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.