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.