Midnight

THE AUTHOR

RUTHERFORD MONTGOMERY would rather write than do anything else in the world. Most of his books are about animals and the wilderness he knows so well. As a boy, Mr. Montgomery would listen to the tales told by hunters, and his favorite sport then and now is going into the woodland and sitting quietly on a log, observing the children of the wild. He is a watcher, not a hunter.

Mr. Montgomery was born in North Dakota, and taught school for ten years in Wyoming and Colorado after graduating from Colorado Agricultural College. He saw service in the United States Flying Corps in World War I. Later, he was a county judge in Colorado and held state offices there. He now lives in Los Gatos, California.

* * *

Other Books by Rutherford Montgomery

• Broken Fang *
• Gray Wolf *
• White Mountaineer
• McGonigle’s Lake
• Yellow Eyes *
• Kildee House
• Big Brownie
• Ghost Town Adventure *

* Available from Scholastic Book Services

MIDNIGHT

RUTHERFORD MONTGOMERY

SBS SCHOLASTIC BOOK SERVICES
New York Toronto London Auckland Sydney

To Earl Hammock
who knows the value of
the lonesome places

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be resold, lent, or otherwise circulated in any binding or cover other than that in which it is published—unless prior written permission has been obtained from the publisher—and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Copyright 1940 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Illustrations copyright 1949 by Pocket Books, Inc. This edition is published by Scholastic Book Services, a division of Scholastic Magazines, Inc., by arrangement with Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc.

8th Printing

November 1969

Printed in the U.S.A.

CONTENTS

Midnight tried to whirl but the ledge was too narrow.

1. Pals

Sam was meditating. Tipped back in a chair made of river alder and willow, he leaned against the log wall of his cabin. His shoeless feet were swathed in wrinkled socks of the kind that come to a point at the toe where a tuft of thread keeps the cotton yarn from unraveling. Sam’s blue shirt was faded from too many washings in the creek below the cabin. The only unfaded portions of the shirt were hidden by his wide, yellow suspenders.

Sam’s tired, blue eyes stared out over his “stompin’ ground,” which was a high mesa overlooking the blue depths of Shadow Canyon. Across the mesa meandered a chain of castle rocks. This outcropping was red and yellow in color. It stood on edge, silent evidence of the upheaval which had formed the Crazy Kill Mountains millions of years before. Sam’s toothless gums clamped down on the stem of his cold pipe. Keeping the pipe right side up was the heaviest work Sam planned for that morning.

Out in a lush meadow which crowded like a green carpet around the castle rocks there was plenty of healthy contrast to the lazy inactivity that filled Sam. He let his eyes wander fondly over the scene. Up near the base of the biggest castle five fat yellowbelly whistlers romped about among the rocks. A sixth sat like a round ball of silver fur, perched on the top of a high rock. The old rockchuck on guard was as relaxed and lazy as Sam, except for his beady eyes. Those eyes saw everything that moved, as far away as the spruce woods which bordered the upper side of the mesa.

Sam studied the yellowbelly whistlers with a spark of interest in his faded eyes. They were yellowish animals with long, silvery hairs covering their brown coats, giving them a shining appearance when they romped in the sun. They had dark-brown heads and tails, and a whitish band across their faces. They rolled through the grass and over the rocks, front end up, hind end up, rocking along on their stubby legs.

Many smaller fellows courted the protection of the yellowbellies, making good use of the sharp eyes of the sentinel whistler perched high on his lookout. A dozen rockchips dodged about in the grass while as many more sat on little rocks and stared away toward the snow-capped peaks of the Crazy Kill Range. These potbellied little brownies of the high country were well content with the crumbs from the great one’s table. The keen eyes and the ready blast of warning from the high rock removed their chief worries. The sentinel whistler was sure to announce the arrival of the swift-hawk, the laughing coyote, the martens, or the bobcat. There were many other enemies of the air and the forest and the whistler watched for and spotted all of them.

Then there was the calico chip, a two-striped ground squirrel whose vast energy always made Sam feel tired. The calico chips dashed about with an energy which had undoubtedly been intended for some much larger animal, but must have been misplaced when Mother Nature laid out the blueprints of creation. The calico chips were always too busy chasing bugs or gathering and storing seeds to pause for meditation. They left foolish gawking into space to the potbellied rockchips. But their little ears were always tuned to catch the warning blast of the big whistler.

There was a sprinkling of lesser chipmunks, a dozen or more. Sam noted with satisfaction that their number was increasing. He had brought two pairs in with him several summers before. They were active, noisy little fellows, dashing about, hoisting their tails like flags when they came to a halt. Every so often one of them would dash to a rock and jump on top of it. He would sit very straight and burst into song.

“Chock! Chock! Chock!” in quick succession, like the rattle of an old alarm clock. Sometimes the song would be pitched higher and would go “Check, check, check, chir-r-r-up!” No sooner had one chipmunk mounted his song perch than all the others would dart to theirs, always the same perches. The meadow would ring with their chorus.

Their round of music never failed to disturb the fat sentinel whistler. He would shake his silver robe, stretch his neck, then blast three short, sharp notes on his whistle, after which he would settle back with a deep chuckle.

Sam’s pipe always rolled to the corner of his mouth and turned upside down when the chorus began. One fumbling hand would pull out his ancient, silver watch and he would fix his gaze fiercely on the second hand. From the chorus he would select one voice and count the “chocks” while he timed the singer. One hundred and seventy “chocks” per minute was the best time he had ever recorded. The poorest, seventy per minute, was made by a fellow whose little round belly hinted that he might have a bit of rockchip blood in him.

From far down the meadow, where a clear stream foamed over ragged rocks, came the eager whinny of a horse. Sam’s eyes lighted, and he shoved the big, silver watch into his pocket. Up the meadow galloped a trim black mare. Her mane flowed in the wind as she shook her head, and kicked her heels recklessly.

“Purty, right purty,” Sam muttered as he took his pipe out of his mouth.

The trim mare slowed to a trot as she neared the cabin. With a toss of her head and a playful leap to one side, she trotted up to Sam and extended her soft muzzle, nickering eagerly.

“Mornin’, Lady Ebony,” Sam said affectionately. “Think mebby ol’ Sam’s got a lump o’ sugar?”

Lady Ebony pawed and nickered.

Sam dug a hand into his pants pocket and brought out two dingy lumps of sugar. He dusted off a grain or two of tobacco and a little chaff, then held one of them out.

“Jest a bite, ol’ gal,” he said.

Lady Ebony picked the sugar from between his thumb and finger with a dainty movement of her lips. She crunched the lump eagerly, and when it was gone she pricked her ears forward and pawed.

Sam grinned widely. “Dang me, if you can’t count,” he said.

The other lump of sugar was extended and Lady Ebony took it. Sam let the forelegs of the chair down and got to his feet stiffly. He patted the glistening neck of the mare and talked softly to her. Lady Ebony accepted the caresses. Sam sat down again and the mare nosed around the cabin door a while before trotting out into the meadow where she set to feeding on the tall grass.

The yellowbelly on the lookout perch paid no attention to the mare. The calico chips and the chipmunks went on chasing bugs and hunting seeds. They knew the black mare was a friend and that her enemies were their enemies, the cougar and the gray wolf.

Sam sucked on his pipe. His eyes followed Lady Ebony. Ever since she was a wobbly colt she had summered in this high pasture. She carried the brand of Major Howard, an Easterner who had come west to raise cattle and horses. He had many horses on the range and paid little attention to any but his purebreds which he kept at the ranch in the valley. But Sam knew a fine horse. He had owned many slim, tough saddlers like the black mare. He was too old and stiff to ride but he wanted to own the black mare, just to have her as a pal. He had babied her and petted her until she was devoted to him.

Sam looked into the cold bowl of his pipe. He wanted to smoke, but his tobacco was inside the cabin. It was a terrible nuisance the way he forgot things like that. His eyes shifted to the fat sentinel on the rock. The yellowbelly was sitting up very straight. Suddenly he shook himself and whistled shrilly. Instantly the calico chips, the rockchips, and the chipmunks vanished into the grass. The feeding whistlers romped to their holes at the base of the biggest castle rock.

“Tarnation!” Sam muttered angrily. He reached back inside his door, and dragged out an ancient single-barreled shotgun. Laying the gun across his knees he squinted up into the sky.

“Thet durn hawk’s been askin’ fer it,” he muttered.

But the danger signal did not herald an air raid. Sam heard the thudding of ironshod hoofs. He did not bother to turn around. A horseman galloped up to his door and halted. The rider bent down and greeted Sam.

“Morning, Sam.”

“Mornin’, major,” Sam answered. A slow grin parted his straggling beard.

Major Howard’s gray eyes roved over the meadow, and came to rest on the black mare. The major was an energetic, hot-tempered person who rode hard and drove hard bargains. The easy way of the western mountain people irritated him. He respected Sam’s squatter rights to the mesa and the old cabin because he had more grass than he needed.

“I was wonderin’, major,” Sam began slowly, “if you wouldn’t sell me that black mare. I’d kind of like to have her. Got a feeling like she’s a pal, havin’ her here so much.”

The major laughed and his gray eyes moved back to Sam’s face. “That mare is purebred racing stock, Sam. I never paid much attention to her until I saw her on the run the other day. She’s fast, the fastest thing I have loose on the range. This fall she’ll clean up the cow-pony races at the state fair.” The major chuckled.

“Me and the filly has hit it off right nice. I thought mebby you’d sell her,” Sam said gently.

The major looked down at Sam and his eyes twinkled. “Tell you what, Sam,” he said jokingly. “I never had anything I wouldn’t sell if I got my price. I’ll sell you that black filly for five hundred dollars.” He bent forward until the saddle horn creased his ample waistline. “But I get to race her at the fair.”

Sam grunted. “Reckon I may take you up,” he said slowly.

The major kept his face straight. He was sure Sam didn’t have ten dollars to his name. The old prospector always managed to scratch together enough dust to buy a few groceries, but never had more than that. He nodded his head. This would be a good joke to tell the boys at the ranch. His eyes dropped to the ancient shotgun, and to keep from laughing he asked abruptly:

“What have you been shooting?”

“Got her charged with rock salt an’ bird shot,” Sam explained seriously. “Makes an ol’ gray wolf hit it lickety-split. And one of them swift-hawks shore claws air fit to shake out his tail feathers when I tech him up.” He grinned widely.

The major nodded. “Glad you keep that gun handy. It will keep wolves and cougars away from the mare.” He recalled stories the old hands on the ranch told about Sam’s youthful prowess with a carbine and a forty-five Colt. He supposed the old prospector’s eyes were so bad he had to use a scatter-gun.

“Got a shank o’ venison on the stove. Cold, but makes right nice chawin’,” Sam said hospitably, but he didn’t move.

“Thanks, but I’ll have to be hitting the trail. I want to ride down along the west drift fence today.” The major clicked his tongue, and touched the flanks of his spirited horse with his spurs. He galloped away over the meadow.

Sam sat looking out across the waving grass. Five hundred dollars. And he hadn’t missed the amusement which greeted his offer to buy the mare. Sam was irritated. He wanted the filly more than ever now. He smiled and mumbled to himself.

“The major’s goin’ to be plumb surprised when I dish out that five hundred.”

He got stiffly to his feet and moved into the cabin. Setting the old gun just inside the door he took a muslin sack from the table and filled his pipe. Then he absent-mindedly laid the sack back where it had been. He shuffled about the room looking at the objects he had hung on the walls, a worn horseshoe, a belt with a holster containing a forty-five Colt of the frontier model, several bright pictures cut from calendars. Finally he remembered he hadn’t lighted his pipe. He shuffled to where a packing box was nailed to the wall back of the stove and got several matches from a rusty tomato can. After lighting the pipe he puffed contentedly.

That day Sam stirred around more than usual. He made up a pack of food and small articles which he wrapped in a blanket roll. The pack was set beside the door. The job took up most of the afternoon.

The next morning Sam was up early. Lady Ebony came galloping across the meadow for her morning ration of lump sugar. As he gave it to her he talked in a low, confidential voice to the mare.

“I don’t reckon nobody but you and me knows that ol’ Sam’s got him a claim back under the rim.” He chuckled. “Reckon, Lady, it’ll take ol’ Sam ’bout three weeks to pan out five hundred in yaller dust.” He patted her sleek, black neck. “You jest stay around here an’ wait in this medder where there’s good grass. The ol’ yallerbelly’ll keep an eye out for wolves and cougars.”

The mare watched as he shouldered his pack and trudged slowly up the slope. She did not follow him, but she nickered several times. At the edge of the spruce Sam turned around and waved his arm.

Lady Ebony arched her neck and trotted out into the meadow. The fat whistler on the high rock chuckled and his beady eyes twinkled brightly as he watched her. The sun wheeled higher, warming the grass, drinking up the dew. The black mare wandered down the meadow. She came to a halt near a sharp ledge which broke off into Shadow Canyon. From the blue depths rose the roar of Crazy River. Lady Ebony stirred uneasily. A feeling of deep unrest filled her, an urge to run far, to seek other horses. After a time she wandered back into the meadow and began feeding, but she jerked up her head often, listening, staring into the twilight of the spruce.

A few yards from where the black mare fed, a little hill lifted semibarren, yellow clay. It stood in sharp contrast to the lushness of the green meadow. On this round knob a prairie-dog town was located. The main section of the village was a busy scene, with dogs moving, bellies close to the ground, in quick sprints from one grass patch to another or romping through the meadow grass. Sam had brought several pairs of dogs to the mesa. He liked the busy little fellows and had been lonesome until he had a town started. The dogs posted sentinels but they could not see far. The dog sentinels depended on the yellowbelly. They listened for his blasting whistle of warning.

One of the sentinels sat on a mound. His short tail jerked, but no other part of him moved. Suddenly the air was split by the warning whistle of the big sentinel on the high rock. The dog sentinels repeated the warning in a wild chorus of “skr-skrr’s.” Dogs raced in from the meadow. They paused for a moment to sit upright on their mounds, then they went down their slides to the tunnels below the ground. Out from the ground came their defiant voices, “squit-tuck! squit-tuck!”

A lank coyote stepped out of a clump of rose brier close to the spruce woods. He stood gazing disgustedly over the meadow, his green eyes watching the yellowbellies as they romped to their dens at the base of the castle rocks. The whistlers had warned the dogs and ground squirrels of his presence. He ran at a lope across the meadow. Lady Ebony snorted and shook her head as he passed. Her eyes followed the glinting sun on his fur. When he had vanished down the trail which led into Shadow Canyon she returned to her feeding.

2. Wild Horse

High up under the snow rims, where the grass was short but rich with moss and lichens, lay a little lake. Its upper shore line was formed by a barren rockslide which tumbled down from the naked cliffs above timber line, its lower edge was fringed with spruce and balsam. Below the lake nestled a little meadow. On this meadow fed a band of twenty horses.

At the head of this band of wild horses ran a chestnut stallion, a heavy-chested, thick-legged fellow with a splashed white star in his forehead. His protruding eyes were set wide apart and his heavy jaws and massive neck showed his battling qualities, while his wide chest and thick barrel indicated great strength.

The chestnut stud moved restlessly as he fed, jerking up his head, listening, testing the air with flaring nostrils. The mares with their colts close beside them cropped the short grass, content to let him keep a wary watch for danger.

And there was danger ahead on every trail. There was the lank cougar whose desire for colt flesh was greater than any urge in his tawny body except the hot flames that fired him when the mating call floated up through the twilight under the high spruce. There was the wolf pack, not so dangerous in summer but always ready to kill. The chestnut stallion knew that at this season the old lobos would be running with their sons and daughters in bachelor packs. They were training their young to kill and would attack any colt or mare that strayed far from the band. There was the bear gone killer, the brute who had deserted his vegetable diet and turned killer. He was not a common enemy, but one that was terrible in savage lust for slaughter. Lastly, there was the most dreaded enemy of all, man.

The chestnut had learned that man was the most ruthless and dangerous of the killers. He walked upright and his eyes were in front of his head, not at the side as in animals who do not kill but are pursued by the killers. The ranchers did not like wild horses because they ate the range grass and often crossed with the ranch mares, who then brought forth scrubby, worthless colts, mean and useless as saddle stock. The chestnut stallion stole mares from the range when he could coax or drive them from their pastures. With savage daring he led his band into the tall-grass range in the summer. If the cowboys with their rifles hunted him too persistently he faded away to a distant range down in the desert. In this he was like the lobo wolf. When poison and traps and guns become too evident an old lobo shifts his range.

The chestnut stallion had begun to feel that it was time for him to lead his band out of the Crazy Kill country. He was being steadily hunted. Rifles spat in the misty dawn, riders swooped down on the mares when they came out into the open to feed. Major Howard had given orders to kill or run the wild band off his range. He wanted no crossing of his good stock. At first he had played with the idea of having the chestnut stud brought in alive, but his riders could not trap or outrun the big fellow in the rough, broken country. There were too many avenues of escape, too many canyons and tangled mats of down timber. So the major gave the order to shoot the big stud and to exterminate his band.

The steady drives and constant ambushes had thinned the ranks of the band from thirty to twenty mares. The big stallion was ready to leave the tall-grass country. He jerked up his head and snorted shrilly, then he circled the herd at a fast trot. When he had gone once around it he halted and stood listening, rigid, his head up, his mane flowing in the wind. He heard a rock rattle from a trail above; then he saw a man. The man was on foot and he was toiling upward, a pack strapped on his back. He did not seem to be interested in the band of wild horses, but the wind carried a strong man smell to the meadow. The scent was rank with the odor of an old pipe.

The chestnut stallion laid back his ears and bared his teeth. With a shrill warning he lunged at the rump of the nearest mare. She whinnied with fright as she galloped away. The stallion drove the other mares into a thundering stampede. They charged across the meadow and into the timber, the colts bounding along at their mothers’ sides.

As soon as they were in deep cover the chestnut took the lead. He headed up a steep trail and did not stop until the band had reached a saddle in the snow range. Here he halted to let the mares and colts blow. The colts shouldered against their mothers, their pink noses and lips reaching under sweat-streaked flanks in search of milk. Their curly tails bobbed and jerked as they drank. The mares looked up at the snow peaks out of big, calm eyes. They were used to the sudden frenzied retreats of the big stallion, but they never became as excited as he, except when rifles spat and men raced shouting upon them.

After the rest spell the chestnut led the band down along a wooded ridge. He kept to deep cover so that an enemy posted on a peak or bare rim could not see the moving mares and colts. Toward midafternoon he halted the band in a little meadow to feed. The mares and colts began pulling the long grass eagerly. They were aware that the rest period might be short, and wanted to get their bellies filled as quickly as possible. They were right. The big stallion allowed time for but half a meal. He did not want them heavy and sleepy from overfeeding.

They moved down the mountain toward the deep, blue slash which was Shadow Canyon. The chestnut halted at the edge of a wide meadow. His protruding eyes had sighted a little cabin at the upper end of the meadow. He was about to lead his band back into the spruce when he saw a black mare standing with head up and ears pricked forward. He heard the blast of a whistler sounding a general alarm, and his ears flattened. The whistlers always annoyed him. He liked to move through the woods unnoticed and unheralded. But he remained at the edge of the timber watching the black mare, his nostrils twitching eagerly.

No one came out of the cabin. The stallion pawed and whinnied low. His call was answered by the black mare. There was eagerness in her whinny. The chestnut cast caution aside. Here was a sleek and slender mare he could add to his band. He trotted out into the meadow, neck arched, red mane floating in the wind.

Lady Ebony stood for a moment looking at the chestnut stallion, then she arched her neck and kicked her heels high. With a toss of her head she trotted toward him. They met in the center of the meadow with the mares watching out of calm, uninterested eyes. The mares fell to feeding while the colts bucked and bounced.

For a moment the noses of the two horses met, then the black mare whirled and lashed out at the stallion with her trim hoofs. He dodged and whinnied shrilly. Lady Ebony broke and ran down the meadow with the stallion thundering after her. He laid back his ears and charged with all his speed, but the flying black mare was faster. She pulled easily away from him and the sight of her slim body slipping away made the big stallion scream savagely. Never before had a mare been able to outrun him, to slip away from him with ease.

Seeing that she was leaving the big fellow behind, Lady Ebony whirled and halted, her front feet on a little hummock of grass. She waited until he was almost upon her, then she dodged past him and raced toward the mares. Again she outran him easily.

The chestnut was filled with a wild desire to drive this fleet mare into his band and lead her away. He swerved and charged. She dodged and leaped past him. Lady Ebony was not trying to escape, she was giving play to the pulsing life within her. The coming of the chestnut stallion was something she had expected. She had been restless and nervous; now that restlessness was gone and she was filled with surging energy.

The chestnut raced around the meadow again, trying to overtake Lady Ebony. He finally halted and stood with heaving sides. There was a savage light in his protruding eyes. Lady Ebony trotted toward him and stood nickering softly. She wanted to run some more. But the big stallion knew he was beaten. He was aware that he had made a great deal of noise, and noise was likely to bring riders with rifles. He turned and began driving his band off the meadow.

As they trotted toward the narrow trail leading down into Shadow Canyon, Lady Ebony tossed her head and trotted after the band. The big stallion lunged at her with bared teeth. She humped her back and jigged up and down, warning him that if he nipped her she would lash out at him. He reached out to snap at her flanks and was met by two small hoofs which smashed against his wide chest. With a snort he leaped aside. He did not lunge at her again. She was much to his liking, a fighter and a swift runner.

Lady Ebony fell in with the mares and the band moved down into the deep, green twilight of the canyon. They kept going until they reached the bottom. There they paused, crowding to the edge of the river, thrusting their muzzles into the cold water foaming over the rocky bed.

When the horses had drunk their fill they moved on down the canyon. Several miles of fast moving brought them to a high wall of red cliffs. Here Crazy River turned east and the canyon deepened. The chestnut sent the band up a trail which switchbacked and looped up out of the depths. With bared teeth and smashing hoofs he shoved the band up the trail and onto a mesa. Out on flat ground he let them rest. He was heading toward the desert where they would be free of attack from armed riders.

The mares fed on the bunch grass which carpeted the mesa. They kept well together and jerked up their heads, whinnying to their colts when the little ones strayed. There was danger in each adventurous trip the colts made, for they had not yet learned to watch and to listen. This broken country was the natural home of the cougar. It was also the den area for the gray wolves. When the colts trotted too far, their mothers followed and herded them back.

Above the mesa towered the snow peaks of the Crazy Kill Range. The snowbanks were not so close as they had been that morning, but seen through the high, thin air they seemed to be brooding no more than a short canter above the tableland. To the south, seen through a forest of trees and leaves much lighter green than the spruce, lay the desert, flat, eroded, purple in the evening light. The meadow was bordered on the lower side by an aspen grove. When the wind came up out of the canyon, the aspens seemed to shudder. A cross made of aspen wood had once been lifted on Calvary, so the preachers and the circuit rider said; possibly the aspens remembered. They quaked and their round leaves rattled and rustled like a million tiny cymbals. Below the aspen belt lay the scrub oaks, stunted trees with twigs as tough and hard as iron.

The chestnut stallion felt safer here on the edge of the wild, high country. A short run would take his band into the scrub oaks where no rider could follow without dismounting.

The sun dipped downward and hung on the blue rim of the western horizon. It looked like a huge ball of red fire. Slowly it settled from sight. Then shafts of red and gold light radiated upward, filling the sky and the air with a bloody haze. The wind died down and silence settled over the aspen grove. For a short space the world was aflame, then the sunset cooled and steel-blue dusk crept up out of the big canyon. The round moon, which had been dimmed to faint paleness by the sunset, flooded the mesa with soft light.

The chestnut moved close to Lady Ebony. He nickered low. She tossed her head, and they were off on a wild gallop around the meadow. They ran through the moonlight, disregarding rocks and gopher holes, leaping over sage clumps and patches of buckbrush, their manes and tails billowing in the wind, their rushing bodies surging with power. They circled the meadow twice. Lady Ebony easily keeping ahead of the big stallion.

After the second round, the black mare swerved and raced to a high, jutting point. Here she halted and the chestnut charged up beside her. He pawed and shook his head, then reared on his hind legs and his powerful forefeet curved under him. When his forefeet settled to the ground, Lady Ebony moved closer to him, her shoulder pressing against his muscled chest. The chestnut nickered proudly.

From an aspen stand below the feeding mares leaped five shadowy gray forms. They ran with long leaps, their black muzzles lifting and falling with an even, graceful flow of motion. Red tongues lolled over white fangs and yellow eyes flamed in the moonlight. From shaggy chests came eager yelps. The chestnut blasted a shrill warning to the mares, but the wolves did not swerve to attack the colts. They raced across the mesa, running for the pure joy of giving play to their stringy muscles.

At the lower edge of the meadow they startled an old doe who had come out of the aspens to feed. One of the gray killers turned in along the edge of the woods, the others fanned out and their eager yelps changed to a chorus of savage howls. The old lobo at their head had sounded the cry of the kill.

The startled mule deer doubled her slim legs under her and bounded. She landed many yards down the slope, and bounded again. Her white rump patch flashed in the silvery light as she fled. Three of the wolves raced after her while two turned right and leaped away around the hill. The doe reached the edge of the mesa and bounded down the steep slope at a pace which rapidly outdistanced her pursuers. When they were out of sight she swerved and ran around the hill. She intended to return to her feed ground by doubling back, a trick used by both mule deer and big rabbits. She broke out on the mesa a little below where she had been feeding when the killers startled her. Behind her she could hear the faint yelping of the three following lobos. She suddenly planted her feet and tried to pivot so she could plunge back down the hill. Two savage, grinning killers had appeared, one a little above her and one a little below. They were cutting in on her as fast as they could leap over the brush and rocks.

The doe whirled back down the slope, but before she had taken three jumps she was met by the three killers who had stayed on her trail. They were fanned out, running well apart. She slid to a halt and turned to run around the hill, but she was too late. The killers swarmed over her, the two attacking wolves leaping in at almost the same instant. She went down bleating and kicking.

In a few minutes the night was filled with the snarling and growling of the feeding pack. Up on the ledge Lady Ebony crowded closer to the big stallion. He snorted defiantly and rubbed his head against hers.

That night the wild horses stayed on the mesa. The next day Lady Ebony loped down into the desert, one of the wild band, a willing member of the chestnut stallion’s harem. They traveled at an easy lope which their tough bodies could hold for many hours. They halted in little meadows to feed and sought streams and water holes when they were thirsty.

As they moved into the canyon-slotted, eroded world of the desert they left the clear streams behind, and had to depend upon the knowledge of the chestnut stallion or one of the old mares for the location of pools and springs. The grass was shorter, curly buffalo and gamma, growing in clumps that defied shifting sand and hot wind.

The world changed quickly. The spruce, the aspens, and even the scrub oak vanished and in its place there was juniper—dry, defiant of the heat, sending its roots deep into the yellow earth, down cracks in the sand rock. The canyons were walled with red and yellow sandstone. The washes were bedded deep with sand instead of water, and the wind made the sand creep along, piling it into the dunes on the mesas, knifing it out in drifts from the ledges of rimrock. The days were hot and dry, but the nights were cool to the point of chillness.

From sentinel buttes or rims they sometimes sighted copper-skinned Navajos riding always at a gallop, on lean, bony ponies. The Navajos were always hurrying, though they had no place to go and all eternity to get there in. Once Lady Ebony sighted a summer hogan with two Navajo women and four children sitting in the shade of a canopy of dry leaves and cottonwood branches. The women were patiently slipping colored thread across a loom, back and forth, back and forth, one thread above another. Below the hogan a sad-looking band of sheep and goats cropped at the short grass.

The chestnut stallion snorted angrily when he smelled the grass where the sheep had been. He did not like sheep taint. He led the band far from the pasture lands of that Navajo family.

3. Horse Thief

Sam’s claim was not a gold strike or a bonanza. It was a pocket, very definite, and certainly limited in the amount of gravel and black sand which carried much fine and some coarse gold. Sam knew its extent and its possibilities. He had kept its location a careful secret. It was not legally staked, for in staking it he would have brought a swarm of gold seekers to the ridge, and he wanted this country to himself. He would take out enough to buy the black mare plus enough to buy supplies for the winter. When he finished there would still be gold left, a sort of bank account to be hoarded against the coming seasons.

For three weeks Sam shoveled and panned. At last he had enough yellow dust in his buck-hide pouch. He carefully buried his shovel, pick, and pan under a pile of rocks, covered his workings, and faced down the ridge.

As he trudged slowly through the fields of columbine and mountain lupine, he smiled softly to himself. The major would be completely flabbergasted. Sam laughed aloud, startling a cocky jay. The gaily dressed fellow fluffed his feathers and his purple crest bristled. He burst into a volley of angry chattering as he hopped about in a young balsam tree.

“Got a right to ha-ha,” Sam said aloud. “The ol’ glory hole come through with five hunnert an’ some extra fer grub. Left me a bit fer seed, too.” He continued to chuckle as he tramped along.

He trudged on until he could see his mesa through the red trunks of the spruce. Breaking out at the edge of the meadow he halted and stood looking over the familiar scene. Every detail was so familiar to him that he seemed to be entering a room where he had lived a long time. The old yellowbelly whistler sounded a blasting warning and plunged from his high perch. Ground squirrels romped to their dens. On the semibarren little hill the dogs began scolding, “squit-tuck! squit-tuck!” Sam grinned.

“Yuh ol’ fool, don’t yuh go makin’ me out no enemy,” he said aloud.

His eyes moved eagerly up and down the meadow, then he whistled a few high notes. There was no answering pound of hoofs. The black mare must be at the far end of the mesa.

“Must be off cattin’ around,” he mumbled as he shuffled to his cabin door.

Before Sam entered the cabin the old whistler discovered his mistake. He sounded an all-clear whistle and the meadow came to life. Sam dropped down on his old chair to watch the busy scene. After a time he got to his feet and pulled the latch thong. The door swung inward protestingly. Everything was as he had left it, except that a wandering cowboy had stopped and made himself a pot of tea and fried a snack of bacon. Sam knew, because the skillet was carefully washed and polished and the cracked teapot was washed and turned upside down on the table.

Sam shuffled about the cabin peering at the familiar things within its walls. He finally built a fire. He was hungry for oven biscuits and stove-cooked coffee.

He was poking the pine-knot fire to high heat when a voice from the open door made him turn. His faded eyes lighted up eagerly as he saw Major Howard standing there. The major had a grim set to his eyes and his mustache bristled angrily.

“Come on out, Sam,” he said gruffly.

“Howdy, major,” Sam said. He began to chuckle. Might as well spring the big surprise right away. Then he saw that there were two men with the major, men wearing nickel-plated stars on the flaps of their wool shirts. He blinked his eyes.

“Howdy, sheriff,” he said. He barely knew Sheriff Miller, had met him only a couple of times.

“Now, Sam,” the major broke in harshly, “come clean. What did you do with that Lady Ebony horse?”

“Me?” Sam stared at the major.

“Yes!” the major snapped. “You took an awful fancy to that filly, wanted to buy her. You’ve been away a long spell. I brought the sheriff up here, so you better talk and talk fast.” The major’s face was beginning to redden as his anger rose.

Sam looked from one man to the other, slowly, his gaze searching their faces. Yes, they were in earnest. A horse thief? Bony fingers pulled at his straggling beard. This wasn’t the way men did, it wasn’t square shooting. He did not pause to consider that Major Howard was not a born western mountainman. He stared defiantly.

“So yuh came up here to make me out a hoss thief?”

The sheriff stepped forward and spoke gruffly to the major. “I’m not here, Howard, to help you badger this old coot. You swore out a warrant for his arrest. I’m here to serve it.” He turned to Sam. “Get whatever you want to take along. This warrant calls for your arrest—charge is stealing one black mare.”

Sam blinked and his eyes shifted to the sheriff’s face. In all his life the law had never laid a hand on him. He had had some experiences of his own with horse thieves. When he caught a man with the goods he handled the affair himself. And claim jumpers were met and dealt with according to a man’s rights. He rubbed his bony fingers together. He could explain, he could even take the sheriff to his hidden claim, he could produce the pouch of dust. But it wasn’t the right of any man to ask where he had been or what he had been doing. Besides, the claim wasn’t staked and if fools who didn’t know pockets and glory holes saw that ground there’d be a rush and the whole ridge would be turned upside down. His eyes glinted brightly as he turned toward his door.

He backed past the table and one hand lifted to the belt hanging from its willow peg. His gnarled fingers closed around the familiar butt of his forty-five Colt. The gun slid down and snuggled against his hip. Then he shuffled toward the door.

“Get! Get—afore I blast yuh!” he whispered hoarsely as he stepped into the sunshine.

The deputy saw the gun first. He came to life with a jerk and his hand shot down to his own gun. Sam shot from the hip. His aim wasn’t steady; the black muzzle wavered a little because Sam’s old eyes couldn’t see clearly. Black-powder smoke billowed in a blue-white cloud, filling the doorway. Through the smoke Sam saw the deputy double over, then pitch forward. He was swinging his gun around to bring it down on the major when the sheriff’s boot shot upward and sent it spinning from his hand. The officer’s voice out through the smoke.

“Now you got something to answer for, you old coot!”

He stepped forward and a heavy hand dropped upon Sam’s shoulder. He was jerked forward and in less than a minute his wrists were handcuffed together. He stood silently watching the sheriff and the major plug the deputy’s wound. The man was weak and sick, but he was alive.

The major straightened and glared at Sam. He had never intended to have the old fellow jailed, he merely wanted to scare him into revealing what he had done with the black mare. Sam’s reaction irritated and puzzled him. Now the old fool could take whatever the law handed him; the major made up his mind to that.

Sheriff Miller had a different slant on the affair. He was a mountainman himself. All his life he had dealt with cowhands and miners. He recognized that Sam was acting as most of them would act under the same conditions. He blamed himself because he had thought Sam too old to have any fire left.

“I’m not too proud of this job,” he said sourly to the major.

“You’d better do your duty,” the major snapped.

The sheriff nodded his head. He turned to Sam.

“Now get what you want. We’re going. I’ll go into the cabin with you just to make sure you don’t try anything else.”

“I don’t reckon I need anything,” Sam answered.

4. Desert Winter

Life for the wild horses in the desert was a never-ending battle for food, for protection, and for the chance to slip through the gray dawn to a water hole where eager muzzles could be thrust into murky, yellow water. The chestnut stallion was a hard but wise leader. He knew that man controlled the best of the grazing lands, that mounted riders patrolled the foothills and the deep valleys back against the mountains. He had only savage disdain for the geldings and mares who submitted to man’s saddle and steel bit. No patriot ever cherished his freedom more than the chestnut stallion.

In the desert there were Indian hunters to be watched for. The Navajo people were not like the whites in their way of life. They were wandering nomads, following their herds, never making a home in any permanent spot. In summer they built branch-covered shelters. In the winter they crowded into log and mud hogans. They were children of the wild, untamed desert, as cunning as the gray lobo. The Navajo had strange customs. Among them the women owned the sheep, the goats, the hogan and the children. The men owned the horses, and the hunting weapons, along with the turquoise jewelry they wore. Horses to a Navajo were the same as gold to a white man, they were his measure of wealth and standing. So the Navajo men stalked the wild bands, capturing colts and mares to add to their wealth.

The Navajos knew every water hole in the desert. Like the tawny cougar and the savage lobo, they knew the wild bands must drink, that sooner or later they must slip down to the water hole. So they stalked them near the water holes and swarmed after them, riding in relays, keeping the band moving, keeping them from drinking or resting.

The chestnut stud considered all these things in his own way and met the problems with sharp wits, keen eyes, and keener sense of smell, keeping a constant, alert watch for enemies. He kept his band in the broken country where mesas dropped away in sheer, steep slopes to the depths of the sand washes. From the top of such a mesa the band could easily thunder down into a canyon at a moment’s warning.

Lady Ebony accepted the hard life. She liked the sudden, wild charges, the long runs under the white stars, the savage freedom which was so costly. When the chestnut stallion sounded the alarm she always led the rushing charge, flying ahead of the reaching, pounding hoofs of the mares and colts, slowing her speed to allow them to overtake her. The band foraged for grass at dawn or in the first grayness of dusk, coming out of a canyon to spread over the mesatop. Then as she pulled the scant grass she remembered the high mountain mesa where the grass grew knee-deep and cold, crystal streams rushed over gleaming rocks. She remembered the red and the yellow and the purple flowers, the solid masses of blue lupine, the flaming orange of acres of daisies.

This silent, terrible land was in such sharp contrast to the mountain country that the chestnut’s desire for it seemed foolish to her. Fear of man grew but slowly within her. Man had always been her friend and protector. Sam with his lumps of sugar and his petting, Tex riding up in the fall with the rest of the major’s boys to take her down to the winter pastures. The savage anger of the big stallion when he smelled man scent, the mad charge down the rocky slopes, these were confusing to her, but she accepted them and began to snort and shake her head when the scent came to her.

The desert was a mass of broken mesas, eroded hills, and deep-gutted canyons. There were many rivers, but no water. The eyes of the band could see far, but the scene was the same always. And yet this vast world was filled with a silence that was calm and restful. The desert was a canvas of shifting, changing color. Under the white-hot glare of the day the reds and yellows flamed. At dawn and at sunset it was purple and mauve and steel blue. And always to the north stood the shining mountains, etched blue against the sky, with the white snow line gleaming like a crown above the deep blue of the forests. Lady Ebony often stood and stared through the haze at the ragged outline of the Crazy Kill Range.

Summer slipped past, and fall rains woke the short grass to life, a brief and hurried growth before the cold and the snow came. The wild ones cropped avidly, pulling the tender shoots from their crowns, tasting them eagerly before swallowing them. The chestnut stallion kept the band moving south, down off the higher benches to the deeper canyons where blizzards would not rage so fiercely.

Indian summer slipped away and the purple mists lifted from the cathedral rocks and the spires of the ship rocks. The air cleared and the mornings were cold, with white frost covering the ground. The colts frisked and bucked and raced in little circles until the sun warmed their shaggy coats. Even the mares became spirited when the white frost was on them. Lady Ebony slipped into the slower, less wild way of the mares. She did not run except when the band took alarm, but she still ran at the head of the thundering herd.

One day a wind came down out of the north. It carried fine snowflakes which swirled along the ground and curled upward on the lee side of rocks. Toward night the storm thickened until it became a driving blizzard riding a shrieking wind. The horses turned their tails to the lash of the storm and drifted slowly south, led by one of the old mares. That night they bunched close together in a deep canyon. They crowded under a projecting lip of sandstone where the wind and the snow did not strike them. Fine white particles sifted down, covering their shaggy coats and making them look like white horses as they stood with their heads down waiting for the blizzard to blow itself out.

The shelter they had found had been formed centuries before by the action of wind and water on the layers of rock forming the crust of the desert. The upper layer was hard and did not weather away as fast as the lower layers. Thus a great, projecting roof was formed with a ceiling that sloped back under the cliff. A thousand years earlier, brown men had passed that way. They had halted in the bed of the canyon and looked up at the great cave. They had held a council and decided to build a city under the rim.

Those brown cliff dwellers had built houses of hewn stone, room upon room, like apartments. Their masonry still stood, back under the rim. The ceremonial kivas built under the ground in circular form with laced log roofs had caved in but the tiers of houses stood against the cliff, their open windows staring into the canyon. The brown men had vanished, down into the canyon, south toward the plains, and west toward the great ocean, but their homes remained.

The wild horses saw the houses piled story upon story, the staring windows and the heaps of broken pottery decorated with strange designs. They were not afraid of the dead houses because the man smell had long since vanished, carried away by the wind and the heat, toward the south and the west.

At night an old lobo wolf halted his bachelor pack on a high rim above the ancient city. The wind lashed and tore at the gray bodies as though trying to tear them from the rocky cliff. The old lobo bared his fangs and lifted his muzzle. He sounded a savage paean of howls and high, dismal calls and his sons joined in the chorus. Their howls rang down the wind curling along the face of the cliff to where the wild horses stood. The mares jerked up their heads, and the big chestnut snorted savagely. But the howls of the pack had none of the savage cry of the kill. The gray ones were defying the storm, daring it to sweep them from their lofty crag. They were answering an age-old urge to challenge the elements, to dare them to do their worst. After a while the old lobo led his sons in a wild chase down the ridge. They leaped along, riding the fierce wind, snapping and snarling eagerly.

For two days the wild band remained under the rim; then the blizzard broke and the sun struggled through the gray clouds to shine feebly into the canyon. The mares moved out and began pawing among the tumbled rocks, digging for grass. They scooped the new snow and swallowed it to wet their throats. Above them, against the turquoise sky, a pair of buzzards wheeled and circled, their round, hard eyes peering down hungrily, watching the horses, eager to see if any showed signs of weakness. The undertakers of the air would follow the band daily, hoping the cold and the scant feed would bring death to some of the band.

The chestnut stallion met the rigors of winter with the same disdain he held for hunters. The colts were watched more closely because the snow and the cold had driven the natural food of the cougar and the wolves to cover. Many of the little dwellers were curled up in deep, warm burrows sleeping. Most of the birds had flown south. But the big killers did not sleep. Winter was a time when hunger and famine stalked their world, when they ran for days with lean, gaunt bellies driving them on. The hunger which cramped their stomachs made them savage and daring, it sharpened their cunning, and made their raids more deadly.

One evening a hungry colt strayed from the band, seeking a spot where the snow was not so deep. His mother was busy pawing through a drift where she had located a clump of bushes with tender twigs in abundance. The colt wandered up to a stand of juniper which stood sprawled against the snow. He dug down experimentally, found no curly buffalo grass and moved on, farther up the slope, closer to the green trees.

He was pawing into a drift when he heard a savage snarling. He jerked up his head and snorted, his round eyes staring with fright. Out of the juniper woods leaped four gray wolves. Their broad chests rose above the snow, spraying it aside in fine spurts. Their red tongues rolled between their bared fangs. The pack was lean and gaunt, but they did not sound the cry of the kill, they ran silently, emitting low snarls.

The colt whirled and floundered toward the mares. The chestnut stallion was the first to see the wolves. With a squeal of rage he charged toward them. The colt plunged along but he had wandered far from the band. Behind him the killers rapidly closed in. Their white fangs slashed the muscles and tendons of his straining legs, hamstringing him. He went down plunging and kicking, and the gray killers leaped upon him ripping and tearing.

At the sound of the chestnut’s shrill warning the mares jerked up their heads and charged to the rescue of the struggling colt. Lady Ebony leaped ahead close beside the big stallion. For a moment the wolves stood their ground, then they faded back, snarling and howling, to circle around the band. The mares milled and stamped around the colt while his mother nosed him and whinnied eagerly. He kicked a little, then lay still.

In the sky above the buzzards shortened their circles and dropped. Their long wait had been rewarded. The mares kept a close guard around the carcass of the colt for a long time. The wolves sat on the snow and stared out of flaming yellow eyes, waiting with slaver-flecked jaws, sure they would feast in due time. They looked up at the buzzards now sweeping low above the snow and growled defiantly.

The frantic mother kept nosing her colt, trying to get him to his feet so that she could lead him away from the blood smell and the wolf taint. The chestnut charged the wolves many times. They leaped away before his lashing hoofs, darting behind him, jumping at his legs and heels. And the buzzards settled down on the snow to wait.

The mares guarded the dead colt for over an hour, then they moved away leaving the mother alone. She remained standing over the twisted carcass, whinnying nervously. Then the killers leaped in and circled around her, darting toward her, two behind and two in front. She lashed at them, pivoted, kicked wildly, her pounding hoofs striking nothing. The chestnut stallion came to her rescue and drove the wolves away, then he drove her down the slope to where the band was feeding. She went slowly, halting to stand with her head up and nicker softly. The wolves leaped on the carcass and began devouring it while the buzzards walked over the snow, halting with their necks stretched out, their hard eyes glittering. They must wait for their share, which would be the gnawed bones.

And so the battle against the snow and the cold went on through the long winter. Another colt was lost to the gray killers, and an old mare went lame. She dropped behind in spite of the savage nipping and crowding of the big stallion. That night she bedded down alone in a little canyon and a gaunt cougar came upon her in the gray dawn. Her end came swiftly, without a struggle.

Then spring came with rushing torrents, slush in the arroyos, and slick, yellow mud on the hillsides. Streams boiled out of the dry canyons thick with raw clay and sand. This was the season when nature carved deeply into the face of the desert. Only the sand washes and the dunes on the flats resisted the water. The sand ate it up and packed hard so that it did not cling and drag when the band galloped over it.

With the speed of a miracle the desert bloomed. The sage flats flared white with the blossoms of the primrose and the mariposa lily. Countless other stunted plants put forth flowers, eager to create and ripen seed before the heat and drought of summer came. And the grass shot out of the ground, rich and sweet. The band cropped and moved on, ever searching for taller grass.

The mares were lean and gaunt, their ribs pushing ridges up under their shedding coats. The chestnut stallion was lean, too, but in a hard-muscled way. Lady Ebony had lost much of her fire and love for frolic. The sun was warm and the air soft but she needed rest. She looked away toward the white slopes of the Crazy Kill Range. Spring would not reach the high mesa for another month, but she was restless. She would have headed away into the foothills but the big stallion kept close watch over his band.

One day a horseman rode out on a rim. He sat on his bony horse and looked down on the wild band feeding on a bench. For a long time he sat there looking intently before he rode away. Yellow Man smiled as he galloped toward his hogan. There were many good colts in the band and one black mare. The black mare was a horse such as he had never seen before, the sort of mount he had always dreamed about. He would tell the other men about the band, but the black mare was to be his because he had been the first to see her.

He rode to his hogan and picketed his pony. Walking to the glowing fire which flickered inside the door he stooped and held out his hands. Four men sat along one wall while a half dozen brown-faced women sat on the other side. On the men’s side of the hogan lay riding things, bridles and blankets, a saddle. On the women’s side were the cooking pots and the blankets. Yellow Man sat down. For a long time he said nothing. His black eyes were on the fire.

Finally Yellow Man lifted his eyes to the face of an old man beside him.

“I have seen many good horses,” he said.

The old man grunted softly while the others bent forward.

“There is a black mare who will have a colt this spring,” Yellow Man said.

They all nodded. The black mare was to belong to Yellow Man, that was understood. Now they waited for him to go on.

“Tomorrow we will run the band. There will be horses for all. The big one who leads may have to be shot. I will take the rifle. The big one is strong and will fight.” Yellow Man’s eyes returned to the fire.

The others nodded and began eagerly planning the drive. Through the long winter they had kept busy with sings and chants, meeting with other families in religious dances and ceremonies. This would be the first hunt of the season.

To the north, behind the high gray walls of the state prison Sam knew when spring came. Through a high, barred window he could see a square of sunlight on the stone wall. Across the upper corner of the square drooped the branches of a cottonwood tree. Sam watched the buds swell and burst into pale-green leaves.

The warden and the guards shook their heads when they walked past his cell. Eight years. The old fellow would be lucky to finish two of them. He refused to work outside, he hated even to exercise in the closed-in yard. He wanted to be left alone, to sit and stare out the little window. But Sam did not share their belief that he would never leave the gray walls. He was sure he would return to the high mesa. He wasn’t going to die cooped up in a gloomy cell; when he died it would be out in the open with his boots on, under a mountain sky.

He did not brood over his trial. His attorney had been irritated to the point of anger when Sam refused to tell where he had been and what he was doing during the three weeks of absence from his cabin. That was his business; he’d need his cache when he got out. Nobody was going to find out about it. His stubbornness had convinced the jury of his guilt. Sam had paid the attorney well though the judge had offered to let the state pay the fee. He didn’t think much about those things, he just sat and stared at the cottonwood branch.

Tex, Major Howard’s foreman, had talked to him. Tex understood better than any of the others, but Sam wasn’t trusting anybody. He had learned from years of battling for gold that the yellow metal was poison to friendship and trust. Tex was a right fine feller, but there was no call to push him too far.

5. Wild Horse Drive

The snow had vanished and the desert was dry and thirsty again. Dust spurted up around the hoofs of the wild horses as they loped down a long ridge. The east was beginning to show a pale flush of red and day came quickly to the barren country, lighting the tall spires and castle rocks and the sharp points of the pinnacles, making the monument valley below appear alive.

The chestnut stallion swung along behind the mares. At their head ran an old roan. She was trailwise and wary. Her nose was leading her unerringly to a big water hole at the base of a cliff. The others pounded along behind her with the colts frisking beside their mothers. The chestnut halted every little while to whirl and sniff the morning air. He held his head high and his protruding eyes rolled as he stared back over the broken country they had left behind.

The roan trotted off the ridge and down through a jumble of rocks to the base of a cliff. The horses nickered softly as they smelled water. The roan’s muzzle was a scant foot from the yellow surface of the pool when wild yells shattered the morning calm. The band whirled and stood with heads up, staring toward a rocky slope. Above them the big chestnut screamed a warning and an order to charge away.

Down the slope toward the water hole galloped four riders. Their naked bodies gleamed copper-red in the new sunlight as they bent low over the necks of their lean ponies. With squeals of fright the band whirled and charged down the canyon. A cloud of yellow dust billowed at their heels. The chestnut stallion crashed down on their flanks with bared teeth and pounding hoofs. When a mare lagged he drove her squealing into the band. The mad charge carried the wild horses away from the four pursuing Navajos, but the trailers did not give up the chase.

Back of the dust cloud Yellow Man rode beside his three sons. Their faces were expressionless; only their black eyes showed the eager excitement that filled them. They did not try to make their gaunt ponies overtake the thundering band but were content to keep a steady pace. The trail left by the wild horses was broad and easy to follow.

Lady Ebony ran ahead of the band, keeping well out in front without effort. She was not badly frightened and the wild panic of the other horses had not gripped her. But she raced along just the same, enjoying the surging flight which gave full play to her powerful muscles. The big chestnut charged in and turned the band up the ridge. As they swept over the top of the rocky hill they saw the Indians galloping along the canyon bed below.

Yellow Man shifted his seat on the bare back of his pinto. His black eyes were following the flight of the black mare, and there was a fierce eagerness in them. The chestnut leader was doing just what he wanted him to do. The big fellow was swinging his band into a wide circle, a curve which would carry them back into the country they had just left.

The band thundered down off the ridge and headed up a sand wash. The drag of the sand and the uphill going slowed them but they kept pounding along, the stallion saw to that. He stayed behind and used his teeth savagely on the rumps of the laggards.

Yellow Man and his sons galloped up the ridge and dropped into the sand wash. A thin smile parted the lips of the tall hunter as he noticed how fagged his horse was. They were chasing no ordinary wild scrub ponies. The chestnut stallion had trained his band well and kept them in fine condition. They had run the legs right out from under the Navajo ponies. He urged his pinto up the sand wash as fast as the little beast could travel.

The chestnut saw the riders coming and noticed that they were working their way to the side as though aiming to come up alongside. He suspected a trick though he was disdainful of the slow-running ponies coming up from below. He changed his course a little to the north. Now the pursuers would have to travel much farther than his band to overtake them. The Navajo riders swung north too, and kept following close to the dust cloud.

The chase thus took a circular course with the chestnut keeping the mares moving as fast as the colts could follow. But now the horses’ sides were heaving, sweat was streaking their flanks and caking in lather-matted ridges above the hair. The big stallion snorted triumphantly as they topped a ridge. They had run away from their pursuers. The Indians were plodding along far behind. He allowed the mares to slow their pace to a lope while he galloped to right and then to left, looking down into washes and canyons for a hiding place.

Suddenly the mares heard yells from their right. They saw five red-bronze riders charging down on them from a cover of junipers. Mounted on fresh horses, these braves came swiftly from their ambush. The chestnut stallion rushed on his band and sent them racing down into a canyon. The retreat led over a ledge and down a rocky hill. The slope was steep and covered with loose stones, but the sure-footed horses took the broken ground at a mad rush. One of the mares slipped and went down, rolling over and over, until she was stopped by a big boulder. She struggled to her feet and staggered around the hill. Her colt bounded after her nickering wildly.

The charge of the hunters carried them close on the heels of the flying band. When the mare went down, two of the hunters swerved and followed her. The chestnut let her go and gave his attention to speeding the rest of the band. In a few seconds the speed of the wild horses carried them ahead of the Navajos’ lean ponies. But the three hunters following the mares kept yelling and galloping.

The two hunters who had swerved to follow the crippled mare and her colt soon overtook them. They paid no attention to the mare but charged down on the colt. One of them swung a rope. The loop sailed out and dropped over the straining neck of the little fellow. The colt fought and kicked, but the Navajo boy knew how to handle a fighter. He kept his rope tight, almost to the choking point, and let the little horse wear himself out. In a short time he had mastered the colt and was heading toward camp with him. His companion galloped away to overtake the band.

The chestnut stallion could not understand the attack of the Navajos. They did not start shooting when they got in close and they did not try to rope any of the mares. They just kept riding on the heels of his fast-tiring band, yelling and waving their arms. They were not like the wolf or the cougar, they did not strike when they got close, but they never left the heels of the herd. The big stallion shifted his course and again they began moving in a wide circle.

This time the chestnut widened the circle, cutting back into the steep hill country, turning up crooked washes, crossing ridges, and doubling back occasionally. The Navajos stayed on the trail, keeping as close to the band as they could, cutting across when they sighted the mares doubling on their course. And now they were hanging close on the heels of the wild ones. Twice the chestnut stallion whirled and faced the hunters as though about to challenge them to a fight. The braves slid their hands down to where their guns hung about their naked waists. They did not wish to kill the big stallion unless he charged their ponies, nor did they care to try taming him. They wanted the black mare and the colts.

The chestnut did not charge his tormentors. Fear of man and man’s far-killing gun sent him back to biting and shoving the mares into faster flight. He could not use the tactics which always succeeded against the wolf or the bear.

Topping another ridge, he headed his band into a deep canyon. He knew they were almost winded from running uphill. The steep slope would help them to recover. One of the Navajos shouted:

“He is doubling back! Head him!”

The Indians sent their ponies charging recklessly down the dangerous slope, leaping over boulders and water-gutted ditches. But the band would not be headed. Going downhill had eased them and given them new life. They plunged along with sides heaving and nostrils flaring. Lady Ebony led them, keeping her pace down to their speed.

One of the hunters headed his pony up out of the canyon. He halted on a jutting rock and sat looking down over the desert. His black eyes watched the fine spirals of yellow dust rising from the canyon and he nodded his head. The scattered groups of hunters would be able to locate the new direction the band had taken.

The sharp eyes of three hunters hiding in a juniper grove on the rim of the canyon saw the spirals of dust rising from the dry watercourse above. They slipped across and waited.

The chestnut began to breathe easier. Once again the band had outdistanced their pursuers and no raiders could be seen. But he was nervous and determined to keep the mares moving until they were deep in the rough, canyon-slotted country to the south. The weary horses slowed their pace to a trot. They were suffering for water and their hard muscles were crying for rest. They were used to sudden, wild charges when they would race at top speed for a while, but they were not used to a steady grind, hour after hour.

Several of the mares began weaving away from the herd, sniffing for water, looking for a spot where they could halt and rest. Suddenly the yells they had come to dread broke the silence and echoed along the canyon walls. Three riders came charging toward them from below. The chestnut screamed a warning. For a moment he hesitated. There was an enemy pack behind them, and now one faced them. With a snort and a toss of his head he sent the band up the far slope out of the canyon. The hunters raced whooping and yelling after the mares.

Escape from the canyon did not bring freedom from the worrying red riders. The desert seemed full of them. After every run, when the big stallion thought he had slipped away from his pursuers, a new and fresh band would charge from cover on the jaded mares. In desperation the big horse headed down a deep canyon. The mares could not travel uphill any more. They could not move fast but the hunters did not seem anxious to close in and strike. They kept on the heels of the wild ones. Now there were a dozen of them and they kept up a savage yelling as they stayed close to the band.

Up ahead Lady Ebony began to tire. She was not driven by frantic fear and she was eager to stop and rest. At first she had enjoyed the flight, but now she was thirsty and her sides were heaving. She galloped ahead, leaving the band behind. As she raced along she saw a side canyon. Its floor was solid rock, worn smooth by wind and water. She slipped into the narrow opening and halted behind a shoulder of rock. She lowered her head and stood blowing hard. She had left no tracks on the rocky floor.

The wild horses galloped past the mouth of the side canyon. A great cloud of dust rolled up after them. Lady Ebony heard the Navajos go whooping past. She stood listening until the pounding of hoofs and the yelling died away. Shaking her head, she trotted up the narrow canyon. She craved water and she wanted to be alone, to lie down and rest. She headed north because to the north lay the tall-grass meadows with clear streams bubbling across them. She moved along steadily, keeping to the bottom of the canyon where she was hidden from sight of any black-eyed hunter who might be sitting on a rim high above.

A black rain cloud billowed up above the rims to the north. It rolled down across the desert on the wings of a driving wind which raised clouds of dust and sand. At dusk it swept over the canyon where Lady Ebony was marching along steadily north. It drenched her and gave her needed drinking water, then it moved on down to where the chestnut was making his last stand.

In the canyon the big stallion had settled down to the grim job of lashing his mares into movement. They were not able to go fast but he kept them pounding along, just ahead of the yelling hunters. Their gaunt bellies were drawn and their dry nostrils flared red inside their dust-caked rims. The Navajos were shouting to one another, their spirits high. They were sure of their catch now and eager to close in as soon as the mares quit.

Then the dusk of evening came and with it the downpour of rain. Nowhere in the world outside the tropics can so much water fall in so short a time as in the desert. The storm was bad luck for the hunters, but it spelled escape for the wild horses. It blotted out everything, bringing sudden, inky night. Its rushing, swirling waters wiped out the tracks of the horses. The chestnut stallion played wise. He took a side canyon, forcing his charges out on a rocky ridge. From that canyon they crossed another ridge and turned north. The big stallion was headed out of the desert.

The hunters spread out and worked up and down the canyon but the darkness and rain defeated them. They finally gave up and turned their ponies toward their camp.

All that night Lady Ebony kept moving. The storm passed and the moon came out with stars beyond it, stars that hung low over the barren country, brilliant with red and blue lights winking outside white centers.

A pair of gray wolves flashed past like shadows. They leaped along, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. One was a big, broad-chested fellow with a wide muzzle and frost-cropped ears. The other was a slim gray one with slender legs and body. They paid no attention to Lady Ebony. They were not hunting, they were running, answering the call of spring, heading for a trysting place on a barren ridge.

Lady Ebony heard them holding their spring concert on a high knoll. They howled and snarled and yelped. There was much yearning, much that sounded like deep laughter in their song, and there was tenderness in the notes of the slim gray one. In their mating time they had lost the savagery of winter. There was no specter of famine in the springtime, no blasting blizzards, no deep snow. There was food and there was an urge to find a snug den.

Something of the feelings expressed by the gray wolves filled Lady Ebony. Just before dawn she halted and began feeding. She fed on through the morning. She saw no other horses and heard no savage yells. At midday she lay down and rested until late afternoon.

When she moved on she headed north, toward the snowy ramparts of the Crazy Kill Range, and she went at a long, ground-devouring lope. That night she halted at a spring in the lower foothills. Berrybushes and willow grew around the spring and there was tall grass. Lady Ebony pulled the juicy grass contentedly. She was glad to be away from the teeth and smashing hoofs of the chestnut stallion. She did not miss the herd at all.

The spring was so much of a change after the parched desert that she bedded down close beside it and rested until morning. With the gray dawn she was up and feeding on the lush grass. For several hours she fed, then she drank deeply and faced northward. Again she set her pace at a fast lope.

6. Midnight

Lady Ebony held her course until late afternoon. She was high in the red foothills when she halted. A little stream bubbled over red rocks, willow grew along the banks, and the grass was green. On each side of the water red rocks rose high against the sky. Along the base of the cliffs lay great slabs and piles of stone, broken loose from the walls by wind and rain, piled in confusion over the floor of the wild gorge. Lady Ebony moved among the tumbled rocks. A bobcat bounded from a thicket of rose brier where he had been hunting cottontails. Lady Ebony snorted and shook her head.

She kept moving slowly along the stream until she came to a grove of cottonwoods. Close beside the grove grew a dense thicket of tangled brush. Lady Ebony dropped her head and began pulling the tender gamma grass. She did not look up at the Crazy Kill Range again. After she had eaten her fill she drank at the stream and lay down.

Sunset flamed across the sky and died into cool shadows. The red bluffs changed from deep purple to slate gray. By almost unnoticeable degrees the moon brightened and flooded the valley and the cliffs changed color to match the white light. Now they were silvery with bands and squares of black shadows across them. And the stars hung, big and white, close to the ragged tops of the rims.

In this garden of red rocks close beside the little stream a colt was born. The morning sun beating down on the floor of the gorge shone on a wobbly little horse crowding close to Lady Ebony’s side.

The black colt jerked his curly tail and butted his head against his mother’s side as he got his first breakfast. His legs were long and heavy-boned. They were wobbly legs but they showed promise of great strength. His head was finely molded like his mother’s, and his sleek coat was all black, except for a white star in his forehead. That white star and the heavy-boned frame were his inheritance from his father, the chestnut stallion.

Lady Ebony was proud and excited over her handsome jet-black colt—so black that he could well be called Midnight. She kept turning her head, nosing his silky rump, and nickering softly. She was suddenly aware of many things she had scarcely noticed before. She heard a rustling in the thicket and sniffed the warm air nervously. A faint odor of cat came to her and she snorted angrily. A few minutes later a big bobcat stepped out of the thicket and stood looking at her. Lady Ebony shook her head and stamped her feet. The bobcat opened his mouth wide, exposing rows of white teeth and a red tongue. He closed his mouth and his yellow eyes stared at the mare and her colt. Then he humped his sleek back and trotted through the sunshine across the meadow to where his mate was waiting for him.

In one of the big cottonwoods a flicker hammered away at the trunk of the tree. Even this steady rat-a-tat bothered Lady Ebony. And when the flicker’s mate sailed down from the sky and alighted on an anthill she snorted again. The flicker up in the tree deserted his morning task and came down to join his wife in an ant hunt. They danced and cavorted on the anthill, picking up the busy little workers as they swarmed out to repel the invasion.

A yellowbelly whistler came down out of the rocks and set to feeding, sliding along the ground, sitting up to stare intently across the meadow, chuckling to himself as he munched the roots he dug up. He was joined by a pair of cottontail rabbits who stayed close to cover as they fed.

Midnight finished his breakfast and began walking around on his wobbly legs, investigating everything he came to with an inquisitive, pink nose. Lady Ebony followed him nickering nervously. The little fellow halted beside a clump of rattleweed. His ears pricked forward and he listened. From the deep shade under the green leaves came a warning rattle. The buzzing sound was repeated as Midnight’s nose drew closer. Lady Ebony sprang forward and stamped upon the patch of weeds as she shouldered her son away from the danger spot. The colt had met his first enemy, a big rattler.

Lady Ebony showed by her actions that she considered Midnight an important little horse. She followed his wobbling course down the stream, then back again. After that he tried to run but his legs doubled under him and his body failed to do what he wanted of it. Finally he trotted out into the warm sun and lay down. In a few minutes he was sound asleep.

Lady Ebony stood over him for a long time with her head down. Finally she set to cropping grass near where he slept. She knew that she must be constantly alert, ready to repel attack from killers that had never bothered her before. The morning serenade of a pair of coyotes above the rock garden made her nervous. Their mad chorus of yelping laughter and high, mournful notes caused her to move close to Midnight and stand there with head erect. The song dogs of the dawn finished their chorus and raced away across the meadow above.

A great bald eagle wheeled above the tops of the red cliffs, his round, glassy eyes staring down on the meadow, his wings beating the air with powerful strokes. He saw the mare and her colt and his powerful beak clicked several times. His pinions stiffened and were held as rigid as the wings of a pursuit plane as he banked sharply and spiraled downward. He saw the black colt get to his feet and wander away from his mother. With a piercing scream he shortened his circles. His cry was answered from the deep blue above and a second eagle came plummeting down on folded wings, her body roaring through the thin air as she dived. She flattened her terrific plunge just above the red rock garden and circled with her mate.

Lady Ebony jerked up her head and trotted to her son. She tried to stand over him but he did not wish to be bothered at the moment. He had discovered his own shadow and was making a great show of challenging the flat, black thing following him on the ground. He tossed his head and laid back his ears, his furry rump bumping up and down a little as he threatened to kick at his mother.

The eagles soared and dived over the mare and her colt. The kings of the air were savage killers without fear of any ground dweller. They had struck down fawns and lambs and they knew they could smash the wobbly colt if his mother left an opening. Midnight became more irritated at his mother’s close guard. He tried to lash out at her with his hind feet. Lady Ebony let him trot away from her. He halted and snorted at his shadow.

The king of the air saw his opening and dived. His wings were folded tight against his sides and he dropped like a bolt of lightning. Close behind him came his mate. The attack was so swift that Lady Ebony could not reach the side of her son in time to shield him. The diving eagle spread his wings a few feet above the back of the colt. His heavy breastbone struck Midnight a smashing blow while his long talons raked deep into the tender back of the little horse. Midnight went down so quickly the she-eagle missed him entirely. The blow which had felled him was the same smashing stroke with which the eagle broke limbs from trees when building a nest. It was his stroke of death, but he had not gauged it as well as he had intended. The breastbone struck Midnight across the hips and not in the middle of the back where it would have broken him down.

With frantic snorts and eager whinnying Lady Ebony nosed her son as he staggered to his feet. He crowded close against her, willing now to be guarded. The eagles rose straight up into the blue for five hundred feet before they leveled off. They circled and looked down, their screams ringing along the cliffs. Midnight stayed close to his mother. His rump was smarting and he felt the need of her strength. After a time the eagles widened their circles and flew away.

Midnight had learned another lesson. When Lady Ebony sounded a warning call he rushed to her side instead of humping his back and dancing up and down. He wanted no more raking talons in his skin. He was beginning to know the price of life in the wild. He was coming to know that the strong live while the weak and the foolish die soon.

But the little horse’s fright passed quickly. He was a true child of the wilderness and fear was a passing shadow. With the circling killers gone from the sky he forgot them and sought dinner. He was much stronger now, his legs had stiffened and he was able to bounce up and down. The blood of his father gave him something Lady Ebony did not have, a vitality and a savageness all babies of the wild must have to survive. Had he been born with the band he would have been able to follow them. He made a short circle among the rocks, then came back to his mother’s side where he thrust his head under her flank and began drinking lustily. Lady Ebony was proud of him, but she was worried too, because there were so many enemies in this wild country. She was a horse trained to depend upon man, his fences and his protecting rifle. Vaguely she knew she should be in a shed during this important time. Midnight shared none of her worries; he was typically a wild horse.

That evening the big bobcat serenaded them from the blue-black depths of the cottonwood grove. No man or beast who has ever heard the terrifying yowling of the cat-of-the-mountain when he is struck by a lonely mood has remained calm and unfrightened. Even the cougar and the wolf move off when he starts serenading. The big cat began his plaint with long “me-ows” till after a few minutes his cry was a series of “row-row-rows,” ending in terrific screeches. The weird screaming echoed along the rock walls of the gorge. It finally tapered off into long-drawn wails filled with hopeless despair as though the big fellow was condemned to a terrible fate and knew his time was near.

Lady Ebony rushed to the side of Midnight and began frantically herding him up the canyon. She did not have to urge the little horse. He struck out wildly, running as fast as he could, looking back in terror, expecting to see a monster leap on him from the woods.

A pair of coyotes trotting up the canyon halted and stood for a moment staring through the moonlight. They whirled and raced back, casting glances over their shoulders as they ran.

After a time the big pussy with the bobtail walked out of the grove and seated himself on a rock. Whatever had been troubling him seemed to have been chased away by his vocal efforts. He yawned and stretched his lithe body leisurely, then looked around with a satisfied smirk. He had the canyon to himself and seemed highly pleased.

He was a male weighing perhaps twenty-five pounds. His ears had black tufts at the ends, his lips were white with whiskers springing from black spots. In this he favored the lynx cat. But his eye rings were white and his reddish-brown body was marked with cloudings suggesting spots while his feet were small like those of a house cat. His tail was not more than seven inches long, a stubby bobbed-off tail, but it jerked nervously as he sat smiling over his kingdom of rock piles and tall grass. He was not hungry and the hunting mood did not fill him. He had feasted well on wood rat and rabbit earlier that evening. He had simply wished to clear all neighbors from his presence. Now that he had done it he sat and smirked on the top of his big rock.

But the big cat did not reckon with one hunter who was not impressed by his terrible song. A big, snowy owl came beating along the canyon wall. His dim shadow floated across the grass toward the rock where the cat was sitting. The owl had not feasted that evening. Fate had been unkind. Every rabbit pasture he had swept over had already been raided by coyotes or cats. The old owl was never choice about his prey. His way was to strike at any living thing that came under his powerful beak and talons. He saw the shadow on the rock move. The animal sitting there was not bigger than many he had killed before. With a scream he dived.

His smashing body struck the surprised cat on the neck and back. Long talons sank deep into the stringy muscles while powerful wings battered the sleek sides, knocking him off his perch and rolling him over. Instantly the sleepy fellow was changed to a hissing, spitting demon. He twisted his body and with claws and teeth lashed back at the ripping beak and beating wings of the owl. The owl drove his fangs deeper and tore at his snarling victim with his hooked beak.

The bobcat’s fangs found the neck of the owl and sank into it with crunching swiftness. Blood spattered and fur and feathers filled the air. The battlers clung to their death holds and exerted all their strength. The bobcat’s raking hind feet ripped feathers out of his assailant and found the stringy flesh beneath them; his fangs sank deeper. Over and over they rolled, the owl flapping and clicking his beak savagely, the cat hissing and snarling and yowling.

Both fighters weakened quickly because their wounds were deep and driven into vital parts. They tumbled into a hollow between two big rocks. There they struggled feebly for a time. Finally they lay still, the crumpled and tangled body of the owl under that of the cat, his big, round eyes staring savagely up at the stars. The bobcat lay with fangs driven into the neck of his antagonist, his yellow eyes closed to slits, his sleek coat marred by tufts of torn hair.

A little wind stirred down the canyon. It passed over the hollow where the dead animals lay, it seemed to spread the news that two deadly hunters had passed out of the red rock garden. The bunnies crept out to the edge of their thicket homes and the wood mice and rats ventured into the tall grass. After the way of the wild they started feeding peacefully.

Lady Ebony and Midnight halted in the middle of a meadow a mile above the spot where the battle had taken place. Midnight, true to his wild instinct, had already forgotten the fear that had sent him charging out of the garden below. He saw a doe and a fawn feeding at the edge of the meadow and started over to make friends with them. Lady Ebony did not forget so quickly. She was nervous and excited all that night and tried to keep her son from walking up to the doe.

Midnight approached the mule deer and her fawn. He nickered softly and humped his back, doing a little dance to show off before them. The doe snorted and shook her head. She was not afraid of a colt but she would take no chances with her baby. She turned about and led the little one back into the brush.

Lady Ebony stayed in the upper meadow. She wanted to give her son time to get his legs under him before moving on. By the third day the colt was able to race around the meadow. He noticed the brightly colored flowers, and made a great show of fear when a rabbit hopped away before one of his charges. He was inquisitive and shoved his pink muzzle close to everything that interested him. That day he met one of the wilderness dwellers who lived in a burrow under a dead stump. Midnight was dancing about pretending to be frightened by a pair of rockchips who sat on a stone scolding and chattering because he had disturbed them. The stranger walked out of a brier thicket and marched down a deer trail.

He was sleek and black except for broad stripes of white running down his back. His tail was a handsome plume of drooping hair, his snout was pointed, and his little eyes stared out on the world like black buttons sewed on his face. This stranger showed little interest in his surroundings. His dull mind held but one thought. Hunting for mice and bugs had been poor in the thicket near his burrow; he was crossing the meadow to another thicket. He had no fear of other animals. He claimed the right of way on every trail and not even a grizzly bear would have contested that right.

Midnight stared at the striped brother, then shook his head and stamped his feet. He expected the big skunk to scamper for cover, then he would chase him. When the striped one paid no attention to him Midnight advanced a little closer. Perhaps this dull-sighted fellow was a little deaf. He danced and stamped his feet some more as he extended his nose toward the skunk. The skunk marched on, ignoring the little horse. Midnight stamped close to the striped fellow; the skunk’s plume lifted with a jerk as dirt and rocks showered over him from the colt’s hoofs. Any other wild creature would have fled from that danger signal. To Midnight this seemed a friendly gesture. He whinnied eagerly and thrust his nose closer to the striped one. The plume jerked twice as the skunk halted in the trail.

Lady Ebony saw the skunk. She whinnied a loud warning. Midnight jerked up his head and looked around. He expected to see an enemy descending from the air or rushing out of the woods. His action saved him considerable pain and surprise. A greenish flare of musk shot by, close under his nose. Reeking fumes rolled around him. Midnight whirled and galloped hastily toward his mother. He dashed past her and thrust his muzzle into the cool water of the stream. Then he ran back to her side and stood staring at the striped brother, who was marching at an unhurried pace down the deer trail. The skunk’s aim had been low but he had taught Midnight another lesson. The striped one was master of all trails and not to be annoyed or disturbed.

The musky smell hung so rank and strong over the meadow that Lady Ebony led her son to the lower end of the field where the breeze carried the smell away from them.

Lady Ebony did not move on up the canyon to the long slopes dropping away from the higher benches of the Crazy Kill Range. There would still be chill nights and deep snowdrifts in the spruce near the peaks. She wandered slowly up the little stream, halting for days at a time in lush meadows where the grass was green and tender. Midnight grew rapidly; his legs became strong and steady. Lady Ebony watched over him constantly, never letting him stray far from her side. When he raced around a meadow she followed him, running at his side, urging him to greater speed.

She remembered the things she had learned on the high mesa. When she made long stops she chose rock-bordered meadows where the yellowbelly whistlers lived. The yellowbellies always had sentries posted in the daytime. At night when the whistlers were deep in their burrows she lay down close beside her son.

An afternoon came when she had need for her vigilance. From a high perch on a red rim a lank cougar sighted the mare and her colt. He was lying on a narrow shelf where the warm sun beat down on his sleek hide as he drowsed. Through slitted eyes he watched Lady Ebony and Midnight feeding below his lofty perch. There was no flesh he prized more highly than young colt. He twitched the black tip of his tail and unsheathed his sharp claws, but he did not move. Slow, sure, and patient methods were those of the yellow killer. Once he had waited on a ledge for four days in order to make a kill, a scrawny colt from a wild band. The colt in the meadow below would be easier prey because there was cover close to the tall grass.

The king cat lay watching until late afternoon. He yawned many times and his red tongue arched between his long fangs as he opened his mouth. As long shadows began to creep out from the canyon walls he yawned again, a stretching yawn, then got slowly to his feet. He tested the wind and looked up and down the wall. Lank, sag-backed, with high shoulders and high, projecting hipbones, he was a killer to be feared even by a grown horse.

The cougar slid down among the big rocks piled at the base of the walls. He moved on great padded feet without sound. Halting beside a rock almost the same color as his tawny robe he stood for a long time staring through the evening light on the pair below. Midnight was having his supper. He was feeding hungrily, butting his mother’s side, twitching his tail. The cougar stood, silent and unmoving, except for the tip of his tail which snapped back and forth nervously. His nine feet of stringy muscle and furry tail blended with the great rock beside him.

He appeared not to be giving much attention to the scene below him. Really he was surveying the ground he had selected as a hunting spot and was missing no detail. He could creep out on the windward side of the mare where a clump of buckbrush grew. From there he would have two mighty leaps to make. He would wait until the colt had moved away from his mother’s side. Perhaps the youngster would wander close to the buckbrush. His black whiskers jerked and his yellow eyes flamed through slitted lids. Softly, silently he skirted the piled-up rocks and slid into the timber to windward of the feeding horses. Like a tawny shadow he passed from one bit of cover to the next, his lank belly close to the ground. He often halted his unhurried descent to stand staring down on his victim.

On reaching the last of the cover he flattened his belly to the ground and crept forward through the tall grass. He kept moving, slowly, noiselessly, until he lay behind the clump of buckbrush. There he lifted his head and stared out through the green leaves.

Midnight had finished his supper and was nosing about a few yards from his mother. Lady Ebony had dropped her head and was pulling grass. She turned slowly toward the open meadow, her back toward the killer. She had no thought of danger at the moment. The big cat listened intently. He wanted to be sure the yellowbelly whistlers had all gone in for the night. His head rested on his forepaws. There was no sound except that made by the horses, but he waited, rigid.

The dusk deepened and the big cat stirred. He raised his head and peered out across the grass. And now his eyes were wide open, yellow pools of savage eagerness contrasting with his relaxed body. Midnight was strutting about, sniffing and snorting, humping his back and shaking his head. Lady Ebony was moving steadily away from the clump of buckbrush. The cat’s belly dropped to the grass, his hind legs drew up under him, his head flattened between his massive forepaws. His yellow eyes had located the exact spot where his first leap would land him, a bare spot where the grass was dead. From there he would hurtle upon the unwary colt. He meant to strike the little horse down with a broken neck so that no matter how well the mare might give battle the colt would lie waiting for him when she moved away.

For a moment the great body of the king killer was tense and still, then he leaped, his body arching upward, his great claws reaching out before him. He landed noiselessly on the patch of dead grass and poised there a split second while he drew his legs under him; then he leaped again, rising high, hurling his body toward the colt.

An odd quirk of energy made Midnight jerk up his head. He began bucking and bouncing. That sudden impulse saved him from the smashing blow the cougar intended to land. The yellow killer landed where Midnight had been standing. His scream of blood lust rang out, but his long fangs and ripping claws missed their target. Midnight squealed in terror as he saw the yellow killer clawing and lashing beside him. He plunged toward his mother, and Lady Ebony leaped to his rescue.

She sprang at the enraged lion with uplifted hoofs lashing and flailing. Mother instinct had completely banished her fear of the yellow killer. The cougar reared back and lashed at her but he did not stand his ground. Before her hoofs could smash down on him he leaped back, spitting and snarling. Lady Ebony did not stop her charge. Her slender legs pumped madly. The cougar was knocked off his feet and sent sprawling in the grass. He rolled over, righted himself, then fled before the pounding hoofs of the infuriated mare. Reaching the cottonwood timber he bounded up a tree and lay licking his bruises and spitting angrily.

Lady Ebony charged back to Midnight and shoved him up across the meadow. The cougar leaped down from the tree. Circling, he followed the pair, limping. Blood stained the weeds and tall grass along his trail.

Lady Ebony headed out of the meadow and up a deer trail. She kept moving, forcing Midnight to stay close to her side. The white starlight dimly outlined rocks and trees. They came to an open meadow but she did not halt. Midnight forgot the fear that had very nearly paralyzed him. He wanted to stop and rest. In the center of the meadow his mother halted and let him drink. As he eagerly fed she kept testing the night air, stamping her feet nervously and looking back down the trail. When Midnight had finished his lunch she moved on toward the high, dim hills looming above the canyon.

The cougar followed the trail of the horses for a while, but his smashed shoulder was giving him much pain, and he finally climbed on a ledge where he stretched his tawny length on a rocky bed and fell to licking the gash. Had he escaped unhurt he would have circled above the mare and her colt until he found a ledge from which he could attack again.

Lady Ebony kept moving throughout the night. The gray dawn found her going steadily upward. Just before noon they entered the oak belt at the base of the Crazy Kill Range. There she found a stream and an open meadow. Midnight insisted upon lying down to rest. No amount of coaxing would rouse him. He lay stretched out in the sun and closed his eyes. Lady Ebony was hungry. She began feeding close to where he slept. By the time he had finished his sleep she was grazing peacefully.

Mother and son spent long, sunny days in the meadow surrounded by oak brush. Lady Ebony seldom thought of the high mountain meadows. She had no desire to go anywhere at all. Midnight was beginning to feel that he was a grown horse. He danced and kicked and raced around. He even tried to make his mother do what he thought she should do. When she calmly ignored him and went on feeding he would lay back his ears and bare his teeth, nipping at her until she humped her back and threatened to lash out at him.

Many enemies passed the meadow and several paused to look at the fat colt and his mother. Two old lobos halted and calmly watched the colt at play. Coyotes trotted through the meadow in pairs or singly. An old bear shambled out of the oak brush and charged after a ground squirrel. He passed close to the frightened mother and her son but paid no attention to them. The killers were finding life easy. The hills abounded with grouse and rabbits as well as every species of squirrel. There were many mule deer, too. Old does watched over playful fawns growing strong and independent. The killers need not face the lashing feet of an infuriated mother horse to kill all they could eat. So they looked and went their way.

Midnight tried to make friends with the does. They were not afraid of him but they were not friendly. They stared at him out of calm eyes when he came near them, and they snorted and trotted at him when he tried to run with their fawns.

One evening Midnight saw a deer feeding at the edge of a clearing. He trotted over to the big-eared one in a friendly manner. But this one was different from the does. He had long, branching antlers and snorted aggressively when he halted and whinnied eagerly. Midnight stood staring at the strange deer with branches on his head. The buck snorted again. His horns were beginning to harden and the velvet was dropping away from their sharp spikes. With the hardening process his shoulders had begun to swell and his temper was becoming uncertain.

Midnight moved a little closer. He humped his back and kicked up his heels. The buck grunted angrily, then snorted. With a shake of his head he lowered his sweeping antlers and trotted toward the colt. Midnight circled and the buck circled. Midnight whirled and raced away. This fellow wanted to play. He’d give him a run around the meadow.

The buck jerked up his head and shook it. He had routed the enemy and was satisfied. He began feeding again, cropping the weeds and shoots, champing steadily. Midnight circled and galloped back to the old buck. This time the big fellow charged. The colt realized that the antlered deer wanted to fight and not play. Kicking his heels high he fled to his mother’s side.

Lady Ebony ran toward the buck and the big fellow bounded into the timber. Midnight felt he had won a great victory. He celebrated by charging around the meadow at a terrific pace. Lady Ebony watched him as he ran.