WOLF-COURSING
On April eighth, nineteen hundred and five, we left the town of
Frederick, Oklahoma, for a few days’ coyote coursing in the Comanche
Reserve. Lieut.-Gen. S. B. M. Young, U. S. A., retired, Lieutenant
Fortescue, U. S. A., formerly of my regiment, and Dr. Alexander Lambert,
of New York, were with me. We were the guests of Colonel Cecil Lyon, of
Texas, of Sloan Simpson, also of Texas, and formerly of my regiment, and
of two old-style Texas cattlemen, Messrs. Burnett and Wagner, who had
leased great stretches of wire-fenced pasture from the Comanches and
Kiowas; and I cannot sufficiently express my appreciation of the
kindness of these my hosts. Burnett’s brand, the Four Sixes, has been
owned by him for forty years. Both of them had come to this country
thirty years before, in the days of the buffalo, when all game was very
plentiful and the Indians were still on the warpath. Several other
ranchmen were along, including John Abernethy, of Tesca, Oklahoma, a
professional wolf hunter. There were also a number of cowhands of both
Burnett and Wagner; among them were two former riders for the Four
Sixes, Fi Taylor and Uncle Ed Gillis, who seemed to make it their
special mission to see that everything went right with me. Furthermore
there was Captain McDonald of the Texas Rangers, a game and true man,
whose name was one of terror to outlaws and violent criminals of all
kinds; and finally there was Quanah Parker, the Comanche chief, in his
youth a bitter foe of the whites, now painfully teaching his people to
travel the white man’s stony road.
[Illustration:
STARTING TOWARDS THE WOLF GROUNDS
From a photograph, copyright, 1905, by Alexander Lambert, M.D.
]
We drove out some twenty miles to where camp was pitched in a bend of
Deep Red Creek, which empties into the Red River of the South.
Cottonwood, elm, and pecans formed a belt of timber along the creek; we
had good water, the tents were pitched on short, thick grass, and
everything was in perfect order. The fare was delicious. Altogether it
was an ideal camp, and the days we passed there were also ideal.
Cardinals and mocking-birds—the most individual and delightful of all
birds in voice and manner—sang in the woods; and the beautiful,
many-tinted fork-tailed fly-catchers were to be seen now and then,
perched in trees or soaring in curious zigzags, chattering loudly.
In chasing the coyote only greyhounds are used, and half a dozen
different sets of these had been brought to camp. Those of Wagner, the
“Big D” dogs, as his cow-punchers called them, were handled by Bony
Moore, who, with Tom Burnett, the son of our host Burke Burnett, took
the lead in feats of daring horsemanship, even in that field of daring
horsemen. Bevins had brought both greyhounds and rough-haired staghounds
from his Texas ranch. So had Cecil Lyon, and though his dogs had chiefly
been used in coursing the black-tailed Texas jack-rabbit, they took
naturally to the coyote chases. Finally there were Abernethy’s dogs,
which, together with their master, performed the feats I shall hereafter
relate. Abernethy has a homestead of his own not far from Frederick, and
later I was introduced to his father, an old Confederate soldier, and to
his sweet and pretty wife, and their five little children. He had run
away with his wife when they were nineteen and sixteen respectively; but
the match had turned out a happy one. Both were particularly fond of
music, including the piano, horn, and violin, and they played duets
together. General Young, whom the Comanches called “War Bonnet,” went in
a buggy with Burke Burnett, and as Burnett invariably followed the
hounds at full speed in his buggy, and usually succeeded in seeing most
of the chase, I felt that the buggy men really encountered greater
hazards than anyone else. It was a thoroughly congenial company all
through. The weather was good; we were in the saddle from morning until
night; and our camp was in all respects all that a camp should be; so
how could we help enjoying ourselves?
The coursing was done on the flats and great rolling prairies which
stretched north from our camp toward the Wichita Mountains and south
toward the Red River. There was a certain element of risk in the
gallops, because the whole country was one huge prairie-dog town, the
prairie-dogs being so numerous that the new towns and the abandoned
towns were continuous with one another in every direction. Practically
every run we had was through these prairie-dog towns, varied
occasionally by creeks and washouts. But as we always ran scattered out,
the wonderfully quick cow-ponies, brought up in this country and
spending all their time among the prairie-dog towns, were able, even
while running at headlong speed, to avoid the holes with a cleverness
that was simply marvellous. During our hunt but one horse stepped in a
hole; he turned a complete somerset, though neither he nor his rider was
hurt. Stunted mesquite bushes grew here and there in the grass, and
there was cactus. As always in prairie-dog towns, there were burrowing
owls and rattlesnakes. We had to be on our guard that the dogs did not
attack the latter. Once we thought a greyhound was certainly bitten. It
was a very fast blue bitch, which seized the rattler and literally shook
it to pieces. The rattler struck twice at the bitch, but so quick were
the bitch’s movements that she was not hit either time, and in a second
the snake was not merely dead, but in pieces. We usually killed the
rattlers with either our quirts or ropes. One which I thus killed was
over five feet long.
By rights there ought to have been carts in which the greyhounds could
be drawn until the coyotes were sighted, but there were none, and the
greyhounds simply trotted along beside the horses. All of them were fine
animals, and almost all of them of recorded pedigree. Coyotes have sharp
teeth and bite hard, while greyhounds have thin skins, and many of them
were cut in the worries. This was due to the fact that only two or three
of them seized by the throat, the others taking hold behind, which of
course exposed them to retaliation. Few of them would have been of much
use in stopping a big wolf. Abernethy’s hounds, however, though they
could not kill a big wolf, would stop it, permitting their owner to
seize it exactly as he seized coyotes, as hereafter described. He had
killed but a few of the big gray wolves; one weighed ninety-seven
pounds. He said that there were gradations from this down to the
coyotes. A few days before our arrival, after a very long chase, he had
captured a black wolf, weighing between fifty and sixty pounds.
These Southern coyotes or prairie-wolves are only about one-third the
size of the big gray timber wolves of the Northern Rockies. They are too
small to meddle with full-grown horses and cattle, but pick up young
calves and kill sheep, as well as any small domesticated animal that
they can get at. The big wolves flee from the neighborhood of anything
like close settlements, but coyotes hang around the neighborhood of man
much more persistently. They show a fox-like cunning in catching
rabbits, prairie-dogs, gophers, and the like. After nightfall they are
noisy, and their melancholy wailing and yelling are familiar sounds to
all who pass over the plains. The young are brought forth in holes in
cut banks or similar localities. Within my own experience I have known
of the finding of but two families. In one there was but a single family
of five cubs and one old animal, undoubtedly the mother; in the other
case there were ten or eleven cubs and two old females which had
apparently shared the burrow or cave, though living in separate pockets.
In neither case was any full-grown male coyote found in the
neighborhood; as regards these particular litters, the father seemingly
had nothing to do with taking care of or supporting the family. I am not
able to say whether this was accidental or whether it is a rule, that
only the mother lives with and takes care of the litter; I have heard
contrary statements about the matter from hunters who should know.
Unfortunately I have learned from long experience that it is only
exceptional hunters who can be trusted to give accurate descriptions of
the habits of any beast, save such as are connected with its chase.
[Illustration:
GREYHOUNDS RESTING AFTER A RUN
From a photograph by W. Sloan Simpson
]
Coyotes are sharp, wary, knowing creatures, and on most occasions take
care to keep out of harm’s way. But individuals among them have queer
freaks. On one occasion while Sloan Simpson was on the round-up he waked
at night to find something on the foot of his bed, its dark form
indistinctly visible against the white tarpaulin. He aroused a friend to
ask if it could be a dog. While they were cautiously endeavoring to find
out what it was, it jumped up and ran off; they then saw that it was a
coyote. In a short time it returned again, coming out of the darkness
toward one of the cowboys who was awake, and the latter shot it, fearing
it might have hydrophobia. But I doubt this, as in such case it would
not have curled up and gone to sleep on Simpson’s bedding. Coyotes are
subject to hydrophobia, and when under the spell of the dreadful disease
will fearlessly attack men. In one case of which I know, a mad coyote
coming into camp sprang on a sleeping man who was rolled in his bedding
and bit and worried the bedding in the effort to get at him. Two other
men hastened to his rescue, and the coyote first attacked them and then
suddenly sprang aside and again worried the bedding, by which time one
of them was able to get in a shot and killed it. All coyotes, like big
wolves, die silently and fight to the last. I had never weighed any
coyotes until on this trip. I weighed the twelve which I myself saw
caught, and they ran as follows: male, thirty pounds; female,
twenty-eight pounds; female, thirty-six pounds; male, thirty-two pounds;
male, thirty-four pounds; female, thirty pounds; female, twenty-seven
pounds; male, thirty-two pounds; male, twenty-nine pounds; young male,
twenty-two pounds; male, twenty-nine pounds; female, twenty-seven
pounds. Disregarding the young male, this makes an average of just over
thirty pounds.[2] Except the heaviest female, they were all gaunt and in
splendid running trim; but then I do not remember ever seeing a really
fat coyote.
Footnote 2:
I sent the skins and skulls to Dr. Hart Merriam, the head of the
Biological Survey. He wrote me about them: “All but one are the plains
coyote, _Canis nebracensis_. They are not perfectly typical, but are
near enough for all practical purposes. The exception is a yearling
pup of a much larger species. Whether this is _frustor_ I dare not say
in the present state of knowledge of the group.”
The morning of the first day of our hunt dawned bright and beautiful,
the air just cool enough to be pleasant. Immediately after breakfast we
jogged off on horseback, Tom Burnett and Bony Moore in front, with six
or eight greyhounds slouching alongside, while Burke Burnett and “War
Bonnet” drove behind us in the buggy. I was mounted on one of Tom
Burnett’s favorites, a beautiful Kiowa pony. The chuck wagon, together
with the relay of greyhounds to be used in the afternoon, was to join us
about midday at an appointed place where there was a pool of water.
We shuffled along, strung out in an irregular line, across a long flat,
in places covered with bright-green wild onions; and then up a gentle
slope where the stunted mesquite grew, while the prairie-dogs barked
spasmodically as we passed their burrows. The low crest, if such it
could be called, of the slope was reached only some twenty minutes after
we left camp, and hardly had we started down the other side than two
coyotes were spied three or four hundred yards in front. Immediately
horses and dogs were after them at a headlong, breakneck run, the
coyotes edging to the left where the creek bottom, with its deep banks
and narrow fringes of timber, was about a mile distant. The little
wolves knew their danger and ran their very fastest, while the long dogs
stretched out after them, gaining steadily. It was evident the chase
would be a short one, and there was no need to husband the horses, so
every man let his pony go for all there was in him. At such a speed, and
especially going down hill, there was not the slightest use in trying to
steer clear of the prairie-dog holes; it was best to let the veteran
cow-ponies see to that for themselves. They were as eager as their
riders, and on we dashed at full speed, curving to the left toward the
foot of the slope; we jumped into and out of a couple of broad, shallow
washouts, as we tore after the hounds, now nearing their quarry. The
rearmost coyote was overtaken just at the edge of the creek; the
foremost, which was a few yards in advance, made good its escape, as all
the dogs promptly tackled the rearmost, tumbling it over into a rather
deep pool. The scuffling and splashing told us what was going on, and we
reined our horses short up at the brink of the cut bank. The water had
hampered the dogs in killing their quarry, only three or four of them
being in the pool with him; and of those he had seized one by the nose
and was hanging on hard. In a moment one of the cowboys got hold of him,
dropped a noose over his head, and dragged him out on the bank, just as
the buggy came rattling up at full gallop. Burnett and the general,
taking advantage of the curve in our course, had driven across the chord
of the arc, and keeping their horses at a run, had seen every detail of
the chase and were in at the death.
In a few minutes the coyote was skinned, the dogs rested, and we were
jogging on once more. Hour after hour passed by. We had a couple more
runs, but in each case the coyote had altogether too long a start and
got away; the dogs no longer being as fresh as they had been. As a rule,
although there are exceptions, if the greyhounds cannot catch the coyote
within two or three miles the chances favor the escape of the little
wolf. We found that if the wolf had more than half a mile start he got
away. As greyhounds hunt by sight, cut banks enable the coyote easily to
throw off his pursuers unless they are fairly close up. The greyhounds
see the wolf when he is far off, for they have good eyes; but in the
chase, if the going is irregular, they tend to lose him, and they do not
depend much on one another in recovering sight of him; on the contrary,
the dog is apt to quit when he no longer has the quarry in view.
[Illustration:
AT THE TAIL OF THE CHUCK WAGON
From a photograph by W. Sloan Simpson
]
At noon we joined the chuck wagon where it stood drawn up on a slope of
the treeless, bushless prairie; and the active round-up cook soon had
the meal ready. It was the Four Sixes wagon, the brand burned into the
wood of the chuck box. Where does a man take more frank enjoyment in his
dinner than at the tail end of a chuck wagon?
Soon after eating we started again, having changed horses and dogs. I
was mounted on a Big D cow-pony, while Lambert had a dun-colored horse,
hard to hold, but very tough and swift. An hour or so after leaving camp
we had a four-mile run after a coyote, which finally got away, for it
had so long a start that the dogs were done out by the time they came
within fair distance. They stopped at a little prairie pool, some of
them lying or standing in it, panting violently; and thus we found them
as we came stringing up at a gallop. After they had been well rested we
started toward camp; but we were down in the creek bottom before we saw
another coyote. This one again was a long distance ahead, and I did not
suppose there was much chance of our catching him; but away all the dogs
and all the riders went at the usual run, and catch him we did, because,
as it turned out, the “morning” dogs, which were with the wagon, had
spied him first and run him hard, until he was in sight of the
“afternoon” dogs, which were with us. I got tangled in a washout,
scrambled out, and was galloping along, watching the country in front,
when Lambert passed me as hard as he could go; I saw him disappear into
another washout, and then come out on the other side, while the dogs
were driving the coyote at an angle down toward the creek. Pulling short
to the right, I got through the creek, hoping the coyote would cross,
and the result was that I galloped up to the worry almost as soon as the
foremost riders from the other side—a piece of good fortune for which I
had only luck to thank. The hounds caught the coyote as he was about
crossing the creek. From this point it was but a short distance into
camp.
Again next morning we were off before the sun had risen high enough to
take away the cool freshness from the air. This day we travelled several
miles before we saw our first coyote. It was on a huge, gently sloping
stretch of prairie, which ran down to the creek on our right. We were
travelling across it strung out in line when the coyote sprang up a good
distance ahead of the dogs. They ran straight away from us at first.
Then I saw the coyote swinging to the right toward the creek and I
half-wheeled, riding diagonally to the line of the chase. This gave me
an excellent view of dogs and wolf, and also enabled me to keep nearly
abreast of them. On this particular morning the dogs were Bevin’s
greyhounds and staghounds. From where the dogs started they ran about
three miles, catching their quarry in the flat where the creek circled
around in a bend, and when it was not fifty yards from the timber. By
this time the puncher, Bony Moore, had passed me, most of the other
riders having been so far to the left when the run began that they were
unable to catch up. The little wolf ran well, and the greyhounds had
about reached their limit when they caught up with it. But they lasted
just long enough to do the work. A fawn-colored greyhound and a black
staghound were the first dogs up. The staghound tried to seize the
coyote, which dodged a little to one side; the fawn-colored greyhound
struck and threw it; and in another moment the other dogs were up and
the worry began. I was able to see the run so well, because Tom Burnett
had mounted me on his fine roan cutting horse. We sat around in a
semicircle on the grass until the dogs had been breathed, and then
started off again. After some time we struck another coyote, but rather
far off, and this time the dogs were not fresh. After running two or
three miles he pulled away and we lost him, the dogs refreshing
themselves by standing and lying in a shallow prairie pool.
In the afternoon we again rode off, and this time Abernethy, on his
white horse, took the lead, his greyhounds trotting beside him. There
was a good deal of rivalry among the various owners of the hounds as to
which could do best, and a slight inclination among the cowboys to be
jealous of Abernethy. No better riders could be imagined than these same
cowboys, and their greyhounds were stanch and fast; but Abernethy, on
his tough white horse, not only rode with great judgment, but showed a
perfect knowledge of the coyote, and by his own exertions greatly
assisted his hounds. He had found out in his long experience that while
the greyhounds could outpace a coyote in a two or three mile run, they
would then fall behind; but that after going eight or ten miles, a
coyote in turn became exhausted, and if he had been able to keep his
hounds going until that time, they could, with his assistance, then stop
the quarry.
[Illustration:
THE BIG D. COW-PONY
From a photograph by W. Sloan Simpson
]
We had been shogging along for an hour or more when we put up a coyote
and started after it. I was riding the Big D pony I had ridden the
afternoon before. It was a good and stout horse, but one which my weight
was certain to distress if I tried to go too fast for too long a time.
Moreover, the coyote had a long start, and I made up my mind that he
would either get away or give us a hard run. Accordingly, as the cowboys
started off at their usual headlong pace, I rode behind at a gallop,
husbanding my horse. For a mile or so the going was very rough, up over
and down stony hills and among washouts. Then we went over gently
rolling country for another mile or two, and then came to a long broken
incline which swept up to a divide some four miles ahead of us. Lambert
had been riding alongside of Abernethy, at the front, but his horse
began to play out, and needed to be nursed along, so that he dropped
back level with me. By the time I had reached the foot of this incline
the punchers, riding at full speed, had shot their bolts, and one by one
I passed them, as well as most of the greyhounds. But Abernethy was far
ahead, his white horse loping along without showing any signs of
distress. Up the long slope I did not dare press my animal, and
Abernethy must have been a mile ahead of me when he struck the divide,
while where the others were I had no idea, except that they were behind
me. When I reached the divide I was afraid I might have missed
Abernethy, but to my delight he was still in sight, far ahead. As we
began to go down hill I let the horse fairly race; for by Abernethy’s
motions I could tell that he was close to the wolf and that it was no
longer running in a straight line, so that there was a chance of my
overtaking them. In a couple of miles I was close enough to see what was
going on. But one greyhound was left with Abernethy. The coyote was
obviously tired, and Abernethy, with the aid of his perfectly trained
horse, was helping the greyhound catch it. Twice he headed it, and this
enabled me to gain rapidly. They had reached a small unwooded creek by
the time I was within fifty yards; the little wolf tried to break back
to the left; Abernethy headed it and rode almost over it, and it gave a
wicked snap at his foot, cutting the boot. Then he wheeled and came
toward it; again it galloped back, and just as it crossed the creek the
greyhound made a rush, pinned it by the hind leg and threw it. There was
a scuffle, then a yell from the greyhound as the wolf bit it. At the
bite the hound let go and jumped back a few feet, and at the same moment
Abernethy, who had ridden his horse right on them as they struggled,
leaped off and sprang on top of the wolf. He held the reins of the horse
with one hand and thrust the other, with a rapidity and precision even
greater than the rapidity of the wolf’s snap, into the wolf’s mouth,
jamming his hand down crosswise between the jaws, seizing the lower jaw
and bending it down so that the wolf could not bite him. He had a stout
glove on his hand, but this would have been of no avail whatever had he
not seized the animal just as he did; that is, behind the canines, while
his hand pressed the lips against the teeth; with his knees he kept the
wolf from using its forepaws to break the hold, until it gave up
struggling. When he thus leaped on and captured this coyote it was
entirely free, the dog having let go of it; and he was obliged to keep
hold of the reins of his horse with one hand. I was not twenty yards
distant at the time, and as I leaped off the horse he was sitting
placidly on the live wolf, his hand between its jaws, the greyhound
standing beside him, and his horse standing by as placid as he was. In a
couple of minutes Fortescue and Lambert came up. It was as remarkable a
feat of the kind as I have ever seen.
Through some oversight we had no straps with us, and Abernethy had lost
the wire which he usually carried in order to tie up the wolves’
muzzles—for he habitually captured his wolves in this fashion. However,
Abernethy regarded the lack of straps as nothing more than a slight
bother. Asking one of us to hold his horse, he threw the wolf across in
front of the saddle, still keeping his grip on the lower jaw, then
mounted and rode off with us on the back track. The wolf was not tied in
any way. It was unhurt, and the only hold he had was on its lower jaw. I
was surprised that it did not strive to fight with its legs, but after
becoming satisfied that it could not bite, it seemed to resign itself to
its fate, was fairly quiet, and looked about with its ears pricked
forward. The wolves which I subsequently saw him capture, and, having
tied up their muzzles, hold before him on the saddle, acted in precisely
the same manner.
The run had been about ten miles in an almost straight line. At the
finish no other riders were in sight, but soon after we crossed the
divide on our return, and began to come down the long slope toward the
creek, we were joined by Tom Burnett and Bony Moore; while some three or
four miles ahead on a rise of the prairie we could see the wagon in
which Burke Burnett was driving General Young. Other punchers and
straggling greyhounds joined us, and as the wolf, after travelling some
five miles, began to recover his wind and show a tendency to fight for
his freedom, Abernethy tied up his jaws with his handkerchief and handed
him over to Bony Moore, who packed him on the saddle with entire
indifference, the wolf himself showing a curious philosophy. Our horses
had recovered their wind and we struck into a gallop down the slope;
then as we neared the wagon we broke into a run, Bony Moore brandishing
aloft with one hand the live wolf, its jaws tied up with a handkerchief,
but otherwise unbound. We stopped for a few minutes with Burnett and the
general to tell particulars of the hunt. Then we loped off again toward
camp, which was some half dozen miles off. I shall always remember this
run and the really remarkable feat Abernethy performed. Colonel Lyon had
seen him catch a big wolf in the same way that he caught this coyote. It
was his usual method of catching both coyotes and wolves. Almost equally
noteworthy were the way in which he handled and helped his greyhounds,
and the judgment, resolution, and fine horsemanship he displayed. His
horse showed extraordinary endurance.
The third day we started out as usual, the chuck wagon driving straight
to a pool far out on the prairie, where we were to meet it for lunch.
Chief Quanah’s three wives had joined him, together with a small boy and
a baby, and they drove in a wagon of their own. Meanwhile the riders and
hounds went south nearly to Red River. In the morning we caught four
coyotes and had a three miles run after one which started too far ahead
of the dogs, and finally got clean away. All the four that we got were
started fairly close up, and the run was a breakneck scurry, horses and
hounds going as hard as they could put feet to the ground. Twice the
cowboys distanced me; and twice the accidents of the chase, the sudden
twists and turns of the coyote in his efforts to take advantage of the
ground, favored me and enabled me to be close up at the end, when
Abernethy jumped off his horse and ran in to where the dogs had the
coyote. He was even quicker with his hands than the wolf’s snap, and in
a moment he always had the coyote by the lower jaw.
Between the runs we shogged forward across the great reaches of rolling
prairie in the bright sunlight. The air was wonderfully clear, and any
object on the sky-line, no matter how small, stood out with startling
distinctness. There were few flowers on these dry plains; in sharp
contrast to the flower prairies of southern Texas, which we had left the
week before, where many acres for a stretch would be covered by masses
of red or white or blue or yellow blossoms—the most striking of all,
perhaps, being the fields of the handsome buffalo clover. As we plodded
over the prairie the sharp eyes of the punchers were scanning the ground
far and near, and sooner or later one of them would spy the motionless
form of a coyote, or all would have their attention attracted as it ran
like a fleeting gray or brown shadow among the grays and browns of the
desolate landscape. Immediately dogs and horses would stretch at full
speed after it, and everything would be forgotten but the wild
exhilaration of the run.
[Illustration:
ABERNETHY AND COYOTE
From a photograph, copyright, 1905, by Alexander Lambert, M.D.
]
It was nearly noon when we struck the chuck wagon. Immediately the handy
round-up cook began to prepare a delicious dinner, and we ate as men
have a right to eat, who have ridden all the morning and are going to
ride fresh horses all the afternoon. Soon afterward the horse-wranglers
drove up the saddle band, while some of the cow-punchers made a rope
corral from the side of the wagon. Into this the horses were driven, one
or two breaking back and being brought into the bunch again only after a
gallop more exciting than most coyote chases. Fresh ponies were roped
out and the saddle band again turned loose. The dogs that had been used
during the morning then started campward with the chuck wagon. One of
the punchers was riding a young and partially broken horse; he had no
bridle, simply a rope around the horse’s neck. This man started to
accompany the wagon to the camp.
The rest of us went off at the usual cow-pony trot or running walk. It
was an hour or two before we saw anything; then a coyote appeared a long
way ahead and the dogs raced after him. The first mile was up a gentle
slope; then we turned, and after riding a couple of miles on the level
the dogs had shot their bolt and the coyote drew away. When he got too
far in front the dogs and foremost riders stopped and waited for the
rest of us to overtake them, and shortly afterward Burke Burnett and the
general appeared in their buggy. One of the greyhounds was completely
done out and we took some time attending to it. Suddenly one of the men,
either Tom Burnett or Bony Moore, called out that he saw the coyote
coming back pursued by a horseman. Sure enough, the unfortunate little
wolf had run in sight of the wagons, and the puncher on the young
unbridled horse immediately took after him, and, in spite of a fall,
succeeded in heading him back and bringing him along in our direction,
although some three-quarters of a mile away. Immediately everyone jumped
into his saddle and away we all streamed down a long slope diagonally to
the course the coyote was taking. He had a long start, but the dogs were
rested, while he had been running steadily, and this fact proved fatal
to him. Down the slope to the creek bottom at its end we rode at a run.
Then there came a long slope upward, and the heavier among us fell
gradually to the rear. When we topped the divide, however, we could see
ahead of us the foremost men streaming after the hounds, and the latter
running in a way which showed that they were well up on their game. Even
a tired horse can go pretty well down hill, and by dint of hard running
we who were behind got up in time to see the worry when the greyhounds
caught the coyote, by some low ponds in a treeless creek bed. We had
gone about seven miles, the unlucky coyote at least ten. Our journey to
camp was enlivened by catching another coyote after a short run.
Next day was the last of our hunt. We started off in the morning as
usual, but the buggy men on this occasion took with them some trail
hounds, which were managed by a sergeant of the regular army, a game
sportsman. They caught two coons in the timber of a creek two or three
miles to the south of the camp. Meanwhile the rest of us, riding over
the prairie, saw the greyhounds catch two coyotes, one after a rather
long run and one after a short one. Then we turned our faces toward
camp. I saw Abernethy, with three or four of his own hounds, riding off
to one side, but unfortunately I did not pay any heed to him, as I
supposed the hunting was at an end. But when we reached camp Abernethy
was not there, nor did he turn up until we were finishing lunch. Then he
suddenly appeared, his tired greyhounds trotting behind him, while he
carried before him on the saddle a live coyote, with its muzzle tied up,
and a dead coyote strapped behind his saddle. Soon after leaving us he
had found a coyote, and after a good run the dogs had stopped it and he
had jumped off and captured it in his usual fashion. Then while riding
along, holding the coyote before him on the saddle, he put up another
one. His dogs were tired, and he himself was of course greatly hampered
in such a full-speed run by having the live wolf on the saddle in front
of him. One by one the dogs gave out, but his encouragement and
assistance kept two of them to their work, and after a run of some seven
miles the coyote was overtaken. It was completely done out and would
probably have died by itself, even if the hounds had not taken part in
the killing. Hampered as he was, Abernethy could not take it alive in
his usual fashion. So when it was dead he packed it behind his horse and
rode back in triumph. The live wolf, as in every other case where one
was brought into camp, made curiously little effort to fight with its
paws, seeming to acquiesce in its captivity, and looking around, with
its ears thrust forward, as if more influenced by curiosity than by any
other feeling.
After lunch we rode toward town, stopping at nightfall to take supper by
the bank of a creek. We entered the town after dark, some twenty of us
on horseback. Wagner was riding with us, and he had set his heart upon
coming into and through the town in true cowboy style; and it was he who
set the pace. We broke into a lope a mile outside the limits, and by the
time we struck the main street the horses were on a run and we tore down
like a whirlwind until we reached the train. Thus ended as pleasant a
hunting trip as any one could imagine. The party got seventeen coyotes
all told, for there were some runs which I did not see at all, as now
and then both men and dogs would get split into groups.
On this hunt we did not see any of the big wolves, the so-called buffalo
or timber wolves, which I hunted in the old days on the Northern cattle
plains. Big wolves are found in both Texas and Oklahoma, but they are
rare compared to the coyotes; and they are great wanderers. Alone or in
parties of three or four or half a dozen they travel to and fro across
the country, often leaving a district at once if they are molested.
Coyotes are more or less plentiful everywhere throughout the West in
thinly settled districts, and they often hang about in the immediate
neighborhood of towns. They do enough damage to make farmers and
ranchers kill them whenever the chance offers. But this damage is not
appreciable when compared with the ravages of their grim big brother,
the gray wolf, which, wherever it exists in numbers, is a veritable
scourge to the stockmen.
Colonel Lyon’s hounds were, as I have said, used chiefly after
jack-rabbits. He had frequently killed coyotes with them, however, and
on two or three occasions one of the big gray wolves. At the time when
he did most of his wolf-hunting he had with the greyhounds a huge
fighting dog, a Great Dane, weighing one hundred and forty-five pounds.
In spite of its weight this dog could keep up well in a short chase, and
its ferocious temper and enormous weight and strength made it invaluable
at the bay. Whether the quarry were a gray wolf or coyote mattered not
in the least to it, and it made its assaults with such headlong fury
that it generally escaped damage. On the two or three occasions when the
animal bayed was a big wolf the greyhounds did not dare tackle it,
jumping about in an irregular circle and threatening the wolf until the
fighting dog came up. The latter at once rushed in, seizing its
antagonist by the throat or neck and throwing it. Doubtless it would
have killed the wolf unassisted, but the greyhounds always joined in the
killing; and once thrown, the wolf could never get on his legs. In these
encounters the dog was never seriously hurt. Rather curiously, the only
bad wound it ever received was from a coyote; the little wolf, not
one-third of its weight, managing to inflict a terrific gash down its
huge antagonist’s chest, nearly tearing it open. But of course a coyote
against such a foe could not last much longer than a rat pitted against
a terrier.
Big wolves and coyotes are found side by side throughout the Western
United States, both varying so in size that if a sufficient number of
specimens, from different localities, are examined it will be found that
there is a complete intergradation in both stature and weight. To the
northward the coyotes disappear, and the big wolves grow larger and
larger until in the arctic regions they become veritable giants. At
Point Barrow Mr. E. A. McIlhenny had six of the eight “huskies” of his
dog team killed and eaten by a huge white dog wolf. At last he shot it,
and found that it weighed one hundred and sixty-one pounds.
Good trail hounds can run down a wolf. A year ago Jake Borah’s pack in
northwestern Colorado ran a big wolf weighing one hundred and fifteen
pounds to bay in but little over an hour. He then stood with his back to
a rock, and though the dogs formed a semicircle around him, they dared
not tackle him. Jake got up and shot him. Unless well trained and with
the natural fighting edge neither trail hounds (fox-hounds) nor
greyhounds can or will kill a big wolf, and under ordinary
circumstances, no matter how numerous, they make but a poor showing
against one. But big ninety-pound or one hundred-pound greyhounds,
specially bred and trained for the purpose, stand on an entirely
different footing. Three or four of these dogs, rushing in together and
seizing the wolf by the throat, will kill him, or worry him until he is
helpless. On several occasions the Colorado Springs greyhounds have
performed this feat. Johnny Goff owned a large, fierce dog, a cross
between what he called a Siberian bloodhound (I suppose some animal like
a Great Dane) and an ordinary hound, which, on one occasion when he had
shot at and broken the hind leg of a big wolf, ran it down and killed
it. On the other hand, wolves will often attack dogs. In March of the
present year—nineteen hundred and five—Goff’s dogs were scattered over a
hillside hunting a bobcat, when he heard one of them yell, and looking
up saw that two wolves were chasing it. The other dogs were so busy
puzzling out the cat’s trail that they never noticed what was happening.
Goff called aloud, whereupon the wolves stopped. He shot one and the
other escaped. He thinks that they would have overtaken and killed the
hound in a minute or two if he had not interfered.
The big wolves shrink back before the growth of the thickly settled
districts, and in the Eastern States they often tend to disappear even
from districts that are uninhabited save by a few wilderness hunters.
They have thus disappeared almost entirely from Maine, the Adirondacks,
and the Alleghanies, although here and there they are said to be
returning to their old haunts. Their disappearance is rather mysterious
in some instances, for they are certainly not all killed off. The black
bear is much easier killed, yet the black bear holds its own in many
parts of the land from which the wolf has vanished. No animal is quite
so difficult to kill as is the wolf, whether by poison or rifle or
hound. Yet, after a comparatively few have been slain, the entire
species will perhaps vanish from certain localities. In some localities
even the cougar, the easiest of all game to kill with hounds, holds its
own better. This, however, is not generally true.
But with all wild animals, it is a noticeable fact that a course of
contact with man continuing over many generations of animal life causes
a species so to adapt itself to its new surroundings that it can hold
its own far better than formerly. When white men take up a new country,
the game, and especially the big game, being entirely unused to contend
with the new foe, succumb easily, and are almost completely killed out.
If any individuals survive at all, however, the succeeding generations
are far more difficult to exterminate than were their ancestors, and
they cling much more tenaciously to their old homes. The game to be
found in old and long-settled countries is of course much more wary and
able to take care of itself than the game of an untrodden wilderness; it
is the wilderness life, far more than the actual killing of the
wilderness game, which tests the ability of the wilderness hunter.
[Illustration:
ABERNETHY RETURNS FROM THE HUNT
From a photograph, copyright, 1905, by Alexander Lambert, M.D.
]
After a time, game may even, for the time being, increase in certain
districts where settlements are thin. This was true of the wolves
throughout the northern cattle country, in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado,
and the western ends of the Dakotas. In the old days wolves were very
plentiful throughout this region, closely following the huge herds of
buffaloes. The white men who followed these herds as professional
buffalo-hunters were often accompanied by other men, known as wolfers,
who poisoned these wolves for the sake of their fur. With the
disappearance of the buffalo the wolves diminished in numbers so that
they also seemed to disappear. Then in the late eighties or early
nineties the wolves began again to increase in numbers until they became
once more as numerous as ever and infinitely more wary and difficult to
kill; though as they were nocturnal in their habits they were not often
seen. Along the Little Missouri and in many parts of Montana and Wyoming
this increase was very noticeable during the last decade of the
nineteenth century. They were at that time the only big animals of the
region which had increased in numbers. Such an increase following a
previous decrease in the same region was both curious and interesting. I
never knew the wolves to be so numerous or so daring in their assaults
upon stock in the Little Missouri country as in the years 1894 to 1896
inclusive. I am unable wholly to account for these changes. The first
great diminution in the numbers of the wolves is only partially to be
explained by the poisoning; yet they seemed to disappear almost
everywhere and for a number of years continued scarce. Then they again
became plentiful, reappearing in districts from whence they had entirely
vanished, and appearing in new districts where they had been hitherto
unknown. Then they once more began to diminish in number. In
northwestern Colorado, in the White River country, cougars fairly
swarmed in the early nineties, while up to that time the big gray wolves
were almost or entirely unknown. Then they began to come in, and
increased steadily in numbers, while the cougars diminished, so that by
the winter of 1902–3 they much outnumbered the big cats, and committed
great ravages among the stock. The settlers were at their wits’ ends how
to deal with the pests. At last a trapper came in, a shiftless fellow,
but extraordinarily proficient in his work. He had some kind of scent,
the secret of which he would not reveal, which seemed to drive the
wolves nearly crazy with desire. In one winter in the neighborhood of
the Keystone Ranch he trapped forty-two big gray wolves; they still
outnumber the cougars, which in that neighborhood have been nearly
killed out, but they are no longer abundant.
At present wolves are decreasing in numbers all over Colorado, as they
are in Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. In some localities traps have
been found most effective; in others, poison; and in yet others, hounds.
I am inclined to think that where they have been pursued in one manner
for a long time any new method will at first prove more efficacious.
After a very few wolves have been poisoned or trapped, the survivors
become so wary that only a master in the art can do anything with them,
while there are always a few wolves which cannot be persuaded to touch a
bait save under wholly exceptional circumstances. From association with
the old she-wolves the cubs learn as soon as they are able to walk to
avoid man’s traces in every way, and to look out for traps and poison.
They are so shy and show such extraordinary cunning in hiding and
slinking out of the way of the hunter that they are rarely killed with
the rifle. Personally I never shot but one. A bold and good rider on a
first-rate horse can, however, run down even a big gray wolf in fair
chase, and either rope or shoot it. I have known a number of
cow-punchers thus to rope wolves when they happened to run across them
after they had gorged themselves on their quarry. A former Colorado
ranchman, Mr. Henry N. Pancoast, who had done a good deal of
wolf-hunting, and had killed one which, judging by its skin, was a
veritable monster, wrote me as follows about his experiences:
“I captured nearly all my wolves by running them down and then either
roped or shot them. I had one mount that had great endurance, and when
riding him never failed to give chase to a wolf if I had the time to
spare; and never failed to get my quarry but two or three times. I roped
four full-grown and two cubs and shot five full-grown and three cubs—the
large wolf in question being killed that way. And he was by far the
hardest proposition I ever tried, and I candidly think I run him twenty
miles before overhauling and shooting him (he showed too much fight to
use a rope). As it was almost dark, concluded to put him on horse and
skin at ranch, but had my hands full to get him on the saddle, was so
very heavy. My plan in running wolves down was to get about three
hundred yards from them, and then to keep that distance until the wolf
showed signs of fatigue, when a little spurt would generally succeed in
landing him. In the case of the large one, however, I reckoned without
my host, as the wolf had as much go left as the horse, so I tried
slowing down to a walk and let the wolf go; he ... came down to a little
trot and soon placed a half mile between us, and finally went out of
sight over a high hill. I took my time and on reaching top of hill saw
wolf about four hundred yards off, and as I now had a down grade managed
to get my tired horse on a lope and was soon up to the wolf, which
seemed all stiffened up, and one shot from my Winchester finished him.
We always had poison out, as wolves and coyotes killed a great many
calves. Never poisoned but two wolves, and those were caught with fresh
antelope liver and entrails (coyotes were easily poisoned).”
[Illustration:
BONY MOORE AND THE COYOTE
From a photograph, copyright, 1905, by Alexander Lambert, M.D.
]
In the early nineties the ravages of the wolves along the Little
Missouri became so serious as thoroughly to arouse the stockmen. Not
only colts and calves, and young trail stock, but in midwinter
full-grown horses and steers were continually slain. The county
authorities put a bounty of three dollars each on wolf scalps, to which
the ranchmen of the neighborhood added a further bounty of five dollars.
This made eight dollars for every wolf, and as the skin was also worth
something, the business of killing wolves became profitable. Quite a
number of men tried poisoning or trapping, but the most successful wolf
hunter on the Little Missouri at that time was a man who did not rely on
poison at all, but on dogs. He was named Massingale, and he always had a
pack of at least twenty hounds. The number varied, for a wolf at bay is
a terrible fighter, with jaws like those of a steel trap, and teeth that
cut like knives, so that the dogs were continually disabled and
sometimes killed, and the hunter had always to be on the watch to add
animals to his pack. It was not a good-looking pack, but it was
thoroughly fit for its own work. Most of the dogs were greyhounds,
whether rough or smooth haired, but many of them were big mongrels, part
greyhound and part some other breed, such as bulldog, mastiff,
Newfoundland, bloodhound, or collie. The only two requisites were that
the dogs should run fast and fight gamely; and in consequence they
formed as wicked, hard-biting a crew as ever ran down and throttled a
wolf. They were usually taken out ten at a time, and by their aid
Massingale killed over two hundred wolves, including cubs. Of course
there was no pretence of giving the game fair play. The wolves were
killed as vermin, not for sport. The greatest havoc was in the
spring-time, when the she-wolves were followed to their dens. Some of
the hounds were very fast, and they could usually overtake a young or
weak wolf; but an old dog wolf, with a good start, unless run into at
once, would ordinarily get away if he were in running trim. Frequently,
however, he was caught when not in running trim, for the hunter was apt
to find him when he had killed a calf or taken part in dragging down a
horse or steer, and was gorged with meat. Under these circumstances he
could not run long before the pack. If possible, as with all such packs,
the hunter himself got up in time to end the worry by a stab of his
hunting-knife; but unless he was quick he had nothing to do, for the
pack was thoroughly competent to do its own killing. Grim fighter though
a great dog wolf is, he stands no show before the onslaught of ten such
hounds, agile and powerful, who rush on their antagonist in a body.
Massingale’s dogs possessed great power in their jaws, and unless he was
up within two or three minutes after the wolf was overtaken, they tore
him to death, though one or more of their number might be killed or
crippled in the fight. The wolf might be throttled without having the
hide on its neck torn; but when it was stretched out the dogs ripped
open its belly. Dogs do not get their teeth through the skin of an old
cougar; but they will tear up either a bobcat or coyote.
In 1894 and 1896 I saw a number of wolves on the Little Missouri,
although I was not looking for them. I frequently came upon the remains
of sheep and young stock which they had killed; and once, upon the top
of a small plateau, I found the body of a large steer, while the torn
and trodden ground showed that he had fought hard for his life before
succumbing. There had been two wolves engaged in the work, and the
cunning beasts had evidently acted in concert. Apparently, while one
attracted the steer’s attention in front, the other, according to the
invariable wolf habit, attacked him from behind, hamstringing him and
tearing out his flanks. His body was still warm when I came up, but the
marauders had slunk off, either seeing or smelling me. There was no
mistaking the criminals, however, for, unlike bears, which usually
attack an animal at the withers, or cougars, which attack the throat or
head, wolves almost invariably attack their victim at the hind quarters
and begin first on the hams or flanks, if the animal is of any size.
Owing to their often acting in couples or in packs, the big wolves do
more damage to horned stock than cougars, but they are not as dangerous
to colts, and they are not nearly as expert as the big cats in catching
deer and mountain sheep. When food is plentiful, good observers say that
they will not try to molest foxes; but, if hungry, they certainly snap
them up as quickly as they would fawns. Ordinarily they show complete
tolerance of the coyotes; yet one bitter winter I knew of a coyote being
killed and eaten by a wolf.
Not only do the habits of wild beasts change under changing conditions
as time goes on, but there seems to be some change even in their
appearance. Thus the early observers of the game of the Little Missouri,
those who wrote in the first half of the nineteenth century, spoke much
of the white wolves which were then so common in the region. These white
wolves represented in all probability only a color variety of the
ordinary gray wolf; and it is difficult to say exactly why they
disappeared. Yet when about the year 1890 wolves again grew common these
white wolves were very, very rare; indeed I never personally heard of
but one being seen. This was on the Upper Cannonball in 1892. A nearly
black wolf was killed not far from this spot in the year 1893. At the
present day black wolves are more common than white wolves, which are
rare indeed. But all these big wolves are now decreasing in numbers, and
in most places are decreasing rapidly.
It will be noticed that on some points my observations about wolves are
in seeming conflict with those of other observers as competent as I am;
but I think the conflict is more seeming than real, and I have concluded
to let my words stand. The great book of nature contains many pages
which are hard to read, and at times conscientious students may well
draw different interpretations of the obscure and least-known texts. It
may not be that either observer is at fault, but what is true of an
animal in one locality may not be true of the same animal in another,
and even in the same locality two individuals of the same species may
differ widely in their traits and habits.