There were many inviting meadows along the trail which led up to the high mesa. The aspen groves were inviting in the daytime, the rugged hillsides were rich with herbs and frost-ripened grass. Lady Ebony and Midnight did not hurry. Indian summer filled the valleys below with purple haze and the air was warm and smoky. They passed through a wild, rough country, across a high ridge by way of a deep saddle, then they dropped down to the mesa where Lady Ebony was born and where she had spent all her summers except one.

Below the mesa the aspen belt flamed in garments of brilliant yellow. The rustling leaves would cling to the branches for a few more days. The first gale sweeping down from the snow peaks would loosen them and send them sailing to their beds along the slope. The oak belt, below the aspens, was red and purple like the upholstery of a piece of expensive furniture in its design and blending of color. Fall was flaunting its brightest colors for a few short days. Lady Ebony stood on the edge of the meadow and looked across the brown grass to Sam’s cabin, silent and deserted. She nickered softly and trotted toward the weathered cabin. Halting before the closed door, she pawed the ground and whinnied louder. There was no answer. Old Sam did not come shuffling out to give her lump sugar.

The old yellowbelly sentinel chuckled from his perch on the high rock. He did not seem to understand that the black mare had been away. He did not shrill his warning whistle or jump down from his high perch. The calico chips dashed about in frantic haste, their cheeks pouched out with seeds and dry bits of roots. They realized that there was but a short time in which to complete their work of filling caches of food. The fat-bellied rockchips sat and stared into the blue-and-purple haze. They intended to do a little more work but the sun was warm and they were fat and lazy.

A saucy chipmunk jumped to the top of a weed and sat there, swaying back and forth. His high-pitched “chock, chock, chock” rang across the meadow. Instantly every member of his tribe mounted a sing perch and their chorus rang out. The song pitched higher and shifted to “check, check, check, chir-r-r-up.”

At the far end of the meadow the dog town burst into excited barking and saucy “squit-tuck’s.” Lady Ebony tossed her head. This was home and her welcome back was what it should be except for the closed door of the old cabin. Midnight bounded around, kicking his heels high and bucking. Lady Ebony walked around the cabin and sniffed eagerly. Her nose told her something was wrong. The familiar smells were dim and cold, the taint of Sam’s rank pipe, the pungent smell of the man himself, a smell so definite and different from that of the dwellers of the wild. Midnight raced about. He was not greatly interested in the cabin, though he had never seen or smelled anything like it before. He wanted to play, so he galloped away across the meadow, dry clods flying from his pounding hoofs.

Lady Ebony settled down to wait. She expected Sam with his lumps of sugar and she expected Tex and the boys from the ranch. These thoughts were rather vague, but they were strong enough to keep her in the meadow and to overcome her uneasiness as her nose warned her of coming storms. A week of Indian summer passed with warm hazy days and snapping cold nights. Both Lady Ebony and Midnight had grown thick, warm coats and the nights did not bother them. Frost carpeted the meadow with white jewels every night, and every day the sun melted the frost. Sam did not come and Tex did not come galloping out of the timber at the head of his roundup crew. The crew had finished its work in the high country the week before Lady Ebony’s arrival, and had left the brown grass and the everlasting green spruce to the blizzards and the deep snows. The horses and the white-faced cattle were all accounted for.

One afternoon a change came in the weather. The air had been snapping cold for days with the sun’s rays softening it but little. It became softer and warmer. Gray clouds raced over the timbered slopes, rolling low, touching the tops of the highest spruce. The gray wall swept down over the spruce and over the meadow. Snow began falling, big, soft flakes that sailed down like loosened leaves. The snow settled through a deep silence which filled the woods and lay heavy on the meadow. The chickaree squirrels in the tall spruce worked frantically, cutting cones from the branches, dropping them to the ground with steady, thumping sounds. They chattered and scolded as they worked. The old yellowbelly left his perch and romped to his den under the castle rock. The calico chips and the chipmunks and the fat-bellied brownies retired for the long night which was to last until spring came. The mesa was deserted, leaving only Lady Ebony, Midnight, and the big flakes of snow.

The wind rose and came roaring down. The great spruces swayed and moaned as the wind rushed through their branches and tore at their needles. The big flakes were powdered to fine dust and eddied in and out among the brown grass stems. The aspen leaves danced and swirled as they floated from the white branches. In less than an hour the uplifted arms of the silver trees were naked. But where each leaf had loosened its hold a brown bud peeped down, wrapped up in a warm little muffler and hood. The round leaves whirled along the ground and piled deep on the lee side of big trunks and in deep hollows on the slope. Under the bed of leaves the columbine and the paint weed and the lupine felt safer and warmer.

Lady Ebony led Midnight to the lee of the cabin where they stood with heads down, backs to the sifting snow. All afternoon the white wall pressed close around them. Darkness came early, a black, solid darkness which blotted out every object, even the cabin wall close to their noses. In the morning the blizzard was still raging furiously. The snow was deep on the meadow, as deep as the knees of the black colt.

Lady Ebony fought her way out to the edge of the mesa and began pawing for grass. Midnight went with her and helped. They dug down and found a mat of rich, cured grass. With their tails to the lashing wind they fed. When they had eaten their fill they returned to the lee side of the cabin and Midnight had a scant but warm meal. Then he lay down. The snow melted around his body and froze into ice at the edges of the curves.

For three days the storm raged. When it cleared and the last of the gray clouds scurried away over the tops of the green spruce on the wings of the dying wind three feet of snow lay on the level mesa and four or five feet in the hollows and drifts. In places the wind had swept the dry snow away from the grass and feeding was easy for the horses. But snapping, biting cold followed the storm, making their breath plume out in wreaths of white fog and causing icicles to form on their nose hair and chins. Their faces were covered with white frost from their breathing.

Midnight showed keen interest in this new world. It was a white world, a silent world of snow and green spruce. The biting cold made him plunge through the deep drifts and snort eagerly. One other dweller of the high country, who could not sleep through the cold months, came to the meadow. An old timber-line buck had chosen to stay in the high mesa country defying the cold and the snow. The does and the fawns and the spike bucks had drifted downcountry before the storm. The two-points had gone with them and most of the four-points. The timber-line monarch stayed because he was wary and shunned the ranch-dotted valleys below the storm belt. He preferred the savage cold and the stalking killers to the rifles and dogs of the men who lived in the low country.

He dug down into the snow seeking herbs and twigs. He did not care for the dry, rich grass, and he watched the mare and her colt without interest, staring at them, then shaking his heavy antlers and returning to his feeding. The old fellow knew the dangers he faced, he had met them before and expected to meet them again.

The clear, cold weather held for a week. The days were sparkling and crisp, the nights blue and bitterly cold, with white stars reflecting their countless points of light upon the gleaming snow fields. In the aspen groves trees snapped and popped as the frost sought their hearts. Lady Ebony left the lee of the cabin and found a sheltered spot beside one of the big castle rocks at a point near the edge of the deep canyon. A narrow ledge trail led up to the shelter and an outthrust layer of rock furnished a roof so that the earth under the shelter was free from snow. A shoulder of the wall shut off the wind, making the retreat really a barn.

A crevice in the roof of the shelter harbored a nest of pack rats. Sticks, pine cones, bright rocks, and other things dear to the heart of a trade rat had been crammed into the crevice until they spilled out on the floor. The whole cave was tainted with rat smell, pungent and musty.

The black robes of the mare and her colt grew shaggy and thick, as the bitter cold deepened. Lady Ebony and Midnight were forced to seek grass at the upper end of the meadow below the cabin because the wind struck that part of the mesa, clearing the snow away. Every morning they plunged through deep drifts to reach the wind-swept portion of the meadow, returning again at night to their shelter.

The week of clear weather was broken late one afternoon. Clouds began to cluster around the high spires of the Crazy Kills. They crept into high craters and wound around the tall, granite cathedrals on top of the world like great cats stalking their prey. Above they were silvery white and gleamed like jeweled blankets, below they were dark gray and, in spots, black.

A feeble sun shone on the mesa, and two yellow sun-dogs blazoned forth on either side of it like sentinels. The air was still and the silence deep. Slowly the temperature rose and Midnight sniffed eagerly and plunged about in the snow. He was disturbed but did not know why. Lady Ebony jerked up her head and tested the air. She knew another storm was coming. Then the clouds rolled down over the spruce, blotting out the shining mountain peaks, the big soft flakes came and later the lashing wind. Another blizzard gripped the high mesa. With the wind came cutting cold that stabbed through even the thick coats of the horses. Lady Ebony headed across the meadow toward their shelter.

For many days the blizzard raged and roared and the snow fell. When the storm cleared, the snow was deeper than it had been in many winters. It piled in great, hundred-foot drifts along the comb ridges, in lips which thrust themselves out over the spruce below. Slides roared into the canyons as those lips broke and shot down the steep slopes. The white terrors mowed swaths through the spruce and tore great boulders from their beds, grinding them to dingy gray rivers of twisting, roaring debris which cascaded into the creek bottoms and slid up the far slopes. The thunder of the slides shook the mesa and the ridges, starting new rivers of snow.

When the white death roared, Midnight always crowded close to his mother’s side and stared up at the ridges trying to see the monster that could roar louder than any animal he had ever heard. Lady Ebony was disturbed but she nickered reassuringly to her son and did not lead a charge through the deep snow.

Digging for food was a job which required all the short day. The upper end of the meadow still offered the best feed ground, though the snow lay three feet deep on that part of it. The timber-line buck came down from a bed in the rocks and fed close to the horses. He ate much grass now because he could not scoop the snow away so easily as the horses did. And he browsed on willow growing along the stream, but such feeding meant fighting snow six feet deep. Sometimes he followed the horses and ate the weeds they uncovered and left untouched.

Lady Ebony and Midnight came to expect the timber-line buck to join them in their battle for food. The three fed close together in comradeship. Theirs was a common fight against a common enemy. The buck no longer charged at Midnight when the little horse walked up to him. And Lady Ebony no longer whinnied warningly when her son approached the antlered monarch.

Life was hard for the three on the mesa, but not as hard as it was for the killers who roamed the silent forests. The gray wolves and the cougars hunted daily, their sides gaunt. The snowy owls beat along the edges of the timber, their glassy eyes staring down savagely. But there was little food. The snow had not crusted and the gray wolves and the cougars could not overtake the hardy mule deer remaining in the mountains. They wallowed and floundered while the deer and the elk bounded up and clear of the clinging drifts. Night and day the killers hunted with savage intensity, their yellow eyes flaming with savage hunger. When one of a wolf pack was wounded or crippled, the pack turned on him and devoured him as they would any lesser prey.

A day came when the weather moderated, the sun shone, and the snow softened and settled. A warm wind blew from the valleys below. The wind melted the top snow to a depth of several inches. That night the cold returned, the trees popped, and the air was still and brittle. Frost crystals coated the willows along the stream and made brilliant jewelry of every branch and twig rising above the snow. The trees looked like rock candy. The slushy snow froze into ice and the world was coated with a hard armor. And now the gaunt killers could race swiftly over the surface while deer and elk broke through. The killers slaughtered savagely, gorging themselves on fresh meat until they could not run. The coyotes and the owls fed at the tables of the great ones after the hunters had passed on to fresh kills.

Lady Ebony and Midnight found the battle to reach the cured grass under the snow much more difficult, now that the ice had come. They were forced to feed later into the night in order to fill their bellies. They pawed and smashed at the thick armor covering the drifts. A full moon shone down, its white light flashing back from the glistening ice. The air was snapping cold as night settled, but Lady Ebony delayed returning to their shelter. They had not fed well that day. She was pawing down the crust, then scooping away the loose snow. The old timber-line buck followed close behind the two horses. He was gaunt and lank. His slender hoofs made poor weapons against the ice.

The air was still with the stillness of a dead world. Suddenly Lady Ebony jerked up her head. From the ridge above the mesa came the cry of an old lobo wolf and his bachelor pack. They were racing down from the high barrens seeking prey. The old lobo had not led his sons into the lower country. He was wise and cunning and had kept his pack high above the ranches with their poison sets, their traps, and their guns. He preferred the savage struggle of the snow-locked high country to the sure death lurking in the open valleys. He had ranged above the belt where the deer and the elk wintered and had not led his sons to a kill in more than a week. The slaughter going on lower down the slope had not been shared by these gaunt killers.

Lady Ebony listened intently. The pack was running down the ridge above the mesa. She shook her head restlessly and looked across the meadow toward the castle rocks. Turning she took a few steps toward the lower end of the meadow. The timber-line buck grunted protestingly as he floundered out of her way. Midnight kept on digging in the snow. He was still hungry. The snarling of the pack sounded farther down the ridge and Lady Ebony turned back to where Midnight was pawing. The howling rose in savage crescendo. The pack had swerved and was heading toward the meadow.

The timber-line buck did not wait to listen. He began floundering and plunging across the open toward the woods where he knew the warm sun had not softened the snow so that it crusted. Here he could double and bound; his speed would save him from the gray ones.

Lady Ebony snorted and whirled. She took one long leap, then halted and looked back, nickering loudly, warningly. Midnight stood looking at her. He was chewing a mouthful of grass he had pulled from under the snow. He swallowed the grass and thrust his head back into the hole. He had found a good mat of grass and meant to finish it. The howling pack did not disturb him greatly. He had never been attacked by wolves. All the wolves he had met had loped away when he ran toward them.

Lady Ebony leaped back to his side and crowded against him. She whinnied excitedly and pawed the snow, then whirled and leaped a few yards toward the rocky point. Midnight pulled up a tasty mouthful of grass and munched at it, then dived down for more. Lady Ebony was frantic. She plunged at him and nipped his rump sharply.

Midnight’s hips jerked and he lashed out with his hoofs, striking his mother a smashing blow. She had never bitten him so severely before and his temper flared. Lady Ebony charged at him again. She had to make him follow her.

Up in the spruce the old lobo heard her whinny and the tone of his howls changed from hungry yelping to savage eagerness. Instantly his sons, leaping at his side, took up the cry. After many days of stark hunger the old one had led them to a kill.

The gray killers burst out of the darkness under the spruce, running madly, their fangs gleaming, their red tongues lolling. They flashed into the gleaming moonlight like shadows. Midnight jerked up his head. He saw the glowing, yellow eyes of the killers, the white fangs, and the red tongues as the wolves leaped across the crusted snow. Fear gripped him, and with a wild squeal of fright he plunged away, breaking through the crust, floundering, stumbling.

Lady Ebony did not rush after him. She knew they could not both escape the swift shadows so close upon them. With a toss of her flowing mane she plunged toward the pack. After charging a few yards she halted and her front hoofs rose. A defiant, screaming cry came from her chest. The wolves leaped in on her, dodging her flailing hoofs, their fangs reaching from every side. The old lobo leaped straight at her throat while his sons swarmed around her. One smashing hoof struck the lobo and sent him spinning across the glare of ice. But as she hurled the old one from her, two young wolves ripped her flanks while another tore a gash in her shoulder. They leaped and lashed and ripped, springing in, darting away.

Lady Ebony could not run and the deep snow kept her from pivoting to meet the rear attack. She was doomed and she knew it, but she did not try to plunge away. Her son was floundering to the safety of the ledge and she had to hold the pack where they were until he reached the castle rocks.

The old lobo scrambled to his feet. Lady Ebony’s flank was turned to him. He leaped and his fangs sank deep, driving toward the tendons of her leg. He did not waver and spring away. He struck with savage recklessness. His sharp fangs severed the tendons and Lady Ebony went down. Instantly the whole pack swarmed over her, tearing at her sleek coat.

Midnight plunged on across the meadow. The pack was so busy tearing at the black mare that they did not follow him. He reached the ledge trail and plunged up to a shelf where there was room for him to whirl about. He stood staring out across the meadow, listening to the snarling of the pack as they fed on the carcass lying in the snow. He was still standing there when the pack turned away from the bloody bones of his mother and began looking for him.

They picked up his trail and raced across the gleaming snow. He watched them come, and courage, the courage of a cornered animal, plus the wild and savage fighting heart given him by the chestnut stallion came to him. He shrilled a challenge and reared up on his hind feet, his little ears laid back, his teeth bared.

The old lobo was the first to leap up the ledge trail. He lunged at the black colt. Midnight’s lashing hoofs met him and sent him tumbling back upon his leaping sons. The bachelors swept past their father and closed in. They were not so hungry but the blood lust ran hot within them. They wanted to kill again and their easy victory over the mare made them feel certain of their victim.

One of the youngsters leaped at Midnight’s throat. Two lashing hoofs met the gray body in mid-air. The killer screamed with rage and pain as his body writhed on the snow. He slid down toward the canyon rim and over the edge, hurtling into the shadowy depths below. Another youngster leaped and was smashed back.

The pack backed away from the flailing hoofs. Their bellies were gorged with meat and much of their savageness had left them. There was no way to surround the colt or to leap at his flanks. They sat down on the snow and glared at him, their yellow eyes flaming eagerly, their red tongues dripping as they extended above white fangs. The old lobo licked his wounds and growled deep in his chest.

Midnight waited, poised. But they did not attack again. One killer lay dead at the base of the canyon wall, while another crawled around on the snow, snarling and whimpering, his ribs caved in by the hoofs of the little stallion. Presently the old lobo got to his feet. He made a feint toward Midnight, but when the pounding hoofs lifted menacingly he turned and trotted away with his pack close behind him. They paid no attention to the wounded wolf.

Out on the meadow Midnight heard them pause at the carcass of his mother and begin feeding again. He stood for a long time listening, nickering softly, calling to his mother, trying to tell her that he had beaten the pack. There was no answer except the pack’s snarling and the yelp of a coyote that had smelled the fresh blood and come to the edge of the woods to wait until the gray ones were done with their banquet.

Midnight stood guard until the pack finished worrying the bones in the meadow. After they had loped away into the timber he turned back to the shelter and stood waiting for his mother.