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.