That night the cold came again and the slushy snow froze into a coating of ice. In the morning the meadow was locked under a thick rust of icy armor and Midnight was forced to work hard to get a meal. For several weeks he battled to keep his stomach filled. But with the passing of each day the air grew warmer and softer, the snow settled, and bare spots began to appear. Midnight was able again to eat his fill. He raced around the meadow giving play to his powerful muscles. He was big and strong; another season would see him a magnificent black stallion.
As the snow line crept back into the timber to make its last stand in the shadows under the spruce, the buds on the trees burst and the first flowers shoved their heads out of the ground. Green shoots pushed up through the dead grass. Their lush juices tantalized the black horse. He could not get enough of them, yet he could not let them alone. His efforts always ended by his eating a great deal of the cured grass in order to fill his belly.
The bears came ambling across the meadow in pairs and singly to slide down the leaning spruce for their spring meeting before the flowering of their love moon. The wolves ran under the spring stars or howled on barren ridges. Midnight did not pay much attention to the gray killers. He had come to know by their howls when they were hunting and when they were serenading. The old tom cougars stalked through the timber while the she-cats sought them out, which is the way of the big cats. And the little folk left their winter dens to race about in the warm sunshine. The yellowbelly whistlers blasted their shrill warning from the sentinel stone while the calico chips and the rockchips stayed within the protected area where they could pay attention to the warnings given by the whistlers. The hawks circled in the blue above, billowing with the gusts of spring wind, while the eagles circled high above them in the still upper air. One day the chipmunks came out and the meadow rang with their chock-chock song as they celebrated their awakening.
In all this celebrating and excitement the cabin at the edge of the meadow stood silent and disconsolate, dead and lifeless. It seemed older and more weathered than before. The weeds on its dirt roof did not break into green foliage as soon as those in the meadow. One of the eaves boards had given way, letting the dirt covering slip from a corner of the roof and exposing the split slabs beneath. The spring showers made little gullies and seams which looked like wrinkles. At the door the willow chair lay on its side, tipped over by the snow or some inquisitive visitor who recognized that the man smell was long cold and dead.
Midnight visited the cabin often, smelling about. He used its rough log corners as a scratching post against which he leaned and rubbed while he grunted with pleasure. The rubbing loosened mats of hair from his sides and soon his coat was sleek and shining, new as the blue flowers crowding the shady spots at the edge of the timber. As spring advanced Midnight became more nervous. He ran more often and for longer at a time, sometimes circling the meadow several times before halting to paw restlessly. He did not leave the meadow but he was always listening and often paused to call shrilly.
Down on the desert the chestnut stallion and his band had met with an ordeal unusual for them. There had been only light snows all winter and the spring rains had been so light they did not settle the dust or harden the sand. The grass was short and poor in quality. The big stallion had trouble forcing the mares to do as he wished. The wise old ones knew that there was grass and water in the mountains and were determined to head that way. Finally the chestnut gave in and led them toward the Crazy Kill Range. They worked their way quickly through the foothills where cowboys were shoving white-faced cattle out on the spring range. The mares would gladly have stayed to feed and put some fat on their lank frames in the low country where the grass was growing lustily, but the chestnut drove them higher, toward the bleak meadows under timber line where the riders would not come.
One morning the band arrived at the high mesa overlooking Shadow Canyon. The mares and colts came up the narrow trail first, with the chestnut bringing up the rear. When they broke from the canyon they spread out and began feeding. The pinto filly was the second one to reach the mesa. She was stronger and tougher than any of the other mares and had stood the winter better.
Midnight was resting in the timber close above the clearing by the cabin when the pinto and her mother walked out into the tall grass. He plunged to his feet and whinnied loudly. The mare halted and looked at him without answering his call, but the pinto tossed her head and nickered eagerly. With a flash of her heels she trotted to meet him. Midnight charged across the grass and slid to a halt beside her. The pinto pivoted and lashed out at him with her trim heels. Midnight dodged and the filly headed across the meadow with the black swinging along at her side. They raced the full length of the mesa and back again, to halt at the base of the castle rocks where they stood, snorting and prancing.
Their second run took them charging through the band of mares spread out on the meadow. The scrawny colts in the band bounced after the fleeting racers until they were outdistanced while the mares watched without interest. Just at that moment they were far too busy pulling grass to care about this black stallion.
The chestnut trotted out on the meadow and stood looking about for danger signs. He sighted the black and the pinto racing across the grass and his eyes rolled, his ears flattened, and he blasted a savage challenge.