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 against76 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 pointed77 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 and78 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 across79 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. Midnight80 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, bu............