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.