When the little black stallion came out of his shelter the morning after the wolf raid the sun was shining on the glare of ice which covered the meadow. The old timber-line buck was plunging toward the feed ground. Midnight whinnied eagerly for his mother and shook his head impatiently. He was hungry and wanted her badly. When he got no answer he moved down the ledge trail. At the spot where the wolves had attacked him he halted and sniffed the snow, blowing loudly, pawing the ground angrily.

He moved out across the meadow. The old buck lifted his head from a hole in the snow and stared at him. Midnight whinnied again. He was glad to see the buck calmly feeding. It drove away some of the fear that he felt because he could not see his mother. The buck dropped his head to feed. Midnight walked to the place where the snow was spattered with blood. He sniffed and shied back. Standing with legs apart and head bent forward, he looked at the frost-coated pile of bones lying in the trampled snow. Breaking a trail around the spot he moved close to the monarch and began breaking the crusted snow. The buck let him feed close to his side but when the little horse would have shouldered against him he jerked up his head and snorted. He shook his bony lances threateningly and Midnight backed away.

Midnight set to work pawing, breaking the crust and scooping the loose snow aside. He worked steadily all through the day, pausing at intervals to call for his mother. Two lean coyotes came out of the spruce and slipped across the meadow. A little fox thrust his sleek head out of a thicket which had been swept clear of snow. He wrinkled his nose as he crept forward. His furry, red brush waved back and fourth. Hunger had driven the three hunters into the open in the white light of day, hunger and the smell of fresh meat. The coyotes poked among the bones gnawing and snarling. The little fox sat down to watch and to wait. He was sure there would be a few bits of gristle left for him.

Midnight snorted and shook his head at the coyotes. He pawed into the drift savagely, then rushed at the coyotes as far as his trail went. The coyotes leaped back from the carcass and faced him snarling and snapping. Midnight stared at them for a long time, then turned and went back to his feeding. He was learning the lessons of the wild.

A lynx cat with tufted ears and big furry pads on his feet thrust his head from behind a drift. He, too, had forsaken the twilight of the spruce country, which was his natural home. He blinked his eyes before the glare of the sun and stared at the pair of coyotes and the little fox. His nose twitched hungrily. He seldom ventured far from the green dusk of the forest but he had eaten only one small morsel in two days, a field mouse dug from the roots of a dead aspen tree. His green eyes fixed on the little fox and he shifted his padded feet nervously. He had feasted on fox before and the stringy meat was to his liking.

At the same moment the fox’s sharp eyes and pointed nose discovered the lynx cat. Turning, the sly one raced over the crust toward his burrow in the thicket. The lynx cat bounded over the snow, cutting across to head the fox away from his hole. The little fox ran swiftly but he had a greater distance to go. The cat closed in swiftly and the fox whirled to face him. The lynx arched his back and circled slowly around his intended victim. He knew the fox had deadly fangs and that he would use them. The sly one was shy and timid but he could fight when cornered. The air was filled with the yowling and spitting of the lynx and the snarling of the fox. Both coyotes sat up and watched. Midnight and the big buck jerked up their heads and stared at the battlers. The old buck sniffed the cat scent and made off along his trail to the timber. Midnight stood still. He was afraid but did not know what to do.

The big lynx cat circled a second time. He was cautious even though he was desperately hungry. With a lightning movement he leaped at the fox, who was crouched down with his chest on the snow. The fox leaped to meet him and slashed at him savagely. A big tuft of hair from the cat’s neck scruff sailed high and floated to the snow. The cat backed away spitting, his big feet planted wide apart.

When the lynx leaped back the little fox whirled and raced for the timber. He had tricked the cat and his red tongue lolled out over his white teeth very much as though he was laughing at his clumsy antagonist.

The lynx bounded after him and the fox whirled again. Again the fox made a stand and the dweller of the spruce twilight circled around him. Again the lynx leaped and was met by the lashing fangs of the slim hunter of mice. The cat leaped back and red drops of blood dotted the snow. Both times his lashing paws had missed the dodging, weaving fox. The fox whirled and ran, this time almost to his thicket. The lynx bounded upon him and he whirled, his brush sweeping across the glistening snow.

The lynx did not strike again. If the snow had been soft and loose he would have been the victor and would have feasted upon the carcass of the tough little fox, because his snowshoe feet would have carried him over the surface while the fox floundered. The hard crust which spelled death for the elk and the deer gave the little fox a surer chance to live. Slowly the fox backed to his den under the bushes. He halted in the opening and crouched there, his muzzle resting on his forepaws, his little eyes flaming.

The lynx cat arched his back and sidled up to the den, spitting and snarling. He halted well out of reach of the flashing attack of the little hunter. He sat down and stared back at the fox. Finally he walked away to a drift. He hoped the fox would venture away from his hole under the bushes. But the fox could see the big fellow seated on the drift. He drowsed, his eyes half closed, waiting for the killer to tire and go his way. Finally the lynx cat got up and padded back into the spruce.

Two eagles came and the great owls beat along the edge of the clearing. The wolf pack raced down along the ridge at dusk, seeking the little stallion. But Midnight and the old buck were safe in their shelters long before dusk. Both remembered the experience of the previous night and left the feed ground early. They bedded down on stomachs only half filled, but they rested better than the killers who could not get even half a meal.

There came days of sunshine and days of storm. When the blizzard came the wind swept the new snow across the hard, smooth surface of the meadow, piling it in the timber or swirling it into the deep canyon.

One cloudy day a lean cougar padded through the spruce at the upper edge of the mesa. He halted and stared out over the sheet of glistening ice. His yellow eyes suddenly flamed with eagerness. He had sighted the timber-line buck and the little stallion. His amber eyes flicked over the old buck and fastened on the colt beside him. His nose jerked and the black tip of his tail twitched. It seemed almost beyond any good luck to find a fat colt and a buck deer together. He had hunted for days and was heading toward the lower country. The only living things he had met were wolves and coyotes as hungry as himself.

The cougar moved to the edge of the woods, his eyes wandering over the snowy expanse. It did not seem possible for the colt to escape him. The little horse had a long way to go to reach cover. The snow was crusted so that the killer could bound over it while the horse would break through and flounder. He located a drift which ran out into the meadow like the fin of a great fish. He would slip out along that fin. He would not need to get close. His eyes roved eagerly over the meadow, seeking to locate any weak point in his plan of attack.

Midnight and the old buck fed steadily, the buck following the trail Midnight had broken. He was about twenty yards back of the little stallion. Midnight pulled a tuft of grass up out of the snow and chewed it eagerly. Swallowing it he ducked his head and nosed about for more. He pulled another mouthful and looked around him. He was fast learning the tricks of the old buck. Look, listen, test the air after every exploration under the crust.

It was the buck who warned him of danger. The monarch snorted loudly and whirled about. The wind had shifted and his keen nose had caught cougar scent. Midnight looked and saw the gaunt killer rising above the drift in a long, high leap. The big cat screamed savagely, angered because he had been discovered before he was ready to attack. Midnight plunged after the old buck. The cougar landed on the hard crust, skidded, then righted himself and bounded again. His leaps were terrific and carried him down quickly on the two struggling and panic-stricken comrades. His ears were flattened and his tail was lashing. His yellow eyes checked the distance he had to cover. His last leap must send him smashing down on the back of the colt. His tawny body shot upward and out in a twenty-foot leap, while his claws unsheathed and he bared his fangs for the death thrust.

With a wild plunge of speed Midnight charged past the old buck. The ancient monarch was a scarred warrior. He had been attacked by cougars before and had always managed to escape. This time he was trapped. He could not flounder to the deep, soft drifts in the spruce. Like any wild thing, he whirled to fight because that was all there was left for him to do. He had lived to old age in the high country because he had been able to meet desperate situations. When he whirled he lowered his sharp antlers until they formed a shield for his neck and shoulders.

The leap of the yellow killer had been aimed and timed so that its force would smash down on the back of the colt. Instead of smashing upon the unprotected back of the little horse the cougar landed upon the bony lances of the old buck. His hundred pounds of weight hurtling down on those horns would have been damaging enough, but the old timber-line monarch charged forward just as the cat landed, adding to the effectiveness of the defense. The buck was smashed back on his haunches, but instantly his powerful legs straightened and with a grunt he lunged again.

The lances of bone drove deep into the chest and neck and legs of the cougar. When the buck lunged he twisted those knives and drove them deeper. He ripped and tore in mad fury. Flight was forgotten now that he was in a battle. He thought only of destroying his attacker. The cougar was startled by this attack from a prey which had always fled in a wild fear before him. He screamed savagely as he struggled to toss his body out of the path of the ripping horns. Rolling over and over in the snow he scrambled away from the charging deer.

The buck made another lunge but the big cat had had enough. He bounded away across the snow leaving a trail of blood which froze in round red jewels on the crust.

The buck shook his head and snorted savagely. Midnight watched him from the safety of the ledge. Finally the little horse trotted down the trail to meet the monarch, who was stalking along, his rump patch fanned out, his breath whistling angrily. Midnight halted before the buck, and they stood looking at each other.

After that the bond was a little closer between the two. Midnight realized that there was safety in being close to the big buck. He was convinced the old fellow was the master of the yellow killers so terrifying to him. The monarch gave the matter no thought. He had escaped from another cougar, but he did not intend to allow one to get near him if his nose and his keen sight warned him in time. But he followed Midnight’s trail and ate the weeds and brush tips the little horse uncovered and left.

So the cold winter passed. The pair who came daily to the meadow kept vigilant watch for the killers and slipped away from the feed ground early each night. The little stallion was nearly as quick of sight and smell as the old buck by the time the snow began to soften. They were always hungry, never able to dig up enough grass and feed to fill their stomachs, but they were also wary and alert.

Spring waited for them on the snow-bound meadow one morning when they came down to feed. A chinook wind was blowing and the air was soft, promising life, alive with earthy smells carried up from the lower valleys where green things were already growing on the south slopes and in the canyons. Midnight bucked and pranced excitedly. The old buck shook his head and grunted. He was a sad-looking monarch now. His sides were thick with matted hair and he had shed one horn so that he was forced to carry his head on the side. He moved about more timidly and seemed eager to be near the black colt.

The snow settled down and down. At night it froze but not with the bitter hardness of the deep winter. Each day the snow sank lower and packed harder. It shrank until bare patches of meadow appeared. Then it retreated into the spruce where it would make its last stand against the sun. There were blustery days when snow fell and raw winds blew, but this was spring and nothing could halt its coming.

The wolves and the coyotes raced across the bare ground, leaping over the dirty drifts in the shade, racing on and on, as fast as the steady wind which blew up out of the green valleys below. The wolves were not seeking prey, they were running in pairs, leaping through the dusky twilight or the pale moonlight, seeking romance on distant ridges, trysting places under the stars.

The resurrection came swiftly. Grass sprouted and flowers shoved forth their buds, some of them poking out their hardy blossoms at the edges of the drifts in the twilight of the woods. But the real and certain arrival of spring was announced by the yellowbelly whistlers. They awoke and came out of their dens to blink at the sun. They romped across the bare meadow and bounded among the rocks at the base of the castles. A day or so after the whistlers had come out the calico chips appeared. They had been ready for some time but had been careful not to hurry.

One day the chipmunks appeared. They held a concert at once, and the meadow rang with their “chock, chocking.” The fat little brownies came with the chipmunks. They selected stones and spent much of their time sitting in silence looking down into the blue valley. Only the cabin at the edge of the timber remained lifeless and dead. It went on sleeping. Its one dusty window stared out drearily on the lively scene. Its door did not open to let the spring air into the cabin, there was no one to open it. The willow chair sagged beside the doorstone. It sat there much as though it had stepped outside to wait for the owner of the cabin.

Midnight became restless. He raced around the meadow and mud flew from his hoofs as he splashed through puddles in the hollows. The only spot he avoided was the dog town. There the ground was soft and the holes made it treacherous. The dogs barked and scolded when he thundered past but they accepted him as one of them. He whinnied and kicked and pranced. The old whistler, perched on his high lookout, stretched his neck, chuckled several times, then pulled his head back into his ball of fur.

Midnight still used the shelter under the rim. Habit made him return to it at dusk. The old timber-line buck knocked off his remaining horn, then wandered into the twilight of the spruce and did not come out again. He would seek a sun-drenched glade where he could nurse his new antlers through the period when they were in the velvet. In a short time nubbins of furry, blood-filled soft horns would appear, rising from the scars of his old spread. During this time the monarch would be quiet and shy. He would not fight and he would avoid charges which would take him into the timber.

Midnight was climbing the ledge trail one night when he was faced by a strange and terrible creature. A great silvertip, with the sleep of winter still dulling his little eyes, came shambling down the narrow ledge. He was gaunt and in a savage mood. Midnight had come to consider this as his own trail. He had met the wolf pack almost on the spot where he now stood. He snorted and reared on his hind feet. The old silvertip kept on shambling toward him. Midnight laid back his ears and squealed. The ledge was too narrow to turn about easily, and it was his ledge.

Then the little stallion got a good whiff of rank bear scent and panic seized him. He tried to whirl about but the ledge was too narrow. The very thing that had made the ledge safe for him against the wolf pack made it a trap now. He reared again and his trim hoofs lashed out at the massive head and hairy chest of the silvertip.

The old bear saw the little horse for the first time when Midnight reared. His great jaws opened and a roar came up from his chest. He did not desire meat to eat, he wanted certain herbs and he wanted cold water, things to help his shrunken stomach adjust itself. But he never gave the trail to any except the skunk and the wolverine. In his present mood he was ready to smash anything that tried to halt him.

He straightened up and stood like a shaggy giant, advancing as a man would. One massive paw swept out. The blow struck Midnight with glancing force. Had it landed squarely it would have finished him. It over-balanced him and he slid off the trail. Kicking and lashing he plunged over the canyon rim.

The old silvertip shoved a swaying head over the edge and growled deeply, then he ambled down the trail and headed across the meadow, growling and grunting to himself. The yellow-belly sentinel blasted shrilly and the little dwellers of the meadow raced to their dens. The dogs slid down their runways and defiant “squit-tucks” came out of the ground. The silvertip paid no attention to the commotion he had caused. He strode on across the mesa.

Midnight dropped a few yards and landed with a thump on another ledge. A pile of earth matted with grass and berry bushes broke his fall. His head hung over a yawning chasm. Quickly he gathered himself together and scrambled to his feet. For a few minutes he stood pressing against the rock wall and trembling; he saw that he was on a ledge which sloped gently down to the meadow. There was no chance to leap back to the trail above, so he moved along the cliff, sliding, crowding against the wall.

He slid off the ledge onto solid ground matted with dry grass. He was in a cup-shaped hollow on the side of the canyon wall. He trotted through a matted tangle of willow and brush to the edge of the basin. From where he stood he could look down into Shadow Canyon. He could see the foaming waters of the Crazy Kill River. But a sheer wall prevented him from climbing down, so he explored the hollow.

There were not more than seven acres in the basin. Aspens grew close together over most of the ground, except in the center where a beaver colony had cut them away. In this clearing nestled a tiny lake. Two old beavers were swimming around in the water, inspecting the horseshoe-shaped dam at the lower side. When Midnight halted at the edge of the water the old beavers dived, slapping their tails with explosive sounds.

Midnight turned away from the lake. He did not like the confining feel of this little mesa. He limped as he walked and his shoulder pained him, but he was not hurt badly. He wandered all the way around the mesa and discovered no trail leading off it except at the lower end where a ten-foot crevice cut through a ledge along the side of the canyon wall. He turned back and began feeding uneasily on the green shoots pushing up through the dead grass.

The old beavers came up again and set to work. A ptarmigan strutted in the dry leaves under the aspens and a snowshoe rabbit hopped out of a thicket. The big bunny sat down and began nibbling on a tender weed-stalk.