Bridge across the Yellowstone, a mile and a half from Yancey's. The bank
was in an open place, remote from cliffs or thick woods; it was high,
dry, and dotted with holes of rather larger than field-mouse size, which
were further peculiar in that most of them went straight down and none
was connected with any visible overland runways.
All of which is secondary to the fact that I was led to the bank by a
peculiar bleating noise like the "weak" of a Calling Hare, but higher
pitched.
As I passed the place the squeakers were left behind me, and so at last
I traced the noise to some creature underground. But what it was I could
not see or determine. I knew only from the size of the hole it must be
as small as a Mouse.
[Illustration]
Not far away from this I drew some tracks I found in the dust, and later
when I showed the drawing, and told the story to a naturalist friend, he
said: "I had the same experience in that country once, and was puzzled
until I found out by keeping a captive that the creature in the bank was
a Grasshopper Mouse or a Calling Mouse, and those in your drawing are
its tracks."
At one time it was considered an extremely rare animal, but now, having
discovered its range, we know it to be quite abundant. In northern New
Mexico I found one species so common in the corn-field that I could
catch two or three every night with a few mousetraps. But it is scarce
on the Yellowstone, and all my attempts to trap it were frustrated by
the much more abundant Deer-mice, which sprang the bait and sacrificed
themselves, every time I tried for the Squeaker.
In the fall of 1912 I was staying at Standing Rock Agency in North
Dakota. On the broken ground, between the river and the high level
prairie, I noted a ridge with holes exactly like those I had seen on
the Yellowstone. A faint squeak underground gave additional and
corroborative evidence. So I set a trap and next night had a specimen of
the Squeaker as well as a couple of the omnipresent Deer-mice.
Doubtless the Calling Mouse has an interesting and peculiar life
history, but little is known of it except that it dwells on the dry
plains, is a caller by habit;--through not around the campfire--it feeds
largely on grasshoppers, and is in mortal terror of ants.
* * * * *
XI
Sneak-cats Big and Small
* * * * *
[Illustration]
XI
Sneak-cats--Big and Small
You may ride five hundred miles among the mountains, in a country where
these beasts of prey abound, and yet see never a hair of a living
Wildcat. _But how many do you suppose see you?_ Peeping from a thicket,
near the trail, glimpsing you across some open valley in the mountains,
or inspecting you from various points as you recline by the campfire,
they size you up and decide they want no nearer dealings with you; you
are bad medicine, a thing to be eluded. And oh! how clever they are at
eluding us.
If you turn out the biggest Lynx on the smoothest prairie you ever saw,
he will efface himself before you count twenty. The grass may be but
three inches high and the Lynx twenty-three, but he will melt into it,
and wholly escape the searching eyes of the keenest. One would not think
an empty skin could lie more flat. Add to this the silent sinuosity of
his glide; he seems to ooze around the bumps and stumps, and bottle up
his frightful energy for the final fearsome leap. His whole makeup is
sacrificed to efficiency in that leap; on that depends his life; his
very existence turns on the wondrous perfection of the sneak, of which
the leap is the culmination. Hunters in all parts where these creatures
abound, agree in calling Wildcat, Lynx, and Cougar by the undignified
but descriptive name of Sneak-cat.
THE BOBCAT OR MOUNTAIN WILDCAT
The Wildcat of Europe, and of literature, is a creature of almost
unparalleled ferocity. Our own Wildcat is three times as big and heavy,
so many persons assume that it is three times as ferocious, and
therefore to be dreaded almost like a Tiger. The fact is, the American
Wildcat or Bobcat is a very shy creature, ready to run from a very small
dog, never facing a man and rarely killing anything bigger than a
Rabbit.
I never saw but one Bobcat in the Yellowstone Park, and that was not in
the Park, but at Gardiner where it was held a captive. But it came from
the Park, and the guides tell me that the species is quite common in
some localities.
It is readily recognized by its cat-like form and its short or bob-tail,
whence its name.
[Illustration: XXXVI. (a) Tracks of Deer escaping and (b) Tracks of
Mountain Lion in pursuit
_Photos by E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: XXXVII. The Mountain Lion sneaking around us as we sleep
_Sketch by E. T. Seton_]
MISUNDERSTOOD--THE CANADA LYNX
The southern part of North America is occupied by Bobcats of various
kinds, the northern part by Lynxes, their very near kin, and there is a
narrow belt of middle territory occupied by both. The Yellowstone Park
happens to be in that belt, so we find here both the Mountain Bobcat and
the Canada Lynx.
I remember well three scenes from my childhood days in Canada, in which
this animal was the central figure. A timid neighbour of ours was
surprised one day to see a large Lynx come out of the woods in broad
daylight, and walk toward his house. He went inside, got his gun, opened
the door a little, and knelt down. The Lynx walked around the house at
about forty yards distance, the man covering it with the gun most of the
time, but his hand was shaking, the gun was wabbling, and he was
tormented with the thought, "What if I miss, then that brute will come
right at me, and then, oh, dear! what?"
He had not the nerve to fire and the Lynx walked back to the woods. How
well I remember that man. A kind-hearted, good fellow, but oh! so
timid. His neighbours guyed him about it, until at last he sold out his
farm and joined the ministry.
The next scene was similar. Two men were out Coon-hunting, when their
dogs treed something. A blazing fire soon made, showed plainly aloft in
the tree the whiskered head of a Lynx. The younger man levelled his gun
at it, but the other clung to his arm begging him to come away,
reminding him that both had families dependent on them, and earnestly
protesting that the Lynx, if wounded, would certainly come down and kill
the whole outfit.
The third was wholly different. In broad daylight a Lynx came out of the
woods near a settler's house, entered the pasture and seized a lamb. The
good wife heard the noise of the sheep rushing, and went out in time to
see the Lynx dragging the victim. She seized a stick and went for the
robber. He growled defiantly, but at the first blow of the stick he
dropped the lamb and ran. Then that plucky woman carried the lamb to the
house; finding four deep cuts in its neck she sewed them up, and after a
few days of careful nursing restored the woolly one to its mother, fully
recovered.
[Illustration]
The first two incidents illustrate the crazy ideas that some folks have
about the Lynx, and the last shows what the real character of the animal
is.
I have once or twice been followed by Lynxes, but I am sure it was
merely out of curiosity. Many times I have met them in the woods at
close range and each time they have gazed at me in a sort of mild-eyed
wonder. There was no trace of ferocity in the gaze, but rather of
innocent confidence.
The earliest meeting I ever had with a Lynx I shall remember when all
the other meetings have been dimmed by time, but I have used the
incident without embellishment in the early part of "Two Little
Savages," so shall not repeat it here.
THE SHYEST THING IN THE WOODS--MOUNTAIN LION, PUMA OR COUGAR
Reference to the official report shows that there are about one hundred
Mountain Lions now ranging the Yellowstone Park. And yet one is very
safe in believing that not twenty-five persons of those living in the
Park have ever seen one.
By way of contrast, the report gives the number of Blackbear at the
same--about one hundred--and yet every one living in the Park or passing
through, has seen scores of Bears.
Why this difference? Chiefly owing to their respective habits. The
Cougar is the most elusive, sneaking, adroit hider, and shyest thing in
the woods. I have camped for twenty-five years in its country and have
never yet seen a wild Cougar. Almost never are they found without dogs
specially trained to trail and hunt them.
Although I have never seen a Cougar at large, it is quite certain that
many a one has watched me. Yes! even in the Yellowstone Park. Remember
this, oh traveller, sitting in front of the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel!
you are in sight of two famous Cougar haunts--Mt. Evarts and Bunsen
Peak, and the chances are that, as you sit and perhaps read these lines,
a Cougar lolling gray-brown among the gray-brown rocks of the mountain
opposite, is calmly surveying all the world about, including yourself.
[Illustration]
If you consult the witching contraband books that we of a bygone age
used to read surreptitiously in school hours, you will learn that "the
Cougar is a fearsome beast of invincible prowess. He can kill a Buffalo
or an ox with a blow of his paw, and run off with it at full speed or
carry it up a tree to devour, and he is by choice a man-eater. Commonly
uttering the cry of a woman in distress to decoy the gallant victim to
his doom." If, on the other hand, you consult some careful natural
histories, or one or two of the seasoned guides, you learn that the
Cougar, though horribly destructive among Deer, sheep, and colts,
rarely kills a larger prey, and never is known to attack man.
I have had many persons take exception to the last statement, and give
contrary proof by referring to some hair-lifting incident which seemed
to be a refutation. But most of these attacks by Cougars have failed to
stand the disintegrating power of a carefully focussed searchlight.
There is no doubt that the Cougar is addicted to horseflesh, as his
scientific name implies (_hippolestes_=horse pirate). He will go a long
way to kill a colt, and several supposed cases of a Cougar attacking a
man on horseback at night prove to have been attacks on the horse, and
in each case on discovering the man the Cougar had decamped.
This creature is also possessed of a strong curiosity and many times is
known to have followed a man in the woods merely to study the queer
creature, but without intent to do him harm. Nevertheless the timid
traveller who discovers he is "pursued by a Cougar" may manage to
persuade himself that he has had a hairbreadth escape.
THE TIME I MET A LION
A newspaper reporter asked me once for a story of terrible peril from
our wild animals, a time "when I nearly lost my life."
[Illustration]
My answer was, "I never had such an experience. Danger from wild animals
is practically non-existent in America to-day."
"Did you never meet a Grizzly or a Mountain Lion?" he asked.
"Yes, many Grizzlies, and one or two Lions. I've had one look me over
while I slept," was the answer.
And now the thrill-monger's face lighted up, he straightened his paper
and stuck his pencil in his mouth by way of getting ready, and
ejaculated: "Say! now you're getting it; let's hear the details. Don't
spare me!"
"It was back in September, 1899," I said. "My wife and I were camping in
the high Sierra near Mt. Tallac. At this season rain is unknown, so we
took no tent. Each of us had a comfortable rubber bed and we placed
these about a foot or two apart. In the narrow alley between we put a
waterproof canvas, and on that each night we laid the guns.
"We had a couple of cowboys to look after the outfit. A fortnight had
gone by with sunny skies and calm autumn weather, when one evening it
began to blow. Black, lumpy clouds came up from the far-off sea; the
dust went whirling in little eddies, and when the sun went down it was
of a sickly yellowish. The horses were uneasy, throwing up their noses,
snorting softly and pricking their ears in a nervous way.
"Everything promised a storm in spite of the rule 'no rain in
September,' and we huddled into our tentless beds with such preparation
as we could make for rain.
"As night wore on the windstorm raged, and one or two heavy drops
spattered down. Then there was a loud snort or two and a plunge of the
nearest horse, then quiet.
"Next morning we found every horse gone, and halters and ropes broken,
while deep hoofprints showed the violence of the stampede which we had
scarcely heard. The men set out on foot after the horses, and by good
luck, recovered all within a mile. Meanwhile I made a careful study of
the ground, and soon got light. For there were the prints of a huge
Mountain Lion. He had prowled into camp, coming up to where we slept,
sneaked around and smelt us over, and--I think--walked down the alley
between our beds. After that, probably, he had got so close to the
horses that, inspired by terror of their most dreaded foe, they had
broken all bonds and stampeded into safety. Nevertheless, though the
horses were in danger, there can be no question, I think, that we were
not."
The reporter thought the situation more serious than I did, and
persisted that if I dug in my memory I should yet recall a really
perilous predicament, in which thanks to some wild brute, I was near
death's door. And as it proved he was right. I had nearly forgotten what
looked like a hairbreadth escape.
IN PERIL OF MY LIFE
It was on the same Sierra trip. Our outfit had been living for weeks
among the tall pines, subsisting on canned goods; and when at length we
came out on the meadows by Leaf Lake we found them enlivened by a small
herd of wild--that is, range-cattle.
"My!" said one of the cowboys, "wouldn't a little fresh milk go fine
after all that ptomaine we've been feeding on?"
"There's plenty of it there; help yourself," said I.
"I'd soon catch one if I knew which, and what to do when I got her," he
answered.
Then memories of boyhood days on the farm came over me and I said: "I'll
show you a cow in milk, and I'll milk her if you'll hold her."
"Agreed! Which is the one?"
I put my hands up to my mouth and let off a long bleat like a calf in
distress. The distant cattle threw up their heads and began "sniffing."
Another bleat and three cows separated from the others; two ran like mad
into the woods, the third kept throwing her head this way and that, but
not running. "That one," I said, "is your cow. She's in milk and not too
recently come in."
[Illustration: Milk Lady]
Then away went the cowboys to do their part. The herd scattered and the
cow tried to run, but the ponies sailed alongside, the lariats whistled
and in a flash she was held with one rope around her horns, the other
around one hind leg.
"Now's your chance, Milk-lady!" they shouted at me, and forward I went,
pail in hand, to milk that snorting, straining, wild-eyed thing. She
tried to hold her milk up, but I am an old hand at that work. She never
ceased trying to kick at me with her free hind leg, so I had to watch
the leg, and milk away. The high pitched "_tsee tsee_" had gradually
given place to the low "_tsow tsow_" of the two streams cutting the foam
when a peculiar smell grew stronger until it was nothing less than a
disgusting stench. For the first time I glanced down at the milk in the
pail, and there instead of a dimpled bank of snowy foam was a great
yeasty mass of yellowish brown streaked with blood.
Hastily rising and backing off, I said: "I've got plenty of milk now
for you two. The rest of us don't care for any. Hold on till I get back
to the trees."
Then, when I was safely under cover, the boys turned the cow loose. Of
course, her first impulse was revenge, but I was safe and those mounted
men knew how to handle a cow. She was glad to run off.
[Illustration]
"There's your milk," I said, and pointed to the pail I had left.
Evidently that cow had been suffering from more than one milk malady.
The boys upset the bloody milk right there, then took the pail to the
stream, where they washed it well, and back to camp, where we scalded it
out several times.
THE DANGEROUS NIGHT VISITOR
That night about sundown, just as we finished supper, there came from
the near prairie the mighty, portentous rumbling roar of a bull--the
bellow that he utters when he is roused to fight, the savage roar that
means "I smell blood." It is one of those tremendous menacing sounds
that never fail to give one the creeps and make one feel, oh! so puny
and helpless.
We went quietly to the edge of the timber and there was the monster at
the place where that evil milk was spilt, tearing up the ground with
hoofs and horns, and uttering that dreadful war-bellow. The cowboys
mounted their ponies, and gave a good demonstration of the power of
brains in the ruling of brawn. They took that bull at a gallop a mile or
more away, they admonished him with some hard licks of a knotted-rope
and left him, then came back, and after a while we all turned in for the
night.
Just as we were forgetting all things, the sweet silence of the camp was
again disturbed by that deep, vibrating organ tone, the chesty roaring
of the enraged bull; and we sprang up to see the huge brute striding in
the moonlight, coming right into camp, lured as before by that sinister
blood trail.
The boys arose and again saddled the ready mounts. Again I heard the
thudding of heavy feet, the shouts of the riders, a few loud snorts,
followed by the silence; and when the boys came back in half an hour we
rolled up once more and speedily were asleep.
To pass the night in peace! not at all. Near midnight my dreams were
mixed with earthquakes and thunder, and slowly I waked to feel that
ponderous bellow running along the ground, and setting my legs a-quiver.
[Illustration]
"_Row-ow-ow-ow_" it came, and shook me into full wakefulness to realize
that that awful brute was back again. He could not resist the glorious,
alluring chance to come and get awfully mad over that "bluggy milk." Now
he was in camp, close at hand; the whole sky seemed blocked out and the
trees a-shiver as he came on.
"_Row-ow-ow-ow_" he rumbled, also snorted softly as he came, and before
I knew it he walked down the narrow space between our beds and the
wagon. Had I jumped up and yelled, he, whether mad or scared, might have
trampled one or other of us. That is the bull of it; a horse steps over.
So I waited in trembling silence till that horrid "_Row-ow-ow-ow_" went
by. Then I arose and yelled with all my power:
"Louie! Frank! Help! Here's the bull."
The boys were up before I had finished. The ready ponies were put in
commission in less than three minutes. Then came the stampede, the heavy
thudding, the loud whacks of the ropes, and when these sounds had died
in the distance, I heard the "pop, pop" of side arms. I asked no
questions, but when the boys came back and said, "well, you bet he won't
be here again," I believed them.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: XXXVIII. Sketch of the Bear Family as made on the spot
_By E. T. Seton_]
[Illustration: XXXIX. Two pages from my journal in the garbage heap
_By E. T. Seton_]
* * * * *
XII
Bears of High and Low Degree
* * * * *
[Illustration: The Snorer]
XII
Bears of High and Low Degree
Why is snoring a crime at night and a joke by day? It seems to be so,
and the common sense of the public mind so views it.
In the September of 1912 I went with a good guide and a party of
friends, to the region southeast of Yellowstone Lake. This is quite the
wildest part of the Park; it is the farthest possible from human
dwellings, and in it the animals are wild and quite unchanged by daily
association with man, as pensioners of the hotels.
Our party was carefully selected, a lot of choice spirits, and yet there
was one with a sad and unpardonable weakness--he always snored a
dreadful snore as soon as he fell asleep. That is why he was usually put
in a tent by himself, and sent to sleep with a twenty-five foot
deadening space between him and us of gentler somnolence.
He had been bad the night before, and now, by request, was sleeping
_fifty_ feet away. But what is fifty feet of midnight silence to a
forty-inch chest and a pair of tuneful nostrils. About 2 A.M. I was
awakened as before, but worse than ever, by the most terrific, measured
snorts, and so loud that they seemed just next me. Sitting up, I bawled
in wrath, "Oh, Jack, shut up, and let some one else have a chance to
sleep."
The answer was a louder snort, a crashing of brush and a silence that,
so far as I know, continued until sunrise.
Then I arose and learned that the snorts and the racket were made, not
by my friend, but by a huge Grizzly that had come prowling about the
camp, and had awakened me by snorting into my tent.
But he had fled in fear at my yell; and this behaviour exactly shows the
attitude of the Grizzlies in the West to-day. They are afraid of man,
they fly at whiff or sound of him, and if in the Yellowstone you run
across a Grizzly that seems aggressive, rest assured he has been taught
such bad manners by association with our own species around the hotels.
THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF BEARS
[Illustration]
Some guides of unsound information will tell the traveller that there
are half a dozen different kinds of Bears in or near the Yellowstone
Park--Blackbear, Little Cinnamon, Big Cinnamon, Grizzlies, Silver-tip,
and Roach-backs. This is sure however, there are but two species,
namely, the Blackbear and the Grizzly.
The Blackbear is known by its short front claws, flat profile and black
colour, with or without a tan-coloured muzzle. Sometimes in a family of
Blackbears there appears a red-headed youngster, just as with ourselves;
he is much like his brethren but "all over red complected" as they say
in Canada. This is known to hunters as a "Little Cinnamon."
The Grizzly is known by its great size, its long fore claws, its hollow
profile and its silver-sprinkled coat. Sometimes a Grizzly has an
excessive amount of silver; this makes a Silver-tip. Sometimes the
silver is nearly absent, in which case the Bear is called a "Big
Cinnamon." Sometimes the short mane over his humped shoulders is
exaggerated; this makes a "Roach-back." Any or all of these are to be
looked for in the Park, yet remember! they form only two species. All of
the Blackbear group are good climbers; none of the Grizzly group climb
after they are fully grown.
BEAR-TREES
There is a curious habit of Bears that is well known without being well
understood; it is common to all these mentioned. In travelling along
some familiar trail they will stop at a certain tree, claw it, tear it
with their teeth, and rub their back and head up against it as high as
they can reach, even with the tip of the snout, and standing on tiptoes.
There can be no doubt that a Bear coming to a tree can tell by scent
whether another Bear has been there recently, and whether that Bear is a
male or female, a friend, a foe or a stranger. Thus the tree serves as a
sort of news depot; and there is one every few hundred yards in country
with a large Bear population.
These trees, of course, abound in the Park. Any good guide will point
out some examples. In the country south of the Lake, I found them so
common that it seemed as if the Bears had made many of them for mere
sport.
A PEEP INTO BEAR FAMILY LIFE
When we went to the Yellowstone in 1897 to spend the season studying
wild animal life, we lived in a small shanty that stood near Yancey's,
and had many pleasant meetings with Antelope, Beaver, etc., but were
disappointed in not seeing any Bears. One of my reasons for coming was
the promise of "as many Bears as I liked." But some tracks on the trail
a mile away were the only proofs that I found of Bears being in the
region.
One day General Young, then in charge of the Park, came to see how we
were getting along. And I told him that although I had been promised as
many Bears as I liked, and I had been there investigating for six weeks
already, I hadn't seen any. He replied, "You are not in the right place.
Go over to the Fountain Hotel and there you will see as many Bears as
you wish." That was impossible, for there were not Bears enough in the
West to satisfy me, I thought. But I went at once to the Fountain Hotel
and without loss of time stepped out the back door.
[Illustration]
I had not gone fifty feet before I walked onto a big Blackbear with her
two roly-poly black cubs. The latter were having a boxing match, while
the mother sat by to see fair play. As soon as they saw me they stopped
their boxing, and as soon as I saw them I stopped walking. The old Bear
gave a peculiar "_Koff koff_," I suppose of warning, for the young ones
ran to a tree, and up that they shinned with alacrity that amazed me.
When safely aloft, they sat like small boys, holding on with their
hands, while their little black legs dangled in the air, and waited to
see what was to happen down below.