Up on the mesa the old buck had whirled about to dash for the safety of the timber and the castle rocks. He had ample time to escape and should have outdistanced his pursuers, but his stiffened legs refused to lift with the smooth power he had always possessed. Before he was halfway to cover the pack was leaping around him, their yellow eyes flaming, their red tongues jerking over white fangs. There on the flat mesa the old monarch made his last stand. With sweeping, thrusting antlers he met the leaping attack of the gray killers. They darted and lunged and dodged around him, keeping up a mad chorus of yelping and snarling. The old buck could not guard his vital parts against all the wolves. One after another they slid under his frantic, thrusting antlers to rip gashes in his flanks and legs. Snorting and blowing savagely he fought with horns and lashing hoofs. The wolves knew they would win and they kept up their ripping, tearing tactics, never fastening on the big fellow long enough for his sharp hoofs to strike them. Weakened by the loss of blood, staggering as each new wound opened, the old fellow fought his way stubbornly toward the timber. Every foot of his retreating trail was marked by bloody, trampled snow. One of the wolves, taking advantage of the slowing thrusts of the old buck’s antlers, dodged in and slashed the tendons of a hind leg. Slowly, with antlers still lashing, the old monarch settled down into the snow and lay beating with his forelegs and jerking his head. Instantly every wolf was on him and their howls were more savage than before. The end of the monarch was the destined end of all wild dwellers. The end of a life of struggle and constant alertness. The law of the wild was fulfilled. While youth and vigor gave him power and speed the buck lived and went his way, but when that strength slipped from him he went down before the gray killers. Under the big spruce Midnight stood listening to the growling and snarling of the pack as they tore the warm flesh from the bones of the old buck. He watched and waited, expecting the pack to come leaping down the ledge trail and across the slide-filled fissure. But they did not scent him because the wind always blew off the high mesa and seldom came up out of the canyon except in the spring. When the killers had stripped the bones and cracked the ones their powerful jaws could break they left the mangled carcass and raced away through the moonlight, seeking another victim. Then the little fox came out of his den and a pair of coyotes trotted up from the shadows under the spruce at the lower end of the mesa. The little fox and the coyotes fought over the bones, dragging them away to spots where they could lie down and gnaw them or crack them and lick the still warm marrow fat from their centers. 11. New Trails