WITH THE COYOTES.
By Louis Wessel.
While the tourist speeds across the cheerless plains on his way
westward, snugly seated in the upholstered berths of an overland
limited, the objects of attraction over the landscape are so rare
that he will find little desire to spend or waste, as he will say,
much time in viewing the scenery; and instead, will settle down to a
book or something or other less monotonous than that almost boundless
stretch of country, through which he must pass, before he can expect
to see the rugged peaks of the Rockies loom up about the distant
horizon. Swiftly the limited is carrying him toward his destination,
yet slowly very slowly the time passes for him, as hour after hour
wears away without bringing a change of scene, until even the
monotony of the situation begins to generate in him an interest for
the surroundings.
He lends a closer scrutiny to the objects as they speed by. "Why is
yonder bluff so lifeless and dreary?" he mused. "What fantastic forms
are those near it?" They are but spurs of the famous "Bad Lands."
"And this large field of bushes, what is it," he inquires. Some newly
formed friend who is better acquainted with the nature of the Great
Plains will inform him that this is but a patch of sage bush, an
aridity loving plant, characteristic of this region. He will explain
that yonder mounds are part of a prairie dog town, and the little
marmot like forms, perched in their peculiar attitudes on the little
round knolls, represent the inhabitants of this populous city. The
traveler has oft heard of prairie dogs, and is surprised on a close
acquaintance with them. They appear so different from what his mind
has pictured them. He watches them scamper to their burrows, sit up
for a moment on their haunches and dive out of sight.
His interest, however, is not completely aroused until he catches
sight of a dog like form, half hidden among the sage bush. He watches
it as it disinterestedly trots along with drooping head and tail, a
picture of despair, most perfectly suited to its environments. Once
it stops all alert, looks back over its shoulder, ears pointed and
nose uplifted, and the train leaves it behind in all its loneliness.
This is our first acquaintance of the coyote or prairie wolf. Coyotes
are of several varieties, each differing from the rest through
certain peculiarities in form, size or color, and each having a well
defined geographical range. Collectively they range from the upper
Mississippi Valley westward through the Great Plains and Rocky
Mountains, southward to northern Mexico and northward into British
Columbia and the Northwest Territories.
While the coyote is found in one or another of its forms, in greater
or lesser numbers throughout this region, its most congenial home is
among the Bad Lands and among the sandstone ridges, steep sided
buttes and deep narrow coulees and canyons in the Colorado and upper
Missouri Valleys, and it is here that its greatest numbers are found.
Being thoroughly fitted to these surroundings it has been enabled to
hold its own through the advent of civilization, while most of its
larger co-inhabitants have been sadly reduced in numbers.
It is true that the combined actions of poisons, traps and high power
rifles have done much to reduce the numbers of the coyote in some of
its favorite haunts, yet, in other localities, its persistent numbers
are deserving of considerable credit. They prove but the survival of
the fittest.
Among the mountains the coyote is rarely found, though since the
coming of the white man with his flocks they have multiplied
considerably in several localities even to such an alarming degree
that ranches have found it unprofitable to further attempt to raise
sheep.
The coyote of the plains is considerably smaller than the wolf, being
intermediate in size between the red fox and the grey wolf. It has
the short body, bushy tail, rounded head and pointed nose of the fox
and might easily be mistaken for one. Its general color is fulvous,
grizzled with black and white hairs and lighter underneath a color
remarkable for its ability to blend with the brown and grey, that the
arid Plains are clothed in the greater part of the year.
Although well proportioned and being where food is usually plentiful,
it rarely fattens up, and almost invariably presents a hungry, half
fed appearance. Its food consists mainly of small rodents and birds,
such as it can dig up from the ground, or waylay by cat-like
maneuvers. Preferring to live on a diet of such animals as it is
enabled to capture and kill, it resorts to many schemes and tricks to
satisfy its desire for fresh meat. Field mice and gophers living in
shallow burrows, fall an easy prey to its diggings. Prairie dogs and
cotton tails are waylaid at their place of refuge, and grouse and
small birds are pounced upon when they venture too near its place of
ambush.
Not always, however, is the coyote enabled to capture its game by
such easy means, and when it chooses to dine on jack rabbit, it finds
it requires all the power of perseverance and endurance it is capable
of mustering up to overtake that fleet creature. As it happens, it is
often obliged after a long chase to give up its quarry for a humbler
meal. Probably it then decides it is not worth while to hunt the jack
alone today, for it knows that if it can persuade one of its comrades
to join the chase, Mr. Jack is doomed. When hunting in pairs, they
give chase in turns, each stopping to rest in turn, thereby having a
double cinch on the poor jack rabbit which is compelled to run
continually until exhausted.
In the winter when birds are scarce and the small mammals have
hibernated or are huddled away under the snow and frozen ground, the
coyote is often sorely pressed for food, and he is then forced to
content himself with gnawing off an existence from the frozen carcass
of a horse or cow that has died probably months before. His ingenuity
of last summer is replaced by a stubborn perseverance, which keeps
him traveling day and night in search of scraps of food.
In the spring after the young are born, the bitch is kept busy from
morn till night trying to satisfy the hunger of her growling litter
of pups, and in her frantic efforts to do so, scruples little on
running down and killing a stray sheep or an unprotected calf or
colt. When, however, this large prey fails and the smaller game
proves insufficient, she is again forced to the humbler larder of
some carcass she has discovered on one of her many haunts.
Coyotes are not adepts at burrowing, yet, some credit must be
accorded them for work in this line. They often follow up mice and
gophers for several feet under the sod, though it remains for the
female to exhibit the powers of burrowing possessed by her tribe. In
late winter in the southern part of her range, and in the early
spring in the northern part, she selects a safe location, usually
under a boulder or a ledge of rock, or on the face of a rounded point
in a coulee or gulch, from where she may keep a sharp lookout, and
sets to work to dig a home for her prospective family. Large
quantities of dirt are deposited at the mouth of the burrow, yet this
amount is remarkably small when compared with the tunnel from which
it is removed, which is often twenty feet or more in length and wide
enough to admit a boy, or even in some cases a medium sized man.
At the end of the burrow, which is usually elevated, is an
enlargement, in which a litter of from three to eight are brought
forth. These are blind and helpless, yet after the first day of their
earthly career it seems to become necessary that they exercise both
their lungs and limbs, and except for the time that is spent in
actual sleep, they keep up a persistent scrambling, one over another,
and at the same time a constant growling and whining. The cries of
the young and the shuffling about of awkward feet can often be
distinctly heard at the mouth of the burrow. This is one of the tests
the "wolfer" relies on when he has made the find of a burrow with
fresh signs.
As soon as the little ones' eyes are open and their legs grow
stronger, they begin to travel, first up and down the burrow, a
little further each time, until the mouth is reached. Later on,
during the warm sunny days they may be seen playing on the hillside
near their home like so many kittens. Before they are half grown the
fond mother leads her family out for its initial trip, usually to the
nearest watering place, to which they subsequently make regular
trips.
It is a pleasing sight to see the young coyotes in playful antics
jump up the mother's side and play with her tail as they follow her
or chase each other around the bushes. As soon as the young are old
enough they are taken out and taught the rules and regulations of the
hunt, and long before they are full grown they take an active part in
the chase.
[Illustration: Caught at Last.]
In late summer the young leave the maternal home in exchange for an
independent life, and it may truly be said that the coyote's
childhood day's are over, and it must face the stern realities of
life with all its serious consequences. It now prefers to live the
life of a hermit, with an occasional short interview with its
neighbors.
Contrary to the habits of its cousin and neighbor, the wolf, the
coyote is not often seen except singly or in pairs, though it is
probable that they are more in the habit of congregating during the
night, when the eyes of the hunter and his dogs are closed in sleep,
and they are at liberty to roam at will. Their stealthy maneuvers are
not apt to disclose their presence, and one usually is not aware of
the fact that coyotes are near until he is suddenly reminded of it by
one of those unearthly screeching, yelping utterances given vent to
by the coyote during the long still night. Immediately the call is
taken up by some prowler in a different direction, and in turn is
repeated by others further away, until the air fairly resounds with
that weird cry. Whether uttered in pleasure or in pain, it is one of
nature's most unpleasant calls, and embodies all the hopelessness and
despair so apparent on the wide plains of the west.
It is hard to describe the cry of the coyote, though a fair idea may
be had by imagining a series of sharp, harsh yelps, terminating into
a long drawn painfully entreating howl. Often repeated and echoed by
several further away, half a dozen are able to produce enough noise
to lead a stranger to believe that he is in the midst of a hundred
blood thirsty demons who are proclaiming vengeance on any one that
might lack of proper protection.
The coyote is detrimental to but a small degree except to the sheep
industry. It is true that coyotes, when hard pressed by hunger, have
been known to rob the ranches of its poultry or even to kill a calf
or colt, but it is on the defenseless sheep and lambs that they
commit their greatest ravages.
In some of the western states, where stock raising is an important
industry, large bounties have been paid at different times for the
destruction of the coyotes, and these bounties, together with those
offered by stock associations and private parties, have induced a
number of men and sometimes women, too, to make a business of the
extermination of the coyote. Where formerly little time or trouble
was spared to destroy these pests, now everybody who has an
opportunity eagerly sets traps or poisonous baits for them, shoots at
them at long range, runs them down with his bronco to ensnare them in
the fatal noose of his lariat, or digs them and their families out of
the depths of their underground retreat. The result is obvious. But
few localities remain where coyotes hold their own in their original
numbers.
The coyote is a wary animal and hard to approach within reasonable
pistol shot range, and then only an experienced eye can draw a bead
through the gun sights on its dull coat against the usual background
of brown or grey. They are fleet foot creatures, and anything short
of a greyhound, they are apt to leave behind struggling in the dust.
Grey hounds and fox hounds are sometimes employed to run them down,
and if one is caught out on the open plain by a pack of these hounds
it is quickly dispatched. Frightened almost out of his wits, it
repeatedly takes a quick glance back over its shoulder at the furious
mob pursuing it, only to find that they are each time a little
nearer, until it feels the sharp clasp of the jaws of the leader in
deathly embrace. What sport this would be to some of our noblemen
across the sea.
Like the red fox, the coyote will sometimes form the friendship of
the farmer's dog, and once arrived at a mutual understanding amicable
relationship is not easily broken.
As has been said, the coyote is swift afoot, but its wind is easily
exhausted, and many a one has fallen a prey, through this lack, to
the lariat of the hardy cowboy, who desires nothing more exciting for
recreation than a rough and tumble chase through a prairie dog town
in pursuit of one of these nimble creatures. Imagine the roughly clad
westerner with hair and kerchief flying in the breeze, and the magic
noose swinging round and round over his head, whooping at the top of
his voice and urging his steed on to its best. Imagine him shooting
forth that magic noose and see it settle over the coyote's head. A
jerk of the hand tightens the rope, and a turn in the horse's course
takes the coyote off his feet and drags him along bouncing from mound
to mound into insensibility.
Coyotes cannot be said to possess a vicious nature. Armed with a
short club, one may safely enter their burrows, and when trapped the
same weapon will complete the work, as they are cowardly and rarely
show fight.
Though possessing considerable cunning, coyotes are easier trapped
than foxes, though they are slow at taking bait. Large numbers,
however, are annually poisoned by placing strychnine in the carcasses
of animals that have fallen, through old age or otherwise, of which
the pangs of hunger are apt to force coyotes to make a meal. The
action of strychnine is exceedingly fast, and it is no unusual
occurrence to find a dead coyote a few feet from where it had been
enjoying a dinner of poisoned meat.
Of all methods resorted to, however, none is highly responsible for
the reduction of the coyote as that of digging up the young (and this
often gives up the mother too) from the burrows. By one who is versed
in coyote habits, the burrows are easily found, and the work of an
hour or two with pick and shovel usually forces them to give up their
treasures.
Not always, however, are the results so easily and quickly arrived
at. The writer well remembers the first litter of pups he was
fortunate enough to capture. After a three days' search among the
deep coulees, along the upper Missouri, a den was located. But where?
In the crevice of a ledge of sand rock. By placing my ear to the
mouth of the burrow, I could hear the pups whining. The burrow was
too small to admit me, and as it was too late in the day to commence
operations, I plugged up the opening lest the bitch should proceed to
transfer her young to some other place of refuge during the night.
The greater part of the next day a friend and myself spent in
enlarging the burrow with sledge and crowbar, and it was not until
late in the afternoon that I was able to crawl in far enough and with
the aid of a short stick with some nails drawn through the end, to
rake out the six young, one by one.