Tex shook his head. “You won’t see her at any track, boss.” He paused and his gaze was somber; he was watching the chipmunks romping in the grass over by the castle rocks. Sam had brought those little fellers in. He’d be right surprised to know there was at least a half dozen more of them now. Tex made a mental note of the increase. He’d tell Sam when he stopped by to see him. “The old fool is better off where he is. He has decent grub and a warm place to sleep,” the major said gruffly. “He don’t seem much interested in anything. Did ask if the mare showed up, though, when I stopped by to see him.” Tex swung into his saddle. “You let your feelings get the best of you,” the major said. It irritated him the way Tex stubbornly clung to his belief that Sam was innocent. “Besides, he came near killing a man,” the major added as though to clinch the argument. Tex said no more. The major was not his kind. He was really a stranger in the high country, and a good deal of a tenderfoot in many ways. Like Sam, Tex had lived all his life in the rough mountain country. The range boss had long since ceased trying to understand his employer. “I reckon he did plug that deputy,” he agreed. His manner and tone said plainly that he would have done the same thing. They rode on in silence. Tex drew himself into his shell and spoke only when he had to answer a question, but he kept thinking about the pile of bones. He thought of Sam too. The last time Tex visited the old fellow Sam had a strange look in his eyes. Tex could not forget that look; it haunted him. It was a homesick, lonesome look. 10. Escape Midnight was never quite satisfied within the confining walls of his prison. There was plenty of fine grass, shade, and water, but the constant feeling that he was being held a prisoner irked him. He worked out a route around the outer limits of the meadow which gave him a chance to run. There was an open stretch along the high walls. From there he made a trail above the beaver lake through a pile of slide rock that had fallen from the cliff above. The trail swung to the lip of the canyon, following a crooked course until it curved back and around the lake again. Big rocks and fallen trees offered barriers. The little stallion soon learned to take these barriers in clean jumps which sent the blood pounding through him. The racing gave him an outlet for his energy, a chance to give play to his growing muscles. Snorting, shying, and whinnying shrilly he would race around and around, his mane and tail flying, his nostrils flaring. The exercise kept his body tough and hard. The blood of the chestnut stallion which flowed in his veins would not let him surrender to the peaceful existence offered by the sheltered meadow.