almost invariably due to one of two causes--attack and defense in
a struggle for prey, or the jealousy of males during the mating
season. With rare exceptions, battles of the former class occur
between animals of different Orders,--teeth and claws against
horns and hoofs, for instance; and it is a fight to the death.
Hunger forces the aggressor to attack something, and the intended
victim fights because it is attacked. The question of good or ill
temper does not enter in. On both sides it is a case of "must,"
and neither party has any option. Such combats are tests of
agility, strength, and staying powers, and, in a few cases, of
thickness of bone and hide.
How Orang-Utans Fight. Of the comparatively few animals which do
draw blood of their own kind through ill temper or jealousy, I
have never encountered any more given to internecine strife than
orang-utans. Their fighting methods, and their love of fighting,
are highly suggestive of the temper and actions of the human
tough. They fight by biting, and usually it is the fingers and
toes that suffer. Of twenty-seven orang-utans I shot in Borneo,
and twelve more that were shot for me by native hunters, five were
fighters, and had had one or more fingers or toes bitten off in
battle. Those specimens were taken in the days when the museums of
America were one and all destitute of anthropoid apes.
A gorilla, chimpanzee, or orang-utan, being heavy of body, short
of neck, and by no means nimble footed, cannot spring upon an
adversary, choose a vulnerable spot, and bite to kill; but what it
lacks in agility it makes up in length and strength of arm and
hand. It seizes its antagonist's hand, carries it to its own
mouth, and bites at the fingers. Usually, the bitten finger is
severed as evenly as by a surgeon's amputation, and heals quite as
successfully.
I never saw two big orang-utans fighting, but I have had several
captive ones seize my arm and try to bring my fingers within
biting distance. The canine teeth of a full grown male orang,
standing four feet four inches in height, and weighing a hundred
and fifty pounds or more, are just as large and dangerous as the
teeth of a bear of the same size, and the powerful incisors have
one quality which the teeth of a bear do not possess. A bear
pierces or tears an antagonist with his canines, but very rarely
bites off anything. An orang-utan bites off a finger as evenly as
a boy nips off the end of a stick of candy.
When orang-utans fight, they also attack each other's faces, and
often their broad and expansive lips suffer severely. My eleventh
orang bore the scars of many a fierce duel in the tree-tops. A
piece had been bitten out of the middle of both his lips, leaving
in each a large, ragged notch. Both his middle fingers had been
taken off at the second joint, and his feet had lost the third
right toe, the fourth left toe, and the end of one hallux. His
back, also, had sustained a severe injury, which had retarded his
growth. This animal we called "The Desperado."
Orang No. 34 had lost the entire edge of his upper lip. It had
been bitten across diagonally, but adhered at one corner, and
healed without sloughing off, so that during the last years of his
life a piece of lip two inches long hung dangling at the corner of
his mouth. He had also suffered the loss of an entire finger. No.
36 had lost a good sized piece out of his upper lip, and the first
toe had been bitten off his left foot.
All these combats must have taken place in the tree-tops, for an
adult orang-utan has never been known to descend to the earth
except for water. In some manner it has become a prevalent
belief that in their native jungles all three of the great apes--
gorilla, orang, and chimpanzee--are dangerous to human beings, and
often attack them with clubs. Nothing could be farther from the
truth. According to the natives of West Africa, a gorilla or
chimpanzee fights a hunter by biting his face and fingers, just as
an orang-utan does. I believe that no sane orang ever voluntarily
left the safety of a tree top to fight at a serious disadvantage
on the ground; and I am sure an orang never struck a blow with a
club, unless carefully taught to do so.
WILD ANIMALS ARE NOT QUARRELSOME. As a species, man appears to be
the most quarrelsome animal on the earth; and the same quality is
strongly reflected in his most impressionable servant and
companion, the domestic dog. Nearly all species of wild animals
have learned the two foundation facts of the philosophy of life--
that peace is better than war, and that if one must fight, it is
better to fight outside one's own species. To this rule, however,
wolves are a notable exception; for wherever wolves are abundant a
wounded wolf is a subject for attack, and usually it is killed and
eaten by the other members of the pack.
I have observed the daily habits of many kinds of wild animals in
their wild haunts, but in the field I never yet have seen either a
fight between animals of the same species, or between two of
different species. This may seem a very humiliating admission for
a hunter to make, but it happens to be true. In the matter of
finding big snakes, having exciting adventures, and witnessing
combats between wild animals, there are some men who never are in
luck.
Now there was the "Old Shekarry,"--whose elephants, tigers, bison,
bears, and sambar always were so much larger than mine. In his
book, "Sport in Many Lands," he describes an affair of honor
between a tiger and a bull bison, which was a truly ideal combat.
The champions met by appointment,--by the light of the moon, in
order to be safe from interference by the jungle police,--and they
fought round after round, in the most orthodox prize ring style,
under the Queensberry rules. So fairly did they fight that neither
claimed a foul, and at the finish the two combatants retired to
their respective corners and died simultaneously, "to the musical
twitter of the night bird."
Another writer has given a vivid description of a battle to the
death between a wild bull and a grizzly bear; and we have read of
several awful combats between black bears and alligators, in
Florida; but some of us have yet to find either a black bear or an
alligator that will stop to fight when he has an option on a line
of retreat. When he has lived long,--say to the length of twelve
feet,--the alligator is a hideous and terrorizing beast; but, for
all that, he knows a thing or two; and a full grown, healthy black
bear of active habit is about the last creature on earth that a
'gator would care to meddle with. Pigs and calves, fawns, stray
dogs, ducks and mud hens are antagonists more to his liking.
The Fighting Tactics of Bears. In captivity, bears quarrel and
scold one another freely, at feeding time, but seldom draw blood.
I have questioned many old hunters, and read many books by bear
hunters, but Ira Dodge, of Wyoming, is the only man I know who has
witnessed a real fight between wild bears. He once saw a battle
between a cinnamon and a grizzly over the carcass of an elk.
In attacking, a bear does three things, and usually in the same
order. First, he delivers a sweeping sidewise blow on the head of
his antagonist; then he seizes him by the cheek, with the
intention of shifting to the throat as quickly as it is safe to do
so. His third move consists in throwing his weight upon his foe
and bearing him to the earth, where he will have a better chance
at his throat. If the fighters are fairly matched, the struggle is
head to head and mouth to mouth. After the first onset, the paws
do little or no damage, and the attacks of the teeth rarely go as
far down as the shoulders. Often the assailant will seize his
opponent's cheek and hold on so firmly that for a full minute the
other can do nothing; but this means little.
In combats between bears, the one that is getting mauled, or that
feels outclassed, will throw himself upon the ground, flat upon
his back, and proceed to fight with all four sets of claws in
addition to his teeth. This attitude is purely defensive, and
often is maintained until an opportunity occurs to attack with
good advantage, or to escape. It is very difficult for a standing
bear to make a serious impression upon an antagonist who lies upon
his back, clawing vigorously with all four feet at the head of his
assailant.
Tiger Versus Grizzly Bear. Often is the question asked, "If a
grizzly bear and a tiger should fight, which would whip the
other?" One can answer only with opinions and deductions, not by
reference to the records of the ring; for it seems that the
terrors of the occident and the orient have never yet been matched
in a fight to a finish.
One of the heaviest tigers ever weighed, prior to 1878, scaled
four hundred and ninety five pounds, and was as free from surplus
flesh and fat as a prizefighter in the ring. He stood three feet
seven inches at the shoulder, measured thirty-six inches around
the jaws, and twenty inches around the forearm. Very few lions
have ever exceeded his weight or dimensions. So far as I know, a
wild grizzly bear of the largest size has never been scaled, but
it is not at all certain that any California grizzly has weighed
more than twelve hundred pounds. The silvertip of the Rocky
Mountain region is a totally different animal, being smaller, as
well as different in color.
In a match between a grizzly and a tiger of equal weights, the
activity of the latter, combined with the greater spread of his
jaws and length of his canine teeth, would insure him the victory.
The superior attack of the tiger would give him an advantage which
it would probably be impossible to overcome. The blow of a
tiger's paw is as powerful as that of a grizzly of the same size,
though I doubt if it is any quicker in delivery. The quickness
with which a seemingly clumsy bear can deliver a smashing blow is
astonishing. Moreover, nature has given the grizzly a coat of fur
which as a protection in fighting is almost equal to chain mail.
Its length, combined with its density, makes it difficult for
teeth or claws to cut through it, and in a struggle with a tiger,
protective fur is only a fair compensation for a serious lack of
leaping power in the hinder limbs. Though the tiger would win at
equal weights, it is extremely probable that an adult California
grizzly would vanquish a tiger of the largest size, for his
greater bulk would far outweigh the latter's agility.
The Great Cats as Fighters. Tigers, when well matched, fight head
to head and mouth to mouth, as do nearly all other carnivora, and
at the same time they strike with their front paws. One of the
finest spectacles I ever witnessed was a pitched battle between
two splendid tigers, in a cage which afforded them ample room.
With loud, roaring coughs, they sprang together, ears laid tight
to their heads, eyes closed until only sparks of green and yellow
fire flashed through four narrow slits, and their upper lips
snarling high up to clear the glittering fangs beneath. Coughing,
snarling, and often roaring furiously, each sprang for the
other's throat, but jaw met jaw until their teeth almost cracked
together. They rose fully erect on their hind legs, with their
heads seven feet high, stood there, and smashed away with their
paws, while tufts of hair flew through the air, and the cage
seemed full of sparks. Neither gave the other a chance to get the
throat hold, nor indeed to do aught else than ward off calamity;
and each face was a picture of fury.
This startling combat lasted a surprisingly long time, without
noticeable advantage to either side. Finally the tigers backed
away from each other, and when at a safe distance apart dropped
their front feet to the floor, growling savagely and licking their
lips wherever a claw had drawn blood.
Of all the wild animals that are preyed upon by lions, tigers,
leopards, jaguars, and pumas, only half a dozen species do
anything more than struggle to escape. The gaur and the wild
buffalo of India are sufficiently vindictive in dealing with a
human hunter whose aim is not straight, but both fly before the
tiger, and count themselves lucky when they can escape with
nothing worse to show than a collection of long slits on their
sides and hind quarters made by his knife-like claws. They do not
care to return to do battle for the sake of revenge, and seek to
put the widest possible stretch of jungle between themselves and
their dreaded enemy.
The same is true of the African buffalo and the lion. As to the
antelopes of Africa and the deer of India, what can they do but
make a desperate effort to escape, and fly like the wind whenever
they succeed? Of course many of these defenseless animals make a
gallant struggle for their lives, and not a few succeed in
throwing off their assailants and escaping. Even domestic cattle
sometimes return to the hill country villages of southern India
bearing claw marks on their sides--usually the work of young
tigers, or of rheumatic old ones.
Here is a deer and puma story. In the picturesque bad-lands of
Hell Creek, Montana, I saw my comrade, Laton A. Huffman, kill a
large mule deer buck that three months previously had been
attacked by a puma. From above it, the great cat had leaped upon
the back of the deer, and laid hold with teeth and claws. In its
struggle for life the buck either leaped or fell off the edge of a
perpendicular "cut bank," and landed upon its back, with the puma
underneath. Evidently the puma was so seriously injured that it
could not continue the struggle; but it surely left its ear-marks.
One ear of the buck was fearfully torn. There was a big wound on
the top of the neck, where the puma jaws had lacerated the skin
and flesh; and both hind legs had been badly clawed by the
assailant's hind feet. The main beam of the right antler had been,
broken off half-way up, while the antlers were still in the
velvet, which enabled us to fix the probable date of the
encounter.
In the great Wynaad forest I once got lost, and in toiling through
a five acre patch of grass higher than my head, and so dense that
it was not negotiable except by following the game trails, my
simple old Kuramber and I came suddenly upon the scene of a great
struggle. In the center of a space about twenty feet in diameter,
on which the tall grass had been trampled flat, lay the remains of
a sambar stag which had very recently been killed and eaten by a
tiger. The neck had not been dislocated, and the sambar had fought
long and hard. Evidently the tiger had lain in wait on the runway,
and had failed to subdue the sambar by his first fierce onslaught.
Now an angry stag with good antlers is no mean antagonist, and it
is strange if the tiger in the case went through that struggle
without a puncture in his tawny skin.
In South Africa, Vaughan Kirby once found the dead bodies of a
"patriarchal bull" sable antelope and a lion, "which had evidently
been a fine specimen," lying close together, where the two
animals had fallen after a great struggle. The sable antelope must
have killed its antagonist by a lucky backward thrust of its long,
curved horns as the lion fastened upon its back to pull it down.
Mr. Kirby's dogs once disturbed a sanguinary struggle between a
leopard and a wild boar, or "bush pig," which had well-nigh
reached a finish. The old boar, when bayed by the dogs, was found
to be most terribly mauled. Its tough skin hung literally in
shreds from its neck and shoulders, presenting ghastly open
wounds. The entrails protruded from a deep claw gash in the side,
and the head was a mass of blood and dirt. "On searching around,"
says Mr. Kirby, "we found unmistakable evidence of a life and
death struggle. The ground was covered with gouts of blood and
yellow hair, to some of which the skin (of the leopard) was still
attached. Blood was splashed plentifully on the tree stems and the
low brushwood, which for a space of a dozen yards around was
trampled flat." The leopard had fled upon the approach of the
dogs, leaving a trail of blood, which, though followed quickly,
was finally lost in bad ground. It is no wonder that from the
above and many other evidences equally good, Mr. Kirby considers
the bush pig a remarkably courageous animal. He says that it was
"never yet known to show the white feather," and declares that "a
pig is never defeated until he is dead."
The Combats of Male Deer. The sable antelope is one of the few
exceptions to the well-nigh universal rule against fighting
between wild animals of the same species. Of this species, Mr.
Kirby says: "Sable antelope bulls fight most fiercely amongst
themselves, and though I have never actually witnessed an
encounter between them, I have often seen the results of such,
evidenced by great gaping wounds that could have been made by
nothing else than the horns of an opponent. I once killed a large
bull with a piece of another's horn tip, fully three inches long,
buried in its neck. In 1889 I shot an old bull on the Swinya with
a terrible wound in its off shoulder, caused by a horn thrust."
During the jealous flashes of the mating season, the males of
several species of deer fight savagely. After a long period of
inaction while the new antlers are developing--from April to
September--the beginning of October finds the male deer, elk, or
moose of North America with a new suit of hair, new horns, a
swollen neck, and all his usual assertiveness. The crisp autumn
air promotes a disposition to fight something, precisely as it
inspires a sportsman to "kill something." During October and
November, particularly, it is well for an unarmed man to give
every antlered deer a wide berth.
At this period, fights between the males of herds of mule deer,
white-tailed deer and elk are of frequent occurrence, but in a
wild state they rarely end in bloodshed or death, save from locked
antlers. Many times, however, two bucks will come together, and
playfully push each other about without being angry. Many pairs of
bucks have been found with their antlers fast locked in death--and
I never see a death lock without a feeling of grim satisfaction
that neither of the quarrelsome brutes had had an opportunity to
attack some defenseless man, and spear him to death.
The antlers of the common white-tailed deer seem peculiarly
liable to become interlocked so tightly that it is well-nigh
impossible to separate them. And whenever this happens, the doom
of both deer is sealed. Unless found speedily and killed, they
must die of starvation. While it is quite true that two deer
playing with their antlers may become locked fast, it is safe to
say that the great majority meet their fate by charging each other
with force sufficient to spring the beams of their antlers, and
make the lock so perfect that no force they can exert will release
it. A deer cannot pull back with the same power it exerts in
plunging forward.
All members of the deer family that I know follow the same natural
law in regard to supremacy. Indeed, this is true of nearly all
animals. Leadership is not always maintained by the largest and
strongest member of a herd, but very often by the most pugnacious.
Sometimes a herd of elk is completely tyrannized by an old doe,
who makes the young bucks fly from her in terror, when one prod of
their sharp antlers would quickly send her to the rear.
When bucks in a state of freedom fight for supremacy, the weaker
does not stay to be overthrown and speared to death by the victor.
As soon as he feels that he is mastered he releases his antlers at
the first opportunity, flings himself to one side, and either
remains in the herd as an acknowledged subject of the victor, or
else seeks fresh fields and pastures new.
Battles in Zoological Parks. In captivity, where escape is
impossible, it is no uncommon thing for elk to kill each other.
In fact, with several adult males in a small enclosure, tragedies
may always be expected in the autumn and early winter. The process
is very simple. So long as the two elk can stand up and fight head
to head, there are no casualties; but when one wearies and weakens
before the other, its guard is broken. Then one strong thrust in
its side or shoulder sends it to the earth, badly wounded; and
before it can rise, it is generally stabbed to death with horn
thrusts into its lungs and liver. But, as I said before, I have
never known of a fatal duel between elk outside of a zoological
garden or park.
One of the most novel and interesting fights that has yet taken
place in the New York Zoological Park was a pitched battle between
two cow elk--May Queen and the Dowager. A bunch of black fungus
suddenly appeared on the trunk of a tree, about twelve feet from
the ground. My attention was first called to this by seeing May
Queen, a fine young cow, standing erect on her hind legs in order
to reach the tempting morsel with her mouth. A little later the
Dowager, the oldest and largest cow elk in the herd, met her under
the tree, whereupon the two made wry faces at each other, and
champed their teeth together threateningly. Suddenly both cows
rose on their hind legs, struck out viciously with their sharp
pointed front hoofs, and, after a lively sparring bout, they
actually clinched. The young cow got both front legs of the old
cow between her own, where they were held practically helpless,
and then with her own front hoofs she fiercely rained blows upon
the ribs of her assailant. The Dowager backed away and fled,
completely vanquished, with May Queen close upon her heels; and
thus was the tyrannical rule of the senior cow overthrown forever.
During the breeding season, our wild buffaloes of the great
vanished herds were much given to fighting, and always through
jealousy. The bulls bellowed until they could be heard for miles,
tore up earth and threw it into the air, rolled their eyes, and
often rushed together in a terrifying manner; but beyond butting
their heads, pushing and straining until the weaker turned and
ran, nothing came of it all. I have yet to find a man who ever saw
a wild buffalo that had been wounded to the shedding of blood by
another wild buffalo. It is probable that no other species ever
fought so fiercely and did so little damage as the American bison.
Elephants, Wolves, and Others. In ordinary life the Indian
elephant is one of the most even-tempered of all animals. I have
spent hours in watching wild herds in southern India, sometimes
finding the huge beasts all around me, and in dangerously close
proximity. Several times I could have touched a wild elephant with
a carriage whip, had I possessed one. So far from fighting, I
never saw an elephant threaten or even annoy another.
Elephants, being the most intelligent of all animals in the matter
of training, have been educated to fight in the arena, usually by
pushing each other head to head. A fighting tusker can lord it
over almost any number of tuskless elephants, because he can
pierce their vitals, and they cannot pierce his. A female fights
by hitting with her head, striking her antagonist amidships, if
possible. Once when the late G. P. Sanderson was in a keddah,
noosing wild elephants, and was assulted [sic] by a vicious
tusker, his life was saved by a tame female elephant, whose boy
driver caused her to attack the tusker with her head, and nearly
bowl him over by the force of her blows upon his ribs.
In captivity, wolves are the meanest brutes on earth, and in a
wild state they are no better. As a rule, the stronger ones are
ever ready to kill the weaker ones, and eat them, too. One night,
our male Russian wolf killed his mate, and ate nearly half of her
before morning. A fox or a wolf cub which thrusts one of its legs
between the partition bars and into a wolf's den almost invariably
gets it bitten off as close to the body as the biter can go. In
the arctic regions, north of the Great Slave Lake, "Buffalo" Jones
and George Rea fought wolves incessantly for several days, and
every wolf they wounded was immediately killed and devoured by its
pack mates.
In captivity, a large proportion of mammals fight, more or less;
and the closer the confinement, the greater their nervousness and
irritability, and the more fighting. Monkeys fight freely and
frequently. Serpents, lizards, and alligators rarely do, although
large alligators are prone to bite off the tails or legs of their
small companions, or even to devour them whole. Storks, trumpeter
swans, darters, jays, and some herons are so quarrelsome and
dangerous that they must be kept well separated from other
species, to prevent mutilation and murder. In 1900, when a pair of
trumpeter swans were put upon a lake in Prospect Park, Brooklyn,
with three brown pelicans for associates, they promptly assailed
the pelicans, dug holes in their backs, and killed all three. The
common red squirrel is a persistent fighter of the gray species,
and, although inferior in size, nearly always wins.
A Fight Between a Whale and a Swordfish. One of the strangest wild
animal combats on record was thus described in the Proceedings of
the Zoological Society of London, for 1909.