PRONGHORN OF THE PLAINS
I awakened one morning out on the Great Plains to find that in the
dark I had camped near the nursery of a mother antelope and her two
kids. It was breakfast time. Commonly both antelope children nurse at
once, but this morning it was one at a time. Kneeling down, the
suckling youngster went after the warm meal with a morale that never
even considered Fletcherizing. Occasionally he gave a vigorous butt to
hasten milk delivery.
Breakfast over, the mother had these youngsters lie low in the short
grass of a little basin. She left them and began feeding away to the
south. The largest objects within a quarter of a mile were a few
stunted bunches of sagebrush. I moved my sleeping bag a short distance
into an old buffalo wallow and watched her. She fed steadily up a
moderate slope but was always in position where she could see the
youngsters and the approach of anything in the unobstructed opening
round them. This mother was not eating the abundant buffalo grass
celebrated for its nutrition, nor any of the blooming plants. She was
eating, and plainly with relish, simply the gray-green bitter leaves
of the shrubby scattered sage. On reaching the low summit of the
prairie swell she paused for a little while on the skyline, then
started on a run for a water-hole about two miles distant.
A few seconds later a fox-like head peeped over a little ridge a few
hundred feet from the kids. Then a distant bunch of sagebrush
transformed itself into another moving form, and two coyotes trotted
into the scene. Evidently these coyotes knew that somewhere near two
youngsters were hidden. They followed the mother’s trail by scent and
kept their eyes open, looking for the youngsters.
Old antelope have perhaps more numerous scent glands than other big
wild animals, but evidently a young antelope gives off little or no
scent. Its youthful colour blends so well with its surroundings when
it lies down that it is difficult to see it. Once the young flatten
out and freeze upon the grassy earth they offer but little that is
revealing even to the keenest eyes and noses.
Both coyotes paused within a few feet of one of the kids without
either seeing or scenting it. It was flattened out between two clumps
of sagebrush. Finally, unable to find the youngsters, the coyotes
trotted off along the mother’s trail.
I went over to have a look at the children. Though I knew just about
where they were I looked and circled for some time before my eyes
detected them. They were grayish brown with the outlines of future
colour scheme faintly showing. Within two feet of each I stood and
watched them. A fly crawled over the eye and ear of one kid and an ant
over the nose of the other, and yet neither made a move.
For about two weeks, while the legs of the young are developing
liveliness, the mother keeps aloof from her kind. She often has a
trying time with enemies.
As soon as the coyotes were out of sight I hastened to the highest
near-by point hoping with glasses to see the mother antelope. She was
just leaving the water-hole. Her movements evidently were a part of a
strategic plan to deceive the watchful eyes and the cunning noses of
enemies, chiefly coyotes. She fed a quarter of a mile south, then ran
on for more than a mile still farther. She then galloped more than two
miles northeast and later, with many doublings which involved her
trail, worked back to the youngsters.
In following and watching the movements of the mother I stumbled over
a lone antelope kid about half a mile from the other two. I returned
later and found that it was entangled between the twisted low-lying
limbs of a sagebrush. Not until I laid hold of the kid to drag it out
did it make a move. Then it struggled and gave a low bleat.
Realizing that this might bring the mother like lightning I let go and
rose up. There she was, coming like the wind, and only four or five
hundred feet away, indifferent to the fact that man is the most
dangerous of enemies. Just how close she might have come, just what
might have happened had I not straightened up at that moment, is sheer
guesswork. But the freed youngster butted me violently behind and then
ran off to meet his mother.
During most of the year the great silent plains are at rest in tawny
and gray brown. The dreamy, sunny distances show only moving cloud
shadows. A brief barrage of dust storm sometimes sweeps across or a
wild drive of tumbleweeds with a front from horizon to horizon goes
bounding and rolling toward the rim, where they go over and vanish.
But these endless distances are palpitating with flowers and song when
the young antelope are born.
One May morning a flock of blackbirds alighted upon a leafy cottonwood
tree--a lone tuft in an empire of treeless distances. They sang all at
once--a whirlwind of song. Two antelope herds were on separate
skylines. The silvery, melodious peal of the yellow-breasted meadow
lark rang out all over the wide wild prairie. Prairie dogs scampered,
barked, and played; butterflies circled and floated above the
scattered and stunted sage; thousands of small birds were busy with
nest and song, and countless ragged spaces of brilliant wild flowers
illuminated the grass-green surface to every horizon.
The antelope is known as the pronghorn, because of a single small
prong on each horn. This prong is more like a guard and serves as a
hilt. In fighting an antelope often catches its opponent’s thrust on
this prong. The horn commonly is less than ten inches long. Many
females do not have horns, and rarely are these fully developed on any
female.
Deer and elk have deciduous horns--that is, horns that are shed
annually. Goat and bighorn never shed their horns. But each year
antelope sheds the outer part--the point and sheath--of the horn,
retaining the stubs or stumps which grow new horns.
The antelope has a number of marked characteristics and some of these
are unique. It is without dew claws; the hair is hollow and filled
with pitch; teeth are of peculiar pattern; it eats mostly bitter or
pungent food; has large, long-range eyes of almost telescopic power;
has numerous and scattered scent glands; is without colour
camouflage--in fact, its colour is in part revealing, for the
bristling of its white buttocks serves to give signal flashes. The
antelope is the plains’ graceful racing model of long and successful
development. It is either the least--the smallest--or near the
smallest of our hoofed wild animals.
The antelope is specialized in speed. If there were to be a
free-for-all race on the plains, with deer, antelope, elk, sheep,
bear, lion, coyote, fox, dog, horse, and even the rabbit as starters,
the antelope generally would be the winner, whether the race was for
one mile or ten. Perhaps the blooded race horse and the greyhound
would outstrip him, but among wild animals the antelope is the speedy
one.
Wolves and coyotes pursue the pronghorn in relays or capture it
strategically through various kinds of mutual aid. Now and then an
antelope will turn upon its pursuers and fight them fiercely,
occasionally triumphantly.
On the Great Plains in western Nebraska I saw two speeding objects
stirring dust on the horizon. It was an antelope cut off from the
flock and pursued by a wolf. They plunged for a moment or two in a dip
of the plains, then reappeared. With glasses on them I saw the
pursuing wolf drop out and another wolf leap from concealment to
relieve him. Following them through glasses as they raced on skyline
against a cloud, dropped below eyeline, dashed behind a butte, swiftly
the great circle followed brought them within half a mile. In plain
view another wolf leaped into the race. The antelope was nearly
exhausted. The wolves were leaping at her throat as she disappeared
over a ridge. Little puffs of dust showed the advance of pursuer and
pursued. These grew dim and I watched for the runners to come up on
the skyline. But they never appeared.
[Illustration:
_Photo. by Enos A. Mills_
_A Wild Life Trail Centre_]
[Illustration:
_Photo. by Enos A. Mills_
_My Departing Caller_]
I watched a coyote walk back and forth close to a mother antelope with
two young kids. She paid no apparent attention to him. But she was
besieged. After two or three hours he was relieved by another coyote.
This was a new and rather leisurely way of relaying. Evidently the
devilish plan was to wear the antelope out or stay until she was
forced to go for water and then seize the youngsters.
It was more than fifteen miles to the next water-hole. This may have
been the second or even the third day that the coyotes had been
worrying her. I frightened them away, but had not gone half a mile
when I saw them circling back again. I do not know the end of the
story, but as I walked on I wished that this mother antelope might
have possessed the special development of the pronghorn in the desert
regions--the ability to do without water for days at a time.
The food of the pronghorn is sage, greasewood, sometimes cactus, and,
on the desert, broomrape. I do not recall ever seeing him eat grass.
In the extremely arid regions of the Southwest the local flocks, in
common with mountain sheep and other animals of the desert, have
developed the habit of doing without water for days--sometimes for a
period of two weeks or longer have no other moisture than that
furnished by the plants eaten.
When the young antelope are about three weeks old they appear to have
full use of their legs and usually follow the mother in feedings and
fights. At this time numbers of mothers and youngsters collect and run
together. They are thus enabled to give mutual aid and to withstand
coyotes and other enemies better. Sometimes under dangerous conditions
the young are left behind while some of the mothers go for water, and
on their return the remaining ones go. Just why this mutual aid is not
practised while the young are almost helpless is not clear.
In early autumn all ages and sexes unite and commonly run together,
often in large flocks, throughout the winter. The youngsters often
play together. Frequently one of the males is the lively leader of
twenty or thirty. At other times the old antelopes play, go through a
series of marches and countermarches. They race back and forth and
over short circles. When thus engaged they commonly have sentinels
posted on the outskirts.
Most other animals appear to forget possible enemies while playing,
but the nervous antelope, with big open spaces round it, appears never
to be quite in repose.
Depending upon speed rather than upon stealth, fighting ability, or
concealment, as a means of escaping enemies, and living in the plains
with a magnificence of unobstructed distances, it has learned to be
watchful, to use sentinels, and to flee even when danger is afar.
Usually when the antelope lies down it selects a spot well away from
any ravine, bluff, willow clump, or sagebrush thicket that could
conceal an enemy or that would enable an enemy to approach it closely
unseen.
Under most conditions the female appears to be the acknowledged
leader. In the majority of instances in which I have watched moving
flocks of antelope--fleeing small numbers or a number of alarmed
antelope preparing to move--it was under female leadership.
The pronghorn lives in a home territory. This I think is rarely more
than six or eight miles in diameter. If pursued by man, dogs, or
wolves it is likely to run in great circles, keeping within the bounds
of home territory. Most antelope are not migratory, but in a few
localities the flocks make a short migration. For winter they may
travel to a more broken locality, one that gives some shelter from the
wind and contains spaces off which the wind sweeps the snow.
The antelope makes long leaps but not high jumps. I watched an
antelope that had been separated from the flock hurrying to rejoin it.
In its way was a line of willows along the dry, shallow water channel.
This willow stretch was not wide nor high. A deer would have leaped it
without the slightest hesitation. The antelope went far round and
jumped wide gullies, but made no attempt to leap this one low line of
willows. Being a plains animal, knowing but little of cliffs and
timber, it has not learned high jumping.
For ages the antelope was thickly scattered over the Great Plains and
the small parks of the West, Northwest, and Southwest. Fifty years ago
they were numbered by millions. The present antelope population
numbers not more than 15,000. Howard Eaton tells me that years ago he
sometimes saw several thousand in a single day. Once when a boy I saw
at least a thousand in a North Park, Colorado, flock.
A few are now protected in the national parks and in private antelope
reserves. But they are verging well toward extermination. Rarely does
the antelope thrive in captivity. Apparently the food ordinarily fed
it in captivity does not agree with it.
Mature antelope are marked with what may be called revealing colours,
which advertise their presence and make them easily visible at long
distances: rich tan to grayish brown on the back and sides, with clean
white buttocks and sides of face and belly; the throat faintly striped
with white and brown; and a touch of near-black on the head. The
antelope’s colour is so distinctive and stands out so well against
most backgrounds that it may be classed as an animal with revealing
coloration.
Two white rump patches flare up during excitement; the crowded and
bristling hairs may be seen at surprisingly long distances.
Possibly these hairs are also under conscious control. At any rate,
let one or a number on a ridge see an approaching enemy and these
white patches stand out, and the next adjacent flock, even though two
or three miles away, will see the sign--or signal--and also take
alarm. Though the antelope does not do any wireless wigwagging, the
sudden flare of white buttocks is revealing.
Depending chiefly on speed in escaping his enemies, the antelope has
also the added advantage of being able to detect an enemy while he is
still afar. The plains where he lives enable him to see objects miles
away, and his eyes being of telescopic nature ofttimes enable him to
determine whether a distant moving object is friend or foe.
It thus is important that an antelope be so marked that another
antelope will recognize him at long range. Each flock of antelope
watches the distant surrounding flocks, and each flock thus mutually
aids the others by acting as an outlying sentinel for it. If a flock
sees an object approaching that may be an enemy it strikes attitudes
which proclaim alarm, and, definitely marked, their actions at once
give eye messages of alarm to all flocks in view and close enough to
make out what they are doing. It would thus seem that the revealing
colours of the antelope have been of help in protecting--that is,
perpetuating, the species.
The antelope is nervous and is easily thrown into a panic. Though it
is often canny and courageous, it lacks the coolness, the alertness,
and the resourcefulness--that is to say, the quick wit and
adaptability--of the mountain sheep. In the Yellowstone and the Wind
Cave National Parks are numbers of antelope. Many of these have
readjusted themselves to the friendly conditions and have lost most of
their nervousness and fear of man.
They have a bump of curiosity. I paused one afternoon to talk to a
homesteader on the prairie. He was fencing, and presently commenced
stretching a line of barbed wire. The penetrating squeaks of the wire
reached the ears of several unseen antelope and appealed to their
curiosity. They came close, about the distance from third to home
plate.
Well might they have shown concern at barbed wire! It has wrought
terrific destruction to the species.
A generation or so ago it appears to have been easy for the hunter by
displaying a red flag or some partly concealed moving object to rouse
antelope curiosity and to lure numbers. I have repeatedly seen this
trick tried and a few times I have patiently endeavoured with this
appeal to bring a flock within range of my double-barrelled field
glass, but I didn’t succeed. They promptly went over the horizon. They
are curious still, but have become wiser.
I suppose it will never do to reach final conclusions concerning what
an animal will do under new conditions. After a few years of intimate
acquaintance with the plains antelope I visited the Yellowstone
region, thinking that I was well grounded in all antelope habits. One
day I came upon a flock in a deep grassy forest bay in the edge of a
dense woods. Thinking to get close I walked in behind them. To my
amazement they darted into the woods, dodging trees right and left
like lightning, and hurdling fallen trees as readily as any deer or
mountain sheep that I have seen. They well illustrated a phase of
animal behaviour called ecology, or response to environment.
The pronghorn or antelope is distinctly American. Fossilized antelope
bones have been found in western Nebraska that are estimated to be two
million years old. This antelope family is not related to the African
or Asiatic antelope, nor to any American mammal species; it is alone
in the world.
Many prehistoric species of animals that lived in the same scenes with
the ancient ancestors of the antelope have been extinct for thousands
of years. The rhinoceros, toothed birds, American horses, ponderous
reptiles, and numerous other species failed to do what the antelope
did--readjust to each radical change and survive. Climatic changes,
new food, strange enemies, uplifts, subsidences, wild volcanic
outpourings, the great Ice Age--over all these the antelope has
triumphed.