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.