I
Raindrop may deflect a thunderbolt, or a hair may ruin an empire, as
surely as a spider-web once turned the history of Scotland; and if it
had not been for one little pebble, this history of Tito might never
have happened.
That pebble was lying on a trail in the Dakota Badlands, and one hot,
dark night it lodged in the foot of a Horse that was ridden by a tipsy
cow-boy. The man got off, as a matter of habit, to know what was laming
his Horse. But he left the reins on its neck instead of on the ground,
and the Horse, taking advantage of this technicality, ran off in the
darkness. Then the cow-boy, realizing that he was afoot, lay down in
a hollow under some buffalo-bushes and slept the loggish sleep of the
befuddled.
The golden beams of the early summer sun were leaping from top to top of
the wonderful Badland Buttes, when an old Coyote might have been seen
trotting homeward along the Garner's Creek Trail with a Rabbit in her
jaws to supply her family's breakfast.
{Illustration}
Fierce war had for a long time been waged against the Coyote kind by
the cattlemen of Billings County. Traps, guns, poison, and Hounds had
reduced their number nearly to zero, and the few survivors had learned
the bitter need of caution at every step. But the destructive ingenuity
of man knew no bounds, and their numbers continued to dwindle.
{Illustration}
The old Coyote quit the trail very soon, for nothing that man has made
is friendly. She skirted along a low ridge, then across a little hollow
where grew a few buffalo-bushes, and, after a careful sniff at a very
stale human trail-scent, she crossed another near ridge on whose sunny
side was the home of her brood. Again she cautiously circled, peered
about, and sniffed, but, finding no sign of danger, went down to
the doorway and uttered a low _woof-woof._ Out of the den, beside a
sage-bush, there poured a procession of little Coyotes, merrily tumbling
over one another. Then, barking little barks and growling little puppy
growls, they fell upon the feast that their mother had brought, and
gobbled and tussled while she looked on and enjoyed their joy.
Wolver Jake, the cow-boy, had awakened from his chilly sleep about
sunrise, in time to catch a glimpse of the Coyote passing over the
ridge. As soon as she was out of sight he got on his feet and went
to the edge, there to witness the interesting scene of the family
breakfasting and frisking about within a few yards of him, utterly
unconscious of any danger.
But the only appeal the scene had to him lay in the fact that the county
had set a price on every one of these Coyotes' lives. So he got out
his big .45 navy revolver, and notwithstanding his shaky condition, he
managed somehow to get a sight on the mother as she was caressing one of
the little ones that had finished its breakfast, and shot her dead on
the spot.
The terrified cubs fled into the den, and Jake, failing to kill another
with his revolver, came forward, blocked up the hole with stones,
and leaving the seven little prisoners quaking at the far end, set off
on foot for the nearest ranch, cursing his faithless Horse as he went.
In the afternoon he returned with his pard and tools for digging. The
little ones had cowered all day in the darkened hole, wondering why
their mother did not come to feed them, wondering at the darkness and
the change. But late that day they heard sounds at the door. Then light
was again let in. Some of the less cautious young ones ran forward to
meet their mother, but their mother was not there--only two great rough
brutes that began tearing open their home.
{Illustration}
After an hour or more the diggers came to the end of the den, and here
were the woolly, bright-eyed, little ones, all huddled in a pile at the
farthest corner. Their innocent puppy faces and ways were not noticed
by the huge enemy. One by one they were seized. A sharp blow, and each
quivering, limp form was thrown into a sack to be carried to the nearest
magistrate who was empowered to pay the bounties.
Even at this stage there was a certain individuality of character among
the puppies. Some of them squealed and some of them growled when dragged
out to die. One or two tried to bite. The one that had been slowest to
comprehend the danger, had been the last to retreat, and so was on top
of the pile, and therefore the first killed. The one that had first
realized the peril had retreated first, and now crouched at the bottom
of the pile. Coolly and remorselessly the others were killed one by
one, and then this prudent little puppy was seen to be the last of the
family. It lay perfectly still, even when touched, its eyes being half
closed, as, guided by instinct, it tried to "play possum." One of the
men picked it up. It neither squealed nor resisted. Then Jake, realizing
ever the importance of "standing in with the boss," said: "Say, let's
keep that 'un for the children." So the last of the family was thrown
alive into the same bag with its dead brothers, and, bruised and
frightened, lay there very still, understanding nothing, knowing only
that after a long time of great noise and cruel jolting it was again
half strangled by a grip on its neck and dragged out, where were a lot
of creatures like the diggers.
These were really the inhabitants of the Chimneypot Ranch, whose brand
is the Broad-arrow; and among them were the children for whom the cub
had been brought. The boss had no difficulty in getting Jake to accept
the dollar that the cub Coyote would have brought in bounty-money,
and his present was turned over to the children. In answer to their
question, "What is it?" a Mexican cow-hand, present said it was a
Coyotito--that is, a "little Coyote,"--and this, afterward shortened to
"Tito," became the captive's name.
{Illustration}