While wolf-coursing is one of the most thrilling and exciting sports to
be enjoyed in this country, it is less indulged in than any other sport;
this, too, in the face of the fact that no country offers such excellent
opportunities for its practice. This is, no doubt, due to the fact that
it is a sport requiring special preparation, a thorough knowledge of
both the game and country, and is very trying on horse, rider and hound.
Russia seems to be the only country in which it has a foothold and a
permanent place in the hearts of its sportsmen. In fact, with the
Russians it might be called a national pastime. However, did it require
in this country the same outlay of money, time and preparation that it
does in Russia, I doubt very much its advancement as a sport.
There are really but two species of wolf in this country--the timber
wolf, generally called the gray, and the prairie wolf or coyote. In
different sections one hears of other varieties; but these, I believe,
are merely variations in color and size, and are not specific
differences. While the habits of the coyote or prairie wolf are well
known to a majority of sportsmen, it is not so with the timber or gray
wolf, and a few words in regard to the latter will not be amiss.
[Illustration: THE WOLF THROWING ZLOOEM.]
My experience is that the wolves of Montana and Wyoming are larger,
stronger and fiercer than those further south, though it is a fact that
the largest single wolf that I ever saw killed was in Arizona. However,
he was an exception to the general run of them there. If we may judge of
the Russian or European wolf from specimens to be seen in menageries and
zoological gardens, the American wolf, while not so tall or leggy, is
more compact, with heavier head, coarser muzzle, smaller ears, and
perhaps a little heavier in weight--the American wolf standing from 29
to 36 inches at shoulder, and weighing from 85 to 125 pounds. I am also
inclined to think that the American wolf is, when run down to a
death-finish, a much more formidable foe for dogs than his European
relative. I reached this conclusion only after hunting them with
high-priced hounds, that had won medals in Russia for wolf-killing, but
which demonstrated their utter inability even to hold American wolves.
Alive, the wolf is the enemy of man and beast, and when dead he is
almost useless. His skin has but little commercial value, and even dogs
refuse to eat his flesh. I have never known dogs to tear and mutilate a
wolf's carcass, and verily believe they would starve to death before
eating its flesh. And yet I have read accounts of hunters feeding their
dogs upon wolf meat. I recall an effort I made to cultivate in my dogs a
taste for wolf meat. I cut up a quantity of bear meat into small strips
and tossed them to the dogs, which would gulp them down before they
could fall upon the ground. Substituting a piece of wolf meat was of no
avail; they detected it instantly, and those which were fooled into
swallowing it immediately lost interest in the proceedings and walked
away.
The wolf is by nature cowardly, being deficient in courage comparative
to his strength and great size, but he often becomes courageous from
necessity. When reduced to extremity by hunger, he braves danger, and
has been known in numbers to attack man, though no such incident ever
came under my personal observation. I have had them dog my footsteps
throughout a long day's hunt, always managing to remain just beyond
gunshot distance; and upon one occasion, when I had shot a pheasant, one
actually carried it off in full view before I could reach it, and,
notwithstanding I fired several shots that must have come uncomfortably
close, he made off with his dangerously earned meal.
As a general thing, however, the wolf manifests a desire to run, rather
than fight, for life, and when alone will frequently tuck his tail
between his legs, and run like a stricken cur from a dog that he could
easily crush out of existence. They are great believers in the maxim,
"In union there is strength." The female, while apparently more timid
than the male, seems to lose all sense of danger when hemmed in and
forced to a fight, and attacks with intrepidity. I once shot a female at
long range, the bullet from my Winchester passing through her hind
quarters and breaking both legs. When I got up to her, she was
surrounded by the ranch dogs--an odd assortment of "mongrel puppy, whelp
and hound, and cur of low degree"--furiously attacking first one, then
another of them as they circled around her; and, though she was
partially paralyzed, dragging her hind quarters, she successfully stood
off the entire pack until another bullet ended the struggle. When in
whelp they fight with great obstinacy, and defend themselves with
intrepidity, being seemingly insensible to punishment. When captured
young they are susceptible of taming and domestication, though they are
never free from treachery. Though I have heard it denied, I know it to
be a fact that the dog has been successfully crossed upon the wolf. I
saw any number of the produce around the old Spotted Tail agency. They
closely resembled wolves, and were hardly distinguishable from them in
appearance, though generally lacking the good qualities of faithfulness
and attachment possessed by the dog.
The amount of damage a wolf can do in a horse or cattle country is
almost beyond belief. He slaughters indiscriminately, carrying waste and
destruction to any section he honors with his presence. When a pack of
these nocturnal marauders come across an unprotected flock of sheep, a
sanguinary massacre occurs, and not until they have killed, torn or
mangled the entire flock will they return to the mountains. Thus the
wolves become a scourge, and their depredations upon herds of sheep and
cattle cause no inconsiderable loss to the rancher. They frequently
plunder for days and nights together. I am not prepared to state whether
it is owing to daintiness of appetite or pure love of killing, but as it
is a fact that a single wolf has been known to kill a hundred sheep in a
night, it would seem that this indiscriminate slaughter was more to
satisfy his malignity than his hunger. It is a prevalent idea that the
wolf will eat putrid meat. This I have not found to be true. He seldom
if ever devours carcasses after they begin to putrify, choosing to hunt
for fresh spoils rather than to return to that which he had half
devoured, before leaving it to the tender mercies of the coyotes, who
have an appetite less nice.
The coyote is a good scavenger, following in the footsteps of the wolf,
and will pick bones until they glisten like ivory. His fondness for
domestic fowl and his thieving propensity often embolden him to enter
farmyards and even residences during the daytime; yet he often seems
contented to dine upon corrupt flesh, bones, hair, old boots and
saddles, and many remarkable gastronomic performances are credited to
him. I had occasion to "sleep out" one night in the Powder River
country, and, after picketing my horse, I threw my saddle upon the
ground near the picket pin, and, placing my cartridge belt beneath the
saddle--which I used as a pillow--I was soon sound asleep. Imagine my
surprise at daybreak--knowing there was not a human being within fifty
miles of me--to find that my cartridge belt was missing. After a short
search I found the cartridges some few hundred yards away, and a few
remnants of the belt. The coyotes had actually stolen this from under my
head without disturbing me, devoured it and licked all the grease from
the cartridges. I felt thankful that they had not devoured my rawhide
riata.
Of all animals that I have hunted, I consider the wolf the hardest to
capture or kill. There is only one way in which he can be successfully
coped with, and that is with a pack of dogs trained to the purpose and
thoroughly understanding their business. Dogs, as a rule, have
sufficient combativeness to assail any animal, and, as a general thing,
two or three of them can easily kill another animal of same size and
weight; but the wolf, with his wonderful vitality and tenacity of life,
combined with his thickness of skin, matted hair and resistant muscles,
is anything but an easy victim for even six or eight times his number.
I spent the winter of 1874-75 in a portion of the Rocky Mountains
uninhabited except by our own party. Wolves were very plentiful, and we
determined to secure as many pelts as possible. Owing to the rough
nature of the country and our inability to keep up with the dogs on
horseback, we tried poisoning, but with only moderate success. While
others claim it is an easy matter to poison wolves, we did not find it
so. In a country where game is plentiful, it is almost impossible to
poison them. We tried trapping them, with like results. Always
mistrustful and intensely suspicious, they imagine everything unusual
they see is a trap laid to betray or capture them, and with extreme
sagacity avoid everything strange and new. When caught, they frequently
gnaw off a foot or leg rather than be taken. Our cabin was surrounded by
a stockade wall, over which we could throw such portions of deer
carcasses as we did not use, and at nightfall the wolves, attracted by
the smell of the meat, would assemble on the outside, and we shot them
from the portholes. It required a death shot; for, if only wounded, no
matter how badly, they would manage to get far enough away from the
stockade to be torn into shreds by the survivors before we could drive
them off. I have always found the wolf a most difficult animal to shoot.
Endowed with wonderful powers of scent and extremely cunning, it is
almost impossible to stalk them. Frequently, after a long stalk after
one, have I raised my head to find him gone, his nose having warned him
of my approach.
The successful chase of the wolf requires a species of knowledge that
can be acquired only by experience. It also requires men, horses and
dogs trained and disciplined for the purpose; and woe to the man, horse
or dog that undertakes it without such preparation. The true sportsman
is not a blood-thirsty animal. The actual killing of an animal, its mere
death, is not sport. Therefore, upon several occasions, I have declined
to join a general wolf round-up, where men form a cordon, and, by
beating the country, drive them to a common center and kill them
indiscriminately. I have always preferred hunting them with hounds to
any other method of extermination. The enjoyment of sport increases in
proportion to the amount of danger to man and beast engaged in it, and
for this reason coursing wolves has always held a peculiar fascination
for me. A number of years spent in the far West afforded me ample
opportunity to indulge my tastes in this line of sport, so my knowledge
of wolf-hunting and the habits of the wolf has been derived from
personal experience and from association with famous hunters.
The principal drawback to the pleasure of wolf-coursing is the danger to
a good horse from bad footing, and the possible mutilation and death of
a favorite dog--death and destruction of hounds being often attendant
upon the capture and death of a full-grown wolf. I do not know that I
can give a better idea of the sport than by describing a day's
wolf-hunting I enjoyed in the early seventies near Raw Hide Butte, in
Wyoming.
We had notified the cook, an odd character who went by the name of
Steamboat, to call us by daybreak. As we sat up late talking about the
anticipated pleasures of the morrow, it seemed to me that I had hardly
closed my eyes when Steamboat's heavy cavalry boots were heard beating a
tattoo on the shack door. I rolled out of my bunk, to find Maje and
Zach, my companions in the hunt, dressed and pulling on their shaps.
Hastily dressing, I followed them out to the corral just as the gray
tints of earliest morning were gathering in the sky. The horses had been
corralled the night before, and, with Steamboat standing in the door,
using anything but choice language at our delay in coming to breakfast,
we saddled up. Having ridden my own horse, a sturdy half-breed from Salt
Lake, very hard the day before in running down a wounded antelope, I
decided on a fresh mount; and, as luck would have it, I selected one of
the best lookers in the band, only to find out later, to my sorrow, that
I had fallen upon the only bucking horse in the lot. While we
breakfasted upon antelope steak, flapjacks and strong coffee, Steamboat
was harnessing a couple of wiry cayuses to a buckboard, and, as we came
out, we found him with the strike dogs chained to the seat behind him,
impatient to be off. The party consisted of Maje, a long-legged,
slab-sided, six-foot Kentuckian, mounted on a "States" horse; Zach, an
out-and-out typical cowboy, who had come up from Texas on the trail,
mounted on a pinto that did not look as though he had been fed since his
arrival in the territory, but, as Zach knowingly remarked, "No route was
too long or pace too hot for him"; Steamboat in the buckboard, holding
with a pair of slips Dan, an English greyhound, and Scotty, a Scotch
deerhound; while the other dogs, consisting of a pair of young
greyhounds, a pair of cross-bred grey and deerhounds, and Lead, an
old-time Southern foxhound, were making the horses miserable by jumping
first at their heads, then at their heels, in their eagerness to
facilitate the start; and myself on the bucking broncho.
While crossing the creek a few hundred yards above the ranch, I heard
old Lead give mouth, a short distance ahead, in a chaparral rendered
impenetrable by tangled undergrowth, and which formed secure covert for
countless varmints. Knowing that he never threw his tongue without
cause, I dug my spurs into my horse, with the intention of joining him.
But I reckoned without my host, and for the next few minutes all my
energies were devoted to sticking to my horse, who then and there in the
creek bed proceeded to give an illustration of bucking that would have
put the wild West buckers to shame. Lead had jumped a coyote that put
off with all the speed that deadly terror could impart--all the dogs
after him full tilt. It required quite a display of energy upon the part
of Zach and his pinto to whip the dogs off; and, had it not been for the
fact that Dan and Scotty--who had jerked Steamboat literally out of the
buckboard and raced off together with the slips dangling about their
heels--ran into a bush, and the slips catching held them fast, we would
have been called upon to participate in a coyote and not a
wolf-hunt--as, when once slipped, no human power could have stopped
these dogs until they had tested the metal of Brer Coyote. By the time
Zach and the dogs returned, I had convinced my broncho that I was not a
tenderfoot, having "been there before," and he was contented to keep at
least two feet upon the ground at the same time.
We rode probably five or six miles, carefully scanning the trackless
plains, without sighting a wolf, when Maje, who had ridden off a mile
to our right, was seen upon a butte wildly waving his hat. We
instinctively knew that game was afoot, and, as he disappeared, we
commenced a wild stampede for the butte. Steamboat, with slips and reins
in one hand and blacksnake whip in the other, came thundering after us,
lashing his team into a wild, mad run--and how he managed to hold
himself and dogs on the bounding buckboard was a mystery to me. Reaching
the butte, we espied Maje a mile away, riding for dear life. It did not
take long to decide, from the general direction taken, that the wolf
would shortly return to us. Keeping well back out of sight, we
impatiently awaited his return, and, had it not been for the pure
malignity of my broncho, the wolf would have doubled back within a few
hundred yards of us, and a close race have resulted.
I had taken the dogs from Steamboat, and, with the release cord of the
slips around my wrist, sat in the saddle ready to sight and slip the
dogs. Becoming impatient under the restraint, the dogs ran behind my
horse, and, as the strap of the slips got under his tail, he again
commenced bucking, and before I could control him we were in full view
of the wolf, which, upon sighting us, veered off to the left. Although
not over a half mile away, the dogs failed to sight him. With a cheer to
the loose dogs, we pushed forward at top speed, the cracking of the
quirts upon our horses' flanks being echoed in the rear by the incessant
popping of Steamboat's whip as he lashed the panting cayuses to the top
of their speed in a vain effort to keep up with us.
We joined Maje at the point where we had last seen the wolf, which by
this time had disappeared. Going over a rise, we dropped down into an
arroyo, where the foxhound again gave tongue, and started back on the
trail almost in the same direction in which we had come. Thinking that
for once he was at fault, and back-tracking, I took the two dogs in
slips up the arroyo, while Maje, Zach and the pack of dogs followed the
foxhound, and were soon out of sight and hearing. Circling around for
some distance and seeing no sign of the wolf, I rode upon a high point,
and, searching the country carefully through my glasses, I could see the
party probably a mile and a half away; and, from the manner in which
they were getting over the ground, I knew they had again sighted. A
hard ride of two miles, in which the dogs almost dragged me from my
horse in their eagerness, brought me within sighting distance of the
dogs--the voice of the foxhound, which was in the rear, floating back to
me in strong and melodious tones across the plains. Slipping Dan and
Scotty, they went from the slips like a pair of bullets and soon left me
far behind. Upon rounding a point of rocks, I saw one of the young dogs
lying upon the ground. A hasty glance showed me, from the violent manner
in which he strained to catch his breath, that he had tackled the wolf
and his windpipe was injured. It afterward developed that he had become
separated from the pack, and, in cutting across country, had imprudently
taken hold of the wolf, which, with one snap of his powerful jaws, had
utterly disabled him, and then continued his flight. Like most wolves,
he seemed to be able to keep up the pace he had set over all kinds of
ground. It seemed to him a matter of indifference whether the way was up
or down hill, and he evidently sought the roughest and stoniest ground,
following ravines and coulees--this giving him a great advantage over
horses and hounds. My horse beginning to show signs of distress, I
realized that, if the chase was to be a straightaway, I would see but
little of it and probably not be in at the death anyway; so I again
sought a high point that gave a commanding view over a large area of
country, and determined to await developments. Every once in a while,
with the aid of my glasses, I could see the pack, fairly well bunched,
straining every muscle, running as though for life. I could catch
occasional glimpses of the wolf far in advance, as he scurried through
the sagebrush, showing little power of strategy, but a determined
obstinacy to outfoot his relentless foes.
Fortune again favored me. By degrees the superior speed and stamina of
the hounds began to tell, though both seemed to be running with
undiminished speed. The wolf, finding that, with all his speed and
cunning, they were slowly but surely overtaking him, circled in my
direction, and I was soon again an important factor in the hunt, urging
the dogs with shouts of encouragement. I was now near enough to note
that one of the young greyhounds, which had evidently been running
cunning by lying back and cutting across, was far in advance of the
pack--not over 100 yards behind the wolf, and gaining rapidly. Striking
a rise in the ground, he overtook the wolf and seized him by the
shoulder. The wolf seemed to drag him several yards before he reached
around, and with his powerful, punishing jaws gave him a slash that laid
his skull bare and rolled him over on the prairie.
Slight as this interruption was, it encouraged Dan to greater effort,
and the next minute he had distanced the pack, nailed the wolf by the
jowl, and over they went, wolf on top. Scotty was but a few paces
behind, and, taking a hind hold, tried to stretch him. With a mighty
effort the wolf tore himself loose from both and started to run again.
He had not gone thirty paces before Scotty bowled him over again.
Rising, he sullenly faced his foes, who, with wholesome respect for his
glistening ivories, seemed to hesitate while recovering their wind, as
they were sadly blown after their long run, the day being an intensely
hot one. At this point I rode up. The wolf lay closely hugging the
ground, his swollen tongue protruding from foam-flecked chops, and with
keen and wary eye he watched the maddened pack circling about looking
for a vulnerable point. Varied experience in the art of self-defense
had taught him skill and quickness, and as each dog essayed to assail
him he found a threatening array of teeth. Throwing myself from the
saddle, I cheered them on. Dan and Scotty hesitated no longer, but
rushed savagely at him, one on either side, and the whole pack,
including the one recently scalped, regardless of his gaping wound,
followed them.
For a few minutes the pile resembled a struggling mass of dogs, and the
air seemed filled with flying hair, fur and foam, and the snapping of
teeth was like castanets. At first the wolf seemed only intent upon
shaking off his foes and escaping, but the punishment he was receiving
could not long be borne; and from then on to the last gasp, with eyes
flaming with rage, every power seemingly put forth, he fought like a
demon possessed. As he tossed the dogs about, seemingly breaking their
hold at will, I was singularly impressed with his enormous size and
strength, his shaggy appearance and his generally savage look, and
suggested to Maje and Zach, who had come up in the meantime, that we
take a hand in the fray, as I doubted the ability of the dogs to finish
him without serious loss. However, we decided to give them the
opportunity, and ere long they had him _hors de combat_, stretched upon
the ground, his body crimson with his own life's blood, in the last
throes of death. He was one of the largest specimens I had ever seen,
weighing not less than 120 pounds, the green pelt weighing twenty-four.
His carcass, when stood up alongside of Scotty, seemed several inches
taller, and I afterward measured the latter and found him to be
thirty-one inches.
All of the dogs received more or less punishment; none escaped
scathless, but really much less damage was done than I expected. This
was owing to the fact that Dan and Scotty, two of the staunchest seizers
I ever saw, engaged him constantly in front, while the other dogs
literally disemboweled him. Scotty had a bad cut on the side of the
neck, requiring several stitches to close, and the muscles of his
shoulder were laid bare; while Dan's most serious hurt was a cut from
dome of skull to corner of eye, from which he never entirely recovered,
as he ever afterward had a weeping eye. One of the cross-breeds, whose
pads were not well indurated, suffered from lacerated feet, and one of
his stoppers was torn almost off, necessitating removal. A wolf's bite
is both cruel and dangerous, and wounds on dogs are obstinate and very
hard to heal--more so than those of any other animal. While skinning the
wolf, our horses were standing with lowered heads, heaving flanks,
shaking and trembling limbs; my horse, much to my satisfaction,
evidently without a good buck left in him.
After a full hour's rest for man and beast, we started back to the
ranch. Taking Steamboat with the buckboard, I went back to the point of
rocks with the intention of taking up the injured dog. Upon arrival
there no trace of him could be found; he had mysteriously disappeared.
Thinking that he had recovered sufficiently to make his way back to the
ranch, we increased our speed and soon joined the others, who had been
heading directly for home. The ride home was devoid of incident, the
monotony being occasionally broken by our frantic efforts to restrain
the dogs from chasing innumerable jack rabbits that bounded away on
three legs, in their most tantalizing way, inviting us to a chase. We
also got within rifle shot of a band of antelope, seeming quite at ease,
feeding and gamboling sportively with each other, until a pistol shot
at long range sent them skimming gracefully over the plains, finally
vanishing like a flying shadow in the distance. While crossing the creek
below, and within sight of the ranch, we again heard Lead give tongue in
the chaparral above the ranch, and in a few minutes he had a coyote
busy, doubtless the same one we had disturbed in taking a constitutional
in the morning. The dogs, now a sorry looking set, had been jogging
lazily along behind us, but in a moment were all life and action. Their
spirits were contagious, and, though we had positively agreed under no
circumstances to run a coyote, we very soon found ourselves flying after
the vanishing pack in full pursuit. A pretty race ensued. When first
dislodged the coyote appeared lame to such an extent that I thought his
leg broken; but after warming up this affection entirely disappeared,
and the pace was a hot one for the first mile. The dogs ran well
together, and were gradually lessening the gap between them and their
wily foe, who, realizing this, displayed tact in selecting the very
worst possible ground for footing, and soon regained his lost vantage.
It began to look as though the coyote would again give us the slip,
when one of the young dogs, that Zach in his excitement had ridden over
several minutes before and presumably killed, was seen to dash out from
a draw and bowl over the coyote. His hold was not a good one, but he
succeeded in turning the coyote, who then made a straight line for a
bunch of cattle grazing near, becoming temporarily unsighted among the
cattle. The dogs again fell behind, and when again sighted the coyote
was making a bee line for the ranch. By the time the creek was reached,
he was in evident distress and sorely pressed. With a final effort he
dashed through the creek up the opposite bank, and, as he dodged into
the open corral gate, one of the greyhounds flicked the hair from his
hind quarters. It was his last effort. By the time we reached the
corral, he was being literally pulled to pieces. We could not see that
he made additional wounds upon any of the dogs. In the excitement of the
finish of the chase I had lost Maje, and it was only after the death in
the corral that I missed him. Going to the adobe wall, I peered over and
saw him some distance away standing beside his horse. Upon going back to
him, we found that his horse had stepped into a prairie dog hole,
throwing him violently, and, turning a somersault, had landed upon him.
The only damage to Maje was, he had been converted for the time being
into a cactus pincushion; but his "States" horse had broken his fore leg
at the pastern joint and had to be shot.
After the long run of the morning, this race afforded us ample scope for
testing both the speed and staying qualities of the dogs as well as of
our horses.
We were disappointed in not finding the injured dog at the ranch. In
fact, he was never afterward heard of, and doubtless crawled away among
the rocks and died alone. After sewing up Scotty's wounds, dressing the
minor cuts of the other dogs and removing the cactus and prickly pear
points from their feet (the latter not a small job by any means), we
were soon doing full justice to Steamboat's satisfying if not appetizing
meal.
In contrast to our simple preparations and equipment for this, an
average wolf-hunt in that country, wolf-hunts in Russia, as described to
me by my friend, St. Allen, of St. Petersburg, are certainly grand
affairs; but when the two methods of hunting are compared, I cannot but
believe that the balance of sport is in our favor.
I have frequently been asked what breed of dogs I consider best for
wolf-hunting. Having tried nearly all kinds, experience and observation
justify me in asserting that the greyhound is undoubtedly the best. In
the first place, there is no question of their ability to catch wolves,
and, when properly bred and reared, their courage is undoubted. It is a
general supposition that the greyhound is devoid of the power of scent.
This is a mistake, as can be attested by anyone who has ever hunted them
generally in the West upon large game, especially wolves, which give a
stronger scent than any other animal. Of course, this power is not as
well developed in the greyhound as in other breeds, because the uses to
which he is put do not require scent, and, under the law of evolution,
it has deteriorated as a natural consequence. Unrivaled in speed and
endurance, these qualities have been developed and bred for, while the
olfactory organs have been necessarily neglected by restricting the work
of the dogs to sight hunting. Experience has taught me that they are the
only breed of dogs that, without special training or preparation, will
take hold and stay in the fight with the first wolf they encounter until
they have killed him. I have heard it said that this was because they
did not have sense enough to avoid a wolf. At all events, it is a fact
that they will unhesitatingly take hold of a wolf when dogs older,
stronger and better adapted to fighting will refuse to do so. I have
found that, while all dogs will hunt or run a fox spontaneously, with
seeming pleasure, they have a natural repugnance and great aversion to
the proverbially offensive odor peculiar to the wolf. I once hunted a
pack of high-bred foxhounds, noted for their courage. They had not only
caught and killed scores of red foxes, but had also been used in running
down and killing sheep-killing dogs. Though they had never seen a wolf,
I did not doubt for an instant that they would kill one. While they
trailed and ran him true, pulling him down in a few miles, they utterly
refused to break him up when caught. The following extract, from an
article I wrote some years ago on the "Greyhound," for the "American
Book of the Dog," expresses my views of the courage and adaptability of
the greyhound for wolf-hunting:
"A general impression prevails that the greyhound is a timid animal,
lacking heart and courage. This may be true of some few strains of the
breed, but, could the reader have ridden several courses with me at
meetings of the American Coursing Club which I have judged, and have
seen greyhounds, as I have seen them, run until their hind legs refused
to propel them further, and then crawl on their breasts after a
thoroughly used up jack rabbit but a few feet in advance, the singing
and whistling in their throats plainly heard at fifty yards, literally
in the last gasp of death, trying to catch their prey, he or she would
agree with me in crediting them with both the qualities mentioned."
In hunting the antelope, it is not an uncommon thing to see a greyhound,
especially in hot weather, continue the chase until he dies before his
master reaches him. An uninjured antelope is capable of giving any
greyhound all the work he can stand, and unless the latter is in prime
condition his chances are poor indeed to throttle. A peculiar feature of
the greyhound is that he always attacks large game in the throat, head
or fore part of the body. I have even seen them leave the line of the
jack rabbit to get at his throat. Old "California Joe," at one time
chief of scouts with Gen. Custer, in 1875 owned a grand specimen of the
greyhound called Kentuck, presented to him by Gen. Custer. I saw this
dog, in the Big Horn country, seize and throw a yearling bull buffalo,
which then dragged the dog on his back over rough stones, trampled and
pawed him until his ears were split, two ribs broken, and neck and fore
shoulders frightfully cut and lacerated, yet he never released his hold
until a Sharps rifle bullet through the heart of the buffalo ended the
unequal struggle. Talk about a lack of courage! I have seen many a
greyhound single-handed and alone overhaul and tackle a coyote, and in a
pack have seen them close in and take hold of a big gray timber wolf or
a mountain lion and stay throughout the fight, coming out bleeding and
quivering, with hardly a whole skin among them. In point of speed,
courage, fortitude, endurance and fine, almost human judgment, no
grander animal lives than the greyhound. He knows no fear; he turns from
no game animal on which he is sighted, no matter how large or how
ferocious. He pursues with the speed of the wind, seizes the instant he
comes up with the game, and stays in the fight until either he or the
quarry is dead. Of all dogs these are the highest in ambition and
courage, and, when sufficiently understood, they are capable of great
attachment.
In selecting dogs for wolf-killing, the most essential qualities to be
desired are courage, strength and stamina to sustain continued exertion,
with plenty of force and dash. Training is a matter requiring unlimited
patience, coupled with firmness and judgment, and a large amount of love
for a dog. It also requires constant watchfulness of a dog's every
movement and mood to make a successful wolf-courser of him. Many a good
dog has been ruined at the outset by not being fully understood.
They should receive their first practical work when about one year old,
provided they are sufficiently developed to stand the hard work
necessary. They generally have mind enough at this age to know what is
expected of them. It is, of course, better to hunt a young dog first
with older and experienced dogs, which will take hold of any kind of
game. The larger and stronger the dog, the better; for it requires
immense powers of endurance, hardihood and strength to hold, much less
kill, a wolf. The latter are particularly strong in the fore quarters
and muscles of the neck and jaw. As an evidence of their great strength,
I saw a wolf, while running at full speed, seize the Siberian wolfhound
Zlooem by the shoulder and throw him bodily into the air, landing him on
his back several feet away, and yet this wolf did not weigh as much as
the dog.
Particular care should be taken to see that a young dog gets started
right in his practical training. Encourage him with your presence; do
all you can to see that he is sighted promptly; spare no expense or
pains in getting a good mount, and keep as close as possible during the
fighting; enliven him with your voice, and encourage him to renewed
effort; for his ardor increases in proportion to the encouragement and
praise received. Ride hard, to be in early at the death. His confidence
once gained, he will place implicit reliance in your assistance; but,
let him be beaten off once or twice through lack of encouragement, and
he will soon lose his relish for the sport and show a disposition to
hang back; while he may seem to be doing his best, a practiced eye will
soon detect a want of ardor and dash. A pack of hounds, with a good
strike dog and confidence in their owner, will carry everything before
them; by keeping them in good heart they always expect success to crown
their efforts.
If from any cause in the final struggle the dogs are getting the worst
of it, or the other dogs refuse to assist the seizers, one must not
hesitate an instant about assisting them; this requires perfect
coolness, self-control and presence of mind, so as not to injure the
dog. To attempt the use of the pistol or gun is too dangerous. A
well-directed blow with a good strong hunting knife, delivered between
the shoulders, will generally break the spine, leaving the wolf entirely
at the mercy of the hounds.
I would advise no one to attempt the Russian method of taping the jaws
while the wolf is held by the seizers. I had an experience of this kind
once. After a long chase, the wolf, in his efforts to escape, leaped a
wall, and, in alighting upon the farther side, thrust his head and neck
through a natural loop formed by a grapevine growing around a tree.
Reaching him as soon as the hounds, I fought them off; but, although he
was virtually as fast as if in a vise, it required the united efforts of
five of us to bind his legs and tape his jaws, and this was only
accomplished after a severe struggle of some minutes. I am sure I would
not have trusted any dog or dogs I ever hunted to have held him during
this operation.
One should always be provided with a spool of surgeon's silk and a
needle, for these will assuredly be called into use. Old Major, a
greyhound owned by Dr. Van Hummel and myself, full of years and honors,
is still alive. He was a typical seizer and afraid of nothing that wore
hair. His entire body is seamed with innumerable scars, and has been
sewed up so often that he resembles a veritable piece of needlework. As
an evidence of his speed, strength and early training, I recollect that,
shortly after I had hunted him in the West, I had him at my home in
Kentucky. The Doctor was on a visit to me, and we had taken Major to the
country with us while inspecting stock farms. At Wyndom Place, where we
were admiring a handsome two-year-old Longfellow colt, running loose in
the field, the owner, before we were aware of his intention, set Major
after the colt "to show his speed and style." We both instantly saw his
error, but it was too late--we could not call the dog off. He soon
overhauled the colt, and, springing at his throat, down they went in a
heap--the colt, worth a thousand dollars, ruined for life.
One of the most glaring instances of improper training and handling of
wolfhounds that ever came under my observation was the Colorado
wolf-hunt that attracted so much attention in the sporting press of this
country, England and Russia. Mr. Paul Hacke, an enthusiastic fancier, of
Pittsburg, Pa., while in Russia attended a wolf-killing contest in which
the barzois contested with captive wolves. He became so much enamored of
the sport that he purchased a number of trained barzois and brought them
to this country. They were a handsome lot and attracted much attention
while being exhibited at the bench shows. I was one of the official
judges at the Chicago Bench Show in 1892, and wolfhound classes were
assigned me. While I admired them very much for their handsome, showy
appearance, I expressed grave doubts as to their ability to catch and
kill timber wolves, notwithstanding I had read graphic accounts of
their killing coyotes in thirty-five seconds. This doubt was shared and
expressed by others present who had had practical experience in
wolf-hunting. This coming to the ears of Mr. Hacke, who is always
willing to back his opinion with his money, he issued a sweeping
challenge offering to match a pair of barzois against any pair of dogs
in the United States for a wolf-killing contest, for $500 a side. His
challenge was promptly accepted by Mr. Geo. McDougall, of Butte City,
Montana.
I was selected to judge the match, and in the spring of 1892 we made up
a congenial carload and journeyed to Hardin, in the wilds of Colorado,
where our sleeper was sidetracked. Arrangements were made at an
adjoining horse ranch, and every morning a band of horses was promptly
on hand at daylight. On the night of our arrival at Hardin, a fine
saddle horse had been hamstrung in his owner's stable by wolves. It was
a pitiful sight, and added zest to our determination to exterminate as
many as possible.
We were awakened from our sound sleep the first morning by the familiar
sounds of saddling, accompanied by the pawing and bucking of horses,
swearing of men, and snarling and growling of dogs. After a hasty
breakfast, eaten by lamplight, we were soon mounted and in motion for
the rendezvous. We had hardly crossed the Platte River, near which our
camp was located, before the advance guard announced a wolf in full
flight. A glance through my field-glasses convinced me that it was an
impudent coyote, and we continued our search. We had probably ridden an
hour through sand and cactus before one of the hunters had a wolf up and
going.
McDougall had selected Black Sam, a cross between a deerhound and a
greyhound, as his first representative, and he was accordingly in the
slips with a magnificent-looking barzoi representing Mr. Hacke. Porter,
from Salt Lake, the slipper and an old-time hunter, had all he could do
to hold them until the word to slip was given. They went away from the
slips in great style, the barzoi getting a few feet the best of it; but
in the lead up to the wolf the cross-breed made a go-by, and, overtaking
the flying wolf, unhesitatingly seized and turned it. Before it could
straighten out for another run, the barzoi was upon it, and
unfortunately took a hind hold, which it easily broke. The cross-breed,
without having received a cut or even a pinch, lost all interest in the
proceedings, and stood around looking on as unconcerned as though there
was not a wolf within a hundred miles; and, though the wolf assumed a
combative attitude, at bay, ready to do battle, and made no effort to
avoid her canine foes, neither dog could be induced to tackle her again.
The barzoi acted as though he was willing if any assistance was afforded
by the half-breed. Neither of these dogs showed any evidence of
cowardice, in my opinion, though credited with it by representatives of
the press present. The evidences of this feeling are unmistakable, and I
have seen fear and terror too often expressed by dogs, when attacked or
run by wolves, not to recognize it when present. They did not turn a
hair, and walked about within twenty feet of the wolf with their tails
carried as gayly as though they were on exhibition at a bench show. Very
different was the action of a rancher's dog, evidently a cross between a
St. Bernard and a mastiff, that came up at this stage of the game. As
soon as he caught sight of the wolf, every hair on his back reversed,
his tail drooped between his legs, and the efforts of three strong men
could hardly have held him. This I call fear and cowardice; the actions
of the others, a lack of proper training and knowledge of how to fight.
As the wolf was a female and apparently heavy with whelp, I at the time
thought this was the cause of their queer actions; but later, when
skinning the wolf for the pelt, I found no evidence of whelp, but a
stomach full of calf's flesh. In the second course, Allan Breck, a big,
powerful Scotch deerhound, and Nipsic, a lighter female of the same
breed, were put in the slips and a male wolf put up. They readily
overhauled him. Allan, leading several lengths in the run up, promptly
took a shoulder hold and bowled over the wolf; then, as though he
considered his whole duty performed, quietly looked on, while Nipsic
kept up a running fight with the wolf, attacking him a score of times,
but was unable alone to disable or kill him. It was only after the wolf
and Nipsic were lassoed and dragged apart by horsemen that she desisted
in her crude efforts to kill the wolf. She displayed no lack of courage,
but a total lack of training and knowledge of how to fight. In the final
course two grand specimens of the barzoi were placed in the slips; one
of them, Zlooem, a magnificent animal, all power and life, who had won
the Czar's gold medal in St. Petersburg in a wolf contest, impressed me
forcibly with the idea that, if he once obtained a throat hold, it would
be all over with the wolf. On this occasion I had a most excellent
mount, a thoroughbred Kentucky race mare, and, as one of the conditions
of the match was that I alone was to be allowed to follow the hounds, I
determined to stay with them throughout the run at all hazards, and to
be in at the death. The wolf was put up in the bottom land of the Platte
River. The footing was excellent, and, as he had but a few hundred
yards' start, I was enabled to be within fifty yards of them throughout
the run and fighting. The wolf at first started off as though he had
decided to depend upon speed to save his pelt, disdaining to employ his
usual stratagem, and the hounds gained but little upon him. Finding that
but one horseman and two strange-looking animals were following him, he
slackened his pace, and in an incredibly short time Zlooem was upon even
terms with him, and, seizing by the throat, over and over they went in a
cloud of sand, from which the wolf emerged first, again on the retreat,
with both hounds after him full tilt. Within a hundred yards they again
downed him, only to be shaken off. This was repeated probably a half
dozen times, and, though both the barzois had throat and flank holds,
they were unable to "stretch him." After five minutes of fast and
furious fighting, they dashed into a bunch of frightened cattle and
became separated. Though I immediately cut the wolf out of the bunch of
cattle and he limped off in full view, the dogs were too exhausted to
follow, and their condition was truly pitiable. Zlooem staggered about
and fell headlong upon his side, unable to rise. Both were so thoroughly
exhausted from their tremendous efforts that they could not stand upon
their feet; their tongues were swollen and protruding full length, their
breath came in short and labored gasps, the whistle and rattle in their
throats was audible at some distance, while their legs trembled and were
really unable to sustain the weight of their bodies. At the expiration
of ten minutes, I signaled the slippers to come and take the dogs up;
and thus ended the bid of the Russian wolfhound for popularity in this
country.
Upon our return to Denver we were waited upon by a ranchman who had
heard of the failure of a pair of these dogs to catch and kill wolves.
He stated that he had a leash of greyhounds that could catch and kill
gray timber wolves, and deposited $500 to bind a match to that effect.
He was very much in earnest, and I regretted that we could not raise a
purse of $500, as I should like to have seen the feat performed--my
experience being that it required from four to six to accomplish this,
and that even then they have to understand their business thoroughly.
_Roger D. Williams._