top he halted to look out across the meadow. A sharp, icy wind cut at him and loose snow swirled around his legs. He saw the old timber-line buck digging for weeds near the timber. Midnight whinnied eagerly and plunged toward the ancient one. The old buck jerked up his head and watched Midnight as he floundered across the mesa. They met and stood staring at each other for some time. Finally the buck turned his back and began digging again. Midnight set to work pawing for grass.
Bitter winds swept across the meadow and cut through Midnight’s shaggy coat. Snow swirled before the wind and piled into deep drifts. The mesa was more bleak and icy than the little meadow under the rim. And the grass was not so good when it was uncovered. But the black stallion had companionship of a sort. He worked busily all that day to fill his belly with grass. At dusk he headed toward his haven under the rim. Darkness settled before he reached the canyon trail and the moonlight gleamed on the snow. Midnight was tired when he reached his dry bed under the big spruce.
After that he stayed on the bench under the rim. It was warmer down under the wall and the grass was easier to get. He could dig without much effort. Now that he knew he could leave the little mesa whenever he chose he did not want to go.
Up on the high mesa the old buck was finding life hard. He had no help in digging for food and his legs were stiff, with a tightness he had never felt before. Age was slowing the spring in his powerful muscles. His horns still held patches of velvet. The patches clung in dry, furry spots on his polished lances. The old buck had not had the energy to polish them and scrub them as he should have. Midnight did not know that he had deserted his friend at a time when the ancient monarch needed him badly.
Late one afternoon the black stallion was startled by a familiar cry. A pack of lobo wolves had swept out of the spruce at the edge of the meadow above. Their cry came when they sighted the old timber-line buck, and the cry was the cry of the kill. Midnight plunged to his shelter under the big spruce and stood there tossing his black mane. His eyes rolled white and he snorted savagely.
Up on the mesa the old buck had whirled about to dash for the safety of the timber and the castle rocks. He had ample time to escape and should have outdistanced his pursuers, but his stiffened legs refused to lift with the smooth power he had always possessed. Before he was halfway to cover the pack was leaping around him, their yellow eyes flaming, their red tongues jerking over white fangs.
There on the flat mesa the old monarch made his last stand. With sweeping, thrusting antlers he met the leaping attack of the gray killers. They darted and lunged and dodged around him, keeping up a mad chorus of yelping and snarling. The old buck could not guard his vital parts against all the wolves. One after another they slid under his frantic, thrusting antlers to rip gashes in his flanks and legs. Snorting and blowing savagely he fought with horns and lashing hoofs.
The wolves knew they would win and they kept up their ripping, tearing tactics, never fastening on the big fellow long enough for his sharp hoofs to strike them. Weakened by the loss of blood, staggering as each new wound opened, the old fellow fought his way stubbornly toward the timber. Every foot of his retreating trail was marked by bloody, trampled snow.