  The old yellowbelly whistler was uneasy. He scented the coming of a cold snap, a heavy snow perhaps. The aspens were flaming yellow, the oak brush purple and red, its rounded clumps looking like fine upholstery laid on an immense piece of furniture. The calico chips darted around in frantic haste as they gathered seeds to add to their bulging granaries. Even the rockchips were more active than usual. They did not spend so much time hugging their fat bellies and mooning into the distance. The dog colony was as noisy and busy as usual but there was a difference in their chatter. This was a time of uncertainty. Indian summer had to end. It had held the high country in its drowsy spell for many days. Now the air had a different feel. Down by the castle rocks there was a newly made pile of rocks. This disturbance of the scenery had upset the small folk of the meadow for a while but now they were used to it. The calico chips used it as a hiding place and even the whistlers had explored it carefully. Suddenly the meadow rang with an eager whinny, followed by a loud snort and the pounding of hoofs against the dry, hard ground. A black stallion and a pinto filly broke from the head of the Shadow Canyon trail. Midnight slid to a halt before the cabin and called loudly. He advanced toward the door shaking his head and snorting, his eyes rolling wildly. The door of the cabin hung open. A blue-white wreath of smoke curled out and up into the air, then old Sam stepped through the doorway. He stood for a moment steadying himself, one hand against the casing, then he shuffled outside and sank down on the ancient willow chair. As he seated himself he dug into a pocket of his worn jacket and brought out a handful of dingy lump sugar. “No human critter could of got me outside today the way my rheumatiz joints is shoutin’ fer a storm,” he said. He held out one hand with two lumps of sugar in it. The black stallion edged closer, his legs trembling, his nostrils flaring eagerly. The pinto filly crowded ahead of him and her pink nose deftly whisked the sugar out of Sam’s palm. Old Sam chuckled as he placed two more lumps in his palm. “Lady, you act plumb scandalous fer a wild hoss,” he said. Midnight had edged close now. He gathered up the two lumps and crunched them eagerly. Even after weeks of coaxing and tempting Sam had not quieted all the fears in the heart of the stallion. Sam doled out the sweets slowly, making them last as long as possible. When they were gone he got to his feet, and picked up a tin pail beside the door. Walking to a bare spot of Midnight stood watching, ready to charge away. The pinto shouldered up close to Sam, letting him run his hand along her neck. Watching her gather up the oats was too much for the black; he crowded in to get his share, but not until Sam had backed away. Midnight and the pinto gathered up every grain of oats, then they trotted out into the meadow and began feeding. Sam filled his pipe and settled back to let the sun warm his joints. He was glad his visitors had routed him out. The sun was really fine. After a few minutes of its warmth he began thinking about walking down to the new prospect hole he had dug at the base of the castle rocks. He chuckled to himself as he thought about it but he did not move. He was remembering how he had written to Tex asking him to dig a hole on that very spot. He wondered what Tex would have done if he had dug that hole and then discovered he had uncovered a vein of gold-bearing quartz. Sam had a feeling Tex would have dug a buryin’ hole and let it go at that. That was what he thought of Tex. Out on the meadow a chipmunk had mounted a stone. His voice rang out. “Chock! Chock! Chock!” like the rattle of an old alarm clock. Instantly every chipmunk in the meadow raced to his sing perch and the meadow rang with their song. The fat yellowbelly on guard stretched his neck and blasted a short whistle, then pulled in his neck with a deep chuckle. He always disapproved such a chatter. Sam’s pipe rolled to the corner of his mouth and turned upside down. One fumbling hand found the gold chain of his big watch. He pulled it out and bent above the dial. His lips moved as he counted. When the chorus died away he was grinning happily. “One hunnert eighty a minnit,” he mumbled. “That there’s a youngster jest comin’ into his growth. Come spring he’ll do two hunnert.” As he tucked the ancient watch back into his pocket he sniffed the air. Twisting his neck he looked up at the spruce ridge. Gray clouds raced above the tops of the trees, and he could hear the moaning of a cold wind rushing through the needles. Below the clouds moved a curtain of white, swirling flakes. Sam got to his feet. His watery eyes rested for a moment on a pile of baled hay stacked against the end of the cabin and flanked by a great stack of split firewood. Tex had fixed everything. Let the snows come, he’d be snug as any one of the yellowbellies. And the two horses would not have to worry either. “I reckon I’ll jest hole up fer a spell,” he said. Down on the meadow Midnight had jerked up his head and was watching the storm sweep across the mesa. Sam stood at the door looking out on the scene until the form of the big stallion was swallowed by the wall of snow. As handsome as he is wild—that’s MIDNIGHT Son of a beautiful purebred mare and a wild stallion, the gangling colt grows up under the stern law of the wild ... until his flying hooves and bitterly learned store of experience make him leader of his own untamed band. The thrilling tale of a freedom-loving horse in the Western mountains. SCHOLASTIC BOOK SERVICES Transcriber’s Note: Spelling and hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows: |
|
