Screaming and rolling, the cougar tried to escape, to get to his feet and leap clear of the smashing hoofs, but the hoofs beat him down and trampled him. Teeth tore at him as he twisted and lashed. His claws and teeth were poor protection against the sharp hoofs of the horses. He was battered back on the grass each time he tried to get his feet under him. In a minute’s time he was a bloody pulp and the mares had backed away. They stood in a circle around him, their nostrils flaring, their eyes rolling. Midnight danced about snorting and blowing excitedly. He was aware again of his power and was beginning to understand the job he had taken over from the chestnut. The mares stood waiting for him to decide what should be done. When he did not offer to lead them away from the scene of the kill an old mare struck out and the others followed except the mother whose colt was dead. She stood over him nickering and calling, trying to get him to his feet. The pinto went with the mares. She had been badly frightened by the attack and wanted to stay close beside her mother. Midnight trotted after the band and stood by while they bedded down in another meadow near the scene of the attack. He walked around sniffing and snorting, expecting another cougar to come out of the night. When nothing happened, he lay down for a few hours’ rest just before dawn. One of the old mares at once got up and set to feeding apart from the herd. She seemed to sense that Midnight had much to learn about leadership. The next day the band fed in the meadow until the old mare decided they should move on. Midnight did not offer to lead them, so she struck out. They headed deeper into the lush grass country. They passed many white-faced cows and yearling steers. Occasionally a lordly bull would saunter out of the shade to watch them. The band had invaded Major Howard’s finest grass belt. They did not know the danger this would bring, all they thought of was the fine grass and the plentiful supply of water in the clear, rushing streams. There was aspen shade for the middle of the day and there was spruce timber for shelter from the sudden and violent thunderstorms with their cold rain. The band soon forgot the chestnut stallion. Midnight was an easy master. He let them wander where they wished. But he was a fierce and terrible fighter when roused. They accepted him without much concern, giving way to his few demands. The thunderstorms seldom lasted over half an hour and the spruce needles shed the rain. Midnight was happy in the easy life. The pinto played with him, racing over the grass in the mornings or at dusk. She did what he demanded without making any demands of her own. And now Midnight had begun to watch for enemies while the herd fed. He was slowly learning what was expected of him. 12. Doom of the Band