Midnight was never quite satisfied within the confining walls of his prison. There was plenty of fine grass, shade, and water, but the constant feeling that he was being held a prisoner irked him. He worked out a route around the outer limits of the meadow which gave him a chance to run. There was an open stretch along the high walls. From there he made a trail above the beaver lake through a pile of slide rock that had fallen from the cliff above. The trail swung to the lip of the canyon, following a crooked course until it curved back and around the lake again. Big rocks and fallen trees offered barriers. The little stallion soon learned to take these barriers in clean jumps which sent the blood pounding through him.

The racing gave him an outlet for his energy, a chance to give play to his growing muscles. Snorting, shying, and whinnying shrilly he would race around and around, his mane and tail flying, his nostrils flaring. The exercise kept his body tough and hard. The blood of the chestnut stallion which flowed in his veins would not let him surrender to the peaceful existence offered by the sheltered meadow.

Midsummer found the little horse rapidly growing into a big and powerful brute with a body which combined the slender legs, the intelligent head, and the great heart of Lady Ebony with the rugged strength of his father. His eyes betrayed the wild horse in him. They flashed white rims when he was excited or angry and he bared his teeth savagely when roused.

One day Midnight heard sounds which excited him greatly. They came from the mesa above. He heard the pounding of many hoofs and above the nickering and snorting of mares rose the squeal of a stallion challenging the world defiantly. Midnight was resting in the shade of the aspen grove after a wild run around the meadow. He dashed out into the open and stood staring at the top of the canyon wall.

As he stood there a horse appeared. A pinto filly stood with lowered head looking down into the canyon. She was a trim little mare with a lithe, slender body and a yellow mane and tail which flowed in the breeze. Midnight called to her eagerly and she turned her head to locate him. Her ears pricked forward as she answered his call with a quick eager whinny. Instantly wild excitement surged through the black. He raced back and forth, keeping in the open, looking up at the pinto as he danced and kicked.

The little mare seemed to appreciate his efforts. She edged closer to the rim and nickered softly. The sound of her call sent Midnight leaping through the timber, pounding around the trail he had made. As he flashed into the sunlighted spaces below the rim he looked up to see her standing still, cut sharply against the sky, looking down at him. Again Midnight raced around his beaten pathway. As he flashed past the crevice which barred him from escape he halted and stared at the wide crack in the rock shelf. The trail beyond that fissure led to the little mare!

Midnight backed away a few yards, lowered his head, and sniffed. He suddenly lost his fear of the deep gash in the earth. With a defiant squeal he charged straight at the gaping crack. His flying hoofs sent rocks sailing into the canyon below. As he charged down on the barrier he gathered his hard muscles under him for the long leap. Like a black meteor he shot through the air. Leaping over barriers along this race course had given Midnight needed training. His body arched as he hurtled into space above the crevice. His forefeet reached for the far ledge, landed and clung while he lashed with his hind feet in an attempt to pull himself to safety. For a moment he hung there, poised above the chasm, plunging and struggling, then he stumbled forward, safe on the ledge trail.

Snorting and kicking, he pounded up the ledge until he came to the main trail leading out of Shadow Canyon. Doubling back along that trail he charged upward. With a clattering of loose stones he burst out on the edge of the meadow and halted to look for the pinto. The little mare had turned away from the rim. She stood looking at him, her neck arched, her mane blowing around her shoulders. She nickered and pawed at the grass tufts under her feet.

Midnight plunged toward her, eager to make friends. When he was within a few yards of her she whirled and fled. Midnight raced after her, calling wildly. The pinto ran toward the band of mares feeding in the center of the mesa. Above them the chestnut stallion stood guard, his sleek coat gleaming in the sun, his massive head erect. His protruding eyes watched the pinto as she raced toward the mares with the black colt close behind her. Midnight’s speed was greater than that of the little mare and he was soon racing shoulder to shoulder with her.

A scream of rage broke from the chestnut stallion. With ears laid back, nostrils flaring, he charged to meet Midnight. His teeth were bared and his eyes flamed. He meant to finish this young upstart at once. Midnight saw him coming and shoved over against the little mare, heading her away from the band. The boss of the herd came on at top speed. He was running at an angle to the course the two colts had taken.

Midnight had no fear of the big stallion. He was so wildly glad to see a band of horses that he had no thought of battling any of them. The chestnut came on with terrific force. He struck Midnight a smashing blow which turned the colt halfway around and sent him staggering. Midnight twisted and fought to keep from going down. The chestnut reared and lashed out with his forefeet. His teeth reached for the colt’s shoulder and his scream rang across the meadow.

As Midnight righted himself a terrible rage took him. He wanted to fight the big stallion, to smash him, to tear him. Swerving, he let the little mare dart into the band, then he whirled to meet the chestnut. The big stallion was eager for the kill. He had smashed young stallions before, driving them out of the band, and he expected to make short work of this fellow. Midnight answered the challenge by lunging to meet the leader’s second charge. The big stallion raised his heavy hoofs and met Midnight’s attack with smashing blows which battered the colt back. Pain brought a realization that the big stallion wanted to kill him just as the wolf pack had often tried. He dodged the next attack, but lunged in as the chestnut missed his target.

His feint only half saved him. The chestnut’s teeth ripped his shoulder and a crushing blow staggered him. Midnight leaped away from the next charge, which came as soon as the big fellow could wheel about. The little black was outweighed and his strength was nothing compared with that of the chestnut. The band of mares watched without showing much excitement. The pinto stood in their midst, her ears well forward, her eyes rolling.

When the chestnut charged again Midnight whirled and fled. He raced away down the meadow with the big stallion thundering after him. The chestnut was filled with savage eagerness. The victory was his and he meant to overtake this black stallion and kill him. But Midnight was the son of Lady Ebony, and had her fleetness. For a short distance he sprinted as fast as he could run and in that time discovered that he could easily outrun the big leader of the band. When he had satisfied himself of this he circled around the meadow whinnying defiantly and kicking up his heels.

The chestnut was wild with savage rage. He thundered after the flying colt, but though he strained every muscle he could not overtake Midnight. Nor could he seem to outwind or tire him. The colt raced and dodged without seeming to feel the terrific pace. Around the mesa they raced, then around again. The chestnut began to tire. His breath was whistling from his nostrils and his flanks were streaked with lather. Suddenly he swerved and came to a halt beside the band of mares. Blowing and snorting he pawed defiantly, challenging Midnight to come and fight. Midnight halted and nickered eagerly to the pinto filly.

The pinto answered his call. This angered the chestnut and he whirled to lunge at her. Before the little mare could leap aside, his big body smashed against her and his teeth sank deep into the fleshy part of her back. Squealing and kicking, the pinto sprawled on her side in the grass. The chestnut reared threateningly as she scrambled to her feet. With a squeal of fright the pinto darted out of the band and ran away across the mesa. The chestnut did not follow far. He was watching Midnight, fearing the black would try to steal some of his harem.

Midnight leaped after the pinto. He soon overtook her and raced along beside her. The chestnut stallion was furious. He forgot the other mares and plunged after the colts. His speed was great enough to overtake the pinto, and he forced her back into the band. Midnight charged the big fellow and the chestnut whirled to give battle. The filly raced in among the mares and stood watching.

The chestnut was eager to close with Midnight again. He lunged in and his weight sent Midnight staggering back. Then he lunged once more, before the black could get his balance. He landed squarely against Midnight’s shoulder and the colt went down. He rolled and lunged while massive hoofs pounded him and the chestnut’s teeth ripped gashes along his side. Finally Midnight staggered to his feet. He ducked drunkenly and saved himself from another smashing blow from the shoulder of the chestnut. Pain stabbed through his shoulder joint and hampered his speed as he tried to run away. The chestnut sensed that his victory was about to be complete. With squeals of triumph he charged on the colt. Midnight thought of the ledge trail where he had always found haven when wolves and cougars came. If he could reach that ledge he would make a stand.

Desperately the little stallion plunged toward the castle rocks. The chestnut overtook him and smashed him aside, but Midnight dodged and raced on, not stopping to fight. Again the chestnut smashed him, his teeth ripping gashes across Midnight’s rump. The black staggered and weaved under the terrible battering but he kept going. He reached the ledge and plunged upward with the chestnut slashing at his back, trying to smash him to the ground where he could finish the fight.

Midnight tried to whirl about on the ledge. He suddenly realized that if the big fellow got him trapped in the shelter at the end of the trail the chestnut would kill him. He managed to turn around and face the charging leader of the band. They smashed together and Midnight went down, sprawling and kicking on the narrow ledge. He rolled over and his hoofs slid over the rim. In a moment he was sliding down over the edge.

Screaming and pawing, the chestnut glared over the rim. He saw his adversary land on a shelf below and stagger slowly to his feet. The big stallion raced up and down the trail but saw no way to reach the colt below.

The spot where Midnight landed was only a few yards below the place where he had landed when the silvertip shoved him over the edge. He got to his feet panting and blowing. For a long time he stood trembling, favoring his pain-raked shoulder. Then with a squeal of defiance he hobbled along the ledge and down to the little meadow where he had lived before the band came to the mesa. He was eager to cross the crevice again and join the horses above, but when he reached the aspen grove he halted to ease the pains shooting through his shoulder. After a bit he moved on. He halted at the edge of the crevice and stood listening. He did not try to leap across the narrow chasm, he would have to wait until the pain left his shoulder. Above he could hear the triumphant snorting and calling of the chestnut stallion. Slowly he turned and walked back to the aspen grove. After a time he lay down on a bed of dead leaves and grass.

He lay still and listened. From the mesa came the sounds of the feeding herd. For a time the chestnut pranced about nickering and snorting. The mares fed eagerly, not paying any attention to him, except when he came close to one of them. The ears of the little horse in the aspen grove followed every sound intently. He snorted and struggled painfully to his feet when the chestnut blasted a warning to the mares. There was a rolling thunder of hoofs as the wild band charged across the mesa and into the timber. Midnight tried to race to the crevice but at the first step he stumbled and almost fell. Slowly he hobbled to the edge where he stood shaking his head and calling loudly. The rhythm of the pounding hoofs died away quickly and Midnight was alone again. He turned back and hobbled at a slow walk toward his bed in the aspen grove.

In the days which followed Midnight listened for the sound of racing hoofs and the whinny of the band, but the big stallion did not lead the mares back to the high mesa. He ranged far up on the side of the Crazy Kills where the trails were steep and broken and the meadows small and surrounded by dense cover. In the barrens close to timber line few cattle ranged and none of Major Howard’s riders cared to make the steep climb, knowing the stray cows that climbed up that high would come down long before roundup time.

Midnight dropped into his former way of living. As soon as his shoulder became sound he began making his usual rounds of the little race course. And many times he charged to the edge of the crevice where he would slide to a halt and stand snorting and shaking his head. His leg was still stiff, too stiff for so long a jump, and he did not have the nearness of mares to fill him with wild excitement. He did not forget the wild band and the pinto filly, but his wild desire for freedom was not hot and driving. His body filled out and his legs and chest took on a ruggedness which made him lose the coltish look.

The old beavers increased their efforts. Helped by a brood of youngsters, they cut trees and peeled bark from early morning until late at night. They had long since ceased to worry about being about by daylight. The seclusion of the little meadow had changed their habits a great deal. Their storehouses were bulging but they worked feverishly anyway, as though they were facing a famine period. And they built houses over the land openings where their runways came to the surface of the meadow, tall piles of mud and sticks, laced together and padded down into a tough, warm masonry which would keep out the biting frosts of winter. Midnight watched them lazily. He could not know they were expecting another hard winter. But he did have an uneasy feeling when the first frosts came. The wild strain in his blood stirred and he would have left the high country had he been free to go. One morning he trotted to the edge of the meadow and found it white with glistening frost. The white carpet disturbed him. He rushed to the edge of the crevice and stood there snorting and pawing. But he did not try the long jump.

The frosts deepened. The aspen leaves swirled down to cover the roots, the bulbs and the seeds bedded under the soft loam. The grass turned brown and the big spruce trees standing close to the wall moaned as a cold wind swept down from the new snow fields high on the barren peaks of the Crazy Kills. The haze of an Indian summer day was swept away by the first snow of winter and again the world turned white and the air became snapping cold. Midnight put on his heavy robe of shaggy hair which turned the sharp blasts whirling downward.

The snow deepened and Midnight dug for grass. He moved his bedground to a needle-padded spot under a giant spruce where the snow never fell. Now he was interested only in a battle to keep his belly filled. He was still growing and his body demanded food for new muscles and sinews as well as for warmth. The storms came and the snow on the meadow became deeper and deeper. The mesa above was lashed by bitter winds but the sheltered meadow did not feel their lash. On its surface the snow settled down in loose, deep smoothness which formed a warm blanket for the grass and the flowers. Great drifts formed along the rim above, fanned out by the wind and the drifting snow on the upper bench. Their white lips thrust far out over the edge of the canyon like the rounded curves of giant mushrooms.

One moonlit night as Midnight lay on his dry bed of needles he heard a strange sound and felt the earth tremble under him. The sound came from the rim above. He peered upward but could see nothing except the protruding snowbanks and the gleaming whiteness of the world outside his shelter. The sound was a deep, grating rumble that reminded him of distant thunder. One of the overhanging lips of snow had broken under the great weight of tons of snow and had settled down. For a few minutes it moved slowly, grinding rocks off the wall, settling, sliding, packing the snow into ice. Then its speed increased and the dull rumble broke into a terrible roar as thousands of tons of snow shot downward. Midnight leaped to his feet and trembled as he watched.

The mass of snow plunged and boiled as it shot downward. It seethed around a stand of spruce. The big trees, many of them several feet through at the butt, jerked and swayed like saplings, then went down to be swallowed up by the maelstrom of ice and snow. Boulders were torn from their beds and from the face of the cliff. They were ground to sand in the maw of the slide. The whole cataract became dirty gray in color. Its roar shook the mesa as it poured into Shadow Canyon. A startled snowshoe rabbit, routed from his bed under a fallen log, leaped into the air, plunged forward, then bounced high as the dirty mass caught him. For a moment he hung above the seething mass, then dropped into it and vanished, ground to nothingness.

The slide struck the lower end of the little mesa. It shot into the deep crevice, filling it full, then boiling over to roll on down into the main canyon. It cut a swath through the spruces and aspens growing on the steep slope of the big gulch. The timber went down like grass before the bar of a mowing machine.

The white death was only a few seconds in passing but it struck fear into the heart of the black stallion. He snorted and pawed excitedly. And he was not alone in his fear. Up on the high mesa the old timber-line buck, who had returned to his feed grounds, leaped from his bed under a spruce. He stood staring out into the white world, rigid, shaking his heavy antlers and grunting. Every wild creature within hearing stopped and listened, tense, ready to break and run. They all knew the terror of the white death and each knew that to try to dash away would be useless because of the terrible speed and the uncertainty of the course it would take. They would try to run if it came hurtling upon them, but until they saw it they did not move. It was an hour before Midnight bedded down again.

In the morning the colt plowed his way to his feed ground near the beaver lake. He stood for a time staring at the spot where the crevice had been. The deep fissure was filled with dirty snow, yellow, resin-oozing timbers, torn and ripped apart, and broken boulders. It was packed as hard as the frozen surface of a lake. Carefully Midnight ventured out on it and found it solid. His weight did not make it settle at all.

He worked his way step by step across the dirty snow, then headed up the trail leading to the meadow. The snow was so deep he had to plunge, rising on his forefeet and lunging. When he rested the snow pressed close against his sides. Coming out on top he halted to look out across the meadow. A sharp, icy wind cut at him and loose snow swirled around his legs. He saw the old timber-line buck digging for weeds near the timber. Midnight whinnied eagerly and plunged toward the ancient one. The old buck jerked up his head and watched Midnight as he floundered across the mesa. They met and stood staring at each other for some time. Finally the buck turned his back and began digging again. Midnight set to work pawing for grass.

Bitter winds swept across the meadow and cut through Midnight’s shaggy coat. Snow swirled before the wind and piled into deep drifts. The mesa was more bleak and icy than the little meadow under the rim. And the grass was not so good when it was uncovered. But the black stallion had companionship of a sort. He worked busily all that day to fill his belly with grass. At dusk he headed toward his haven under the rim. Darkness settled before he reached the canyon trail and the moonlight gleamed on the snow. Midnight was tired when he reached his dry bed under the big spruce.

After that he stayed on the bench under the rim. It was warmer down under the wall and the grass was easier to get. He could dig without much effort. Now that he knew he could leave the little mesa whenever he chose he did not want to go.

Up on the high mesa the old buck was finding life hard. He had no help in digging for food and his legs were stiff, with a tightness he had never felt before. Age was slowing the spring in his powerful muscles. His horns still held patches of velvet. The patches clung in dry, furry spots on his polished lances. The old buck had not had the energy to polish them and scrub them as he should have. Midnight did not know that he had deserted his friend at a time when the ancient monarch needed him badly.

Late one afternoon the black stallion was startled by a familiar cry. A pack of lobo wolves had swept out of the spruce at the edge of the meadow above. Their cry came when they sighted the old timber-line buck, and the cry was the cry of the kill. Midnight plunged to his shelter under the big spruce and stood there tossing his black mane. His eyes rolled white and he snorted savagely.

Up on the mesa the old buck had whirled about to dash for the safety of the timber and the castle rocks. He had ample time to escape and should have outdistanced his pursuers, but his stiffened legs refused to lift with the smooth power he had always possessed. Before he was halfway to cover the pack was leaping around him, their yellow eyes flaming, their red tongues jerking over white fangs.

There on the flat mesa the old monarch made his last stand. With sweeping, thrusting antlers he met the leaping attack of the gray killers. They darted and lunged and dodged around him, keeping up a mad chorus of yelping and snarling. The old buck could not guard his vital parts against all the wolves. One after another they slid under his frantic, thrusting antlers to rip gashes in his flanks and legs. Snorting and blowing savagely he fought with horns and lashing hoofs.

The wolves knew they would win and they kept up their ripping, tearing tactics, never fastening on the big fellow long enough for his sharp hoofs to strike them. Weakened by the loss of blood, staggering as each new wound opened, the old fellow fought his way stubbornly toward the timber. Every foot of his retreating trail was marked by bloody, trampled snow.

One of the wolves, taking advantage of the slowing thrusts of the old buck’s antlers, dodged in and slashed the tendons of a hind leg. Slowly, with antlers still lashing, the old monarch settled down into the snow and lay beating with his forelegs and jerking his head. Instantly every wolf was on him and their howls were more savage than before.

The end of the monarch was the destined end of all wild dwellers. The end of a life of struggle and constant alertness. The law of the wild was fulfilled. While youth and vigor gave him power and speed the buck lived and went his way, but when that strength slipped from him he went down before the gray killers.

Under the big spruce Midnight stood listening to the growling and snarling of the pack as they tore the warm flesh from the bones of the old buck. He watched and waited, expecting the pack to come leaping down the ledge trail and across the slide-filled fissure. But they did not scent him because the wind always blew off the high mesa and seldom came up out of the canyon except in the spring. When the killers had stripped the bones and cracked the ones their powerful jaws could break they left the mangled carcass and raced away through the moonlight, seeking another victim.

Then the little fox came out of his den and a pair of coyotes trotted up from the shadows under the spruce at the lower end of the mesa. The little fox and the coyotes fought over the bones, dragging them away to spots where they could lie down and gnaw them or crack them and lick the still warm marrow fat from their centers.