ads:
Wild Animals I Have Known
Ernest Thompson Seton
The Project Gutenberg Etext of Wild Animals I Have Known
by Ernest Thompson Seton
#3 in our series by Ernest Thompson Seton
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!
Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.
Please do not remove this.
This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book.
Do not change or edit it without written permission. The words
are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they
need about what they can legally do with the texts.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below. We need your donations.
Presently, contributions are only being solicted from people in:
Texas, Nevada, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, South Dakota,
Iowa, Indiana, and Vermont. As the requirements for other states
are met, additions to this list will be made and fund raising will
begin in the additional states. These donations should be made to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655
Title: Wild Animals I Have Known
Author: Ernest Thompson Seton
Release Date: January, 2002 [Etext #3031]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
Edition: 10
Language: English
The Project Gutenberg Wild Animals I Have Known By Ernest Thompson Seton
ads:
Livros Grátis
http://www.livrosgratis.com.br
Milhares de livros grátis para download.
******This file should be named wldam10.txt or wldam10.zip******
Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, wldam11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, wldam10a.txt
This etext was prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com
or [email protected]m
Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included. Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any
of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.
We are now trying to release all our books one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to send us error messages even years after
the official publication date.
Please note: neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.
Most people start at our sites at:
http://gutenberg.net
http://promo.net/pg
Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement
can surf to them as follows, and just download by date; this is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.
http://metalab.unc.edu/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext01
or
ftp://metalab.unc.edu/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext01
Or /etext00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90
Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release fifty new Etext
files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 3000+
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.
ads:
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.
At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding.
Something is needed to create a future for Project Gutenberg for
the next 100 years.
We need your donations more than ever!
Presently, contributions are only being solicted from people in:
Texas, Nevada, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, South Dakota,
Iowa, Indiana, and Vermont. As the requirements for other states
are met, additions to this list will be made and fund raising will
begin in the additional states.
All donations should be made to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and will be tax deductible to the extent
permitted by law.
Mail to:
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Avenue
Oxford, MS 38655 [USA]
We are working with the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation to build more stable support and ensure the
future of Project Gutenberg.
We need your donations more than ever!
You can get up to date donation information at:
http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html
***
You can always email directly to:
Michael S. Hart <[email protected]m>
[email protected] forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .
We would prefer to send you this information by email.
Example command-line FTP session:
ftp metalab.unc.edu
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext01, etc.
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.?? [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]
**The Legal Small Print**
(Three Pages)
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.
To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.
THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.
INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
including any form resulting from conversion by word
processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
*EITHER*:
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
does *not* contain characters other than those
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
author, and additional characters may be used to
indicate hypertext links; OR
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
form by the program that displays the etext (as is
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
OR
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
or other equivalent proprietary form).
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
"Small Print!" statement.
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to
let us know your plans and to work out the details.
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain etexts, and royalty free copyright licenses.
If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.07.00*END*
Wild Animals I Have Known
By Ernest Thompson Seton
Books by Ernest Thompson Seton
Biography of a Grizzly
Lives of the Hunted
Wild Animals at Home
Wild Animal Ways
Stories in This Book
Lobo, the King of Currumpaw
Silverspot, the Story of a Crow
Raggylug, the Story of a Cottontail Rabbit
Bingo, the Story of My Dog
The Springfield Fox
The Pacing Mustang
Wully, the Story of a Yaller Dog
Redruff, the Story of the Don Valley Partridge
THESE STORIES are true. Although I have left the strict line of
historical truth in many places, the animals in this book were all
real characters. They lived the lives I have depicted, and showed
the stamp of heroism and personality more strongly by far than it
has been in the power of my pen to tell.
I believe that natural history has lost much by the vague general
treatment that is so common. What satisfaction would be derived
from a ten-page sketch of the habits and customs of Man? How
much more profitable it would be to devote that space to the life
of some one great man. This is the principle I have endeavored to
apply to my animals. The real personality of the individual, and
his view of life are my theme, rather than the ways of the race in
general, as viewed by a casual and hostile human eye.
This may sound inconsistent in view of my having pieced together
some of the characters, but that was made necessary by the
fragmentary nature of the records. There is, however, almost no
deviation from the truth in Lobo, Bingo, and the Mustang.
Lobo lived his wild romantic life from 1889 to 1894 in the
Currumpaw region, as the ranchmen know too well, and died,
precisely as related, on January 31, 1894.
Bingo was my dog from 1882 to 1888, in spite of interruptions,
caused by lengthy visits to New York, as my Manitoban friends
will remember. And my old friend, the owner of Tan, will learn
from these pages how his dog really died.
The Mustang lived not far from Lobo in the early nineties. The
story is given strictly as it occurred, excepting that there is a
dispute as to the manner of his death. According to some
testimony he broke his neck in the corral that he was first taken to.
Old Turkeytrack is where he cannot be consulted to settle it.
Wully is, in a sense, a compound of two dogs; both were mongrels,
of some collie blood, and were raised as sheep-dogs. The first part
of Wully is given as it happened, after that it was known only that
he became a savage, treacherous sheep-killer. The details of the
second part belong really to another, a similar yaller dog, who long
lived the double-life---a faithful sheep-dog by day, and a
bloodthirsty, treacherous monster by night. Such things are less
rare than is supposed, and since writing these stories I have heard
of another double-lived sheep-dog that added to its night
amusements the crowning barbarity of murdering the smaller dogs
of the neighborhood. He had killed twenty, and hidden them in a
sandpit, when discovered by his master. He died just as Wully did.
All told, I now have information of six of these Jekyll-Hyde dogs.
In each case it happened to be a collie.
Redruff really lived in the Don Valley north of Toronto, and many
of my companions will remember him. He was killed in i88g,
between the Sugar Loaf and Castle Frank, by a creature whose
name I have withheld, as it is the species, rather than the
individual, that I wish to expose.
Silverspot, Raggylug, and Vixen are founded on real characters.
Though I have ascribed to them the adventures of more than one of
their kind, every incident in their biographies is from life.
The fact that these stories are true is the reason why all are tragic.
The life of a wild animal always has a tragic end.
Such a collection of histories naturally suggests a common
thought--a moral it would have been called in the last century. No
doubt each different mind will find a moral to its taste, but I hope
some will herein find emphasized a moral as old as Scripture--we
and the beasts are kin. Man has nothing that the animals have not
at least a vestige of, the animals have nothing that man does not in
some degree share.
Since, then, the animals are creatures with wants and feelings
differing in degree only from our own, they surely have their
rights. This fact, now beginning to be recognized by the Caucasian
world, was first proclaimed by Moses and was emphasized by the
Buddhist over 2,000 years ago.
ERNEST THOMPSON SET0N
LOBO
The King of Currumpaw
I
CUBRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in northern New Mexico. It
is a land of rich pastures and teeming flocks and herds, a land of
rolling mesas and precious running waters that at length unite in
the Currumpaw River, from which the whole region is named. And
the king whose despotic power was felt over its entire extent was
an old gray wolf.
Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called him, was the
gigantic leader of a remarkable pack of gray wolves, that had
ravaged the Currumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the
shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and, wherever he
appeared with his trusty band, terror reigned supreme among the
cattle, and wrath and despair among their owners. Old Lobo was a
giant among wolves, and was cunning and strong in proportion to
his size. His voice at night was well-known and easily
distinguished from that of any of his fellows. An ordinary wolf
might howl half the night about the herdsman's bivouac without
attracting more than a passing notice, but when the deep roar of
the old king came booming down the canon, the watcher bestirred
himself and prepared to learn in the morning that fresh and serious
inroads had been made among the herds.
Old Lobo's band was but a small one. This I never quite
understood, for usually, when a wolf rises to the position and
power that he had, he attracts a numerous following. It may be that
he had as many as he desired, or perhaps his ferocious temper
prevented the increase of his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only
five followers during the latter part of his reign. Each of these,
however, was a wolf of renown, most of them were above the
ordinary size, one in particular, the second in command, was a
veritable giant, but even he was far below the leader in size and
prowess. Several of the band, besides the two leaders, were
especially noted. One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that the
Mexicans called Blanca; this was supposed to be a female,
possibly Lobo's mate. Another was a yellow wolf of remarkable
swiftness, which, according to current stories had, on several
occasions, captured an antelope for the pack.
It will be seen, then, that these wolves were thoroughly
well-known to the cowboys and shepherds. They were frequently
seen and oftener heard, and their lives were intimately associated
with those of the cattlemen, who would so gladly have destroyed
them. There was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who would
not readily have given the value of many steers for the scalp of any
one of Lobo's band, but they seemed to possess charmed lives, and
defied all manner of devices to kill them. They scorned all hunters,
derided all poisons, and continued, for at least five years, to exact
their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to the extent, many
said, of a cow each day. According to this estimate, therefore, the
band had killed more than two thousand of the finest stock, for, as
was only too well-known, they selected the best in every instance.
The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a starving state, and
therefore ready to eat anything, was as far as possible from the
truth in this case, for these freebooters were always sleek and
well-conditioned, and were in fact most fastidious about what they
ate. Any animal that had died from natural causes, or that was
diseased or tainted, they would not touch, and they even rejected
anything that had been killed by the stockmen. Their choice and
daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly killed yearling heifer.
An old bull or cow they disdained, and though they occasionally
took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear that veal or horseflesh
was not their favorite diet. It was also known that they were not
fond of mutton, although they often amused themselves by killing
sheep. One night in November, 1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf
killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently for the fun of it, and
did not eat an ounce of their flesh.
These are examples of many stories which I might repeat, to show
the ravages of this destructive band. Many new devices for their
extinction were tried each year, but still they lived and throve in
spite of all the efforts of their foes. A great price was set on Lobo's
head, and in consequence poison in a score of subtle forms was put
out for him, but he never failed to detect and avoid it. One thing
only he feared--that was firearms, and knowing full well that all
men in this region carried them, he never was known to attack or
face a human being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was to take
refuge in flight whenever, in the daytime, a man was descried, no
matter at what distance. Lobo's habit of permitting the pack to eat
only that which they themselves had killed, was in numerous cases
their salvation, and the keenness of his scent to detect the taint of
human hands or the poison itself, completed their immunity.
On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard the too familiar
rallying-cry of Old Lobo, and, stealthily approaching, he found the
Currumpaw pack in a hollow, where they had 'rounded' up a small
herd of cattle. Lobo sat apart on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest
was endeavoring to 'cut out' a young cow, which they had selected;
but the cattle were standing in a compact mass with their heads
outward, and presented to the foe a line of horns, unbroken save
when some cow, frightened by a fresh onset of the wolves, tried to
retreat into the middle of the herd. It was only by taking advantage
of these breaks that the wolves had succeeded at all in wounding
the selected cow, but she was far from being disabled, and it
seemed that Lobo at length lost patience with his followers, for he
left his position on the hill, and, uttering a deep roar, dashed
toward the herd. The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he
sprang in among them. Then the cattle scattered like the pieces of
a bursting bomb. Away went the chosen victim, but ere she had
gone twenty-five yards Lobo was upon her. Seizing her by the
neck, he suddenly held back with all his force and so threw her
heavily to the ground. The shock must have been tremendous, for
the heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also turned a
somersault, but immediately recovered himself, and his followers
falling on the poor cow, killed her in a few seconds. Lobo took no
part in the killing--after having thrown the victim, he seemed to
say, "Now, why could not some of you have done that at once
without wasting so much time?"
The man now rode up shouting, the wolves as usual retired, and
he, having a bottle of strychnine, quickly poisoned the carcass in
three places, then went away, knowing they would return to feed,
as they had killed the animal themselves. But next morning, on
going to look for his expected victims, he found that, although the
wolves had eaten the heifer, they had carefully cut out and thrown
aside all those parts that had been poisoned.
The dread of this great wolf spread yearly among the ranchmen,
and each year a larger price was set on his head, until at last it
reached $1,000, an unparalleled wolf-bounty, surely; many a good
man has been hunted down for less, Tempted by the promised
reward, a Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day galloping
up the ca€on of the Currumpaw. He had a superb outfit for
wolf-hunting--the best of guns and horses, and a pack of enormous
wolf-hounds. Far out on the plains of the Panhandle, he and his
dogs had killed many a wolf, and now he never doubted that,
within a few days, Old Lobo's scalp would dangle at his
saddlebow.
Away they went bravely on their hunt in the gray dawn of a
summer morning, and soon the great dogs gave joyous tongue to
say that they were already on the track of their quarry. Within two
miles, the grizzly band of Currumpaw leaped into view, and the
chase grew fast and furious. The part of the wolf-hounds was
merely to hold the wolves at bay till the hunter could ride up and
shoot them, and this usually was easy on the open plains of Texas;
but here a new feature of the country came into play, and showed
how well Lobo had chosen his range; for the rocky cadons of the
Currumpaw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in every
direction. The old wolf at once made for the nearest of these and
by crOssing it got rid of the horseman. His band then scattered and
thereby scattered the dogs, and when they reunited at a distant
point of course all of the dogs did not turn up, and the wolves, no
longer outnumbered, turned on their pursuers and killed or
desperately wounded them all. That night when Tannerey
mustered his dogs, only six of them returned, and of these, two
were terribly lacerated. This hunter made two other attempts to
capture the royal scalp, but neither of them was more successful
than the first, and on the last occasion his best horse met its death
by a fall; so he gave up the chase in disgust and went back to
Texas, leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the region.
Next year, two other hunters appeared, determined to win the
promised bounty. Each believed he could destroy this noted wolf,
the first by means of a newly devised poison, which was to be laid
out in an entirely new manner; the other a French Canadian, by
poison assisted with certain spells and charms, for he firmly
believed that Lobo was a veritable "loup-garou," and could not be
killed by ordinary means. But cunningly compounded poisons,
charms, and incantations were all of no avail against this grizzly
devastator. He made his weekly rounds and daily banquets as
aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, Calone and Laloche
gave up in despair and went elsewhere to hunt.
In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful attempt to capture
Lobo, Joe Calone had a humiliating experience, which seems to
show that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had
absolute confidence in himself. Calone's farm was on a small
tributary of the Currumpaw, in a picturesque ca€on, and among the
rocks of this very ca€on, within a thousand yards of the house, Old
Lobo and his mate selected their den and raised their family that
season. There they lived all summer and killed Joe's cattle, sheep,
and dogs, but laughed at all his poisons and traps and rested
securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe
vainly racked his brain for some method of smoking them out, or
of reaching them with dynamite. But they escaped entirely
unscathed, and continued their ravages as before. "There's where
he lived all last summer," said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff,
"and I couldn't do a thing with him. I was like a fool to him."
II
This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to
believe until, in the fall of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the
wily marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly
than anyone else. Some years before, in the Bingo days, I had been
a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then had been of another
sort, chaining me to stool and desk. I was much in need of a
change, and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner on the
Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could
do anything with this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and,
eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as possible
among the mesas of that region. I spent some time riding about to
learn the country. and at intervals my guide would point to the
skeleton of a cow to which the hide still adhered, and remark,
"That's some of his work."
It became quite clear to me that, in this rough country, it was
useless to think of pursuing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that
poison or traps were the only available expedients. At present we
had no traps large enough, so I set to work with poison.
I need not enter into the details of a hundred devices that I
employed to circumvent this 'loup-garou'; there was no
combination of strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid, that I
did not essay; there was no manner of flesh that I did not try as
bait; but morning after morning, as I rode forth to learn the result, I
found that all my efforts had been useless. The old king was too
cunning for me. A single instance will show his wonderful
sagacity. Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted some
cheese together with the kidney fat of a freshly killed heifer,
stewing it in a china dish, and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid
the taint of metal.
When the mixture was cool, I cut it into lumps, and making a hole
in one side of each lump, I inserted a large dose of strychnine and
cyanide, contained, in a capsule that was impermeable by any
odor; finally I sealed the holes up with pieces of the cheese itself.
During the whole process, I wore a pair of gloves steeped in the
hot blood of the heifer, and even avoided breathing on the baits.
When all was ready, I put them in a raw-hide bag rubbed all over
with blood, and rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of the
beef at the end of a rope. With this I niade a ten-mile circuit,
dropping a bait at each quarter of a mile, and taking the utmost
care, always, not to touch any with my hands.
Lobo, generally, came into this part of the range in the early part of
each week, and passed the latter part, it was supposed. around the
base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday, and that same evening,
as we were about to retire, I heard the deep bass howl of his
majesty. On hearing it one of the boys briefly remarked, "There he
is, we'll see."
The next morning I went forth, eager to know the result. I soon
came on the fresh trail of the robbers, with Lobo in the lead--his
track was always easily distinguished. An ordinary wolf's forefoot
is 4 1/2 inches long, that of a large wolf 4 3/4 inches, but Lobo's,
as measured a number of times, was 5 1/2 inches from claw to
heel; I afterward found that his other proportions were
commensurate, for he stood three feet high at the shoulder, and
weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore, though obscured by those
of his followers, was never difficult to trace. The pack had soon
found the track of my drag, and as usual followed it. I could see
that Lobo had come to the first bait, sniffed about it, and finally
had picked it up.
Then I could not conceal my delight. "I've got him at last," I
exclaimed; "I shall find him stark within a mile," and I galloped on
with eager eyes fixed on the great broad track in the dust. It led me
to the second bait and that also was gone. How I exulted--I surely
have him now and perhaps several of his band. But there was the
broad pawmark still on the drag; and though I stood in the stirrup
and scanned the plain I saw nothing that looked like a dead wolf.
Again I followed--to find now that the third bait was gone--and the
king-wolf's track led on to the fourth, there to learn that he had not
really taken a bait at all, but had merely carried them in his mouth,
Then having piled the three on the fourth, he scattered filth over
them to express his utter contempt for my devices. After this he
left my drag and went about his business with the pack he guarded
so effectively.
This is only one of many similar experiences which convinced me
that poison would never avail to destroy this robber, and though I
continued to use it while awaiting the arrival of the traps, it was
only because it was meanwhile a sure means of killing many
prairie wolves and other destructive vermin.
About this time there came under my observation an incident that
will illustrate Lobo's diabolic cunning. These wolves had at least
one pursuit which was merely an amusement; it was stampeding
and killing sheep, though they rarely ate them. The sheep are
usually kept in flocks of from one thousand to three thousand
under one or more shepherds. At night they are gathered in the
most sheltered place available, and a herdsman sleeps on each side
of the flock to give additional protection. Sheep are such senseless
creatures that they are liable to be stampeded by the veriest trifle,
but they have deeply ingrained in their nature one, and perhaps
only one, strong weakness, namely, to follow their leader. And this
the shepherds turn to good account by putting half a dozen goats in
the flock of sheep. The latter recognize the superior intelligence of
their bearded cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they crowd
around them, and usually are thus saved from a stampede and are
easily protected. But it was not always so. One night late in last
November, two Perico shepherds were aroused by an onset of
wolves. Their flocks huddled around the goats, which, being
neither fools nor cowards, stood their ground and were bravely
defiant; but alas for them, no common wolf was heading this
attack. Old Lobo, the werewolf, knew as well as the shepherds that
the goats were the moral force of the flock, so, hastily running
over the backs of the densely packed sheep, he fell on these
leaders, slew them all in a few minutes, and soon had the luckless
sheep stampeding in a thousand different directions. For weeks
afterward I was almost daily accosted by some anxious shepherd,
who asked, "Have you seen any stray OTO sheep lately?" and
usually I was obliged to say I had; one day it was, "Yes, I came on
some five or six carcasses by Diamond Springs"; or another, it was
to the effect that I had seen a small "bunch" running on the Malpai
Mesa; or again, "No, but Juan Meira saw about twenty, freshly
killed, on the Cedra Monte two days ago."
At length the wolf traps arrived, and with two men I worked a
whole week to get them properly set out. We spared no labor or
pains, I adopted every device I could think of that might help to
insure success. The second day after the traps arrived, I rode
around to inspect, and soon came upon Lobo's trail running from
trap to trap. In the dust I could read the whole story of his doings
that night. He had trotted along in the darkness, and although the
traps were so carefully concealed, he had instantly detected the
first one. Stopping the onward march of the pack, he had
cautiously scratched around it until he had disclosed the trap, the
chain, and the log, then left them wholly exposed to view with the
trap still unsprung, and passing on he treated over a dozen traps in
the same fashion. Very soon I noticed that he stopped and turned
aside as soon as he detected suspicious signs on the trail, and a
new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself. I set the traps in
the form of an H; that is, with a row of traps on each side of the
trail, and one on the trail for the cross-bar of the H. Before long, I
had an opportunity to count another failure. Loho came trotting
along the trail, and was fairly between the parallel lines before he
detected the single trap in the trail, but he stopped in time, and
why or how he knew enough I cannot tell, the Angel of the wild
things must have been with him, but without turning an inch to the
right or left, he slowly and cautiously backed on his own tracks,
putting each paw exactly in its old track until he was off the
dangerous ground. Then returning at one side he scratched clods
and stones with his hind feet till he had sprung every trap. This he
did on many other occasions, and although I varied my methods
and redoubled my precautions, he was never deceived, his sagacity
seemed never at fault, and he might have been pursuing his career
of rapine to-day, but for an unfortunate alliance that proved his
ruin and added his name to the long list of heroes who,
unassailable when alone, have fallen through the indiscretionof a
trusted ally.
III
Once or twice, I had found indications that every. thing was not
quite right in the Currumpaw pack. There were signs of
irregularity, I thought; for instance there was clearly the trail of a
smaller wolf running ahead of the leader, at times, and this I could
not understand until a cowboy made a remark which explained the
matter.
"I saw them to-day," he said, "and the wild one that breaks away is
Blanca." Then the truth dawned upon me, and I added, "Now, I
know that Blanca is a she-wolf, because were a he-wolf to act thus,
Lobo would kill him at once."
This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer, and set one or two
rather obvious traps about the carcass. Then cutting off the head,
which is considered useless offal, and quite beneath the notice of a
wolf, I set it a little apart and around it placed six powerful steel
traps properly deodorized and concealed with the utmost care.
During my operations I kept my hands, boots, and implements
smeared with fresh blood, and afterward sprinkled the ground with
the same, as though it had flowed from the head; and when the
traps were buried in the dust I brushed the place over with the skin
of a coyote, and with a foot of the same animal made a number of
tracks over the traps. The head was so placed that there was a
narrow passage between it and some tussocks, and in this passage I
buried two of my best traps, fastening them to the head itself.
Wolves have a habit of approaching every carcass they get the
wind of, in order to examine it, even when they have no
intention of eating it, and I hoped that this habit would bring the
Currumpaw pack within reach of my latest stratagem. I did not
doubt that Lobo would detect my handiwork about the meat, and
prevent the pack approaching it, but I did build some hopes on the
head, for it looked as though it had been thrown aside as useless.
Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there, oh,
joy! were the tracks of the pack, and the place where the beef-head
and its traps had been was empty. A hasty study of the trail showed
that Lobo had kept the pack from approaching the meat, but one, a
small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine the head as it lay
apart and had walked right into one of the traps.
We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the
hapless wolf was Blanca. Away she went, however, at a gallop,
and although encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over
fifty pounds, she speedily distanced my companion, who was on
foot. But we overtook her when she reached the rocks, for the
horns of the cow's head became caught and held her fast. She was
the handsomest wolf I had ever seen. Her coat was in perfect
condition and nearly white.
She turned to fight, and, raising her voice in the rallying cry of her
race, sent a long howl rolling over the ca€on. From far away upon
the mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her
last call, for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and
breath were devoted to combat.
Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank
from afterward more than at the time. We each threw a lasso over
the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite
directions until the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed,
her limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode,
carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first death-blow
we had been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.
At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode
homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the
distant mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had
never really deserted her, but, knowing that he could not save her,
his deep-rooted dread of firearms had been too much for him when
he saw us approaching. All that day we heard him wailing as he
roamed in his quest, and I remarked at length to one of the boys,
"Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was his mate."
As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home ca€on,
for his voice sounded continually nearer.
There was an unmistakable note of sorrow in it now. It was no
longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail; "Blanca!
Blanca!" he seemed to call. And as night came down, I noticed that
he was not far from the place where we had overtaken her. At
length he seemed to find the trail, and when he came to the spot
where we had killed her, his heartbroken wailing was piteous to
hear. It was sadder than I could possibly have believed. Even the
stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had "never heard a wolf
carry on like that before." He seemed to know exactly what had
taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.
Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the
ranch-house. Whether in hopes of finding her there, or in quest of
revenge, I know not, but the latter was what he found, for he
surprised our unfortunate watchdog outside and tore him to little
bits within fifty yards of the door. He evidently came alone this
time, for I found but one trail next morning, and he had galloped
about in a reckless manner that was very unusual with him. I
had half expected this, and had set a number of additional traps
about the pasture. Afterward I found that he had indeed fallen into
one of these, but, such was his strength, he had torn himself loose
and cast it aside.
I believed that he would continue in the neighborhood until he
found her body at least, so I concentrated all my energies on this
one enterprise of catching him before he left the region, and while
yet in this reckless mood. Then I realized what a mistake I had
made in killing Blanca, for by using her as a decoy I might have
secured him the next night.
I gathered in all the traps I could command, one hunred and thirty
strong steel wolf-traps, and set them in fours in every trail that led
into the ca€on; each trap was separately fastened to a log, and
each log was separately buried. In burying them, I carefully
removed the sod and every particle of earth that was lifted we put
in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced and all was finished
the eye could detect no trace of human handiwork. When the traps
were concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca over each place,
and made of it a drag that circled all about the ranch, and finally I
took off one of her paws and made with it a line of tracks over
each trap. Every precaution and device known to me I used, and
retired at a late hour to await the result.
Once during the night I thought I heard Old Lobo, but was not sure
of it. Next day I rode around, but darkness came on before I
completed the circuit of the north canon, and I had nothing to
report. At supper one of the cowboys said, "There was a great row
among the cattle in the north ca€on this morning, maybe there is
something in the traps there." It was afternoon of the next day
before I got to the place referred to, and as I drew near a great
grizzly form arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to escape,
and there revealed before me stood Lobo, King of the Currumpaw,
firmly held in the traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to
search for his darling, and when he found the trail her body had
made he followed it recklessly, and so fell into the snare prepared
for him. There he lay in the iron grasp of all four traps, perfectly
helpless, and all around him were numerous tracks showing how
the cattle had gathered about him to insult the fallen despot,
without daring to approach within his reach. For two days and two
nights he had lain there, and now was worn out with struggling.
Yet, when I went near him, he rose up with bristling mane and
raised his voice, and for the last time made the ca€on reverberate
with his deep bass roar, a call for help, the muster call of his band.
But there was none to answer him, and, left alone in his extremity,
he whirled about with all his strength and made a desperate effort
to get at me. All in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over three
hundred pounds, and in their relentless fourfold grasp, with great
steel jaws on every foot, and the heavy logs and chains all
entangled together, he was absolutely powerless. How his huge
ivory tusks did grind on those cruel chains, and when I ventured to
touch him with my rifle-barrel he left grooves on it which are there
to this day. His eyes glared green with hate and fury, and his jaws
snapped with a hollow 'chop,' as he vainly endeavored to reach me
and my trembling horse. But he was worn out with hunger and
struggling and loss of blood, and he soon sank exhausted to the
ground.
Something like compunction came over me, as I prepared to deal
out to him that which so many had suffered at his hands.
"Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand lawless raids, in a few
minutes you will be but a great load of carrion. It cannot be
otherwise." Then I swung my lasso and sent it whistling over his
head. But not so fast; he was yet far from being subdued, and
before the supple coils had fallen on his neck he seized the noose
and, with one firce chop, cut through its hard thick strands, and
dropped it in two pieces at his feet.
Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but I did not wish to
spoil his royal hide, so I galloped back to the camp and returned
wth a cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our victim a stick of
wood which he seized in his teeth, and before he could relinquish
it our lassoes whistled through the air and tightened on his neck.
Yet before the light had died from his fierce eyes, I cried, "Stay,
we will not kill him; let us take him alive to the camp." He was so
completely powerless now that it was easy to put a stout stick
through his mouth, behind his tusks, and then lash his jaws with a
heavy cord which was also fastened to the stick. The stick kept the
cord in, and the cord kept the stick in so he was harmless. As soon
as he felt his jaws were tied he made no further resistance, and
uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us and seemed to say,
"Well, you have got me at last, do as you please with me." And
from that time he took no more notice of us.
We tied his feet securely, but he never groaned, nor growled, nor
turned his head. Then with our united strength we were just able to
put him on my horse. His breath came evenly as though sleeping,
and his eyes were bright and clear again, but did not rest on us.
Afar on the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his passing
kingdom, where his famous band was now scattered. And he gazed
till the pony descended the pathway into the ca€on, and the rocks
cut off the view,
By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in safety, and after
securing him with a collar and a strong chain, we staked him out in
the pasture and removed the cords.
Then for the first time I could examine him closely, and proved
how unreliable is vulgar report when a living hero or tyrant is
concerned. He had not a collar of gold about his neck, nor was
there on his shoulders an inverted cross to denote that he had
leagued himself with Satan. But I did find on one haunch a great
broad scar, that tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno, the
leader of Tannerey's wolf-hounds--a mark which she gave him the
moment before he stretched her lifeless on the sand of the ca€on.
I set meat and water beside him, but he paid no heed. He lay
calmly on his breast, and gazed with those steadfast yellow eyes
away past me down through the gateway of the ca€on, over the
open plains--his plains-- nor moved a muscle when I touched him.
When the sun went down he was still gazing fixedly across the
prairie. I expected he would call up his band when night came,
and prepared for them, but he had called once in his extremity, and
none had come; he would never call again.
A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a
dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and
who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the three-fold brunt,
heart-whole? This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he
was lying there still in his position of calm repose, his body
unwounded, but his spirit was gone--the old kingwolf was dead.
I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy helped me to carry him to
the shed where lay the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him
beside her, the cattle-man exclaimed: "There, you would come to
her, now you are together again."
SILVERSPOT
The Story of a Crow
I
HOW MANY of us have ever got to know a wild animal? I do not
mean merely to meet with one once or twice, or to have one in a
cage, but to really know it for a long time while it is wild, and to
get an insight into its life and history. The trouble usually is to
know one creature from his fellow. One fox or crow is so much
like another that we cannot be sure that it really is the same next
time we meet. But once in awhile there arises an animal who is
stronger or wiser than his fellow, who becomes a great leader, who
is, as we would say, a genius, and if he is bigger, or has some mark
by which men can know him, he soon becomes famous in his
country, and shows us that the life of a wild animal may be far
more interesting and exciting than that of many human beings.
Of this class were Courtant, the bob-tailed wolf that terrorized the
whole city of Paris for about ten years in the beginning of the
fourteenth century; Clubfoot, the lame grizzly bear that left such a
terrific record in the San Joaquin Valley of California; Lobo, the
king-wolf of New Mexico, that killed a cow every day for five
years, and the Seonee panther that in less than two years killed
nearly three hundred human beings--and such also was Silverspot,
whose history, so far as I could learn it, I shall now briefly tell.
Silverspot was simply a wise old crow; his name was given
because of the silvery white spot that was like a nickel, stuck on
his right side, between the eye and the bill, and it was owing to this
spot that I was able to know him from the other crows, and put
together the parts of his history that came to my knowledge.
Crows are, as you must know, our most intelligent birds.--'Wise as
an old crow' did not become a saying without good reason. Crows
know the value of organization, and are as well drilled as
soldiers--very much better than some soldiers, in fact, for crows
are always on duty, always at war, and always dependent on each
other for life and safety. Their leaders- not only are the oldest and
wisest of the band, but also the strongest and bravest, for they must
be ready at any time with sheer force to put down an upstart or a
rebel. The rank and file are the youngsters and the crows without
special gifts.
Old Silverspot was the leader of a large band of crows that made
their headquarters near Toronto, Canada, in Castle Fra uk, which is
a pine-clad hill on the northeast edge of the city. This band
numbered about two hundred, and for reasons that I never
understood did not increase. In mild winters they stayed along the
Niagara River; in cold winters they went much farther south. But
each year in the last week of February, Old Silverspot would
muster his followers and boldly cross the forty miles of open water
that lies between Toronto and Niagara; not, however, in a straight
line would he go, but always in a curve to the west, whereby he
kept in sight of the familiar landmark of Dundas Mountain, until
the pine-clad hill itself came in view. Each year he came with his
troop, and for about six weeks took up his abode on the hill. Each
morning thereafter the crows set out in three bands to forage. One
band went southeast to Ashbridge's Bay. One went north up the
Don, and one, the largest, went northwestward up the ravine. The
last, Silverspot led in person. Who led the others I never found out.
On calm mornings they flew high and straight away. But when it
was windy the band flew low, and followed the ravine for shelter.
My windows overlooked the ravine, and it was thus that in 1885 I
first noticed this old crow. I was a newcomer in the neighborhood,
but an old resident said to me then "that there old crow has been
a-flying up and down this ravine for more than twenty years." My
chances to watch were in the ravine, and Silverspot doggedly
clinging to the old route, though now it was edged with houses and
spanned by bridges, became a very familiar acquaintance. Twice
each day in March and part of April, then again in the late summer
and the fall, he passed and repassed, and gave me chances to see
his movements, and hear his orders to his bands, and so, little by
little, opened my eyes to the fact that the crows, though a litle
people, are of great wit, a race of birds with a language and a
social system that is wonderfully human in many of its chief
points, and in some is better carried out than our own.
One windy day I stood on the high bridge across the ravine, as the
old crow, heading his long, straggling troop, came flying down
homeward. Half a mile away I could hear the contented 'All's well,
come right along!' as we should say, or as he put it, and as also his
lieutenant echoed it at the rear of the band. They were flying very
low to be out of the wind, and would have to rise a little to clear
the bridge on which I was. Silverspot saw me standing there, and
as I was closely watching him he didn't like it. He checked his
flight and called out, 'Be on your guard,' and rose much higher in
the air. Then seeing that I was not armed he flew over my head
about twenty feet, and his followers in turn did the same, dipping
again to the old level when past the bridge.
Next day I was at the same place, and as the crows came near I
raised my walking stick and pointed it at them. The old fellow at
once cried out 'Danger,' and rose fifty feet higher than before.
Seeing that it was not a gun, he ventured to fly over. But on the
third day I took with me a gun, and at once he cried out, 'Great
danger--a gun.' His lieuteiiant repeated the cry, and every crow in
the troop began to tower and scatter from the rest, till they were far
above gun shot, and so passed safely over, coming down again to
the shelter of the valley when well beyond reach. Another time, as
the long, straggling troop came down the valley, a red-tailed hawk
alighted on a tree close by their intended route. The leader cried
out, 'Hawk, hawk,' and stayed his flight, as did each crow on
nearing him, until all were massed in a solid body. Then, no longer
fearing the hawk, they passed on. But a quarter of a mile farther on
a man with a gun appeared below, and the cry, 'Great danger--a
gun, a--gun; scatter fur your lives,' at once caused them to scatter
widely and tower till far beyond range.
Many others of his words of command I learned in the course of
my long acquaintance, and found that sometimes a very littre
difference in the sound makes a very great difference in meaning.
Thus while No. 5 means hawk, or any large, dangerous bird, this
means 'wheel around,' evidently a combination of No. 5, whose
root idea is danger, and of No. 4, whose root idea is retreat, and
this again is a mere 'good day,' to a far away comrade. This is
usually addressed to the ranks and means 'attention.'
Early in April there began to be great doings among the crows.
Some new cause of excitement seemed to have come on them.
They spent half the day among the pines, instead of foraging from
dawn till dark. Pairs and trios might be seen chasing each other,
and from time to time they showed off in various feats of flight. A
favorite sport was to dart down suddenly from a great height
toward some perching crow, and just before touching it to turn at a
hairbreadth and rebound in the air so fast that the wings of the
swooper whirred with a sound like distant thunder. Sometimes one
crow would lower his head, raise every feather, and coming close
to another would gurgle out a long note like. What did it all mean?
I soon learned. They were making love and pairing off. The males
were showing off their wing powers and their voices to the lady
crows. And they must have been highly appreciated, for by the
middle of April all had mated and had scattered over the country
for their honeymoon, leaving the sombre old pines of Castle Frank
deserted and silent.
II
The Sugar Loaf hill stands alone in the Don Valley. It is still
covered with woods that join with those of Castle Frank, a quarter
of a mile off. in the woods, between the two hills, is a pine-tree in
whose top is a deserted hawk's nest. Every Toronto school-boy
knows the nest, and, excepting that I had once shot a black squirrel
on its edge, no one had ever seen a sign of life about it. There it
was year after year, ragged and old, and falling to pieces. Yet,
strange to tell, in all that time it never did drop to pieces, like other
old nests.
One morning in May I was out at gray dawn, and stealing gently
through the woods, whose dead leaves were so wet that no rustle
was made. I chanced to pass under the old nest, and was surprised
to see a black tail sticking over the edge. I struck the tree a smart
blow, off flew a crow, and the secret was out. I had long suspected
that a pair of crows nested each year about the pines, but now I
realized that it was Silverspot and his wife. The old nest was
theirs, and they were too wise to give it an air of spring-cleaning
and housekeeping each year. Here they had nested for long, though
guns in the hands of men and boys hungry to shoot crows were
carried under their home every day. I never surprised the old
fellow again, though I several times saw him through my
telescope.
One day while watching I saw a crow. crossing the Don Valley
with something white in his beak. He flew to the mouth of the
Rosedale Brook, then took a short flight to the Beaver Elm. There
he dropped the white object, and looking about gave inc a chance
to recognize my old friend Silverspot. After a minute he picked up
the white thing--a shell--and walked over past the spring, and here,
among the docks and the skunk-cabbages, he unearthed a pile of
shells and other white, shiny things. He spread them out in the sun,
turned them over, turned them one by one in his beak, dropped
them, nestled on them as though they were eggs, toyed with them
and gloated over them like a miser. This was his hobby, his
weakness. He could not have explained why he enjoyed them, any
more than a boy can explain why he collects postage-stamps, or a
girl why she prefers pearls to rubies; but his pleasure in them was
very real, and after half an hour he covered them all, including the
new one, with earth and leaves, and flew off. I went at once to the
spot and examined the hoard; there was about a hatful in all,
chiefly white pebbles, clam-shells, and some bits of tin, but there
was also the handle of a china cup, which must have been the gem
of the collection. That was the last time I saw them. Silverspot
knew that I had found his treasures, and he removed them at once;
where, I never knew.
During the space that I watched him so closely he had many little
adventurcs and escapes. He was once severely handled by a
sparrowhawk, and often he was chased and worried by kingbirds.
Not that these did him much harm, but they were such noisy pests
that he avoided their company as quickly as possible, just as a
grown man avoids a conflict with a noisy and impudent small boy.
He had some cruel tricks, too. He had a way of going the round of
the small birds' nests each morning to eat the new laid eggs, as
regularly as a doctor visiting his patients. But we must not judge
him for that, as it is just what we ourselves do to the hens in the
barnyard.
His quickness of wit was often shown. One day I saw him flying
down the ravine with a large piece of bread in his bill. The stream
below him was at this time being bricked over as a sewer. There
was one part of two hundred yards quite finished, and, as he
flew over the open water just . above this, the bread fell from his
bill, and was swept by the current out of sight into the tunnel. He
flew down and peered vainly into the dark cavern, then, acting
upon a happy thought, he flew to the downstream end of the
tunnel, and awaiting the reappearance of the floating bread, as it
was swept onward by the current, he seized and bore it off in
triumph.
Silverspot was a crow of the world. He was truly a successful
crow. He lived in a region that, though full of dangers, abounded
with food. In the old, unrepaired nest lie raised a brood each year
with his wife, whom, by the way, I never could distinguish, and
when the crows again gathered together he was their
acknowledged chief.
The reassembling takes place about the end of June-- the young
crows with their bob-tails, soft wings, and falsetto voices are
brought by their parents, whom they nearly equal in size, and
introduced to society at the old pine woods, a woods that is at once
their fortress and college. Here they find security in numbers and
in lofty yet sheltered perches, and here they begin their schooling
and are taught all the secrets of success in crow life, and in crow
life the least failure does not simply mean begin again. It means
death.
The first week or two after their arrival is spent by the young ones
in getting acquainted, for each crow must know personally all the
others in the band. Their parents meanwhile have time to rest a
little after the work of raising them, for now the youngsters are
able to feed themselves and roost on a branch in a row, just like
big folks.
In a week or two the moulting season comes. At this time the old
crows are usually irritable and nervous, but it does not stop them
from beginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course, do not
much enjoy the punishment and nagging they get so soon after they
have been mamma's own darlings. But it is all for their good, as
the old lady said when she skinned the eels, and old Silverspot is
an excellent teacher. Sometimes he seems to make a speech to
them. What he says I cannot guess, but judging by the way they
receive it, it must be extremely witty. Each morning there is a
company drill, for the young ones naturally drop into two or three
squads according to their age and strength. The rest of the day they
forage with their parents.
When at length September comes we find a great change. The
rabble of silly little crows have begun to learn sense. The delicate
blue iris of their eyes, the sign of a fool-crow, has given place to
the dark brown eye of the old stager. They know their drill now
and have learned sentry duty. They have been taught guns and
traps and taken a special course in wireworms and green-corn.
They know that a fat old farmer's wife is much less dangerous,
though so much larger, than her fifteen-year-old son, and they can
tell the boy from his sister. They know that an umbrella is not a
gun, and they can count up to six, which is fair for young crows,
though Silverspot can go up nearly to thirty. They know the smell
of gunpowder and the south side of a hemlock-tree, and begin to
plume themselves upon being crows of the world. They always
fold their wings three times after alighting, to be sure that it is
neatly done. They know how to worry a fox into giving up half his
dinner, and also that when the kingbird or the purple martin assails
them they must dash into a bush, for it is as impossible to fight the
little pests as it is for the fat apple-woman to catch the small boys
who have raided her basket. All these things do the young crows
know; but they have taken no lessons in egg-hunting yet, for it is
not the season. They are unacquainted with clams, and have never
tasted horses' eyes, or seen sprouted corn, and they don't know a
thing about travel, the greatest educator of all. They did not think
of that two months ago, and since then they have thought of it, but
have learned to wait till their betters are ready.
September sees a great change in the old crows, too, Their
moulting is over. They are now in full feather again and proud of
their handsome coats. Their health is again good, and with it their
tempers are improved. Even old Silverspot, the strict teacher,
becomes quite jolly, and the youngsters, who have long ago
learned to respect him, begin really to love him.
He has hammered away at drill, teaching them all the signals and
words of command in use, and now it is a pleasure to see them in
the early morning.
'Company 1!' the old chieftain would cry in crow, and Company I
would answer with a great clamor.
'Fly!' and himself leading them, they would all fly straight forward.
'Mount!' and straight upward they turned in a moment.
'Bunch!' and they all massed into a dense black flock.
'Scatter!' and they spread out like leaves before the wind.
'Form line!' and they strung out into the long line of ordinary flight.
'Descend!' and they all dropped nearly to the ground.
'Forage!' and they alighted and scattered about to feed, while two
of the permanent sentries mounted duty--one on a tree to the right,
the other on a mound to the far left. A minute or two later
Silverspot would cry out, 'A man with a gun!' The sentries repeated
the cry and the company flew at once in open order as quickly as
possible toward the trees. Once behind these, they formed line
again in safety and returned to the home pines.
Sentry duty is not taken in turn by all the crows, but a certain
number whose watchfulness has been often proved are the
perpetual sentries, and are expected to watch and forage at the
same time. Rather hard on them it seems to us, but it works well
and the crow organization is admitted by all birds to be the very
best in existence.
Finally, each November sees the troop sail away southward to
learn new modes of life, new landmarks and new kinds of food,
under the guidance of the everwise Silverspot.
III
There is only one time when a crow is a fool, and that is at night.
There is only one bird that terrifies the crow, and that is the owl.
When, therefore, these come together it is a woeful thing for the
sable birds. The distant hoot of an owl after dark is enough to
make them withdraw their heads from under their wings, and sit
trembling and miserable till morning. In very cold weather the
exposure of their faces thus has often resulted in a crow having
one or both of his eyes frozen, so that blindness followed and
therefore death. There are no hospitals for sick crows.
But with the morning their courage comes again, and arousing
themselves they ransack the woods for a mile around till they find
that owl, and if they do not kill him they at least worry him half to
death and drive him twenty miles away.
In l893 the crows had come as usual to Castle Frank. I was walking
in these woods a few days afterward when I chanced upon the
track of a rabbit that had been running at full speed over the snow
and dodging about among the trees as though pursued. Strange to
tell, I could see no track of the pursuer. I followed the trail and
presently saw a drop of blood on the snow, and a little farther on
found the partly devoured remains of a little brown bunny. What
had killed him was a mystery until a careful search showed in the
snow a great double-toed track and a beautifully pencilled brown
feather. Then all was clear--a horned owl. Half an hour later, in
passing again by the place, there, in a tree, within ten feet of the
bones of his victim, was the fierce-eyed owl himself. The murderer
still hung about the scene of his crime. For once circumstantial
evidence had not lied. At my approach he gave a guttural 'grrr-oo'
and flew off with low flagging flight to haunt the distant sombre
woods.
Two days afterward, at dawn, there was a great uproar among the
crows. I went out early to see, and found some black feathers
drifting over the snow. I followed up the wind in the direction
from which they came and soon saw the bloody remains of a crow
and the great double-toed track which again told me that the
murderer was the owl. All around were signs of the struggle, but
the fell destroyer was too strong. The poor crow had been dragged
from his perch at night, when the darkness bad put him at a
hopeless disadvantage.
I turned over the remains, and by chance unburied the head--then
started with an exclamation of sorrow. Alas! It was the head of old
Silverspot. His long life of usefulness to his tribe was over--slain at
last by the owl that he had taught so many hundreds of young
crows to beware of.
The old nest on the Sugar Loaf is abandoned now. The crows still
come in spring-time to Castle Frank, but without their famous
leader their numbers are dwindling, and soon they will be seen no
more about the old pine-grove in which they and their forefathers
had lived and learned for ages.
The Story of a Cottontail Rabbit
RAGGYLUG, or Rag, was the name of a young cottontail rabbit. It
was given him from his torn and ragged ear, a life-mark that he got
in his first adventure. He lived with his mother in Olifant's Swamp,
where I made their acquaintance and gathered, in a hundred
different ways, the little bits of proof and scraps of truth that at
length enabled me to write this history.
Those who do not know the animals well may think I have
humanized them, but those who have lived so near them as to
know somewhat of their ways and their minds will riot think so.
Truly rabbits have no speech as we understand it, but they have a
way of conveying ideas by a system of sounds, signs, scents,
whisker-touches, movements, and example that answers the
purpose of speech; and it must be remembered that though in
telling this story I freely translate from rabbit into English, I repeat
nothing that they did not say.
I
The rank swamp grass bent over and concealed the snug nest
where Raggylug's mother had hidden him. She had partly covered
him with some of the bedding, and, as always, her last warning
was to lie low and say nothing, whatever happens. Though tucked
in bed, he was wide awake and his bright eyes were taking in that
part of his little green world that was straight above. A bluejay and
a red-squirrel, two notorious thieves, were loudly berating each
other for stealing, and at one time Rag's home bush was the centre
of their fight; a yellow warbler caught a blue butterfly but six
inches from his nose, and a scarlet and black ladybug, serenely
waving her knobbed feelers, took a long walk up one grassblade,
down another, and across the nest and over Rag's face-- and yet he
never moved nor even winked.
After a while he heard a strange rustling of the leaves in the near
thicket. It was an odd, continuous sound, and though it went this
way and that way and came ever nearer, there was no patter of feet
with it. Rag had lived his whole life in the Swamp (he was three
weeks old) and yet had never heard anything like this. Of course
his curiosity was greatly aroused. His mother had cautioned him to
lie low, but that was understood to be in case of danger, and this
strange sound without footfalls could not be anything to fear.
The low rasping went past close at hand, then to the right, then
back, and seemed going away. Rag felt he knew what he was
about; he wasn't a baby; it was his duty to learn what it was. He
slowly raised his roly.poly body on his short fluffy legs, lifted his
little round head above the covering of his nest and peeped out into
the woods. The sound had ceased as soon as he moved. He saw
nothing, so took one step forward to a clear view, and instantly
found himself face to face with an enormous Black Serpent.
"Mammy," he screamed in mortal terror as the monster darted at
him. With all the strength of his tiny limbs he tried to run. But in a
flash the Snake had him by one ear and whipped around him with
his coils to gloat over the helpless little baby bunny he had secured
for dinner.
"Mam-my--Mam-my," gasped poor little Raggylug as the cruel
monster began slowly choking him to death. Very soon the little
one's cry would have ceased, but bounding through the woods
straight as an arrow came Mammy. No longer a shy, helpless little
Molly Cottontail, ready to fly from a shadow: the mother's love
was strong in her. The cry of her baby had filled her with the
courage of a hero, and--hop, she went over that horrible reptile.
Whack, she struck down at him with her sharp hind claws as she
passed, giving him such a stinging blow that he squirmed with pain
and hissed with anger.
"M-a.m-my," came feebly from the little one. And Mammy came
leaping again and again and struck harder and fiercer until the
loathsome reptile let go the little one's ear and tried to bite the old
one as she leaped over. But all he got was a mouthful of wool each
time, and Molly's fierce blows began to tell, as long bloody rips
were torn in the Black Snake's scaly armor.
Things were now looking bad for the Snake; and bracing himself
for the next charge, he lost his tight hold on Baby Bunny, who at
once wriggled out of the coils and away into the underbrush,
breathless and- terribly frightened, but unhurt save that his left ear
was much torn by the teeth of that dreadful Serpent.
Molly now had gained all she wanted. She had no notion of
fighting for glory or revenge. Away she went into the woods and
the little one followed the shining beacon of her snow-white tail
until she led him to a safe corner of the Swamp.
II
Old Olifant's Swamp was a rough, brambly tract of second-growth
woods, with a marshy pond and a stream through the middle. A
few ragged remnants of the old forest still stood in it and a few of
the still older trunks were lying about as dead logs in the
brushwood. The land about the pond was of that willow-grown
sedgy kind that cats and horses avoid, but that cattle do not fear.
The drier zones were overgrown with briars and young trees. The
outermost belt of all, that next the fields, was of thrifty,
gummy-trunked young pines whose living needles in air and dead
ones on earth offer so delicious an odor to the nostrils of the
passer-by, and so deadly a breath to those seedlings that would
compete with them for the worthless waste they grow on.
All around for a long way were smooth fields, and the only wild
tracks that ever crossed these fields were those of a thoroughly bad
and unscrupulous fox that lived only too near.
The chief indwellers of the swamp were Molly and Rag. Their
nearest neighbors were far away, and their nearest kin were dead.
This was their home, and here they lived together, and here Rag
received the training that made his success in life.
Molly was a good little mother and gave him a careful bringing up.
The first thing he learned was to lie low and say nothing. His
adventure with the snake taught him the wisdom of this. Rag never
forgot that lesson; afterward he did as he was told, and it made
the other things come more easily.
The second lesson he learned was 'freeze.' It grows out of the first,
and Rag was taught it as soon as he could run.
'Freezing' is simply doing nothing, turning into a statue. As soon as
he finds a foe near, no matter what he is doing, a well-trained
Cottontail keeps just as he is and stops all movement, for the
creatures of the woods are of the same color as the things in the
woods and catch the eye only while moving. So when enemies
chance together, the one who first sees the other can keep--
himself unseen by 'freezing' and thus have all the advantage of
choosing the time for attack or escape. Only those who live in the
woods know the importance of this; every wild creature and every
hunter must learn it; all learn to do it well, but not one of them can
beat Molly Cottontail in the doing. Rag's mother taught him this
trick by example. When the white cotton cushion that she always
carried to sit on went bobbing away through the woods, of course
Rag ran his hardest to keep up. But when Molly stopped and
'froze,' the natural wish to copy made him do the same.
But the best lesson of all that Rag learned from his mother was the
secret of the Brierbrush. It is a very old secret now, and to make it
plain you must first hear why the Brierbrush quarrelled with the
beasts.
Long ago the Roses used to grow on bushes that had no thorns. But
the Squirrels and Mice used to climb after them, the Cattle used to
knock them off with their horns, the Possum would twitch them
off with his long tail, and the Deer, with his sharp hoofs, would
break them down. So the Brierbrush armed itself with spikes to
protect its roses and declared eternal war on all creatures that
climbed trees, or had horns, or hoofs, or long tails. This left the
Brierbrush at peace with none but Molly Cottontail, who could not
climb, was horniess, hoofless, and had scarcely any tail at all.
In truth the Cottontail had never harmed a Brierrose, and having
now so many enemies the Rose took the Rabbit into especial
friendship, and when dangers are threatening poor Bunny he flies
to the nearest Brierbrush, certain that it is ready with a million
keen and poisoned daggers to defend him.
So the secret that Rag learned from his mother was, "The
Brierbrush is your best friend."
Much of the time that season was spent in learning the lay of the
land, and the bramble and brier mazes. And Rag learned them so
well that he could go all around the swamp by two different ways
and never leave the friendly briers at any place for more than five
hops.
It is not long since the foes of the Cottontails were disgusted to
find that man had brought a new kind of bramble and planted it in
long lines throughout the country. It was so strong that no
creatures could break it down, and so sharp that the toughest skin
was torn by it. Each year there was more of it and each year it
became a more serious matter to the wild creatures. But Molly
Cottontail had no fear of it. She was not brought up in the briers
for nothing. Dogs and foxes, cattle and sheep. and even man
himself might be torn by those fearful spikes: but Molly
understands it and lives and thrives under it. And the further it
spreads the more safe country there is for the Cottontail. And the
name of this new and dreaded bramble is--the barbed-wire fence.
III
Molly had no other children to look after now, so Rag had all her
care. He was unusually quick and bright as well as strong, and he
had uncommonly good chances; so he got on remarkably well.
All the season she kept him busy learning the tricks of the trail,
and what to eat and drink and what not to touch. Day by day she
worked to train him; little by little she taught him, putting into his
mind hundreds of ideas that her own life or early training had
stored in hers, and so equipped him with the knowledge that makes
life possible to their kind.
Close by her side in the clover-field or the thicket he would sit and
copy her when she wobbled her nose 'to keep her smeller clear,'
and pull the bite from her mouth or taste her lips to make sure he
was getting the same kind of fodder. Still copying her, he learned
to comb his ears with his claws and to dress his coat and to bite the
burrs out of his vest and socks. He learned, too, that nothing but
clear dewdrops from the briers were fit for a rabbit to drink, as
water which has once touched the earth must surely bear some
taint. Thus he began the study of woodcraft, the oldest of all
sciences.
As soon as Rag was big enough to go out alone, his mother taught
him the signal code. Rabbits telegraph each other by thumping on
the ground with their hind feet. Along the ground sound carries
far; a thump that at six feet from the earth is not heard at twenty
yards will, near the ground, be heard at least one hundred yards.
Rabbits have very keen hearing, and so might hear this same
thump at two hundred yards, and that would reach from end to end
of Olifant's Swamp. A single thump means 'look out' or 'freeze.' A
slow thump thump means 'come.' A fast thump thump means
'danger'; and a very fast thump thump thump means 'run for dear
life.'
At another time, when the weather was fine and the bluejays were
quarrelling among themselves, a sure sign that no dangerous foe
was about, Rag began a new study. Molly, by flattening her ears,
gave the sign to squat. Then she ran far away in the thicket and
gave the thumping signal for 'come.' Rag set out at a run to the
place but could not find Molly. He thumped, but got no reply.
Setting carefully about his search he found her foot-scent and,
following this strange guide, that the beasts all know so well and
man does not know at all, he worked out the trail and found her
where she was hidden. Thus he got his first lesson in trailing, and
thus it was that the games of hide and seek they played became
the schooling for the serious chase of which there was so much in
his after life.
Before that first season of schooling was over he had learnt all the
principal tricks by which a rabbit lives and in not a few problems
showed himself a veritable genius.
He was an adept at 'tree,' 'dodge,' and 'squat,' he could play
'log-lump,' with 'wind' and 'baulk' with 'back-track' so well that he
scarcely needed any other tricks. He had not yet tried it, but he
knew just how to play 'barb-wire,' which is a new trick of the
brilliant order; he had made a special study of 'sand,' which burns
up all scent, and was deeply versed in 'change-off,' 'fence,' and
'double' as well as 'hole-up,' which is a trick requiring longer
notice, and yet he never forgot that 'lie-low' is the beginning of all
wisdom and 'brierbrush' the only trick that is always safe.
He was taught the signs by which to know all his foes and then the
way to baffle them. For hawks, owls, foxes, hounds, curs, minks,
weasels, cats, skunks, coons, and -- men, each have a different
plan of pursuit, and for each and all of these evils he was taught a
remedy.
And for knowledge of the enemy's approach he learnt to depend
first on himself and his mother, and then on the bluejay.
"Never neglect the bluejay's warning," said Molly; "he is a
mischief-maker, a marplot, and a thief all the time, but nothing
escapes him. He wouldn't mind harming us, but he cannot, thanks
to the briers, and his enemies are ours, so it is well to heed him. If
the woodpecker cries a warning you can trust him, he is honest;
but he is a fool beside the bluejay, and though the bluejay often
tells lies for mischief you are safe to believe him when he brings
ill news."
The barb-wire trick takes a deal of nerve and the best of legs. It
was long before Rag ventured to play it, but as he came to his full
powers it became one of his favorites.
"It's fine play for those who can do it," said Molly. "First you lead
off your dog on a straightaway and warm him up a bit by nearly
letting him catch you. Then keeping just one hop ahead, you lead
him at a long slant full tilt into a breast-high barb-wire. I've seen
many a dog and fox crippled, and one big hound killed outright
this way. But I've also seen more than one rabbit lose his life in
trying it."
Rag early learnt what some rabbits never learn at all, that 'hole-up'
is not such a fine ruse as it seems; it may be the certain safety of a
wise rabbit, but soon or late is a sure death-trap to a fool. A young
rabbit always thinks of it first, an old rabbit never tries it till all
others fail. It means escape from a man or dog, a fox or a bird of
prey, but it means sudden death if the foe is a ferret, mink, skunk,
or weasel.
There were but two ground-holes in the Swamp. One on the
Sunning Bank, which was a dry sheltered knoll in the South-end. It
was open and sloping to the sun, and here on fine days the
Cottontails took their sun-baths. They stretched out among the
fragrant pine needles and winter-green in odd cat-like positions,
and turned slowly over as though roasting and wishing all sides
well done. And they blinked and panted, and squirmed as if in
dreadful pain; yet this was one of the keenest enjoyments they
knew.
Just over the brow of the knoll was a large pine stump. Its
grotesque roots wriggled out above the yellow sand-bank like
dragons, and under their protecting claws a sulky old woodchuck
had digged a den long ago.
He became more sour and ill-tempered as weeks went by, and
one day waited to quarrel with Olifant's dog instead of going in so
that Molly Cottontail was able to take possession of the den an
hour later.
This, the pine-root hole, was afterward very coolly taken by a
self-sufficient young skunk who with less valor might have
enjoyed greater longevity, for he imagined -- that even man with a
gun would fly from him. Instead of keeping Molly from the den
for good, therefore, his reign, like that of a certain Hebrew king,
was over in seven days.
The other, the fern-hole, was in a fern thicket next the clover field.
It was small and damp, and useless except as a last retreat. It also
was the work of a woodchuck, a well~meaning friendly neighbor,
but a harebrained youngster whose skin in the form of a whiplash
was now developing higher horse-power in the Olifant working
team.
"Simple justice," said the old man, "for that hide was raised on
stolen feed that the team would a' turned into horse-power
anyway."
The Cottontails were now sole owners of the holes, and did not go
near them when they could help it, lest anything like a path should
be made that might betray these last retreats to an enemy. There
was also the hollow hickory, which, though nearly fallen, was still
green, and had the great advantage of being open at both ends.
This had long been the residence of one Lotor, a solitary old coon
whose ostensible calling was frog-hunting, and who, like the
monks of old, was supposed to abstain from all flesh food. But it
was shrewdly suspected that he needed but a chance to indulge in a
diet of rabbit. When at last one dark night he was killed while
raiding Olifant's henhouse, Molly, so far from feeling a pang of
regret, took possession of his cosy nest with a sense of unbounded
relief.
IV
Bright Augnst sunlight was flooding the Swamp in the morning.
Everything seemed soaking in the warm radiance. A little brown
swamp-sparrow was teetering on a long rush in the pond. Beneath
him there were open spaces of dirty water that brought down a few
scraps of the blue sky, and worked it and the yellow duck-weed
into an exquisite mosaic, with a little wrong-side picture of the
bird in the middle. On the bank behind was a great vigorous
growth of golden green skunk-cabbage, that cast dense shadow
over the brown swamp tussocks.
The eyes of the swamp-sparrow were not trained to take in the
color glories, but he saw what we might have missed; that two of
the numberless leafy brown bumps under the broad cabbage-leaves
werc furry living things, with noses that never ceased to move up
and down, whatever else was still.
It was Molly and Rag. They were stretched under the
skunk-cabbage, not because they liked its rank smell, but because
the winged ticks could not stand it at all and so left them in peace.
Rabbits have no set time for lessons, they are always learning; but
what the lesson is depends on the present stress, and that must
arrive before it is known. They went to this place for a quiet rest,
but had not been long there when suddenly a warning note from
the ever-watchful bluejay caused Molly's nose and ears to go up
and her tail to tighten to her back. Away across the Swamp was
Olifant's big black and white dog, coming straight toward them.
"Now," said Molly, "squat while I go and keep that fool out of
mischief." Away she went to meet him and she fearlessly dashed
across the dog's path.
"Bow-ow-ow," he fairly yelled as he bounded after Molly, but she
kept just beyond his reach and led him where the million daggers
struck fast and deep, till his tender ears were scratched raw, and
guided him at last plump into a hidden barbed-wire fence, where
he got such a gashing that he went homeward howling with pain.
After making a short double, a loop and a baulk in case the dog
should come back, Molly returned to find that Rag in his eagerness
was standing bolt upright and craning his neck to see the sport.
This disobedience made her so angry that she struck him with her
hind foot and knocked him over in the mud.
One day as they fed on the near clover field a redtailed hawk came
swooping after them. Molly kicked up her hind legs to make fun of
him and skipped into the briers along one of their old pathways,
where of course the hawk could not follow. It was the main path
from the Creekside Thicket to the Stove-pipe brushpile. Several
creepers had grown across it, and Molly, keeping one eye on the
hawk, set to work and cut the creepers off. Rag watched her, then
ran on ahead, and cut some more that were across the path. "That's
right," said Molly, "always keep the runways clear, you will need
them often enough. Not wide, but clear. Cut everything like a
creeper across them and some day you will find you have cut a
snare." "A what?" asked Rag, as he scratched his right ear with his
left hind foot.
"A snare is something that looks like a creeper, but it doesn't grow
and it's worse than all the hawks in the world," said Molly,
glancing at the now far-away red-tail, "for there it hides night and
day in the runway till the chance to catch you comes."
"I don't believe it could catch me," said Rag, with the pride of
youth as he rose on his heels to rub his chin and whiskers high up
on a smooth sapling. Rag did not know he was doing this, but his
mother saw and knew it was a sign, like the changing of a boy's
voice, that her little one was no longer a baby but would soon be a
grown-up Cottontail.
V
There is magic in running water. Who does not know it and feel it?
The railroad builder fearlessly throws his bank across the wide bog
or lake, or the sea itself, but the tiniest nil of running water he
treats with great respect, studies its wish and its way and gives it
all it seems to ask. The thirst-parched traveller in the poisonous
alkali deserts holds back in deadly fear from the sedgy ponds till
he finds one down whose centre is a thin, clear line, and a faint
flow, the sign of running, living water, and joyfully he drinks.
There is magic in running water, no evil spell can cross it. Tam
O'Shanter proved its potency in time of sorest need. The
wild-wood creature with its deadly foe following tireless on the
trail scent, realizes its nearing doom and feels an awful spell. Its
strength is spent, its -- every trick is tried in vain till the good
Angel leads it to the water, the running, living water, and dashing
in it follows the cooling stream, and then with force renewed--
takes to the woods again.
There is magic in running water. The hounds come to the very spot
and halt and cast about; and halt and cast in vain. Their spell is
broken by the merry stream, and the wild thing lives its life.
And this was one of the great secrets that Raggylug learned from
his mother--"after the Brierrose, the Water is your friend."
One hot, muggy night in August, Molly led Rag through the
woods. The cotton-white cushion she wore under her tail twinkled
ahead and was his guiding lantern, though it went out as soon as
she stopped and sat on it. After a few runs and stops to listen, they
came to the edge of the pond. The hylas in the trees above them
were singing 'sleep, sleep,' and away out on a sunken log in the
decp water, up to his chin in the cool-ing bath, a bloated bullfrog
was singing the praises of a 'jug o' rutn.'
"Follow me still," said Molly, in rabbit, and 'flop' she went into the
pond and struck out for the sunken log in the middle. Rag flinched
but plunged with a little 'ouch,' gasping and wobbling his nose very
fast but still copying his mother. The same movements as on land
sent him through the water, and thus he found he could swim, On
he went till he reached the sunken log and scrambled up by his
dripping mother on the high dry end, with a rushy screen around
them and the Water that tells no tales. After this on warm black
nights when that old fox from Springfield came prowling through
the Swamp, Rag would note the place of the bullfrog's voice, for in
case of direst need it might be a guide to safety. And thenceforth
the words of the song that the bullfrog sang were 'Come, come, in
danger come.'
This was the latest study that Rag took up with his mother--it was
really a post-graduate course, for many little rabbits never learn it
at all.
VI
No wild animal dies of old age. Its life has soon or late a tragic
end. It is only a question of how long it can hold out against its
foes. But Rag's life was proof that once a rabbit passes out of his
youth he is likely to outlive his prime and be killed only in the last
third of life, the downhill third we call old age.
The Cottontails had enemies on every side. Their daily life was a
series of escapes. For dogs, foxes, cats, skunks, coons, weasels,
minks, snakes, hawks, owls, and men, and even insects were all
plotting to kill them They had hundreds of adventures, and at least
once a day they had to fly for their lives and save themselves by
their legs and wits.
More than once that hateful fox from Springfield '\ drove them to
taking refuge under the wreck of a barbedwire hog-pen by the
spring. But once there they could look calmly at him while he
spiked his legs in vain attempts to reach them.
Once or twice Rag when hunted had played off the hound against a
skunk that had seemed likely to be quite as dangerous as the dog.
Once he was caught alive by a hunter who had a hound and a ferret
to help him. But Rag had the luck to escape next day, with a yet
deeper distrust of ground holes. He was several times run into the
water by the cat, and many times was chased by hawks and owls,
but for each kind of danger there was a safeguard. His mother
taught him the principal dodges, and he improved on them and
made many new ones as he grew older. And the older and wiser he
gew the less he trusted to his legs, and the more to his wits for
safety.
Ranger was the name of a young hound in the neighborhood. To
train him his master used to put him on the trail of one of the
Cottontails. It was nearly always Rag that they ran, for the young
buck enjoyed the runs as much as they did, the spice of danger in
them being just enough for zest. He would say:
"Oh, mother! here comes the dog again, I must have a run to-day."
"You are too bold, R.aggy, my son!" she might reply.
"I fear you will run once too often."
"But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease that fool dog, and it's
all good training. I'll thump if I am too hard pressed, then you can
come and change off while I get my second wind."
On he would come, and Ranger would take the trail and follow till
Rag got tired of it. Then he either sent a thumping telegram for
help, which brought Molly to take charge of the dog, or he got rid
of the dog by souse clever trick. A description of one of these
shows how well Rag had learned the arts of the woods.
He knew that his scent lay best near the ground, and was strongest
when he was warm. So if he could get off the ground, and be left
in peace for half an hour to cool off, and for the trail to stale, he
knew he would be safe. When, therefore, he tired of the chase, he
made for the Creekside brier-patch, where he 'wound'--that is,
zig-zagged--till he left a course so crooked that the dog was sure to
be greatly delayed in working it out. He then went straight to D in
the woods, passing one hop to windward of the high log E.
Stopping at D, he followed his back trail to F; here he leaped aside
and ran toward G. Then, returning on his trail to J, he waited till
the hound passed on his trail at I. Rag then got back on his old trail
at H, anti followed it to E, where, with a scentbaulk or great leap
aside, he reached the high log, an d running to its higher end, he
sat like a bump.
Ranger lost much time in the bramble maze, and the scent was
very poor when he got it straightened out, and came to D. Here he
began to circle to pick it up, and after losing much time, struck the
trail which ended suddenly at G. Again he was at fault, and had to
circle to find the trail. Wider and wider circles, until at last, he
passed right under the log Rag was on. But a cold scent, on a cold
day, does not go downward much. Rag never budged nor winked,
and the hound passed.
Again the dog came round. This time he crossed the low part of
the log, and stopped to smell it. 'Yes, clearly it was rabbity,' but it
was a stale scent now; still he mounted the log.
It was a trying moment for Rag, as the great hound came
sniff-sniffing along the log. But his nerve did not forsake him; the
wind was right; he had his mind made up to bolt as soon as Ranger
came half way up. But he didn't come. A yellow cur would have
seen the rabbit sitting there, but the hound did not, and the scent
seemed stale, so he leaped off the log, and Rag had won.
VII
Rag had never seen any other rabbit than his mother. Indeed he
had scarcely thought about there being any other. He was more and
more away from her now, and yet he never felt lonely, for rabbits
do not hanker for company. But one day in December, while he
was among the red dogwood brush, cutting a new path to the great
Creekside thicket, he saw all at once against the sky over the
Sunning Bank the head and ears of a strange rabbit. The newcomer
had the air of a well-pleased discoverer and soon came hopping
Rag's way along one of his paths into his Swamp. A new feeling
rushed over him, that boiling mixture of anger and hatred called
jealousy.
The stranger stopped at one of Rag's rubbing-trees-- that is, a tree
against which he used to stand on his heels and rub his chin as far
up as he could reach. He thought he did this simply because he
liked it; but all buckrabbits do so, and several ends are served. It
makes the tree rabbity, so that other rabbits know that this swamp
already belongs to a rabbit family and is not open for settlement. It
also lets the next one know by the scent if the last caller was an
acquaintance, and the height from the ground of the rubbing-places
shows how tall the rabbit is.
Now to his disgust Rag noticed that the new-corner was a head
taller than himself, and a big, stout buck at that. This was a wholly
new experience and filled Rag with a wholly new feeling. The
spirit of murder entered his heart; he chewed very hard at nothing
in his mouth, and hopping forward onto a smooth piece of hard
ground he struck slowly:
'Thump--thump--thump,' which is a rabbit telegram for 'Get out of
my swamp, or fight.'
The new-corner made a big V with his ears, sat upright for a few
seconds, then, dropping on his fore-feet, sent along the ground a
louder, stronger, 'Thump--thump--thump.'
And so war was declared.
They came together by short runs side-wise, each one trying to get
the wind of the other and watching for a chance advantage. The
stranger was a big, heavy buck with plenty of muscle, but one or
two trifles such as treading on a turnover and failing to close when
Rag was on low ground showed that he had not much cunning and
counted on winning his battles by his weight. On he came at last
and Rag met him like a little fury. As they came together they
leaped up and struck out with their hind feet. Thud, thud they
came, and down went poor little Rag. In a moment the stranger
was on him with his teeth and Rag was bitten, and lost several tufts
of hair before he could get up. But he was swift of foot and got out
of reach. Again he charged and again he was knocked down and
bitten severely. He was no match for his foe, and it soon became a
question of saving his own life.
Hurt as he was, he sprang away, with the stranger in full chase, and
bound to kill him as well as to oust him from the Swamp where he
was born. Rag's legs were good and so was his wind. The stranger
was big and so heavy that he soon gave up the chase, and it was
well for poor Rag that he did, for he was getting stiff from his
wounds as well as tired. From that day began a reign of terror for
Rag. His training had been against owls, dogs, weasels, men, and
so on, but what to do when chased by another rabbit, he did not
know. All he knew was to lie low till he was found, then run.
Poor little Molly was completely terrorized; she could not help
Rag and sought only to hide. But the big buck soon found her out.
She tried to run from him, but she was not now so swift as Rag.
The stranger made no attempt to kill her, but he made love to her,
and because she hated him and tried to get away, he treated her
shamefully. Day after day he worried her by following her about,
and often, furious at her lasting hatred, he would knock her down
and tear out mouthfuls of her soft fur till his rage cooled
somewhat, when he would let her go for a while. But his fixed
purpose was to kill Rag, whose escape seemed hopeless. There
was no other swamp he could go to, and whenever he took a nap
now he had to be ready at any moment to dash for his life. A dozen
times a day the big stranger came creeping up to where he slept,
but each time the watchful Rag awoke in time to escape. To
escape yet not to escape. He saved his life indeed, but oh! what a
miserable life it had become. How maddening to be thus helpless,
to see his little mother daily beaten and torn, as well as to see all
his favorite feeding-grounds, the cosy nooks, and the pathways he
had made with so much labor, forced from him by this hateful
brute. Unhappy Rag realized that to the victor belong the spoils,
and he hated him more than ever he did fox or ferret.
How was it to end? He was wearing out with running and watching
and bad food, and little Molly's strength and spirit were breaking
down under the long persecution. The stranger was ready to go to
all lengths to destroy poor Rag, and at last stooped to the worst
crime known among rabbits. However much they may hate each
other, all good rabbits forget their feuds when their common
enemy appears. Yet one day when a great goshawk came swooping
over the Swamp, the stranger, keeping well under cover himself,
tried again and again to drive Rag into the open.
Once or twice the hawk nearly had him, but still the briers saved
him, and it was only when the big buck himself came near being
caught that he gave it up. And again Rag escaped, but -was no
better off. He made up his mind to leave, with his mother, if
possible, next night and go into the world in quest of some new
home when he heard old Thunder, the hound, sniffing and
searching about the outskirts of the swamp, and he resolved on
playing a desperate game. He deliberately crossed the hound's
view, and the chase that then began was fast and furious. Thrice
around the Swamp they went till Rag had made sure that his
mother was hidden safely and that his hated foe was in his usual
nest. Then right into that nest and plump over him he jumped,
giving him a rap with one hind foot as he passed over his head.
"You miserable fool, I'll kill you yet," cried the stranger, and up he
jumped only to find himself between Rag and the dog and heir to
all the peril of the chase.
On came the hound baying hotly on the straight-away scent. The
buck's weight and size were great advantages in a rabbit fight, but
now they were fatal. He did not know many tricks. Just the simple
ones like 'double,' 'wind,' and 'hole-up,' that every baby Bunny
knows. But the chase was too close for doubling and winding, and
he didn't know where the holes were.
It was a straight race. The brierrose, kind to all rabbits alike, did its
best, but it was no use. The baying of the hound was fast and
steady. The crashing of the brush and the yelping of the hound
each time the briers tore his tender ears were borne to the two
rabbits where they crouched in hiding. But suddenly these sounds
stopped, there was a scuffle, then loud and terrible screaming. Rag
knew what it meant and it sent a shiver through him, but he soon
forgot that when all was over and rejoiced to be once more the
master of the dear old Swamp.
VIII
Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all those brush-piles in
the east and south of the Swamp and to clear up the wreck of the
old barbed-wire hog-pen just below the spring. But it was none the
less hard on Rag and his mother. The first were their various
residences and outposts, and the second their grand fastness and
safe retreat.
They had so long held the Swamp and felt it to be their very own
in every part and suburb--including Olifant's grounds and
buildings--that they would have resented the appearance of another
rabbit even about the adjoining barnyard.
Their claim, that of long, successful occupancy, was exactly the
same as that by which most nations hold their land, and it would
be hard to find a better right.
During the time of the January thaw the Olifants had cut the rest of
the large wood about the pond and curtailed the Cottontails'
domain on all sides. But they still clung to the dwindling Swamp,
for it was their home and they were loath to move to foreign parts.
Their life of daily perils went on, but they were still fleet of foot,
long of wind, and bright of wit. Of late they had been somewhat
troubled by a mink that had wandered upstream to their quiet
nook. A little judicious guidance had transferred the
uncomfortable visitor to Olifant's hen-house. But they were not yet
quite sure that he had been properly looked after. So for the
present they gave up using the ground-holes, which were, of
course, dangerous blind-alleys, and stuck closer than ever to the
briers and the brush-piles that were left.
That first snow had quite gone and the weather was bright and
warm until now. Molly, feeling a touch of rheumatism, was
somewhere in the lower thicket seeking a teaberry tonic. Rag was
sitting in the weak sunlight on a bank in the east side. The smoke
from the familiar gable chimney of Olifant's house came fitfully
drifting a pale blue haze through the underwoods and showing as a
dull brown against the brightness of the sky. The sun-gilt gable
was cut off midway by the banks of brier brush, that, purple in
shadow, shone like rods of blazing crimson and gold in the light.
Beyond the house the barn with its gable and roof, new gift at the
house, stood up like a Noah's ark.
The sounds that came from it, and yet more the delicious smell
that mingled with the smoke, told Rag that the animals were being
fed cabbage in the yard. Rags mouth watered at the idea of the
feast. He blinked and blinked as he snuffed its odorous promises,
for he loved cabbage dearly. But then he had been to the barnyard
the night before after a few paltry clover-tops, and no wise rabbit
would go two nights running to the same place.
Therefore he did the wise thing. He moved across where he could
not smell the cabbage axed made his supper of a bundle of hay that
had been blown from the stack. Later, when about to settle for the
night, he was joined by Molly, who had taken her teaberry and
then eaten her frugal meal of sweet birch near the Sunning Bank.
Meanwhile the sun had gone about his business elsewhere, taking
all his gold and glory with him. Off in the east a big black shutter
came pushing up and rising higher and higher; it spread over the
whole sky, shut out all light and left the world a very gloomy place
indeed. Then another mischief-maker, the wind, taking advantage
of the sun's absence, came on the scene and set about brewing
trouble. The weather turned colder and colder; it seemed worse
than when the s-round had been covered with snow.
"Isn't this terribly cold? How I wish we had our stove-pipe
brush-pile," said Rag.
"A good night for the pine-root hole," replied Molly, "but we have
not yet seen the pelt of that mink on the end of the barn, and it is
not safe till we do."
The hollow hickory was gone--in fact at this very moment its
trunk, lying in the wood-yard, was harboring the mink they feared.
So the Cottontails hopped to the south side of the pond and,
choosing a brush-pile, they crept under and snuggled down for the
night, facing the wind but with their noses in different directions
so as to go out different ways in case of alarm. The wind blew
harder and colder as the hours went by, and about midnight a
fine icy snow came ticking down on the dead leaves and hissing
through the brush-heap. It might seem a poor night for hunting, but
that old fox from Springfield was out. He came pointing up the
wind in the shelter of the Swamp and chanced in the lee of the
brush-pile, where he scented the sleeping Cotton-tails. He halted
for a moment, then came stealthily sneaking up toward the brush
under which his nose told him the rabbits were crouching. The
noise of the wind and the sleet enabled him to come quite close
before Molly heard the faint crunch of a dry leaf under his paw.
She touched Rag's whiskers, and both were fully awake just as the
fox sprang on them; but they always slept with their legs ready for
a jump. Molly darted out into the blinding stonn. The fox missed
his spring but followed like a racer, while Rag dashed off to one
side.
There was only one road for Molly; that was straight up the wind,
and bounding for her life she gained a little over the unfrozen mud
that would not carry the fox, till she reached the margin of the
pond. No chance to turn now, on she must go.
Splash! splash! through the weeds she went, then plunge into the
deep water.
And plunge went the fox close behind. But it was too much for
Reynard on such a night. He turned back, and Molly, seeing only
one course, struggled through the reeds into the deep water and
struck out for the other shore. But there was a strong headwind.
The little waves, icy cold, broke over her head as she swam, and
the water was full of snow that blocked her way like soft ice, or
floating mud. The dark line of the other shore seemed far, far
away, with perhaps the fox waiting for her there.
But she laid her ears flat to be out of the gale, and bravely put forth
all her strength with wind and tide against her. After a long, weary
swim in the cold water, she had nearly reached the farther reeds
when a great mass of floating snow barred her road; then the wind
on the bank made strange, fox-like sounds that robbed her of all
force, and she was drifted far backward before she could get free
from the floating bar.
Again the struck Out, but slowly--oh so slowly now. And when at
last she reached the lee of the tall reeds, her limbs were numbed,
her strength spent, her brave little heart was sinking, and she cared
no more whether the fox were there or not. Through the reeds she
did indeed pass, but once in the weeds her course wavered and
slowed, her feeble strokes no longer sent her landward, the ice
forming around her stopped her altogether. In a little while
the cold, weak limbs ceased to move, the furry nose-tip of the little
mother Cottontail wobbled no more, and the soft brown eyes were
closed in death.
But there was no fox waiting to tear her with ravenous jaws. Rag
had escaped the first onset of the foe, and as soon as he regained
his wits he came running back to change-off and so help his
mother. He met the old fox going round the pond to meet Molly
and led him far and away, then dismissed him with a barbed-wire
gash on his head, and came to the bank and sought about and
trailed and thumped, but all his searching was in vain; he could not
find his little mother. He never saw her again, and he never knew
whither she went, for she slept her never-waking sleep in the
ice-arms of her friend the Water that tells no tales.
Poor little Molly Cottontail! She was a true heroine, yet only one
of unnumbered millions that without a thought of heroism have
lived and done their best in their little world, and died. She fought
a good fight in the battle of life. She was good stuff; the stuff that
never dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her brain was Rag.
She lives in him, and through him transmits a finer fibre to her
race.
And Rag still lives in the Swamp. Old Olifant died that winter, and
the unthrifty sons ceased to clear the Swamp or mend the wire
fences. Within a single year it was a wilder place than ever; fresh
trees and brambles grew, and falling wires made many Cottontail
castles and last retreats that dogs and foxes dared not storm. And
there to this day lives Rag. He is a big strong buck now and fears
no rivals. He has a large family of his own, and a pretty brown
wife that he got I know not where. There, no doubt, he and his
children's children will flourish for many years to come, and there
you may see them any sunny evening if you have learnt their signal
S code, and, choosing a good spot on the ground, know just how
and when to thump it.
BINGO
"Ye Franckelyn's dogge leaped over a style,
And yey yclept him lyttel Bingo,
B-I.N-G-O,
And yey yclept him lyttel Bingo.
Ye Franchelyn's wyfe brewed nutte-brown ayle,
And he yclept ytte rare-goode Stingo,
S - T -I-N - G-O,
And he yclept ytte rare goode Stingo.
Now ys not this a prettye rhyme,
I thynke ytte ys bye Jingo,
J-I.N-G-O,
1 thynke ytte ys bye Jingo."
BINGO
The Story of My Dog
I
IT WAS EARLY in November, 1882, and the Manitoba winter had
just set in. I was tilting back in my chair for a few lazy moments
after breakfast, idly alternating my gaze from the one
window-pane of our shanty, through which was framed a bit of the
prairie and the end of our cowshed, to the old rhyme of the
'Franckelyn's dogge' pinned on the logs near by. But the dreamy
mixture of rhyme and view was quickly dispelled by the sight of a
large gray animal dashing across the prairie into the cowshed, with
a smaller black and white animal in hot pursuit.
"A wolf," I exclaimed, and seizing a rifle dashed out to help the
dog. But before I could get there they had left the stable, and after
a short run over the snow the wolf again turned at bay, and the
dog, our neighbor's collie, circled about watching his chance to
snap.
I fired a couple of long shots, which had the effect only of setting
them off again over the prairie. After another run this matchless
dog closed and seized the wolf by the haunch, but again retreated
to avoid the fierce return chop. Then there was another stand at
bay, and again a race over the snow. Every few hundred yards this
scene was repeated, the dog managing so that each fresh rush
should be toward the settlement, while the wolf vainly tried to
break back toward the dark belt of trees in the east. At 1a~t after a
mile of this fighting and running I overtook them, and the dog,
seeing that he now had good backing, closed in for the finish.
After a few seconds the whirl of struggling animals resolved itself
into a wolf, on his back, with a bleeding collie gripping his throat,
and it was now easy for me to step up and end the fight by putting
a ball through the wolf's head.
Then, when this dog of marvellous wind saw that his foe was dead,
he gave him no second glance, but set out at a lope for a farm four
miles across the snow where he had left his master when first the
wolf was started. He was a wonderful dog, and even if I had not
come he undoubtedly would have killed the wolf alone, as I
learned he had already done with others of the kind, in spite of the
fact that the wolf, though of the smaller or prairie race, was much
large than himself. I was filled with admiration for the dog's
prowess and at once sought to buy him at any price. The scornful
reply of his owner was, "Why don't you try to buy one of the
children?"
Since Frank was not in the market I was obliged to content myself
with the next best thing, one of his alleged progeny. That is, a son
of his wife. This probable offspring of an illustrious sire was a
roly-poly ball of black fur that looked more like a long-tailed
bearcub than a puppy. But he had some tan markings like those on
Frank's coat, that were, I hoped, guarantees of future greatness, and
also a very characteristic ring of white that he always wore on his
muzzle.
Having got possession of his person, the next thing was to find him
a name. Surely this puzzle was already solved. The rhyme of the
'Franckelyn's dogge' was in-built with the foundation of our
acquaintance, so with adequate pomp we yclept him little Bingo.'
II
The rest of that winter Bingo spent in our shanty, living the life of
a blubbery, fat, well-meaning, ill-doing puppy; gorging himself
with food and growing bigger and clumsier each day. Even sad
experience failed to teach him that he must keep his nose out of
the rat trap. His most friendly overtures to the cat were wholly
misunderstood and resulted only in an armed neutrality that varied
by occasional reigns of terror, continued to the end; which came
when Bingo, who early showed a mind of his own, got a notion for
sleeping at the barn and avoiding the shanty altogether.
When the spring came I set about his serious education. After
much pains on my behalf and many pains on his, he learned to go
at the word in quest of our old yellow cow, that pastured at will on
the unfenced prairie.
Once he had learned his business, he became very fond of it and
nothing pleased him more than an order to go and fetch the cow.
Away he would dash, barking with pleasure and leaping high in
the air that he might better scan the plain for hi~ victim. In a short
time he would return driving her at full gallop before him, and
gave her no peace until, puffing and blowing, she was safely
driven into the farthest corner of her stable.
Less energy on his part would have been more satisfactory, but we
bore with him until he grew so fond of this semi-daily hunt that he
began to bring 'old Dunne' without being told. And at length not
once or twice but a dozen times a day this energetic cowherd
would sally forth on his own responsibility and drive the cow
home to the stable.
At last things came to such a pass that whenever he felt like taking
a little exercise, or had a few minutes of spare time, or even
happened to think of it, Bingo would sally forth at racing speed
over the plain and a few minutes later return, driving the unhappy
yellow cow at full gallop before him.
At first this did not seem very bad, as it kept the cow from straying
too far; but soon it was seen that it hindered her feeding. She
became thin and gave less milk; it seemed to weigh on her mind
too, as she was always watching nervously for that hateful dog,
and in the mornings would hang around the stable as though afraid
to venture off and subject herself at once to an onset.
This was going too far. All attempts to make Bingo more moderate
in his pleasure were failures, so he was compelled to give it up
altogether. After this, though he dared not bring her home, he
continued to show his interest by lying at her stable door while she
was being milked.
As the summer came on the mosquitoes became a dreadful plague,
and the consequent vicious switching of Dunne's tail at
milking-time was even more annoying than the mosquitoes.
Fred, the brother who did the milking, was of an inventive as well
as an impatient turn of mind, and he devised a simple plan to stop
the switching. He fastened a brick to the cow's tail, then set
blithely about his work assured of unusual comfort while the rest
of us looked on in doubt,
Suddenly through the mist of mosquitoes came a dull whack and
an outburst of 'language.' The cow went on placidly chewing till
Fred got on his feet and funously attacked her with the
milking-stool. It was bad enough to be whacked on the ear with a
brick by a stupid old cow, but the uproarious enjoyment and
ridicule of the bystanders made it unendurable,
Bingo, hearing the uproar, and divining that he was needed,
rushed in and attacked Dunne on the other side. Before the affair
quieted down the milk was spilt, the pail and stool were broken,
and the cow and the dog severely beaten.
Poor Bingo could not understand it at all. He had long ago learned
to despise that cow, and now in utter disgust he decided to forsake
even her stable door, and from that time be attached himself
exclusively to the horses and their stable.
The cattle were mine, the horses were my brother's, and in
transferring his allegiance from the cow-stable to the horse-stable
Bingo seemed to give me up too, and anything like daily
companionship ceased, and yet, whenever any emergency arose
Bingo turned to me and I to him, and both seemed to feel that the
bond between man and dog is one that lasts as long as life.
The only other occasion on which Bingo acted as cowherd was in
the autumn of the same year at the annual Carberry Fair, Among
the dazzling inducements to enter one's stock thcre was, in
addition to a prospect of glory, a cash prize of 'two dollars' for the
'best collie in training,'
Misled by a false friend, I entered Bingo, and early on the day
fixed, the cow was driven to the prairie just outside of the village.
When the time came she was pointed out to Bingo and the word
given--'Go fetch the cow.' lt was the intention, of course, that he
should bring her to me at the judge's stand.
But the animals knew better. They hadn't rehearsed all summer for
nothing. When Dunne saw Bingo's careering form she knew that
her only hope for safety was to get into her stable, and Bingo was
equally sure that his sole mission in life was to quicken her pace in
that direction. So off they raced over the prairie, like a wolf after
a deer, and heading straight toward their home two miles way,
they disappeared from view.
That was the last that judge or jury ever saw of dog or cow. The
prize was awarded to the only other entry.
III
Bingo's loyalty to the horses was quite remarkable; by day he
trotted beside them, and by night he slept at the stable door. Where
the team went Bingo went, and nothing kept him away from them.
This interesting assumption of ownership lent the greater
significance to the following circumstance.
I was not superstitious, and up to this time had had no faith in
omens, but was now deeply impressed by a strange occurrence in
which Bingo took a leading part. There were but two of us now
living on the De Winton Farm. One morning my brother set out for
Boggy Creek for a load of hay. It was a long day's journey there
and back, and he made an early start. Strange to tell, Bingo for
once in his life did not follow the team. My brother called to him,
but still he stood at a safe distance, and eyeing the team askance,
refused to stir. Suddenly he raised his nose in the air and gave vent
to a long, melancholy howl. He watched the wagon out of sight,
and even followed for a hundred yards or so, raising his voice from
time to time in the most doleful howlings.
All that day he stayed about the barn, the only time that be was
willingly separated from the horses, and at intervals howled a very
death dirge. I was alone, and the dog's behavior inspired me with
an awful foreboding of calamity, that weighed upon use more and
more as the hours passed away.
About six o'clock Bingo's howlings became unbearable, so that for
lack of a better thought I threw something at him, and ordered him
away. But oh, the feeling of horror that filled m& Why did I let my
brother go away alone? Should I ever again see him alive? I might
have known from the dog's actions that something dreadful was
about to happen.
At length the hour for his return arrived, and there was John on his
load. I took charge of the horses, vastly relieved, and with an air of
assumed unconcern, asked, "All right?"
"Right," was the laconic answer.
Who now can say that there is nothing in omens.
And yet when, long afterward, I told this to one skilled in the
occult, he looked grave, and said, "Bingo always turned to you in a
crisis?"
"Yes."
"Then do not smile. It was you that were in danger that day; he
stayed and saved your life, though you never knew from what."
IV
Early in the spring I bad begun Bingo's education. Very shortly
afterward he began mine.
Midway on the two-mile stretch of prairie that lay between our
shanty and the village of Carberry, was the corner-stake of the
farm; it was a stout post in a low mound of earth, and was visible
from afar.
I soon noticed that Bingo never passed without minutely
examining this mysterious post. Next I learned that it was also
visited by the prairie wolves as well as by all the dogs in the
neighborhood, and at length, with the aid of a telescope, I made a
number of observations that helped me to an understanding of the
matter and enabled me to enter more fully into Bingo's private life.
The post was by common agreement a registry of the canine
tribes. Their exquisite sense of smell enabled each individual to
tell at once by the track and trace what other had recently been at
the post. When the snow came much more was revealed. I then
discovered that this post was but one of a system that covered the
country; that, in short, the entire region was laid out in signal
stations at convenient intervals. These were marked by any
conspicuous post, stone, buffalo skull, or other object that chanced
to be in the desired locality, and extensive observation showed that
it was a very complete system for getting and giving the news.
Each dog or wolf makes a point of calling at those stations that are
near his line of travel to learn who has recently been there, just as
a man calls at his club on returning to town and looks up the
register.
I have seen Bingo approach the post, sniff, examine the ground
about, then growl, and with bristling mane and glowing eyes,
scratch fiercely and contemptuously with his hind feet, finally
walking off very stiffly, glancing back from time to time. All of
which, being interpreted, said:
"Grrrh! woof! there's that dirty cur of McCarthy's.
Woof! I'll 'tend to him tonight. Woof! woof!" On another occasion,
after the preliminaries, be became keenly interested and studied a
coyote's track that came and went, saying to himself, as I afterward
learned:
"A coyote track coming from the north, smelling of dead cow.
Indeed? Pollworth's old Brindle must be dead at last. This is worth
looking into."
At other times he would wag his tail, trot about the vicinity and
come again and again to make his own visit more evident, perhaps
for the benefit of his brother Bill just back from Brandon! So that
it was not by chance that one night Bill turned up at Bingo's home
and was taken to the hills, where a delicious dead horse afforded a
chance to suitably celebrate the reunion.
At other times he would be suddenly aroused by the news, take up
the trail, and race to the next station for later information.
Sometimes his inspection produced only an air of grave attention,
as though he said to himself, "Dear me, who the deuce is this?" or
"It seems to me I met that fellow at the Portage last summer."
One morning on approaching the post Bingo's every hair stood on
end, his tail dropped and quivered, and he gave proof that he was
suddenly sick at the stomach, sure signs of terror. He showed no
desire to follow up or know more of the matter, but returned to the
house, and half an hour afterward his mane was still bristling and
his expression one of hate or fear.
I studied the dreaded track and learned that in Bingo's language the
half-terrified, deep-gurgled 'grr-wff' means 'timber wolf.'
These were among the things that Bingo taught me. And in the
after time when I might chance to see him arouse from his frosty
nest by the stable door, and after stre.tching himself and shaking
the snow from his shaggy coat, disappear into the gloom at a
steady trot, trot, trot, I used to think:
"Ahh! old dog, I know where you are off to, and why you eschew
the shelter of the shanty. Now I know why your nightly trips over
the country are so well timed, and how you know just where to go
for what you want, and when and how to seek it."
V
In the autumn of 1884, the shanty at De Winton farm was closed
and Bingo changed his home to the establishment--that is, to the
stable, not the house--of Gordon Wright, our most intimate
neighbor.
Since the winter of his puppyhood he had declined to enter a house
at any time excepting during a thunderstorm. Of thunder and guns
he had a deep dread--no doubt the fear of the first originated in the
second, and that arose from some unpleasant shot-gun experiences,
the cause of which will be seen. His nightly couch was outside the
stable, even during the coldest weather, and it was easy to see he
enjoyed to the full the complete nocturnal liberty entailed. Bingo's
midnight wanderings extended across the plains for miles. There
was plenty of proof of this. Some farmers at very remote points
sent word to old Gordon that if he did not keep his dog home
nights, they would use the shot-gun, and Bingo's terror of firearms
would indicate that the threats were not idle. A man living as far
away as Petrel said he saw a large black wolf kill a coyote on the
snow one winter evening, but afterward he changed his opinion
and 'reckoned it must 'a' been Wright's dog.' Whenever the body of
a winter-killed ox or horse was exposed, Bingo was sure to repair
to it nightly, and driving away the prairie wolves, feast to
repletion.
Sometimes the object of a night foray was merely to maul some
distant neighbor's dog, and notwithstanding vengeful threats, there
seemed no reason to fear that the Bingo breed would die out. One
man even avowed that he had seen a prairie wolf accompanied by
three young ones which resembled the mother, excepting that they
were very large and black and had a ring of white around the
muzzle.
True or not as that may be, I know that late in March, while we
were out in the sleigh with Bingo trotting behind, a prairie wolf
was started from a hollow. Away it went with Bingo in full chase,
but the wolf did not greatly exert itself to escape, and within a
short distance Bingo was close up, yet strange to tell, there was no
grappling, no fight!
Bingo trotted amiably alongside and licked the wolf's nose.
We were astounded, and shouted to urge Bingo on. Our shouting
and approach several times started the wolf off at speed and Bingo
again pursued until he had overtaken it, but his gentleness was too
obvious.
"It is a she-wolf, he won't harm her," I exclaimed as the truth
dawned on me. And Gordon said: "Well, I be darned."
So we called our unwilling dog and drove on.
For weeks after this we were annoyed by the depredations of a
prairie wolf who killed our chickens, stale pieces of pork from the
end of the house, and several times terrified the children by
looking into the window of the shanty while the men were away.
Against this animal Bingo seemed to be no safeguard. At length
the wolf, a female, was killed, and then Bingo plainly showed his
hand by his lasting enmity toward Oliver, the man who did the
deed,
VI
It is wonderful and beautiful how a man and his dog will stick to
one another, through thick and thin. Butler tells of an undivided
Indian tribe, in the Far North which was all but exterminated by an
internecine feud over a dog that belonged to one man and was
killed by his neighbor; and among ourselves we have lawsuits,
fights, and deadly feuds, all pointing the same old moral, 'Love me,
love my dog.'
One of our neighbors had a very fine hound that he thought the
best and dearest dog in the world. I loved him, so I loved his dog,
and when one day poor Tan crawled home terribly mangled and
died by the door, I joined my threats of vengeance with those of
his master and thenceforth lost no opportunity of tracing the
miscreant, both by offering rewards and by collecting scraps of
evidence. At length it was clear that one of three men to the
southward had had a hand in the cruel affair. The scent was
warming up, and soon we should have been in a position to exact
rigorous justice, at least, from the wretch who had murdered poor
old Tan.
Then something took place which at once changed my mind and
led me to believe that the mangling of the old hound was not by
any means an unpardonable crime, but indeed on second thoughts
was rather commendable than otherwise.
Gordon Wright's farm lay to the south of us, and while there one
day, Gordon Jr., knowing that I was tracking the murderer, took
me aside and looking about furtively, he whispered, in tragic tones:
"It was Bing done it."
And the matter dropped right there. For I confess that from that
moment I did all in my power to baffle the justice I had previously
striven so hard to further. I had given Bingo away long before, but
the feeling of ownership did not die; and of this indissoluble
fellowship of dog and man he was soon to take part in another
important illustration.
Old Gordon and Oliver were close neighbors and friends; they
joined in a contract to cut wood, and worked together
harmoniously till late on in winter. Then Oliver's old horse died,
and he, determining to profit as far as possible, dragged it out on
the plain and laid poison baits for wolves around it. Alas for poor
Bingo! He would lead a wolfish life, though again and again it
brought him into wolfish misfortunes.
He was as fond of dead horse as any of his wild kindred. That very
night, with Wright's own dog Curley, he visited the carcass. It
seemed as though Bing had busied himself chiefly keeping off the
wolves, but Curley feasted immoderately. The tracks in the snow
told the story of the banquet; the interruption as the poison began
to work, and of the dreadful spasms of pain during the erratic
course back home where Curley, falling in convulsions at Gordon's
feet, died in the greatest agony.
'Love me, love my dog,' No explanations or apology were
acceptable; it was useless to urge that it was accidental; the
long-standing feud between Bingo and Oliver was now
remembered as an important sidelight. The wood-contract was
thrown up, all friendly relations ceased, and to this day there is no
county big enough to hold the rival factions which were called at
once into existence and to arms by Curley's dying yell.
It was months before Bingo really recovered from the poison. We
believed indeed that he never again would be the sturdy old-time
Bingo. But when the spring came he began to gain strength, and
bettering as the grass grew, he was within a few weeks once more
in full health and vigor to be a pride to his friends and a nuisance
to his neighbors.
VII
Changes took me far away from Manitoba, and on my return in
1886 Bingo was still a member of Wright's household. I thought
he would have forgotten me after two years' absence, but not so.
One day early in the winter, after having been lost for forty-eight
hours, he crawled home to Wright's with a wolf-trap and a heavy
log fast to one foot, and the foot frozen to stony hardness. No one
had been able to approach to help him, he was so savage, when I,
the stranger now, stooped down and laid hold of the trap with one
hand and his leg with the other. Instantly he seized my wrist in his
teeth.
Without stirring I said, "Bing, don't you know me?"
He had not broken the skin and at once released his hold and
offered no further resistance, although he whined a good deal
during the removal of the trap. He still acknowledged me his
master in spite of his change of residence and my long absence,
and notwithstanding my surrender of ownership I still felt that he
was my dog.
Bing was carried into the house much against his will and his
frozen foot thawed out. During the rest of the winter he went lame
and two of his toes eventually dropped off. But before the return of
warm weather his health and strength were fully restored, and to a
casual glance he bore no mark of his dreadful experience in the
steel trap.
VIII
During that same winter I caught many wolves and foxes who did
not have Bingo's good luck in escaping the traps, which I kept out
right into the spring, for bounties are good even when fur is not.
Kennedy's Plain was always a good trapping ground because it was
unfrequented by man and yet lay between the heavy woods and the
settlement. I had been fortunate with the fur here, and late in April
rode in on one of my regular rounds.
The wolf-traps are made of heavy steel and have two springs, each
of one hundred pounds power. They are set in fours around a
buried bait, and after being strongly fastened to concealed logs are
carefully covered in cotton and in fine sand so as to be quite
invisible. A prairie wolf was caught in one of these. I killed him
with a club and throwing him aside proceeded to reset the trap as I
had done so many hundred times before. All was quickly done. I
threw the trap-wrench over toward the pony, and seeing some fine
sand nearby, I reached out for a handful of it to add a good finish
to the setting.
Oh, unlucky thought! Oh, mad heedlessness born of long
immunity! That fine sand was on the next wolftrap and in an
instant I was a prisoner. Although not wounded, for the traps have
no teeth, and my thick trapping gloves deadened the snap, I was
firmly caught across the hand above the knuckles. Not greatly
alarmed at this, I tried to reach the trap-wrench with my right foot.
Stretching out at full length, face downward, I worked myself
toward it, making my imprisoned arm as long and straight as
possible. I could not see and reach at the same time, but counted
on my toe telling me when I touched the little iron key to my
fetters. My first effort was a failure; strain as I might at the chain
my toe struck no metal. I swung slowly around. my anchor, but
still failed. Then a painfully taken observation showed I was much
too far to the west. I set about working around, tapping blindly
with my toe to discover the key. Thus wildly groping with my right
foot I forgot about the other till there was a sharp 'clank' and the
iron jaws of trap No. S closed tight on my left foot.
The terrors of the situation did not, at first, impress me, but I soon
found that all my struggles were in vain. I could not get free from
either trap or move the traps together, and there I lay stretched out
and firmly staked to the ground.
What would become of me now? There was not much danger of
freezing for the cold weather was over, but Kennedy's Plain was
never visited by the winter wood-cutters. No one knew where I had
gone, and unless I could manage to free myself there was no
prospect ahead but to be devoured by wolves, or else die of cold
and starvation.
As I lay there the red sun went down over the spruce swamp west
of the plain, and a shorelark on a gopher mound a few yards off
twittered his evening song, just as one had done the night before at
our shanty door, and though the numb pains were creeping up my
arm, and a deadly chill possessed me, I noticed how long his little
ear-tufts were. Then my thoughts went to the comfortable
supper-table at Wright's shanty, and I thought, now they are frying
the pork for supper, or just sitting down. My pony still stood as I
left him with his bridle on the ground patiently waiting to take me
home. He did not understand the long delay, and when I called, he
ceased nibbling the grass and looked at me in dumb, helpless
inquiry. If he would only go home the empty saddle might tell the
tale and bring help. But his very faithfulness kept him waiting hour
after hour while I was perishing of cold and hunger.
Then I remembered how old Girou the trapper had been lost, and
in the following spring his comrades found his skeleton held by the
leg in a bear-trap. I wondered which part of my clothing would
show my identity. Then a new thought came to me. This is how a
wolf feels when he is trapped. Oh! what misery have I been
responsible for! Now I'm to pay for it.
Night came slowly on. A prairie wolf howled, the pony pricked up
his ears and, walking nearer to me, stood with his head down.
Then another prairie wolf howled and another, and I could make
out that they were gathering in the neighborhood. There I lay prone
and helpless, wondering if it would not be strictly just that they
should come and tear me to pieces. I heard them calling for a long
time before I realized that dim, shadowy forms were sneaking
near. The horse taw them fIrst, and his terrified snort drove them
back at first, but they came nearer next time and sat around me on
the prairie. Soon one bolder than the others crawled up and tugged
at the body of his dead relative. I shouted and he retreated
growling. The pony ran to a distance in terror. Presently the wolf
returned, and after after two or three of these retreats and returns,
the body was dragged off and devoured by the rest in a few
minutes.
After this they gathered nearer and sat on their haunches to look at
me, and the boldest one smelt the rifle and scratched dirt on it. He
retreated when I kicked at him with my free foot and shouted, but
growing bolder as I grew weaker he came and snarled right in my
face. At this several others snarled and came up closer, and I
realized that I was to be devoured by the foe that I most despised;
when suddenly out of the gloom with a guttural roar sprang a great
black wolf. The prairie wolves scattered like chaff except the bold
one, which, seized by the black new-corner, was in a few moments
a draggled corpse, and then, oh horrors! this mighty brute bounded
at me and--Bingo--noble Bingo, rubbed his shaggy, panting sides
against me and licked my cold face.
"Bingo--Bing--old--boy---Fetch me the trap wrench!" Away he
went and returned dragging the rifle, for he knew only that I
wanted something.
"No--Bing--the trap-wrench." This time it was my sash, but at last
he brought the wrench and wagged his tail in joy that it was right.
Reaching out with my free hand, after much difficulty I unscrewed
the pillar-nut. The trap fell apart and my hand was released, and a
minute later I was free. Bing brought the pony up, and after slowly
walking to restore the circulation I was able to mount. Then slowly
at first but soon at a gallop, with Bingo as herald careering and
barking ahead, we set out for home, there to learn that the night
before, though never taken on the trapping rounds, the brave dog
had acted strangely, whimpering and watching the timber-trail; and
at last when night came on, in spite of attempts to detain him he
had set out in the gloom and guided by a knowledge that is beyond
us had reached the spot in time to avenge me as well as set me
free.
Stanch old Bing--he was a strange dog. Though his heart was with
me, he passed me next day with scarcely a look, but responded
with alacrity when little Gordon called him to a gopher-hunt. And
it was so to the end; and to the end also he lived the wolfish life
that he loved, and never failed to seek the winter-killed horses and
found one again with a poisoned bait, and wolfishly bolted that;
then feeling the pang, set out, not for Wright's but to find me, and
reached the door of my shanty where I should have been. Next day
on returning I found him dead in the snow with his head on the sill
of the door--the door of his puppyhood's days; my dog to the last in
his heart of hearts--it was my help he sought, and vainly sought,
in the hour of his bitter extremity.
THE SPRINGFIELD FOX
I
THE HENS had been mysteriously disappearing for over a month;
and when I came home to Springfield for the summer holidays it
was my duty to find the cause. This was soon done. The fowls
were carried away bodily one at a time, before going to roost or
else after leaving,
which put tramps and neighbors out of court; they were not taken
from the high perches, which cleared all coons and owls; or left
partly eaten, so that weasels, skunks, or minks were not the guilty
ones, and the blame, therefore, was surely left at Reynard's door.
The great pine wood of Erindale was on the other bank of the
river, and on looking carefully about the lower ford I saw a few
fox-tracks and a barred feather from one of our Plymouth Rock
chickens. On climbing the farther bank in search of more dews, I
heard a great outcry of crows behind me, and turning, saw a
number of these birds darting down at something in the ford. A
better view showed that it was the old story, thief catch thief, for
there in the middle of the ford was a fox with something in his
jaws--he was returning from our barnyard with another hen. The
crows, though shameless robbers themselves, are ever first to cry
'Stop thief,' and yet more than ready to take 'hush-money' in the
form of a share in the plunder.
And this was their game now. The fox to get back home must cross
the river, where he was exposed to the full brunt of the crow mob.
He made a dash for it, and would doubtless have gotten across
with his booty had I not joined in the attack, whereupon he
dropped the hen, scarce dead, and disappeared in the woods.
This large and regular levy of provisions wholly carried off could
mean but one thing, a family of little foxes at home; and to find
them I now was bound.
That evening I went with Ranger, my hound, across the river into
the Erindale woods. As soon as the hound began to circle, we
heard the short, sharp bark of a fox from a thickly wooded ravine
close by. Ranger dashed in at once, struck a hot scent and went off
on a lively straight-away till his voice was lost in the distance away
over the upland.
After nearly an hour he came back, panting and warm, for it was
baking August weather, and lay down at my feet.
But almost immediately thc same foxy 'Yap yurrr' was heard close
at hand and off dashed the dog on another chase.
Away he went in the darkness, baying like a foghorn, straight away
to the north. And the loud 'Boo, boo,' became a low 'oo,oo,' and
that a feeble 'o-o' and then was lost. They must have gone some
miles away, for even with ear to the ground I heard nothing of
them though a mile was easy distance for Ranger's brazen voice.
As I waited in the black woods I heard a sweet sound of dripping
water: 'Tink tank tenk tink, Ta tink tank tenk tonk.'
I did not know of any spring so near, and in the hot night it was a
glad find. But the sound led me to the bough of a oak-tree, where I
found its source. Such a soft sweet song; full of delightful
suggestion on such a night:
Tonk tank tenk tink
Ta tink a tonk a tank a tink a
Ta ta tink tank ta ta tonk tink
Drink a tank a drink a drunk.
It was the 'water-dripping' song of the saw-whet owl.
But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and a rustle of leaves
showed that Ranger was back. He was cornpletely fagged out. His
tongue hung almost to the ground and was dripping with foam, his
flanks were heaving and spume-flecks dribbled from his breast and
sides. He stopped panting a moment to give my hand a dutiful lick,
then flung himself flop on the leaves to drown all other sounds
with his noisy panting.
But again that tantilizing 'Yap yurrr' was heard a few feet away,
and the meaning of it all dawned on me. We were close to the den
where the little foxes were, and the old ones were taking turns in
trying to lead us away.
It was late night now, so we went home feeling sure that the
problem was nearly solved.
II
It was well known that there was an old fox with his family living
in the neighborhood, but no one supposed them so near.
This fox had been called 'Scarface,' because of a scar reaching
from his eye through and back of his ear; this was supposed to
have been given him by a barbed-wire fence during a rabbit hunt,
and as the hair came in white after it healed it was always a strong
mark.
The winter before I had met with him and had had a sample of his
craftiness. I was out shooting, after a fall of snow, and had crossed
the open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow back of the old
mill. As my head rose to a view of the hollow I caught sight of a
fox trotting at long range down the other side, in line to cross my
course. Instantly I held motionless, and did not even lower or turn
my head lest I should catch his eye by moving, until he went on
out of sight in the thick cover at the bottom. As soon as he was
hidden I bobbed down and ran to head him off where he should
leave the cover on the other side, and was there in good time
awaiting, but no fox came forth. A careful look showed the fresh
track of a fox that had bounded from the cover, and following it
with my eye I saw old Scarface himself far out of range behind me,
sitting on his haunches and grinning as though much amused.
A study of the trail made all clear. He had seen me at the moment I
saw him, but he, also like a true hunter, had concealed the fact,
putting on an air of unconcern till out of sight, when he had run for
his life around behind me and amused himself by watching my still
born trick.
In the springtime I had yet another instance of Scarface's cunning.
I was walking with a friend along the road over the high pasture.
We passed within thirty feet of a ridge on which were several gray
and brown boulders. When at the nearest point my friend said:
"Stone number three looks to me very much like a fox curled up."
But I could not see it, and we passed. We had not gone many yards
farther when the wind blew on this boulder as on fur.
My friend said, "I am sure that is a fox, lying asleep."
"We'll soon settle that," I replied, and turned back, but as soon as I
had taken one step from the road, up jumped Scarface, for it was
he, and ran. A fire had swept the middle of the pasture, leaving a
broad belt of black; over this he scurried till he came to the
unburnt yellow grass again, where he squatted down and was lost
to view. He had been watching us all the time, and would not have
moved had we kept to the road. The wonderful part of this is, not
that be resembled the round stones and dry grass, but that he knew
he did, and was ready to profit by it.
We soon found that it was Scarface and his wife Vixen that had
made our woods their home and our barnyard their base of
supplies.
Next morning a search in the pines showed a great bank of earth
that had been scratched up within a few months. It must have
come from a hole, and yet there was none to be seen. It is well
known that a really cute fox, on digging a new den, brings all the
earth out at the first hole made, but carries on a tunnel into some
distant thicket. Then closing up for good the first made and too
well-marked door, uses only the entrance hidden in the thicket.
So after a little search at the other side of a knoll, I found the real
entry and good proof that there was a nest of little foxes inside.
Rising above the brush on the hillside was a great hollow
basswood. It leaned a good deal and had a large hole at the bottom,
and a smaller one at top.
We boys had often used this tree in playing Swiss Family
Robinson, and by cutting steps in its soft punky walls had made it
easy to go up and down in the hollow. Now it came in handy, for
next day when the sun was warm I went there to watch, and from
this perch on the roof, I soon saw the interesting family that lived
in the cellar near by. There were four little foxes; they looked
curiously like little lambs, with their woolly coats, their long thick
legs and innocent expressions, and yet a second glance at their
broad, sharp-nosed, sharp-eyed visages showed that each of these
innocents was the makings of a crafty old fox.
They played about, basking in the sun, or wrestling with each other
till a slight sound made them scurry under ground. But their alarm
was needless, for the cause of it was their mother; she stepped
from the bushes bringing another hen--number seventeen as I
remember. A low call from her and the little fellows came
tumbling out. Then began a scene that I thought charming, but
which my uncle would not have enjoyed at all.
They rushed on the hen, and tussled and fought with it, and each
other, while the mother, keeping a sharp eye for enemies, looked
on with fond delight. The expression on her face was remarkable.
It was first a grinning of delight, but her usual look of wildness and
cunning was there, nor were cr~1ty and nervo~isuess lAcklng, hut
over all was the unmistakable look of the mother's pride and love.
The base of my tree was hidden in bushes and much lower than the
knoll where the den wash So I could come and go at will without
scaring the foxes.
For many days I went there and saw much of the training of the
young ones. They early learned to turn to turn to statuettes sound,
and then on hearing it again or finding other cause for fear, to run
for shelter.
Some animals have so much mother-love that it over flows and
benefits outsiders. Not so old Vixen it would seem. Her pleasure in
the cubs led to most refined cruelty. For she often brought home to
them mice and birds alive, and with diabolic gentleness would
avoid doing them serious hurt so that the cubs might have larger
scope to torment them.
There was a woodchuck that lived over in the hill orchard. He was
neither handsome nor interesting, but he knew how to take care of
himself. He had dug a den between the roots of an old pine stump,
so that the foxes could not follow him by digging. But hard work
was not their way of life; wits they believed worth more then
elbowgrease. This woodchuck usually sunned himself on the
stump each morning. If he saw a fox near he went down in the
door of his den, or if the enemy was very near he went inside and
stayed long enough for the danger to pass.
One morning Vixen and her mate seemed to decide that it was
time the children knew something about the broad subject of
Woodchucks, and further that this orchard woodchuck would serve
nicely for an object-lesson. So they went together to the
orchard-fence unseen by old Chuckie on his stump. Scarface then
showed himself in the orchard and quietly walked in a line so as to
pass by the stump at a distance, but never once turned his head or
allowed the ever-watchful woodchuck to think himself seen. When
the fox entered the field the woodchuck quietly dropped down to
the mouth of his den: here he waited as the fox passed~ but
concluding that after all wisdom is the better part, went into his
hole.
This was what the foxes wanted. Vixen had kept out of sight, but
now ran swiftly to the stump and hid behind it. Scarface had kept
straight on, going very slowly. The woodchuck had not been
frightened, so before long his head popped up between the roots
and he looked around. There was that fox still going on, farther
and farther away. The woodchuck grew bold as the fox went, and
came out farther, and then seeing the coast clear, he scrambled
onto the stump, and with one spring Vixen had him and shook him
till he lay senseless. Scarface had watched out of the corner of his
eye and now came running back. But Vixen took the chuck in her
jaws and made for the den, so he saw he wasn't needed,
Back to the den came Vix, and carried the chuck so carefully that
he was able to struggle a little when she got there. A low 'woof' at
the den brought the little fellows out like schoolboys to play. She
threw the wounded animal to them and they set on him like four
little furies, uttering little growls and biting little bites with all the
strength of their baby jaws, but the woodchuck fought for his life
and beating them off slowly hobbled to the shelter of a thicket.
The little ones pursued like a pack of hounds and dragged at his
tail and flanks, but could not hold him back. So Vixen overtook
him with a couple of bounds and dragged him again into the open
for the children to worry. Again and again this rough sport went on
till one of the little ones was badly bitten, and his squeal of pain
roused Vix to end the woodchuck's misery and serve him up at
once.
Not far from the den was a hollow overgrown with coarse grass,
the playground of a colony of field-mice. The earliest lesson in
woodcraft that the little ones took, away from the den, was in this
hollow. Here they had their first course of mice, the easiest of all
game. In teaching, the main thing was example, aided by a
deep-set instinct. The old fox, also, had one or two signs meaning
"lie still and watch," "come, do as I do," and so on, that were much
used.
So the merry lot went to this hollow one calm evening and Mother
Fox made them lie still in the grass. Presently a faint squeak
showed that the game was astir. Vix rose up and went on tiptoe
into the grass--not crouching but as high as she could stand,
sometimes on her hind legs so as to get a better view. The runs that
the mice follow are hidden under the grass tangle, and the only
way to know the whereabouts of a mouse is by seeing the slight
shaking of the grass, which is the reason why mice are hunted only
on calm days.
And the trick is to locate the mouse and seize him first and see him
afterward. Vix soon made a spring, and in the middle of the bunch
of dead grass that she grabbed was a field-mouse squeaking his
last squeak.
He was soon gobbled, and the four awkward little foxes tried to do
the same as their mother, and when at length the eldest for the first
time in his life caught game, he quivered with excitement and
ground his pearly little milk-teeth into the mouse with a rush of
inborn savageness that must have surprised even himself.
Another home lesson was on the red-squirrel. One of these noisy,
vulgar creatures, lived close by and used to waste part of each day
scolding the foxes, from some safe perch. The cubs made many
vain attempts to catch him as he ran across their glade from one
tree to an other, or spluttered and scolded at them a foot or so out
of reach. But old Vixen was up in natural history--she knew
squirrel nature and took the case in hand when the proper time
came. She hid the children and lay down flat in the middle of the
open glade. The saucy low-minded squirrel came and scolded as
usual. But she moved no hair. He came nearer and at last right over
head to chatter:
"You brute you, you brute you."
But Vix lay as dead. This was very perplexing, so the squirrel
came down the trunk and peeping about made a nervous dash
across the grass, to another tree, again to scold from a safe perch.
"You brute you, you useless brute, scarrr-scarrrr."
But flat and lifeless on the grass lay Vix. Ths was most tantilizing
to the squirrel. He was naturally curious and disposed to be
venturesome, so again he came to the ground and scurried across
the glade nearer than before. Still as death lay Vix, "surely she was
dead." And the little foxes began to wonder if their mother wasn't
asleep.
But the squirrel was working himself into a little craze of
foolhardy curiosity. He had dropped a piece of bark on Vix's head,
he had used up his list of bad words and he had done it all over
again, without getting a sign of life. So after a couple more dashes
across the glade he ventured within a few feet of the really
watchful Vix, who sprang to her feet and pinned him in a
twinkling.
"And the little ones picked the bones e-oh."
Thus the rudiments of their education were laid, and afterward as
they grew stronger they were taken farther afield to begin the
higher branches of trailing and scenting.
For each kind of prey they were taught a way to hunt, for every
animal has some great strength or it could not live, and some great
weakness or the others could not live. The squirrel's weakness was
foolish curiosity; the fox's that he can't climb a tree. And the
training of the little foxes was all shaped to take advantage of the
weakness of the other creatures and to make up for their own by
defter play where they are strong.
From their parents they learned the chief axioms of the fox world.
How, is not easy to say. But that they learned this in company with
their parents was clear.
Here are some that foxes taught me, without saying a word: --
Never sleep on your straight track.
Your nose is before your eyes, then trust it first.
A fool runs down the wind.
Running rills cure many ills.
Never take the open if you can keep the cover.
Never leave a straight trail if a crooked one will do.
If it's strange, it's hostile.
Dust and water burn the scent.
Never hunt mice in a rabbit-woods, or rabbits in a henyard.
Keep off the grass.
Inklings of the meanings of these were already entering the little
ones' minds--thus, 'Never follow what you can't smell,' was wise,
they could see, because if you can't smell it, then the wind is so
that it must smell you.
One by one they learned the birds and beasts of their home woods,
and then as they were able to go abroad with their parents they
learned new animals. They were beginning to think they knew the
scent of everything that moved. But one night the mother took
them to a field where there was a strange black flat thing on the
ground. She brought them on purpose to smell it, but at the first
whiff their every hair stood on end, they trembled, they knew not
why--it seemed to tingle through their blood and fill them with
instinctive hate and fear.
And when she saw its full effect she told them--
"That is man-scent."
III
Meanwhile the hens continued to disappear. I had not betrayed the
den of cubs. Indeed, I thought a good deal more of the little rascals
than I did of the hens; but uncle was dreadfully wrought up and
made most disparaging remarks about my woodcraft. To please
him I one day took the hound across to the woods and seating
myself on a stump on the open hillside, I bade the dog go on.
Within three minutes he sang out in the tongue all hunters know so
well, "Fox! fox! fox! straight away down the valley."
After awhile I heard them coming back. There I saw the
fox--Scarface--loping lightly across the river-bottom to the stream.
In he went and trotted along in the shallow water near the margin
for two hundred yards, then came out straight toward me. Though
in full view, he saw me not but caIne up th~ hill wakhhsg over his
shoulder for the hound. Within ten feet of me he tiitned and sat
with his back to me while he craned his neck and showed an eager
interest in the doings of the hound. Ranger came bawling along the
trail till he came to the running water, the killer of scent, and here
he was puzzled; but there was only one thing to do; that was by
going up and down both banks find where the fox had left the
river.
The fox before me shifted his position a little to get a better view
and watched with a most human interest all the circling of the
hound. He was so close that I saw the hair of his shoulder bristle a
little when the dog came in sight. I could see the jumping of his
heart on his ribs, and the gleam of his yellow eye. When the dog
was wholly baulked by the water trick, it was comical to see:--he
could not sit still, but rocked up and down in glee, and reared on
his hind feet to get a better view of the slow-plodding hound. With
mouth opened nearly to his ears, though not at all winded, he
panted noisily for a moment, or rather he laughed gleefully, just as
a dog laughs by grinning and panting.
Old Scarface wriggled in huge enjoyment as the hound puzzled
over the trail so long that when he did find it, it was so stale he
could barely follow it, and did not feel justified in tonguing on it at
all.
As soon as the hound was working up the hill, the fox quietly went
into the woods. I had been sitting in plain view only ten feet away,
but I had the wind and kept still and the fox never knew that his
life had for twenty minutes been in the power of the foe he most
feared.
Ranger also would have passed me as near as the fox, but I spoke
to him, and with a little nervous start he quit the trail and looking
sheepish lay down by my feet.
This little comedy was played with variations for several days, but
it was all in plain view from the house across the river. My uncle,
impatient at the daily loss of hens, went out himself, sat on the
open knoll, and when old Scarface trotted to his lookout to watch
the dull hound on the river fiat below, my uncle remorselessly shot
him in the back, at the very moment when he was grinning over a
new triumph.
IV
But still the hens were disappearing. My uncle was wrathy. He
determined to conduct the war himself, and sowed the woods with
poison baits, trusting to luck that our own dogs would not get
them. He indulged in contemptuous remarks on my by-gone
woodcraft, and went out evenings with a gun and the two dogs, to
see what he could destroy,
Vix knew right well what a poisoned bait was; she passed them by
or else treated them with active contempt, but one she dropped
down the hole of an old enemy, a skunk, who was never afterward
seen. Formerly old Scarface was always ready to take charge of the
dogs, and keep them out of mischief. But now that Vix had the
whole burden of the brood, she could no longer spend time in
breaking every track to the den, and was not always at hand to
meet and mislead the foes that might be coming too near.
The end is easily foreseen. Ranger followed a hot trail to the den,
and Spot, the fox-terrier, announced that the family was at home,
and then did his best to go in after them.
The whole secret was now out, and the whole family doomed. The
hired man came around with pick and shovel to dig them out,
while we and the dogs stood by. Old Vix soon showed herself in
the near woods, and
led the dogs away off down the river, where she shook them off
when she thought proper, by the simple device of springing on a
sheep's back. The frightened animal ran for several hundred yards,
then Vix got off, knowing that there was now a hopeless gap in the
scent, and returned to the den. But the dogs, baffled by the break in
the trail, soon did the same, to find Vix hanging about in despair.
vainly trying to decoy us away Irom her treasures.
Meanwhile Paddy plied both pick and shovel with vigor and effect.
The yellow, gravelly sand was heaping on both sides, and the
shoulders of the sturdy digger were sinking below the level. After
an hour~s digging, enlivened by frantic rushes of the dogs after the
old fox, who hovered near in the woods, Pat called:
"Here they are, sot!"
It was the den at the end of the burrow, and cowering as far back
as they could, were the four little woolly cubs.
Before I could interfere, a murderous blow from the shovel, and a
sudden rush for the fierce little terrier, ended the lives of three.
The fourth and smallest was barely saved by holding him by his
tail high out of reach of the excited dogs.
He gave one short squeal, and his poor mother came at the cry, and
circled so near that she would have been shot but for the accidental
protection of the dogs, who somehow always seemed to get
between, and whom she once more led away on a fruitless chase.
The little one saved alive was dropped into a bag, where he lay
quite still. His unfortunate brothers were thrown back into their
nursery bed, and buried under a few shovelfuls of earth.
We guilty ones then went back into the house, and the little fox
was soon chained in the yard. No one knew just why he was kept
alive, but in all a change of feeling had set in, and the idea of
killing him was without a supporter.
He was a pretty little fellow, like a cross between a fox and a lamb.
His woolly visage and form were strangely lamb-like and innocent,
but one could find in his yellow eyes a gleam of cunning and
savageness as unlamb-like as it possibly could be.
As long as anyone was near he crouched sullen and cowed in his
shelter-box, and it was a full hour after being left alone before he
ventured to look out.
My window now took the place of the hollow bass wood. A
number of hens of the breed he knew so well were about the cub in
the yard. Late that afternoon as they strayed near the captive there
was a sudden rattle of the chain, and the youngster dashed at the
nearest one and would have caught him but for the chain which
brought him up with a jerk. He got on his feet and slunk back to
his box, and though he afterward made several rushes he so gauged
his leap as to win or fail within the length of the chain and never
again was brought up by its cruel jerk.
As night came down the little fellow became very uneasy,
sneaking out of his box, but going back at each slight alarm,
tugging at his chain, or at times biting it in fury while he held it
down with his fore paws. Suddenly he paused as though listening,
then raising his little black nose he poured out a short quavering
cry. Once or twice this was repeated, the time between being
occupied in worrying the chain and running about. Then an answer
came. The far-away Yap-yurrr of the old fox. A few minutes later a
shadowy form appeared on the wood-pile. The little one slunk into
his box, but at once returned and ran to meet his mother with all
the gladness that a fox could show. Quick as a flash she seized him
and turned to bear him away by the road she came. But the
moment the end of the chain was reached the cub was rudely
jerked from the old one's mouth, and she, scared by the opening of
a window, fled over the wood-pile.
An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run about or cry. I peeped
out, and by the light of the moon saw the form of the mother at full
length on the ground by the little one, gnawing at something--the
clank of iron told what, it was that cruel chain. And Tip, the little
one, meanwhile was helping himself to a warm drink.
On my going out the fled Into the dark woods, but there by the
shelter-box were two little mice, bloody and still warm, food for
the cub brought by the de~otcd mother. And in the morning I
found the chain was very bright for a foot or two next the little
one's collar.
On walking across the woods to the ruined den, I again found signs
of Vixen. The poor heart-broken mother had come and dug out the
bedraggled bodies of her little ones.
There lay the three little baby foxes all licked smooth now, and by
them were two of our hens fresh killed. The newly heaved earth
was printed all over with telltale signs--signs that told me that here
by the side of her dead she had watched like Rizpah. Here she had
brought their usual meal, the spoil of her nightly hunt. Here she
had stretched herself beside them and vainly offered them their
natural drink and yearned to feed and warm them as of old, but
only stiff little bodies under their soft wool she found, and little
cold noses still and unresponsive.
A deep impress of elbows, breasts, and hocks showed where she
had laid in silent grief and watched them for long and mourned as
a wild mother can mourn for its young. But from that time she
came no more to the ruined den, for now she surely knew that her
little ones were dead. Tip the captive, the weakling of the brood,
was now the heir to all her love. The dogs were loosed to guard
the hens. The hired man had orders to shoot the old fox on
sight--so had I but w~s resolved never to see her. Chicken-heads,
that a fox loves and a dog will not touch, had been poisoned and
scattered through the woods; and the only way to the yard where
Tip was tied, was by climbing the wood-pile after braving all other
dangers.
And yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her baby and bring it
fresh-killed hens and game. Again and again I saw her, although
she came now without awaiting the querulous cry of the captive.
The second night of the captivity I heard the rattle of the chain,
and then made out that the old fox was there, hard at work digging
a hole by the little one's kennel. When it was deep enough to half
bury her, she gathered into it all the slack of the chain, and filled it
again with earth. Then in triumph thinking she had gotten rid of
the chain, she seized little Tip by the neck and turned to dash off
up the wood-pile, but alas! only to have him jerked roughly from
her grasp.
Poor little fellow, he whimpered sadly as he crawled into his box.
After half an hour there was a great out cry among the dogs, and
by their straight-away tonguing through the far wood I knew they
were chasing Vix. Away up north they went in the direction of the
railway and their noise faded from hearing. Next morning the
hound had not come back. We soon knew why. Foxes long ago
learned what a railroad is; they soon devised several ways of
turning it to account. One way is when hunted to walk the rails for
a long distance just before a train comes. The scent, always poor
on iron, is destroyed by the train and there is always a chance of
hounds being killed by the engine. But another way more sure, but
harder to play, is to lead the hounds straight to a high trestle just
ahead of the train, so that the engine overtakes them on it and they
are surely dashed to destruction.
This trick was skilfully played, and down below we found the
mangled remains of old Ranger and learned that Vix was already
wreaking her revenge.
That same night she returned to the yard before Spot's weary limbs
could bring him back and killed another hen and brought it to Tip,
and stretched her panting length beside him that he might quench
his thirst. For she seemed to think he had no food but what she
brought.
It was that hen that betrayed to my uncle the nightly visits.
My own sympathies were all turning to Vix, and I would have no
hand in planning further murders. Next night my uncle himself
watched, gun in hand, for an hour. Then when it became cold and
the moon clouded over he remembered other important business
elsewhere, and left Paddy in his place.
But Paddy was "onaisy" as the stillness and anxiety of watching
worked on his nerves. And the loud bang! bang! an hour later left
us sure only that powder had been burned.
In the morning we found Vix had not failed her young one. Again
next night found my uncle on guards for another hen had been
taken. Soon after dark a single shot was heard, but Vix dropped the
game she was bringing and escaped. Another attempt made that
night called forth another gunshot. Yet next day it was seen by the
brightness of the chain that she had come again and vainly tried for
hours to cut that hateful bond.
Such courage and stanch fidelity were bound to win respect, if not
toleration. At any rate, there was no gunner in wait next night,
when all was still. Could it be of any use? Driven off thrice with
gunshots, would she make another try to feed or free her captive
young one? Would she? Hers was a mother's love. There was
but one to watch them this time, the fourth night, when the
quavering whine of the little one was followed by that shadowy
form above the wood pile.
But carrying no fowl or food that could be seen. Had the keen
huntress failed at last? Had she no head of game for this her only
charge, or had she learned to trust his captors for his food?
No, far from all this. The wild-wood mother's heart and hate were
true. Her only thought had been to set him free. All means she
knew she tried, and every danger braved to tend him well and help
him to be free. But all had failed.
Like a shadow she came and in a moment was gone, and Tip
seized on something dropped, and crunched and chewed with
relish what she brought. But even as he ate, a knife-like pang shot
through and a scream of pain escaped him. Then there was a
momentary struggle and the little fox was dead.
The mother's love was strong in Vix, but a higher thought was
stronger. She knew right well the poison's power; she knew the
poison bait, and would have taught him had he lived to know and
shun it too. But now at last when she must choose for him a
wretched prisoner's life or sudden death, she quenched the mother
in her breast and freed him by the one remaining door.
It is when the snow is on the ground that we take the census of the
woods, and when the winter came it told me that Vix no longer
roamed the woods of Erindale. Where she went it never told, but
only this, that she was gone.
Gone, perhaps, to some other far-off haunt to leave behind the sad
remembrance of her murdered little ones and mate. Or gone, may
be, deliberately, from the scene of a sorrowful life, as many a
wild-wood mother has gone, by the means that she herself had
used to free her young one, the last of all her brood.
THE PACING MUSTANG
I
JO CALONE threw down his saddle on the dusty ground, turned
his horses loose, and went clanking into the ranchhouse.
"Nigh about chuck time?" he asked.
"Seventeen minutes," said the cook glancing at the Waterbury,
with the air of a train starter, though this show of precision had
never yet been justified by events.
"How's things on the Perico?" said Jo's pard.
"Hotter'n hinges," said Jo. "Cattle seem 0. K.; lots of calves."
"I seen that bunch o' mustangs that waters at Antelope Springs;
couple o' colts along; one little dark one, a fair dandy; a born
pacer. I run them a mile or two, and be led the bunch, an' never
broke his pace. Cut loose, an' pushed them jest for fun, an' darned
if I could make him break,"
"You didn't have no reefreshments along?" said Scarth,
incredulously.
"That's all right, Scarth. You had to crawl on our last bet, an' you'll
get another chance soon as you're man enough."
"Chuck," shouted the cook, and the subject was dropped. Next day
the scene of the roundup was changed, and the mustangs were
forgotten.
A year later the same corner of New Mexico was worked over by
the roundup, and again the mustang bunch was seen. The dark colt
was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs and glossy flanks;
and more than one of the boys saw with his own eyes this
oddity--the mustang was a born pacer. Jo was along, and the idea
now struck him that that colt was worth having. To an Easterner
this thought may not seem startling or original, but in the West,
where an unbroken horse is worth $5, and where an ordinary
saddlehorse is worth $15 or $20, the idea of a wild mustang being
desirable property does not occur to the average cowboy, for
mustangs are hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild
animal prisoners, perfectly useless and untamable to the last, Not a
few of the cattle-owners make a point of shooting all mustangs at
sight, they are not only useless cumberers of the feeding-grounds,
but commonly lead away domestic horses, which soon take to wild
life and are thenceforth lost.
Wild Jo Calone knew a 'bronk right down to subsoil.' "I never secn
a white that wasn't soft, nor a chestnut that wasn't nervous, nor a
bay that wasn't good if broke right, nor a black that wasn't hard as
nails, an' full of the old Harry. All a black bronk wants is claws to
be wus'n Daniel's hull outfit of lions.'
Since, then, a mustang is worthless vermin, and a black mustang
ten times worse than worthless, Jo's pard "didn't see no sense in
Jo's wantin' to corral the yearling," as he now seemed intent on
doing. But Jo got no chance to try that year.
He was only a cow-puncher on $25 a month, and tied to hours.
Like most of the boys, he always looked forward to having a ranch
and an outfit of his own. His brand, the hogpen, of sinister
suggestion, was already registered at Santa Fe, but of horned stock
it was borne by a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right to
put his brand on any maverick (or unbranded animal) he might
chance to find.
Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not resist the temptation to
go to town with the boys and have a good time 'while the stuff held
out.' So that his property consisted of little more than his saddle,
his bed, and his old cow. He kept on hoping to make a strike that
would leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when the thought
came that the Black Mustang was his mascot, he only needed a
chance to 'make the try.'
The roundup circled down to the Canadian River, and back in the
fall by the Don Carlos Hills, and Jo saw no more of the Pacer,
though he heard of him from many quarters, for the colt, now a
vigorous, young horse, rising three, was beginning to be talked of.
Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great level plain. When the
water is high it spreads into a small lake with a belt of sedge
around it; when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud,
glistening white with alkali in places, and the spring a water-hole
in the middle. It has no flow or outlet and is fairly good water, the
only drinking-place for many miles.
This flat, or prairie as it would be called farther north, was the
favorite feeding-ground of the Black Stallion, but it was also the
pasture of many herds of range horses and cattle. Chiefly
interested was the 'L cross F' outfit. Foster, the manager and part
owner, was a man of enterprise. He believed it would pay to
handle a better class of cattle and horses on the range, and one of
his ventures was ten half-blooded mares, tall, clean-limbed,
deer-eyed creatures that made the scrub cow-ponies look like
pitiful starvelings of some degenerate and quite different species.
One of these was kept stabled for use, but the nine, after the
weaning of their colts, managed to get away and wandered off on
the range.
A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the best feed, and the
nine mares drifted, of course, to the prairie of Antelope Springs,
twenty miles to the southward, And when, later that summer Foster
went to round them up, he found the nine indeed, but with them
and guarding them with an air of more than mere comradeship was
a coal-black stallion, prancing around and rounding up the bunch
like an expert, his jet-black coat a vivid contrast to the golden
hides of his harem.
The mares were gentle, and would have been easily driven
homeward but for a new and unexpected thing. The Black Stallion
became greatly aroused. He seemed to inspire them too with his
wildness, and flying this way and that way drove the whole band at
full gallop where he would. Away they went, and the little
cow-ponies that carried the men were easily left behind.
This was maddening, and both men at last drew their guns and
sought a chance to drop that 'blasted stallion.' But no chance came
that was not 9 to 1 of dropping one of the mares. A long day of
manoeuvring made no change. The Pacer, for it was he, kept his
family together and disappeared among the southern sand-hills.
The cattlemen on their jaded ponies set out for home with the poor
satisfaction of vowing vengeance for their failure on the superb
cause of it.
One of the most aggravating parts of it was that one or two
experiences like this would surely make the mares as wild as the
Mustang, and there seemed to be no way of saving them from it.
Scientists differ on the power of beauty and prowess to attract
female admiration among the lower animals, but whether it is
admiration or the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild animal of
uncommon gifts soon wins a large following from the harems of
his rivals. And the great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail
and his green-lighted eyes, ranged through all that region and
added to his following from many bands till not less than a score
of mares were in his 'bunch.' Most were merely humble
cow-ponies turned out to range, but the nine great mares were
there, a striking group by themselves. According to all reports, this
bunch was always kept rounded up and guarded with such energy
and jealously that a mare, once in it, was a lost animal so far as
man was concerned, and the ranchmen realized soon that they had
gotten on the range a mustang that was doing them more harm
than all other sources of loss put together.
II
It was December, 1893. I was new in the country, and was setting
out from the ranch-house on the Pi€avetitos, to go with a wagon to
the Canadian River. As I was leaving, Foster finished his remark
by: "And if you get a chance to draw a bead on that accursed
mustang, don't fail to drop him in his tracks."
This was the first I had heard of him, and as I rode along I gathered
from Burns, my guide, the history that has been given. I was full of
curiosity to see the famous three-year-old, and was not a little
disappointed on the second day when we came to the prairie on
Antelope Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band.
But on the next day, as we crossed the Alamosa Ar. royo, and were
rising to the rolling prairie again, Jack Burns, who was riding on
ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his horse, and swung
back to me in the wagon, saying:
"Get out your rifle, here's that--stallion."
I seized my rifle, and hurried forward to a view over the prairie
ridge. In the hollow below was a band of horses, and there at one
end was the Great Black Mustang. He had heard some sound of
our approach, and was not unsuspicious of danger. There he stood
with head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image of horse
perfection and beauty, as noble an animal as ever ranged the
plains, and the mere notion of turning that magnificent creature
into a mass of carrion was horrible. In spite of Jack's exhortation to
'shoot quick,' I delayed, and threw open the breach, whereupon he,
always hot and hasty, swore at my slowness, growled, 'Gi' me that
gun,' and as he seized it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally
the gun went off.
Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the great black leader
snorted and neighed and dashed about. And the mares bunched,
and away all went in a rumble of hoofs, and a cloud of dust.
The Stallion careered now on this side, now on that, and kept his
eye on all and led and drove them far away. As long as I could see
I watched, and never once did he break his pace.
Jack made Western remarks about me and my gun, as well as that
mustang, but I rejoiced in the Pacer's strength and beauty, and not
for all the mares in the bunch would I have harmed his glossy hide.
III
There are several ways of capturing wild horses. One is by
creasing--that is, grazing the animal's nape with a rifle-ball so that
he is stunned long enough for hobbling.
"Yest I seen about a hundred necks broke trying it, but I never seen
a mustang creased yet," was Wild Jo's critical remark.
Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets it, the herd can be
driven into a corral; sometimes with extra fine mounts they can be
run down, but by far the commonest way, paradoxical as it may
seem, is to walk them down.
The fame of the Stallion that never was known to gallop was
spreading. Extraordinary stories were told of his gait, his speed,
and his wind, and when old Montgomery of the 'triangle-bar' outfit
came out plump at Well's Hotel in Clayton, and in presence of
witnesses said he'd give one thousand dollars cash for him safe in a
box-car, providing the stories were true, a dozen young
cow-punchers were eager to cut loose and win the purse, as soon
as present engagements were up. But Wild Jo had had his eye on
this very deal for quite a while; there was no time to lose, so
ignoring present contracts he rustled all night to raise the necessary
equipment for the game.
By straining his already overstrained credit, and taxing the already
overtaxed generosity of his friends, lie got together an expedition
consisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess-wagon, and a
fortnight's stuff for three men--himself, his 'pard,' Charley, and the
cook.
Then they set out from Clayton, with the avowed intention of
walking down the wonderfully swift wild horse. The third day they
arrived at Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon they were
not surprised to see the black Pacer marching down to drink with
all his band behind him. Jo kept out of sight until the wild horses
each and all had drunk their fill, for a thirsty animal always travels
better than one laden with water.
Jo then rode quietly forward. The Pacer took alarm at half a mile,
and led his band away out of sight on the soapweed mesa to the
southeast. Jo followed at a gailop till he once more sighted them,
then came back and instructed the cook, who was also teamster, to
make for Alamosa Arroyo in the south. Then away to the southeast
he went after the mustangs. After a mile or two he once more
sighted them, and walked his horse quietly till so near that they
again took alarm and circled away to the south. An hour's trot, not
on the trail, but cutting across to where they ought to go, brought
Jo again in close sight. Again he walked quietly toward the herd,
and again there was the alarm and ifight. And so they passed the
afternoon, but circled ever more and more to the south, so that
when the sun was low they were, as Jo had expected, not far from
Alamosa Arroyo. The band was again close at hand, and Jo, after
starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his pard, who had been
taking it easy, took up the slow chase on a fresh horse.
After supper the wagon moved on to the upper ford of the
Alamosa, as arranged, and there camped for the night.
Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd. They had not run so far as
at first, for their pursuer made no sign of attack, and they were
getting used to his company. They were more easily found, as the
shadows fell, on account of a snow-white mare that was in the
bunch. A young moon in the sky now gave some help, and relying
on his horse to choose the path, Charley kept him quietly walking
after the herd, represented by that ghost-white mare, till they were
lost in the night. He then got off, unsaddled and picketed his horse,
and in his blanket quickly went to sleep.
At the first streak of dawn he was up, and within a short half-mile,
thanks to the snowy mare, he found the band. At his approach, the
shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his troop into a flying squad. But
on the first mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what this
persistent follower was, and what he wanted. For a moment or so
they stood against the sky to gaze, and then deciding that he knew
him as well as he wished to, that black meteor flung his mane on
the wind, and led off at his tireless, even swing, while the mares
came streaming after.
Away they went, circling now to the west, and after several
repetitions of this same play, flying, following, and overtaking, and
flying again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache look-out,
Buffalo Bluff. Anti here, on watch, was Jo. A long thin column of
smoke told Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing
pocket-mirror he made response. Jo, freshly mounted, rode across,
and again took up the chase, and back came Chancy to camp to eat
and rest, and then move on up stream.
All that day Jo followed, and managed, when it was needed, that
the herd should keep the great cirde, of which the wagon cut a
small chord. At sundown he came to Verde Crossing, and there
was Charley with a fresh horse and food, and Jo went on in the
same calm, dogged way. All the evening he followed, and far into
the night, for the wild herd was now getting somewhat used to the
presence of the harmless strangers, and were more easily followed;
moreover, they were thing out with perpetual traveling. They were
no longer in the good grass country, they were not grain.fed like
the horses on their track, and above all, the slight but continuous
nervous tension was surely telling. It spoiled their appetities, but
made them very thirsty. They were allowed, and as far as possible
encouraged, to drink deeply at every chance. The effect of large
quantities of water on a running animal is well known; it tends to
stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind. Jo carefully guarded his own
horse against such excess, and both he and his horse were fresh
when they camped that night on the trail of the jaded mustangs.
At dawn he found them easily close at hand, and though they ran at
first they did not go far before theydropped into a walk. The battle
seemed nearly won now, for the chief difficulty in the 'walk-down'
is to keep track of the herd the first two or three days when they
are fresh.
All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally in close sight, of the
band. About ten o'clock, Charley relieved him near Jos Peak and
that day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a mile ahead with
much less spirit than the day before and circled now more north
again. At night Charley was supplied with a fresh horse and
followed as before.
Next day the mustangs walked with heads held low, and in spite of
the efforts of the Black Pacer at times they were less than a
hundred yards ahead of their pursuer.
The fourth and fifth days passed the same way, and now the herd
was nearly back to Antelope Springs. So far all had come out as
expected. The chase had been in a great circle with the wagon
following a lesser circle. The wild herd was back to its
starting-point, worn out; and the hunters were back, fresh and on
fresh horses. The herd was kept from drinking till late in the
afternoon and then driven to the Springs to swell themselves with
a perfect water gorge. Now was the chance for the skilful ropers on
the grain-fed horses to close in, for the sudden heavy drink was
ruination, almost paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would be easy
to rope and hobble them one by one.
There was only one weak spot in the programme, the Black
Stallion, the cause of the hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless
swinging pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on the
morning when the chase began. Up and down he went rounding up
the herd and urging them on by voice and example to escape. But
they were played out. The old white mare that had been such help
in sighting them at night, had dropped out hours ago, dead beat.
The half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the horsemen, the
band was clearly in Jo's power. But the one who was the prize of
all the hunt seemed just as far as ever out of reach.
Here was a puzzle. Jo's comrades knew him well and would not
have been surprised to see him in a sudden rage attempt to shoot
the Stallion down. But Jo had no such mind. During that long
week of following he had watched the horse all day at speed and
never once had he seen him gallop.
The horseman's adoration of a noble horse had grown and grown,
till now he would as soon have thought of shooting his best mount
as firing on that splendid beast.
Jo even asked himself whether he would take the handsome sum
that was offered for the prize. Such an animal would be a fortune
in himself to sire a race of pacers for the track.
But the prize was still at large--the time had come to finish up the
hunt. Jo's finest mount was caught. She was a mare of Eastern
blood, but raised on the plains. She never would have come into
Jo's possession but for a curious weakness. The loco is a poisonous
weed that grows in these regions. Most stock will not touch it; but
sometimes an animal tries it and becomes addicted to it.
It acts somewhat like morphine, but the animal, though sane for
long intervals, has always a passion for the herb and finally dies
mad. A beast with the craze is said to be locoed. And Jo's best
mount had a wild gleam in her eye that to an expert told the tale.
But she was swift and strong and Jo chose her for the grand finish
of the chase. It would have been an easy matter now to rope the
mares, but was no longer necessary. They could be separated from
their black leader and driven home to the corral. But that leader
still had the look of untamed strength. Jo, rejoicing in a worthy
foe, went bounding forth to try the odds. The lasso was flung on
the ground and trailed to take out every kink, and gathered as he
rode into neatest coils across his left palm. Then putting on the
spur the first time in that chase he rode straight for the Stallion a
quarter of a mile beyond. Away he went, and away went Jo, each
at his best, while the fagged-out mares scattered right and left and
let them pass. Straight across the open plain the fresh horse went at
its hardest gallop, and the
~' Stallion, leading off, still kept his start and kept his famous
swing.
It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur and shouted to his
horse, which fairly flew, but shortened up the space between by
not a single inch. For the Black One whirled across the flat and up
and passed a soap-weed mesa and down across a sandy treacherous
plain, then over a grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked, then
hid below, and on came Jo, but there to see, could he believe his
eyes, the Stallion's start grown longer still, and Jo began to curse
his luck, and urge and spur his horse until the poor uncertain brute
got in~to such a state of nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she
wildly shook her head from side to side, no longer picked her
ground--a badger-hole received her foot and down she went, and
Jo went flying to the earth. Though badly bruised, he gained his
feet and tried to mount his crazy beast. But she, poor brute, was
done for--her off fore-leg hung loose.
There was but one thing to do. Jo loosed the cinch, put Lightfoot
out of pain, and carried back the saddle to the camp. While the
Pacer steamed away till lost to view.
This was not quite defeat, for all the mares were manageable now,
and Jo and Charley drove them carefully to the 'L cross F' corra' nd
claimed a good reward. But Jo was more than ever bound to own
the Stallion. He had seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him
more and more, and only sought to strike
some better plan to catch him. -
IV
The cook on that trip was Bates--Mr. Thomas Bates, he called
himself at the post-office where he regularly went for the letters
and remittance which never came. Old Tom Turkeytrack, the boys
called him, from his cattle-brand, which he said was on record at
Denver, and which, according to his story, was also borne by
countless beef and saddle stock on the plains of the unknown
North.
When asked to join the trip as a partner, Bates made some
sarcastic remarks about horses not fetching $12 a dozen, which
had been literally true within the year,
and he preferred to go on a very meagre salary. But no one who
once saw the Pacer going had failed to catch the craze.
Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of heart. He now
wanted to own that mustang. How this
was to be brought about he did not clearly see till one day there
called at the ranch that had 'secured his services,' as he put it, one,
Bill Smith, more usually known
as Horseshoe Billy, from his cattle-brand. While the excellent
fresh beef and bread and the vile coffee, dried
peaches and molasses were being consumed, he of the horsshoe
remarked, in tones which percolated through a huge stop-gap of
bread:
"Wall, I seen that thar Pacer to-day, nigh enough to put a plait in
his tail."
"What, you didn't shoot?"
"No, but I come mighty near it."
"Don't you be led into no sich foolishness," said a 'double-bar H'
cow-puncher at the other end of the table. "I calc'late that maverick
'ill carry my brand before the moon changes."
"You'll have to be pretty spry or you'll find a 'triangle dot' on his
weather side when you get there."
"Where did you run across him?"
"Wail, it was like this; I was riding the flat by Antelope Springs
and I sees a lump on the dry mud inside the rush belt. 1 knowed I
never seen that before, so I rides up, thinking it might be some of
our stock, an' seen it was a horse lying plumb flat. The wind was
blowing like--from him to me, so I rides up close and seen it was
the Pacer, dead as a mackerel. Still, he didn't look swelled or cut,
and there wa'n't no smell, an' I didn't know what to think till I seen
his ear twitch off a fly and then I knowed he was sleeping. I gits
down me rope and coils it, and seen it was old and pretty shaky in
spots, and me saddle a single cinch, an' me pony about 700 again
a 1,200 lbs. stallion, an' I sez to meseif, sez I: 'Tain't no use, I'll
only break me cinch and git throwed an' lose me saddle.' So I hits
the saddle-horn a crack with the hondu, and I wish't you'd a seen
that mustang. He lept six foot in the air an' snorted like he was
shunting cars. His eyes fairly bugged out an' he lighted out lickety
split for California, and he orter be there about now if he kep'
on like he started--and I swear he never made a break the hull
trip."
The story was not quite so consecutive as given here. It was much
punctuated by present engrossments, and from first to last was
more or less infiltrated through the necessaries of life, for Bill was
a healthy young man without a trace of false shame. But the
account was cornplete and everyone believed it, for Billy was
known to be reliable. Of all those who heard, old Turkeytrack
talked the least and probably thought the most, for it gave him a
new idea.
During his after-dinner pipe he studied it out and deciding that he
could not go it alone, he took Horseshoe Billy into his council and
the result was a partnership in a new venture to capture the Pacer;
that is, the $5,000 that was now said to be the offer for him safe in
a box-car.
Antelope Springs was still the usual watering-place of the Pacer.
The water being low left a broad belt of dry black mud between
the sedge and the spring. At two places this belt was broken by a
well-marked trail made by the animals coming to drink. Horses
and wild animals usually kept to these trails, though the horned
cattle had no hesitation in taking a short cut through the sedge.
In the most used of these trails the two men set to work with
shovels and dug a pit 15 feet long, 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep. It
was a hard twenty hours work for them as it had to be completed
between the Mustang's drinks, and it began to be very damp work
before it was finished. With poles, brush, and earth it was then
cleverly covered over and concealed. And the men went to a
distance and bid in pits made for the purpose.
About noon the Pacer came, alone now since the cap. ture of his
band. The trail on the opposite side of the mud belt was little used,
and old Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across it, expected to
make sure that the Stallion would enter by the other, if indeed he
should by any caprice try to come by the unusual path.
What sleepless angel is it watches over and cares for the wild
animals? In spite of all reasons to take the usual path, the Pacer
came along the other. The suspicious-looking rushes did not stop
him; he walked calmly to the water and drank. There was only one
way now to prevent utter failure; when he lowered his head for the
second draft which horses always take, Bates and Smith quit their
holes and ran swiftly toward the trail behind him, and when he
raised his proud head Smith sent a revolver shot into the ground
behind him.
Away went the Pacer at his famous gait straight to the trap.
Another second and he would be into it. Already he is on the trail,
and already they feel they have him, but the Angel of the wild
things is with him, that incomprehensible warning comes, and with
one mighty bound he clears the fifteen feet of treacherous ground
and spurns the earth as he fades away unharmed, never again to
visit Antelope Springs by either of the beaten paths.
V
Wild Jo never lacked energy. He meant to catch that Mustang, and
when he learned that others were be stirring themselves for the
same purpose he at once set about trying the best untried plan he
knew--the plan by which the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit,
and the mounted Indian the far swifter antelope--the old plan of
the relay chase.
The Canadian River on the south, its affluent, the Pinavetitos
Arroyo, on the northeast, and the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute
Creek Ca€on on the west, formed a sixty-mile triangle that was the
range of the Pacer. It was believed that he never went outside this,
and at all times Antelope Springs was his headquarters.
Jo knew this country well, all the water-holes and canon crossings
as well as the ways of the Pacer.
If he could have gotten fifty good horses he could have posted
them to advantage so as to cover all points, but twenty mounts and
five good riders were all that proved available.
The horses, grain-fed for two weeks before, were sent on ahead;
each man was instructed how to play his part and sent to his post
the day before the race. On the day of the start Jo with his wagon
drove to the plain of Antelope Springs and, camping far off in a
little draw, waited.
At last he came, that coal-black Horse, out from the sand-hills at
the south, alone as always now, and walked calmly down to the
Springs and circled quite around it to sniff for any hidden foe.
Then he approached where there was no trail at all and drank.
Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogs-head. But the
moment that he turned and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed.
The Pacer heard the hoofs, then saw the running horse, and did not
want a nearer view but led away. Across the flat he went down to
the south, and kept the famous swinging gait that made his start
grow longer. Now through the sandy dunes he went, and steadying
to an even pace he gained considerably and Jo's too-laden horse
plunged through the sand and sinking fetlock deep, he lost at every
bound. Then came a level stretch where the runner seemed to gain,
and then a long decline where Jo's horse dared not run his best, so
lost again at every step.
But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur nor quirt. A mile--a
mile--and another mile, and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up
ahead.
And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, and on they dashed.
But the night-black mane out level on the breeze ahead was
gaining more and more.
Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher stood aside, for it was
not wished to turn the race, and the Stallion passed--dashed down,
across and up the slope, with that unbroken pace, the only one he
knew.
And Jo came bounding on his foaming steed, and on the waiting
mount, then urged him dowh the slope and up upon the track, and
on the upland once more drove in the spurs, and raced and raced,
and raced, but not a single inch he gained.
Ga-lump, ga-lump, ga-lump. with measured beat he went--an
hour--an hour, and another hour--Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with
fresh relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed him on and on.
Straight for the place the Black One made, but on the last two
miles some strange foreboding turned him to the left, and Jo
foresaw escape in this, and pushed his jaded mount at any cost to
head him off, and hard as they had raced this was the hardest race
of all, with gasps for breath and leather squeaks at every straining
bound. Then cutting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and drawing
his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the dust, and so turned the
Stallion's head and forced him back to take the crossing to the
right.
Down they went. The Stallion crossed and Jo sprang to the ground.
His horse was done, for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch,
and Jo himself was worn out. His eyes were burnt with flying
alkali dust. He was half blind so he motioned to his 'pard' to "go
ahead and keep him straight for Alamosa ford."
Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, and away they went--up
and down on the rolling plain--the Black Horse flecked with snowy
foam. His heaving ribs and noisy breath showed what he felt--but
on and on he Went.
And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then lose and lose, when in an
hour the long decline of Alamosa came.
And there a freshly mounted lad took up the chase and turned it
west, and on they went past towns of prairie dogs, through
soapweed tracts and cactus brakes by scores, and pricked and
wrenched rode on. With dust and sweat the Black was now a
dappled brown, but still he stepped the same. Young Carrington,
who followed, bad hurt his steed by pushing at the very start, and
spurred and urged him now to cut across a gulch at which the
Pacer shied. Just one misstep and down they went.
The boy escaped, but the pony lies there yet, and the wild Black
Horse kept on.
This was close to old Gallego's ranch where Jo himself had cut
across refreshed to push the chase. Within thirty minutes he was
again scorching the Pacer's trail.
Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen, and there Jo knew fresh
men and mounts were waiting, and that way the indomitable rider
tried to turn, the race, but by a sudden whim, of the inner warning
born perhaps-- the Pacer turned. Sharp to the north he went, and
Jo, the skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled and tossed the
dust with shots, but down on a gulch the wild black meteor
streamed and Jo could only follow. Then came the hardest race of
all; Jo, cruel to the Mustang, was crueller to his mount and to
himself. The sun was hot, the scorching plain was dim in
shimmering heat, his eyes and lips were burnt with sand and salt,
and yet the chase sped on. The only chance to win would be if he
could drive the Mustang back to the Big Arroyo Crossing. Now
almost for the first time he saw signs of weakening in the Black.
His mane and tail were not just quite so high, and his short half
mile of start was down by more than half, but still he stayed ahead
and paced and paced and paced.
An hour and another hour, and still they went the same. But they
turned again, and night was near when Big Arroyo ford was
reached--fully twenty miles. But Jo was game, he seized the
waiting horse. The one he left went gasping to the stream and
gorged himself with water till he died.
Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming Black would drink. But he
was wise; he gulped a single gulp, splashed through the stream and
then passed on with Jo at speed behind him. And when they last
were seen the Black was on ahead just out of reach and Jo's horse
bounding on.
It was morning when Jo came to camp on foot. His tale was briefly
told:--eight horses dead--five men worn out--the matchless Pacer
safe and free.
"Tain't possible; it can't be done. Sorry I didn't bore his hellish
carcass through when I had the chance," said Jo, and gave it up.
VI
Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip. He had watched the chase
with as much interest as anyone, and when it failed he grinned into
the pot and said: "That mustang's mine unless I'm a darned fool."
Then falling back on Scripture for a precedent, as was his habit, he
still addressed the pot:
"Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson down and they got
done up, an' would a stayed don ony for a nat'ral weakness on his
part. An' Adam would a loafed in Eden yit it ony for a leetle
failing, which we all onder stand. An' it aint $5,000 I'll take for
him nuther."
Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder than ever. But it did
not drive him away from Antelope Springs. That was the only
drinking-place with absolutely no shelter for a mile on every side
to hide an enemy. Here he came almost every day about noon, and
after thoroughly spying the land approached to drink.
His had been a lonely life all winter since the capture of his harem,
and of this old Turkeytrack was fully aware. The old cook's chum
had a nice little brown mare which he judged would serve his
ends, and taking a pair of the strongest hobbles, a spade, a spare
lasso, and a stout post he mounted the mare and rode away to the
famous Springs.
A few antelope skimmed over the plain before him in the early
freshness of the day. Cattle were lying about in groups, and the
loud, sweet song of the prairie lark was' heard on every side. For
the bright snowless winter of the mesas was gone and the
springtime was at hand. The grass was greening and all nature
seemed turning to thoughts of love.
It was in the air, and when the little brown mare was picketed out
to graze she raised her nose from time to time to pour forth a long
shrill whinny that surely was her song, if song she had, of love.
Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the lay of the land. There
was the pit he had labored at, now opened and filled with water
that was rank with drowned prairie dogs and mice. Here was the
new trail the animals were forced to make by the pit. He selected a
sedgy clump near some smooth, grassy ground, and first firmly
sunk the post, then dug a hole large enough to hide in, and spread
his blanket in it. He shortened up the little mare's tether, till she
could scarcely move; then on the ground between he spread his
open lasso, tying the long end to the post, then covered the rope
with dust and grass, and went into his hiding-place.
About noon, after long waiting, the amorous whinny of the mare
was answered from the high ground, away to the west, and there,
black against the sky, was the famous Mustang.
Down he came at that long swinging gait, but grown crafty with
much pursuit, he often stopped to gaze and whinny, and got answer
that surely touched his heart.
Nearer he came again to call, then took alarm, and paced all
around in a great circle to try the wind for his foes, and seemed in
doubt. The Angel whispered "Don't go." But the brown mare called
again. He circled nearer still, and neighed once more, and got reply
that seemed to quell all fears, and set his heart aglow.
Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Soiiy's nose with his own,
and finding her as responsive as he well could wish, thrust aside
all thoughts of danger, and abandoned himself to the delight of
conquest, until, as he pranced around, his hind legs for a moment
stood within the evil circle of the rope. One deft sharp twitch, the
noose flew tight, and he was caught.
A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave Tom the chance to
add the double hitch. The loop flashed up the line, and snake-like
bound those mighty hoofs.
Terror lent speed and double strength for a moment, but the end of
the rope was reached, and down he went a captive, a hopeless
prisoner at last. Old Tom's ugly, little crooked form sprang from
the pit to complete the mastering of the great glorious creature
whose mighty strength had proved as nothing when matched with
the wits of a little old man. With snorts and desperate bounds of
awful force the great beast dashed and struggled to be free; but all
in vain. The rope was strong.
The second lasso was deftly swung, and the forefeet caught, and
then with a skilful move the feet were drawn together, and down
went the raging Pacer to lie a moment later 'hog-tied' and helpless
on the ground. There he struggled till worn out, sobbing great
convulsive sobs while tears ran down his cheeks.
Tom stood by and watched, but a strange revulsion of feeling came
over the old cow-puncher. He trembled nervously from head to
foot, as he had not done since he roped his first steer, and for a
while could do nothing but gaze on his tremendous prisoner. But
the feeling soon passed away. He saddled Delilah, and taking the
second lasso, roped the great horse about the neck, and left the
mare to hold the Stallion's head, while he put on the hobbles. This
was soon done, and sure of him now old Bates was about to loose
the ropes, but on a sudden thought he stopped. He had quite
forgotten, and had come unprepared for something of importance.
In Western law the Mustang was the property of the first man to
mark him with his brand; how was this to be done with the nearest
branding-iron twenty miles away?
Old Tom went to his mare, took up her hoofs one at a time, and
examined each shoe. Yes! one was a little loose; he pushed and
pried it with the spade, and got it off. Buffalo chips and kindred
fuel were plentiful about the plain, so a fire was quickly made, and
he soon had one arm of the horse-shoe red hot, then holding the
other wrapped in his sock he rudely sketched on the left shoulder
of the helpless mustang a turkeytrack, his brand, the first time
really that it had ever been used. The Pacer shuddered as the hot
iron seared his flesh, but it was quickly done, and the famous
Mustang Stallion was a maverick no more.
Now all there was to do was to take him home. The ropes were
loosed, the Mustang felt himself freed, thought he was free, and
sprang to his feet only to fall as soon as he tried to take a stride.
His forefeet were strongly tied together, his only possible gait a
shuffling walk, or else a desperate labored bounding with feet so
unnaturally held that within a few yards he was inevitably thrown
each time he tired to break away. Tom on the light pony headed
him off again and again, and by dint of driving, threatening, and
manceuvring, contrived to force his foaming, crazy captive
northward toward the Pinavetitos Ca€on. But the wild horse would
not drive, would not give in. With snorts of terror or of rage and
maddest bounds, he tried and tried to get away. It was one long
cruel fight; his glossy sides were thick with dark foam, and the
foam was stained with blood. Countless hard falls and exhaustion
that a long day's chase was powerless to produce were telling on
him; his straining bounds first this way and then that, were not
now quite so strong, and the spray he snorted as he gasped was
half a spray of blood. But his captor, relentless, masterful and cool,
still forced him on. Down the slope toward the ca€on they had
come, every yard a fight, and now they were at the head of the
draw that took the trail down to the only crossing of the canon, the
northmost limit of the Pacer's andent range.
From this the first corral and ranch-house were in sight. The man
rejoiced, but the Mustang gathered his remaining strength for one
more desperate dash. Up, up the grassy slope from the trail he
went, defied the swinging, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in
air, in vain attempt to turn his frenzied course. Up, up and on,
above the sheerest cliff he dashed then sprang away into the vacant
air, down--down--two hundred downward feet to fall, and land
upon the rocks below, a lifeless wreck--but free.
WULLY
The Story of a Yaller Dog
WULLY WAS a little yaller dog. A yaller dog, be it understood, is
not necessarily the same as a yellow dog. He is not simply a canine
whose capillary covering is highly charged with yellow pigment.
He is the mongrelest mixture of all mongrels, the least common
multiple of all dogs, the breedless union of all breeds, and though
of no breed at all, he is yet of older, better breed than any of his
aristocratic relations, for be is nature's attempt to restore the
ancestral jackal, the parent stock of all dogs.
Indeed, the scientific name of the jackal (Canis aureus) means
simply 'yellow dog,' and not a few of that animal's characteristics
are seen in his domesticated representative. For the plebeian cur is
shrewd, active, and hardy, and far better equipped for the real
struggle of life than any of his 'thoroughbred' kinsmen.
If we were to abandon a yaller dog, a greyhound, and a bulldog on
a desert island, which of them after six months would be alive and
well? Unquestionably it would be the despised yellow cur. He has
not the speed of the greyhound, but neither does he bear the seeds
of lung and skin diseases. He has not the strength or reckless
courage of the bulldog, but he has something a thousand times
better, he has common sense. Health and wit are no mean
equipment for the life struggle, and when the dog-world is not
'managed' by man, they have never yet failed to bring out the
yellow mongrel as the sole and triumphant survivor.
Once in a while the reversion to the jackal type is more complete,
and the yaller dog has pricked and pointed ears. Beware of him
then. He is cunning and plucky and can bite like a wolf. There is a
strange, wild streak in his nature too, that under cruelty or long
adversity may develop into deadliest treachery in spite of the better
traits that are the foundation of man's love for the dog.
I
Away up in the Cheviots little Wully was born. He and one other
of the litter were kept; - his brother because he resembled the best
dog in the vicinity, and himself because he was a little yellow
beauty.
His early life was that of a sheep-dog, in company with an
experienced collie who trained him, and an old shepherd who was
scarcely inferior to them in intelligence. By the time he was two
years old Wully was full grown and had taken a thorough course in
sheep. He knew them from ram-horn to lamb-hoof, and old Robin,
his master, at length had such confidence in his sagacity that he
would frequently stay at the tavern all night while Wully guarded
the woolly idiots in the hills. His education had been wisely
bestowed and in most ways he was a very bright little dog with a
future before him, Yet he never learned to despise that addlepated
Robin. The old shepherd, with all his faults, his continual striving
after his ideal state--intoxication--and his mind-shrivelling life in
general was rarely brutal to Wully, and Wully repaid him with an
exaggerated worship that the greatest and wisest in the land would
have aspired to in vain.
Wully could not have imagined any greater being than Robin, and
yet for the sum of five shillings a week all Robin's vital energy and
mental force were pledged to the service of a not very great cattle
and sheep dealer, the real proprietor of Wully's charge, and when
this man, really less great than the neighboring laird, or dered
Robin to drive his flock by stages to the Yorkshire moors and
markets, of all the 376 mentalities concerned, if Wully's was the
most interested and interesting.
The journey through Northumberland was uneventful. At the River
Tyne the sheep were driven on to the ferry and landed safely in
smoky South Shields. The great factory chimneys were just
starting up for the day and belching out fogbanks and
thunder-rollers of opaque leaden smoke that darkened the air and
hung low like a storm-cloud over the streets. The sheep thought
that they recognized the fuming dun of an unusually heavy Cheviot
storm. They became alarmed, and in spite of their keepers
stampeded through the town in 374 different directions.
Robin was vexed to the inmost recesses of his tiny soul. He stared
stupidly after the sheep for half a minute, then gave the order,
"Wully, fetch them in." After this mental effort he sat down, lit his
pipe, and taking out his knitting began work on a half-finished
sock.
To Wully the voice of Robin was the voice of God. Away he ran in
374 different directions, and headed off and rounded up the 374
different wanderers, and brought them back to the ferry-house
before Robin, who was stolidly watching the process, had toed off
his sock.
Finally Wully--not Robin--gave the sign that all were in. The old
shepherd proceeded to count them--370, 371, 372, 373.
"Wully," he said reproachfully, "thar no' a' here. Thur's anither."
And Wully, stung with shame, bounded off to scour the whole city
for the missing one. He was not long gone when a small boy
pointed out to Robin that the sheep were all there, the whole 374.
Now Robin was in a quandary. His order was to hasten on to
Yorkshire, and yet he knew that Wully's pride would prevent his
coming back without another sheep, even if he had to steal it. Such
things had happened before, and resulted in embarrassing
complications. What should he do?
There was five shillings a week at stake. Wully was a good dog, it
was a pity to lose him, but then, his orders from the master; and
again, if Wully stole an extra sheep to make up the number, then
what--in a foreign land too? He decided to abandon Wully, and
push on alone with the sheep. And how he fared no one knows or
cares.
Meanwhile, Wully careered through miles of streets hunting in
vain for his lost sheep. All day he searched, and at night, famished
and worn out, he sneaked shamefacedly back to the ferry, only to
find that master and sheep had gone. His sorrow was pitiful to see.
He ran about whimpering, then took the ferryboat across to the
other side, and searched everywhere for Robin. He returned to
South Shields and searched there, and spent the rest of the night
seeking for his wretched idol. The next day he continued his
search, he crossed and recrossed the river many times. He watched
and smelt everyone that came over, and with significant
shrewdness he sought unceasingly in the neighboring taverns for
his master. The next day he set to work systematically to smell
everyone that might cross the ferry.
The ferry makes fifty trips a day, with an average of one hundred
persons a trip, yet never once did Wully fail to be on the
gang-plank and smell every pair of legs that crossed--5,000 pairs,
10,000 legs that day did Wully examine after his own fashion. And
the next day, and the next, and all the week he kept his post, and
seemed indifferent to feeding himself. Soon starvation and worry
began to tell on him. He grew thin and ill-tempered. No one could
touch him, and any attempt to interfere with his daily occupation
of leg-smelling roused him to desperation.
Day after day, week after week Wully watched and waited for his
master, who never came. The ferry men learned to respect Wully's
fidelity. At first he scorned their proffered food and shelter, and
lived no one knew how, but starved to it at last, he accepted the
gifts and learned to tolerate the givers. Although embittered
against the world, his heart was true to his worthless master.
Fourteen months afterward I made his acquaintance. He was still
on rigid duty at his post. He had regained his good looks. His
bright, keen face set off by his white ruff and pricked ears made a
dog to catch the eye anywhere. But he gave me no second glance,
once he found my legs were not those he sought, and in spite of my
friendly overtures during the ten months following that he
continued his watch. I got no farther into his confidence than any
other stranger.
For two whole years did this devoted creature attend that ferry.
There was only one thing to prevent him going home to the hills,
not the distance nor the chance of getting lost, but the conviction
that Robin, the godlike Robin, wished him to stay by the ferry; and
he stayed.
But he crossed the water as often as he felt it would serve his
purpose. The fare for a dog was one penny, and it was calculated
that Wully owed the company hundreds of pounds before he gave
up his quest. He never failed to sense every pair of nethers that
crossed the gangplank--6,000,000 legs by computation had been
pronounced upon by this expert. But all to no purpose.
His unswerving fidelity never faltered, though his temper was
obviously souring under the long strain.
We had never heard what became of Robin, but one day a sturdy
drover strode down the ferry-slip and Wully mechanically assaying
the new personality, suddenly started, his mane bristled, he
trembled, a low growl escaped him, and he fixed his every sense
on the drover.
One of the ferry hands not understanding, called to the stranger,
"Hoot mon, ye maunna hort oor dawg."
"Whaes hortin 'im, ye fule; he is mair like to hort me." But further
explanation was not necessary. Wully's manner had wholly
changed. He fawned on the drover, and his tail was wagging
violently for the first time in years. A few words made it all clear.
Dorley, the drover, had known Robin very well, and the mittens
and comforter he wore were of Robin's own make and had once
been part of his wardrobe. Wully recognized the traces of his
master, and despairing of any nearer approach to his lost idol, he
abandoned his post at the ferry and plainly announced his intention
of sticking to the owner of the mittens, and Dorley was well
pleased to take Wully along to his home among the hills of
Derbyshire, where he became once more a sheep-dog in charge of
a flock.
II
Monsaldale is one of the best-known valleys in Derbyshire. The
Pig and Whistle is its single but celebrated inn, and Jo Greatorex,
the landlord, is a shrewd and sturdy Yorkshireman. Nature meant
him for a frontiersman, but circumstances made him an innkeeper
and his inborn tastes made him a--well, never mind; there was a
great deal of poaching done in that country.
Wully's new home was on the upland east of the valley above Jo's
inn, and that fact was not without weight in bringing me to
Monsaldale. His master, Doricy, farmed in a small way on the
lowland, and on the moors had a large number of sheep. These
Wully guarded with his old-time sagacity, watching them while
they fed and bringing them to the fold at night. He was reserved
and preoccupied for a dog, and rather too ready to show his teeth
to strangers, but he was so unremitting in his attention to his flock
that Dorley did not lose a lamb that year, although the neighboring
farmers paid the usual tribute to eagles and to foxes.
The dales are poor fox-hunting country at best. The rocky ridges,
high stone walls, and precipices are too numerous to please the
riders, and the final retreats in the rocks are so plentiful that it was
a marvel the foxes did not overrun Monsaldale. But they didn't.
There had been but little reason for complaint until the year 1881,
when a sly old fox quartered himself on the fat parish, like a
mouse inside a cheese, and laughed equally at the hounds of the
huntsmen and the lurchers of the farmers. He was several times
run by the Peak hounds, and escaped by making for the Devil's
Hole. Once in this gorge, where the cracks in the rocks extend
unknown distances, he was safe. The country folk began to see
something more than chance in the fact that he always escaped
at the Devil's Hole, and when one of the hounds who nearly caught
this Devil's Fox soon after went mad, it removed all doubt as to the
spiritual paternity of said fox.
He continued his career of rapine, making audacious raids and
hair-breadth escapes, and finally began, as do many old foxes, to
kill from a mania for slaughter. Thus it was that Digby lost ten
lambs in one night. Carroll lost seven the next night. Later, the
vicarage duck-pond was wholly devastated, and scarcely a night
passed but someone in the region had to report a carnage of
poultry, lambs or sheep, and, finally even calves.
Of course all the slaughter was attributed to this one fox of the
Devil's Hole. It was known only that he was a very large fox, at
least one that made a very large track. He never was clearly seen,
even by the huntsmen. And it was noticed that Thunder and Bell,
the stanchest hounds in the pack, had refused to tongue or even to
follow the trail when he was hunted.
His reputation for madness sufficed to make the master of the Peak
hounds avoid the neighborhood. The farmers in Monsaldale, led by
Jo, agreed among themselves that if it would only come on a snow,
they would assemble and beat the whole country, and in defiance
of all rules of the hunt, get rid of the 'daft' fox in any way they
could. But the snow did not come, and the red-haired gentleman
lived his life. Notwithstanding his madness, he did not lack
method. He never came two successive nights to the same farm.
He never ate where he killed, and he never left a track that
betrayed his re-treat. He usually finished up his night's trail on the
turf, or on a public highway.
Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsaldale from Bakewell late
one night during a heavy storm, and as I turned the corner of
Stead's sheep-fold there was a vivid flash of lightning. By its light,
there was fixed on my retina a picture that made me start. Sitting
on his haunches by the roadside, twenty yards away, was a very
large fox gazing at me with malignant eyes, and licking his muzzle
in a suggestive manner. All this I saw, but no more, and might
have forgotten it, or thought myself mistaken, but the next
morning, in that very fold, were found the bodies of twenty.three
lambs and sheep, and the unmistakable signs that brought home
the crime to the well-known marauder.
There was only one man who escaped, and that was Dorley. This
was the more remarkable because he lived in the centre of the
region raided, and within one mile of the Devil's Hole. Faithful
Wully proved himself worth all the dogs in the neighborhood.
Night after night he brought in the sheep, and never one was
missing. The Mad Fox might prowl about the Dorley homestead if
he wished, but Wully, shrewd, brave, active Wully was more than
a match for him, and not only saved his master's flock, but himself
escaped with a whole skin. Everyone entertained a profound
respect for him, and he might have been a popular pet but for his
temper which, never genial, became more and more crabbed. He
seemed to like Dorley, and Huldah, Dorley's eldest daughter, a
shrewd, handsome, young woman, who, in the capacity of general
manager of the house, was Wully's special guardian. The other
members of Doricy's family Wully learned to tolerate, but the rest
of the world, men and dogs, he seemed to hate.
His uncanny disposition was well shown in the last meeting I had
with him. I was walking on a pathway across the moor behind
Dorley's house. Wully was lying on the doorstep. As I drew near he
arose, and without appearing to see me trotted toward my pathway
and placed himself across it about ten yards ahead of me. There he
stood silently and intently regarding the distant moor, his slightly
bristling mane the only sign that he had not been suddenly turned
to stone. He did not stir as I came up, and not wishing to quarrel, I
stepped around past his nose and walked on. Wully at once left his
position and in the same eerie silence trotted on some twenty feet
and again stood across the pathway. Once more I came up and,
stepping into the grass, brushed past his nose. Instantly, but
without a sound, he seized my left heel. I kicked out with the other
foot, but he escaped. Not having a stick, I flung a large stone at
him. He Icaped forward and the stone struck him in the ham,
bowling him over into a ditch. He gasped out a savage growl as he
fell, but scrambled out of the ditch and limped away in silence.
Yet sullen and ferocious as Wully was to the world, he was always
gentle with Dorley's sheep. Many were the tales of rescues told of
him. Many a poor lamb that had fallen into a pond or hole would
have perished but for his timely and sagacious aid, many a
far-weltered ewe did he turn right side up; while his keen eye
discerned and his fierce courage baffled every eagle that had
appeared on the moor in his time.
III
The Monsaldale farmers were still paying their nightly tribute to
the Mad Fox, when the snow came, late in December. Poor Widow
Cdt lost her entire flock of twenty sheep, and the fiery cross went
forth early in the morning. With guns unconcealed the burly
farmers set out to follow to the finish the tell-tale tracks in the
snow, those of a very large fox, undoubtedly the multo-murderous
villain. For a while the trail was clear enough,then it came to the
river and the habitual cunning of the animal was shown. He
reached the water at a long angle pointing down stream and
jumped into the shallow, unfrozen current. But at the other side
there was no track leading out, and it was only after long searching
that, a quarter of a mile higher up the stream, they found where he
had come out. The track then ran to the top of Henley's high stone
wall, where there was no snow left to tell tales. But the patient
hunters persevered. When it crossed the smooth snow from the
wall to the high road there was a difference of opinion. Some
claimed that the track went up, others down the road. But Jo
settled it, and after another long search they found where
apparently the same trail, though some said a larger one, had left
the road to enter a sheep-fold, and leaving this without harming the
occupants, the track-maker had stepped in the footmarks of a
countryman, thereby getting to the moor road, along which he had
trotted straight to Dorley's farm.
That day the sheep were kept in on account of the snow and Wully,
without his usual occupation, was lying on some planks in the sun.
As the hunters drew near the house, he growled savagely and
sneaked around to where the sheep were. Jo Greatorex walked up
to where Wully had crossed the fresh snow, gave a glance, looked
dumbfounded, then pointing to the retreating sheep-dog, he said,
with emphasis:
"Lads, we're off the track of the Fox. But there's the killer of the
Widder's yowes"
Some agreed with Jo, others recalled the doubt in the trail and
were for going back to make a fresh follow. At this juncture,
Dorley himself came out of the house.
"Tom," said Jo, "that dog o' thine 'as killed twenty of Widder Gelt's
sheep, last night. An' ah fur one don't believe as its 'is first killin'."
"Why, mon, thou art crazy," said Tom. "Ah never 'ad a better
sheep-dog--'e fair loves the sheep."
"Aye! We's seen summat o' that in las' night's work," replied Jo.
In vain the company related the history of the morning. Tom swore
that it was nothing but a jealous conspiracy to rob him of Wully.
"Wully sleeps i' the kitchen every night. Never is oot till he's let to
bide wi' the yowes. Why, mon, he's wi' oor sheep the year round,
and never a hoof have ah lost."
Tom became much excited over this abominable attempt against
Wully's reputation and life. Jo and his partisans got equally angry,
and it was a wise suggestion of Huldah's that quieted them.
"Feyther," said she, "ah'll sleep i' the kitchen the night. If Wully 'as
ae way of gettin' oot ah'll see it, an' if he's no oot an' sheep's killed
on the country-side, we'll ha' proof it's na Wully."
That night Huldah stretched herself on the settee and Wully slept
as usual underneath the table. As night wore on the dog became
restless. He turned on his bed and once or twice got up, stretched,
looked at Huldah and lay down again. About two o'clock he
seemed no longer able to resist some strange impulse. He arose
quietly, looked toward the low window, then at the motionless girl.
Huldah lay still and breathed as though sleeping. Wully slowly
came near and sniffed and breathed his doggy breath in her face.
She made no move. He nudged her gently with his nose. Then,
with his sharp ears forward and his head on one side he studied her
calm face. Still no sign. He walked quietly to the window,
mounted the table without noise, placed his nose under the
sash-bar and raised the light frame until he could put one paw
underneath. Then changing, he put his nose under the sash and
raised it high enough to slip out, easing down the frame finally on
his rump and tail with an adroitness that told of long practice.
Then he disappeared into the darkness.
From her couch Huldah watched in amazement. After waiting for
some time to make sure that he was gone, she arose, intending to
call her father at once, but on second thought she decided to await
more conclusive proof. She peered into the darkness, but no sign
of Wully was to be seen. She put more wood on the fire, and lay
down again. For over an hour she lay wide awake listening to the
kitchen clock, and starting at each trifling sound, and wondering
what the dog was doing. Could it be possible that he had really
killed the widow's sheep? Then the recollection of his gentleness
to their own sheep came, and completed her perplexity.
Another hour slowly tick-tocked. She heard a slight sound at the
window that made her heart jump. The scratching sound was soon
followed by the lifting of the sash, and in a short time Wully was
back in the kitchen with the window closed behind him.
By the flickering fire-light Huldah could see a strange, wild gleam
in his eye, and his jaws and snowy breast were dashed with fresh
blood. The dog ceased his slight panting as he scrutinized the girl.
Then, as she did not move, he lay down, and began to lick his paws
and muzzle, growling lowly once or twice as though at the
remembrance of some recent occurrence.
Huldah had seen enough. There could no longer be any doubt that
Jo was right and more--a new thought flashed into her quick brain,
she realized that the weird fox of Monsal was before her. Raising
herself, she looked straight at Wully, and exclaimed:
"Wully! Wully! so it's a' true--oh, Wully, ye terrible brute."
Her voice was fiercely reproachful, it rang in the quiet kitchen, and
Wully recoiled as though shot. He gave a desperate glance toward
the closed window. His eye gleamed, and his mane bristled. But he
cowered under her gaze, and grovelled on the floor as though
begging for mercy. Slowly he crawled nearer and nearer, as if to
lick her feet, until quite close, then, with the fury of a tiger, but
without a sound, he sprang for her throat.
The girl was taken unawares, but she threw up her arm in time,
and Wully's long, gleaming tusks sank into her flesh, and grated on
the bone.
"Help! help! feyther! feyther!" she shrieked.
Wully was a light weight, and for a moment she flung him off. But
there could be no mistaking his purpose. The game was up, it was
his life or hers now.
"Feyther! feyther!" she screamed, as the yellow fury, striving to kill
her, bit and tore the unprotected hands that had so often fed him.
In vain she fought to hold him off, he would soon have had her by
the throat, when in rushed Dorley.
Straight at him, now in the same horrid silence sprang Wully, and
savagely tore him again and again before a deadly blow from the
fagot-hook disabled him, dashing him, gasping and writhing, on
the stone floor, desperate, and done for, but game and defiant to
the last. Another quick blow scattered his brains on the
hearthstone, where so long he had been a faithful and honored
retainer--and Wully, bright, fierce, trusty, treacherous Wully,
quivered a moment, then straightened out, and lay forever still.
REDRUFF
The Story of the Don Valley Partridge
I
DOWN THE wooded slope of Taylor's Hill the Mother Partridge
led her brood; down toward the crystal brook that by some strange
whim was called Mud Creek. Her little ones were one day old but
already quick on foot, and she was taking them for the first time to
drink.
She walked slowly, crouching low as she went, for the woods were
full of enemies. She was uttering a soft little cluck in her throat, a
call to the little balls of mottled down that on their tiny pink legs
came toddling after, and peeping softly and plaintively if left even
a few inches behind, and seeming so fragile they made the very
chickadees look big and coarse. There were twelve of them, but
Mother Grouse watched them all, and she watched every bush and
tree and thicket, and the whole woods and the sky itself. Always
for enemies she seemed seeking--friends were too scarce to be
looked for--and an enemy she found. Away across the level
beaver meadow was a great brute of a fox. He was coming their
way, and in a few moments would surely wind them or strike their
trail. There was no time to lose.
'Krrr! Krrr!' (Hide!! Hide!) cried the mother in a low firm voice,
and the little bits of things, scarcely bigger than acorns and but a
day old, scattered far (a few inches) apart to hide. One dived under
a leaf, another between two roots, a third crawled into a curl of
birchbark, a fourth into a hole, and so on, till all were hidden but
one who could find no cover, so squatted on a broad yellow chip
and lay very flat, and closed his eyes very tight, sure that now he
was safe from being seen. They ceased their frightened peeping
and all was still.
Mother Partridge flew straight toward the dreaded beast, alighted
fearlessly a few yards to one side of him, and then flung herself on
the ground, flopping as though winged and lame--oh, so dreadfully
lame--and whining like a distressed puppy. Was she begging for
mercy-- mercy from a bloodthirsty, cruel fox? Oh, dear no! She
was no fool. One often hears of the cunning of the fox. Wait and
see what a fool he is compared with a mother-partridge. Elated at
the prize so suddenly within his reach, the fox turned with a dash
and caught--at least, no, he didn't quite crtch the bird; she flopped
by chance just a foot out of reach. 1-Ic followed with another jump
and would have seized her this time surely, but somehow a sapling
came just between, and the partridge dragged herself awkwardly
away and under a log, but the great brute snapped his jaws and
hounded over the log, while she, seeming a trifle less lame, made
another clumsy forward spring and tumbled down a bank, and
Reynard, keenly following, almost caught her tail, but, oddly
enough, fast as he went and leaped, she still seemed just a trifle
faster. It was most extraordinary. A winged partridge and he,
Reynard, the Swift-foot, had not caught her in five minutes' racing.
It was really shameful. But the partridge seemed to gain strength as
the fox put forth his, and after a quarter of a mile race, racing that
was somehow all away from Taylor's Hill, the bird got
unaccountably quite well, and, rising with a derisive whirr, flew
off through the woods leaving the fox utterly dumfounded to
realize that he had been made a fool of, and, worst of all, he now
remembered that this was not the first time he had been served this
very trick, though he never knew the reason for it.
Meanwhile Mother Partridge skimmed in a great circle and came
by a roundabout way back to the little fuzz-balls she had left
hidden in the woods.
With a wild bird's keen memory for places, she went to the very
grass-blade she last trod on, and stood for a moment fondly to
admire the perfect stillness of her children. Even at her step not
one had stirred, and the little fellow on the chip, not so very badly
concealed after all, had not budged, nor did he now; he only closed
his eyes a tiny little bit harder, till the mother said:
'K-reet!' (Come, children) and instantly like a fairy story, every
hole gave up its little baby-partridge, and the wee fellow on the
chip, the biggest of them all really, opened his big-little eyes and
ran to the shelter of her broad tail, with a sweet little 'peep peep'
which an enemy could not have heard three feet away, but which
his mother could not have missed thrice as far, and all the other
thimblefuls of down joined in, and no doubt thought themselves
dreadfully noisy, and were proportionately happy.
The sun was hot now. There was an open space to cross on the
road to the water, and, after a careful lookout for enemies, the
mother gathered the little things under the shadow of her spread
fantail and kept off all danger of sunstroke until they reached the
brier thicket by the stream.
Here a cottontail rabbit leaped out and gave them a great scare.
But the flag of truce he carried behind was enough. He was an old
friend; and among other things the little ones learned that day that
Bunny always sails under a flag of truce, and lives up to it too.
And then came the drink, the purest of living water, though silly
men had called it Mud Creek.
At first the little fellows didn't know how to drink, but they copied
their mother, and soon learned to drink like her and give thanks
after every sip. There they stood in a row along the edge, twelve
little brown and golden balls on twenty-four little pink-toed,
in-turned feet, with twelve sweet little golden heads gravely
bowing, drinking and giving thanks like their mother,
Then she led them by short stages, keeping the cover, to the far
side of the beaver-meadow, where was a great grassy dome. The
mother had made a note of this dome some time before. It takes a
number of such domes to raise a brood of partridges. For this was
an ant's nest. The old one stepped on top, looked about a moment,
then gave half a dozen vigorous rakes with her daws, The friable
ant-hill was broken open, and the earthen galleries scattered in
ruins down the slope. The ants swarmed out and quarreled with
each other for lack of a better plan. Some ran around the hill with
vast energy and little purpose, while a few of the more sensible
began to carry away fat white eggs. But the old partridge, coming
to the little ones, picked up one of these juicy-looking bags and
clucked and dropped it, and picked it up again and again and
clucked, then swallowed it. The young ones stood around, then one
little yellow fellow, the one that sat on the chip, picked up an
ant-egg, dropped it a few times, then yielding to a sudden impulse,
swallowed it, and so had learned to eat. Within twenty minutes
even the runt bad learned, and a merry time they had scrambling
after the delicious eggs as their mother broke open more
ant-galleries, and sent them and their contents rolling down the
bank, till every little partridge had so crammed his little crop that
he was positively misshapen and could eat no more.
Then all went cautiously up the stream, and on a sandy bank, well
screened by brambles, they lay for all that afternoon, and learned
how pleasant it was to feel the cool powdery dust running between
their hot little toes. With their strong bent for copying, they lay on
their sides like their mother and scratched with their tiny feet and
flopped with their wings, though they had no wings to flop with,
only a little tag among the down on each side, to show where the
wings would come. That night she took them to a dry thicket near
by, and there among the crisp, dead leaves that would prevent an
enemy's silent approach on foot, and under the interlacing briers
that kept off all foes of the air, she cradled them in their
feather-shingled nursery and rejoiced in the fulness of a mother's
joy over the wee cuddling things that peeped in their sleep and
snuggled so trustfully against her warm body.
II
The third day the chicks were much stronger on their feet. They no
longer had to go around an acorn; they could even scramble over
pine-cones, and on the little tags that marked the places for their
wings, were now to be seen blue rows of fat blood-quills.
Their start in life was a good mother, good legs, a few reliable
instincts, and a germ of reason. It was instinct, that is, inherited
habit, which taught them to hide at the word from their mother; it
was instinct that taught them to follow her, but it was reason which
made them keep under the shadow of her tail when the sun was
smiting down, and from that day reason entered more and more
into their expanding lives.
Next day the blood-quills had sprouted the tips of feathers. On the
next, the feathers were well Out, and a week later the whole family
of down-clad babies were strong on the wing.
And yet not all--poor little Runtie had been sickly from the first.
He bore his half-shell on his back for hours after he came out; he
ran less and cheeped more than his brothers, and when one
evening at the onset of a skunk the mother gave the word 'Kwit,
kwit' (Fly, fly), Runtie was left behind, and when she gathered her
brood on the piney hill he was missing, and they saw him no more.
Meanwhile, their training had gone on. They knew that the finest
grasshoppers abounded in the long grass by the brook; they knew
that the currant-bushes dropped fatness in the form of smooth,
green worms; they knew that the dome of an ant-hill rising against
the distant woods stood for a garner of plenty; they knew that
strawberries, though not really insects, were almost as delicious;
they knew that the huge danaid butterflies were good, safe game, if
they could only catch them, and that a slab of bark dropping from
the side of a rotten log was sure to abound in good things of many
different kinds; and they had learned, also, that yellow-jackets,
mud-wasps, woolly worms, and hundred-leggers were better let
alone.
It was now July, the Moon of Berries. The chicks had grown and
flourished amazingly during this last month, and were now so
large that in her efforts to cover them the mother was kept
standing all night.
They took their daily dust-bath, but of late had changed to another
higher on the hill. It was one in use by many different birds, and at
first the mother disliked the Idea of such a second-hand bath. But
the dust was of such a fine, agreeable quality, and the children led
the way with such enthusiasm, that she forgot her mistrust.
After a fortnight the little ones began to droop and she herself did
not feel very well. They were always hungry, and though they ate
enormously, they one and all grew thinner and thinner. The mother
was the last to be affected. But when it came, it came as hard on
her --a ravenous hunger, a feverish headache, and a wasting
weakness. She never knew the cause. She could not know that the
dust of the much-used dust-bath, that her true instinct taught her to
mistrust at first, and now again to shun, was sown with parasitic
worms, and that all of the family were infested.
No natural impulse is without a purpose. The mother-birds
knowledge of healing was only to follow natural impulse. The
eager, feverish craving for something, she knew not what, led her
to eat, or try, everything that looked eatable and to seek the coolest
woods. And there she found a deadly sumac laden with its poison
fruit.
A month ago she would have passed it by, but now she tried the
unattractive berries. The acrid burning juice seemed to answer
some strange demand of her body; she ate and ate, and all her
family joined in the strange feast of physic. No human doctor
could have hit it better; it proved a biting, drastic purge, the
dreadful secret foe was downed, the danger passed. But not for
all-- Nature, the old nurse, had come too late for two of them. The
weakest, by inexorable law, dropped out. Enfeebled by the disease,
the remedy was too severe for them. They drank and drank by the
stream, and next morning did not move when the others followed
the mother. Strange vengeance was theirs now, for a skunk, the
same that could have told where Runtie went, found and devoured
their bodies and died of the poison they had eaten.
Seven little partridges now obeyed the mother's call. Their
individual characters were early shown and now developed fast.
The weaklings were gone, but there were still a fool and a lazy
one. The mother could not help caring for some more than for
others, and her favorite was the biggest, he who once sat on the
yellow chip for concealment. He was not only the biggest,
strongest, and handsomest of the brood, but best of all, the most
obedient. His mother's warning 'rrrrr' (danger) did not always keep
the others from a risky path or a doubtful food, but obedience
seemed natural to him, and he never failed to respond to her soft
'K-reet' (Come), and of this obedience he reaped the reward, for his
days were longest in the land.
August, the Molting Moon, went by; the young ones were now
three parts grown. They knew just enough to think themselves
wonderfully wise. When they were small it was necessary to sleep
on the ground so their mother could shelter them, but now they
were too big to need that, and the mother began to introduce
grownup ways of life. It was time to roost in the trees. The young
weasels, foxes, skunks, and minks were beginning to run. The
ground grew more dangerous each night, so at sundown Mother
Partridge called 'K-reet,' and flew into a thick, low tree.
The little ones followed, except one, an obstinate little fool who
persisted in sleeping on the ground as heretofore. It was all right
that time, but the next night his brothers were awakened by his
cries. There was a slight scuffle, then stillness, broken only by a
horrid sound of crunching bones and a smacking of lips. They
peered down into the terrible darkness below, where the glint of
two close-set eyes and a peculiar musty smell told them that a
mink was the killer of their fool brother.
Six little partridges now sat in a row at night, with their mother in
the middle, though it was not unusual for some little one with cold
feet to perch on her back.
Their education went on, and about this time they were taught
'whirring.' A partridge can rise on the wing silently if it wishes, but
whirring is so important at times that all are taught how and when
to rise on thundering wings. Many ends are gained by the whirr. It
warns all other partridges near that danger is at hand, it unnerves
the gunner, or it fixes the foe's attention on the whirrer, while the
others sneak off in silence, or by squatting, escape notice.
A partridge adage might well be 'foes and food for every moon.'
September came, with seeds and grain in place of berries and
ant-eggs, and gunners in place of skunks and minks.
The partridges knew well what a fox was, but had scarcely seen a
dog. A fox they knew they could easily baffle by taking to a tree,
but when in the Gunner Moon old Cuddy came prowling through
the ravine with his bob-tailed yellow cur, the mother spied the dog
and cried out, 'Kwit! kwit!' (Fly, fly). Two of the brood thought it a
pity their mother should lose her wits so easily over a fox, and
were pleased to show their superior nerve by springing into a tree
in spite of her earnestly repeated 'Kwit! kwit!' and her example of
speeding away on silent wings.
Meanwhile, the strange bob-tailed fox came under the tree and
yapped and yapped at them. They were much amused at him and at
their mother and brothers, so much that they never noticed a
rustling in the bushes till there was a loud Bang! bang! and down
fell two bloody, flopping partridges, to be seized and mangled by
the yellow cur until the gunner ran from the bushes and rescued
the remains.
III
Cuddy lived in a wretched shanty near the Don, north of Toronto.
His was what Greek philosophy would have demonstrated to be an
ideal existence. He had no wealth, no taxes, no social pretensions,
and no property to speak of. His life was made up of a very little
work and a great deal of play, with as much outdoor life as he
chose. He considered himself a true sportsman because he was
'fond o' huntin',' and 'took a sight o' comfort out of seem' the
critters hit the mud, when his gun was fired. The neighbors called
him a squatter, and looked on him merely as an anchored tramp.
He shot and trapped the year round, and varied his game somewhat
with the season perforce, but had been heard to remark he could
tell the month by the 'taste o' the partridges,' if he didn't happen to
know by the almanac. This, no doubt, showed keen observation,
but was also unfortunate proof of something not so creditable. The
lawful season for murdering partridges began September 15th, but
there was nothing surprising in Cuddy's being out a fortnight ahead
of time. Yet he managed to escape punishment year after year, and
even contrived to pose in a newspaper interview as an interesting
character.
He rarely shot on the wing, preferring to pot his birds, which was
not easy to do when the leaves were on, and accounted for the
brood in the third ravine going so long unharmed; but the near
prospect of other gunners finding them now, had stirred him to go
after 'a mess o' birds.' He had heard no roar of wings when the
mother-bird led off her four survivors, so pocketed the two he had
killed and returned to the shanty.
The little grouse thus learned that a dog is not a fox, and must be
differently played; and an old lesson was yet more deeply
graven--'Obedience is long life.'
The rest of September was passed in keeping quietly out of the
way of gunners as well as some old enemies. They still roosted on
the long thin branches of the hardwood trees among the thickest
leaves, which protected them from foes in the air; the height saved
them from foes on the ground, and left them nothing to fear but
coons, whose slow, heavy tread on the timber boughs never failed
to give them timely warning. But the leaves were falling
now--every month its foes and its food. This was nut time, and it
was owl time, too. Barred owls coming down from the north
doubled or trebled the owl population. The nights were getting
frosty and the coons less dangerous, so the mother changed the
place of roosting to the thickest foliage of a hemlock-tree.
Only one of the brood disregarded the warning 'Kreet, kreet.' He
stuck to his swinging elm-bough, now nearly naked, and a great
yellow-eyed owl bore him off before morning.
Mother and three young ones now were left, but they were as big
as she was; indeed one, the eldest, he of the chip, was bigger.
Their ruffs had begun to show. Just the tips, to tell what they
would be like when grown, and not a little proud they were of
them.
The ruff is to the partridge what the train is to the peacock--his
chief beauty and his pride. A hen's ruff is black with a slight green
gloss. A cock's is much larger and blacker and is glossed with
more vivid bottle-green. Once in a while a partridge is born of
unusual size and vigor, whose ruff is not only larger, but by a
peculiar kind of intensification is of a deep coppery red, iridescent
with violet, green, and gold. Such a bird is sure to--be a wonder to
all who know him, and the little one who had squatted on the chip,
and had always done what he was told, developed before the
Acorn Moon had changed, into all the glory of a gold and copper
ruff--for this was Redruff, the famous partridge of the Don Va1ley.
IV
One day late in the Acorn Moon, that is, about mid-October, as the
grouse family were basking with full crops near a great pine log on
the sunlit edge of the beaver-meadow, they heard the far-away
bang of a gun, and Redruff, acting on some impulse from within,
leaped on the log, strutted up and down a couple of times, then,
yielding to the elation of the bright, clear, bracing air, he whirred
his wings in loud defiance. Then, giving fuller vent to this
expression of vigor, just as a colt frisks to show how well he feels,
he whirred yet more loudly, until, unwittingly, he found himself
drumming, and tickled with the discovery of his new power,
thumped the air again and again till he filled the near woods with
the loud tattoo of the fully grown cock-partridge. His brother and
sister heard and looked on with admiration and surprise, so did his
mother, but from that time she began to be a little afraid of him.
In early November comes the moon of a weird foe. By a strange
law of nature, not wholly without parallel among mankind, all
partridges go crazy in the November moon of their first year. They
become possessed of a mad hankering to get away somewhere,' it
does not matter much where. And the wisest of them do all sorts of
foolish things at this period. They go drifting, perhaps, at speed
over the country by night and are cut in two by wires, or dash into
lighthouses, or locomotive headlights. Daylight finds them in all
sorts of absurd places, in buildings, in open marshes, perched on
telephone wires in a great city, or even on board of coasting
vessels. The craze seems to be a relic of a bygone habit of
migration, and it has at least one good effect, it breaks up the
families and prevents the constant intermarrying, which would
surely be fatal to their race. It always takes the young badly their
first year, and they may have it again the second fall, for it is very
catching; but in the third season it is practically unknown.
Redruff's mother knew it was coming as soon as she saw the frost
grapes blackening, and the maples shedding their crimson and
gold. There was nothing to do but care for their health and keep
them in the quietest part of the woods.
The first sign of it came when a flock of wild geese went honking
southward overhead. The young ones had never before seen such
long-necked hawks, and were afraid of them. But seeing that their
mother had no fear, they took courage, and watched them with
intense interest. Was it the wild, clanging cry that moved them, or
was it solely the inner prompting then come to the surface? A
strange longing to follow took possession of each of the young
ones. They watched those arrowy trumpeters fading away to the
south, and sought out higher perches to watch them farther yet, and
from that time things were no more the same. The November
Moon was waxing, and when it was full, the November madness
came.
The least vigorous of the flock were most affected. The little
family was scattered. Redruff himself flew on several long erratic
night journeys. The impulse took him southward, but there lay the
boundless stretch of Lake Ontario, so he turned again, and the
waning of the Mad Moon found him once more in the Mud Creek
Glen, but absolutely alone.
V
Food grew scarce as winter wore on. Redniff clung to the old
ravine and the piney sides of Taylor's Hill, but every month
brought its food and its foes. The Mad Moon brought madness,
solitude, and grapes; the Snow Moon came with rosehips; and the
Stormy Moon brought browse of birch and silver storms that
sheathed the woods in ice, and made it hard to keep one's perch
while pulling off the frozen buds. Redruff's beak grew terribly
worn with the work, so that even when closed there was still an
opening through behind the hook. But nature had prepared him for
the slippery footing; his toes, so slim and trim in September, had
sprouted rows of sharp, horny points, and these grew with the
growing cold, till the first snow had found him fully equipped with
snow-shoes and icecreepers. The cold weather had driven away
most of the hawks and owls, and made it impossible for his
four-footed enemies to approach unseen, so that things were
nearly balanced.
His flight in search of food had daily led him farther on, till he
had discovered and explored the Rosedale Creek, with its banks of
silver-birch, and Castle Frank, with its grapes and rowan berries, as
well as Chester woods, where amelanchier and Virginia-creeper
swung their fruit-bunches, and checkerberries glowed beneath the
snow.
He soon found out that for some strange reason men with guns did
not go within the high fence of Castle Frank. So among these
scenes he lived his life, learning new places, new foods, and grew
wiser and more beautiful every day.
He was quite alone so far as kindred were concerned, but that
scarcely seemed a hardship. Wherever he went be could see the
jolly chickadees scrambling merrily about, and he remembered the
time when they had seemed such big, important creatures. They
were the most absurdly cheerful things in the woods. Before the
autumn was fairly over they had begun to sing their famous
refrain, 'Spring Soon,' and kept it up with good heart more or less
all through the winter's direst storms, till at length the waning of
the Hunger Moon, our February, seemed really to lend some point
to the ditty, and they dedoubled their optimistic announcement to
the world in an 'I-told-you-so' mood. Soon good support was found,
for the sun gained strength and melted the snow from the southern
slope of Castle Frank Hill, and exposed great banks of fragrant
wintergreen, whose berries were a bounteous feast for Redruff,
and, ending the hard work of pulling frozen browse, gave his bill
the needed chance to grow into its proper shape again. Very soon
the first bluebird came flying over and warbled as he flew 'The
spring is coming.' The sun kept gaining, and early one day in the
dark of the Wakening Moon of March there was a loud 'Caw, caw,'
and old Silver-spot, the king-crow, came swinging along from the
south at the head of his troops and officially announced
'THE SPRING HAS COME'
All nature seemed to respond to this, the opening of the birds' New
Year, and yet it was something within that chiefly seemed to move
them. The chickadees went simply wild; they sang their 'Spring
now, spring now now--Spring now now,' so persistently that one
wondered how they found time to get a living.
And Redruff felt it thrill him through and through. He sprang with
joyous vigor on a stump and sent rolling down the little valley,
again and again, a thundering 'Thump, thump, thump,
thunderrrrrrrrr,' that wakened dull echoes as it rolled, and voiced
his gladness in the coming of the spring.
Away down the valley was Cuddy's shanty. He heard the drum-call
on the still morning air and 'reckoned there was a cock patridge to
git,' and came sneaking up the ravine with his gun. But Redruff
skimmed away in silence, nor rested till once more in Mud Creek
Glen. And thcre he mounted the very log where first he had
drummed and rolled his loud tattoo again and again, till a small
boy who had taken a short cut to the mill through the woods, ran
home, badly scared, to tell his mother he was sure the Indians were
on the war-path, for he heard their war-drums beating in the glen.
Why does a happy boy holla? Why does a lonesome youth sigh?
They don't know any more than Redruff knew why every day now
he mounted some dead log and thumped and thundered to the
woods; then strutted and admired his gorgeous blazing ruffs as
they flashed their jewels in the sunlight, and then thundered out
again. Whence now came the strange wish for someone else to
admire the plumes? And why had such a notion never come till the
Pussywillow Moon?
'Thump, thump, thunder-r-r-r-r-r-rr'rr'
'Thump, thump, th un der-r-r-r-r-r-rrrr'
he rumbled again and again.
Day after day he sought the favorite log, and a new beauty, a
rose-red comb, grew out above each clear, keen eye, and the
clumsy snowshoes were wholly shed from his feet. His ruff grew
finer, his eye brighter, and his whole appearance splendid to
behold, as he strutted an-d flashed in the sun. But--oh! he was so
lone-some now.
Yet what could he do but blindly vent his hankering in this daily
drum-parade, till on a day early in loveliest May, when the
trilliums had fringed his log with silver stars, and he had drummed
and longed, then drummed again, his keen ear caught a sound, a
gentle footfall in the brush. He turned to a statue and watched; he
knew he had been watched. Could it be possible? Yes! there it
was--a form--another--a shy little lady grouse, now bashfully
seeking to hide. In a moment he was by her side. His whole nature
swamped by a new feeling--burnt up with thirst--a cooling spring
in sight. And how he spread and flashed his proud array! How
came he to know that that would please? He puffed his plumes and
contrived to stand just right to catch the sun, and ö strutted and
uttered a low, soft chuckle that must have been as good as the
'sweet nothings' of another race, for clearly now her heart was won.
Won, really, days ago, if only he had known. For full three days
she had come at the loud tattoo and coyly admired him from afar,
and felt a little piqued that he had not yet found out her, so close at
hand. So it was not quite all mischance, perhaps, that little stamp
that caught his ear. But now she meekly bowed her head with
sweet, submissive grace--the desert passed, the parch-burnt
wanderer found the spring at last.
Oh, those were bright, glad days in the lovely glen of the unlovely
name. The sun was never so bright, and the piney air was balmier
sweet than dreams. And that great noble bird came daily on his
log, sometimes with her and sometimes quite alone, and drummed
for very joy of being alive. But why sometimes alone? Why not
forever with his Brownie bride? Why should she stay to feast and
play with him for hours, then take some stealthy chance to slip
away and see him no more for hours or till next day, when his
martial music from the log announced him restless for her quick
return? There was a woodland mystery here he could not clear.
Why should her stay with him grow daily less till it was down to
minutes, and one day at last she never came at all. Nor the next,
nor the next, and Redruff, wild, careered on lightning wing and
drummed on the old log, then away up-stream on another log, and
skimmed the hill to another ravine to drum and drum. But on the
fourth day, when he came and loudly called her, as of old, at their
earliest tryst, he heard a sound in the bushes, as at first, and there
was his missing Brownie bride with ten little peeping partridges
following after.
Redruff skimmed to her side, terribly frightening the bright-eyed
downlings, and was just a little dashed to find the brood with
claims far stronger than his own. But he soon accepted the change,
and thenceforth joined himself to the brood, caring for them as his
father never had for him.
VI
Good fathers are rare in the grouse world. The mother-grouse
builds her nest and hatches out her young without help. She even
hides the place of the nest from the father and meets him only at
the drum-log and the feeding-ground, or perhaps the dustingplace,
which is the club-house of the grouse kind.
When Brownie's little ones came out they had filled her every
thought, even to the forgetting of their splendid father. But on the
third day, when they were strong enough, she had taken them with
her at the father's call.
Some fathers take no interest in their little ones, but Redruff joined
at once to help Brownie in the task of rearing the brood. They had
learned to eat and drink just as their father had learned long ago,
and could toddle along, with their mother leading the way, while
the father ranged near by or followed far behind.
The very next day, as they went from the hill-side down toward the
creek in a somewhat drawn-out string, like beads with a big one at
each end, a red squirrel, peeping around a pine-trunk, watched the
procession of downlings with the Run tie straggling far in the rear.
Redruff, yards behind, preening his feathers on a high log, had
escaped the of the squirrel, whose strange perverted thirst for
birdling blood was roused at what seemed so fair a chance. With
murderous intent to cut off the hindmost straggler, he made a dash.
Brownie could not have seen him until too late, but Redruff did.
He flew for that red-haired cutthroat; his weapons were his fists,
that is, the knob-joints of the wings, and what a blow he could
strike! At the first onset he struck the squirrel square on the end of
the nose, his weakest spot, and sent him reeling; he staggered and
wriggled into a brush-pile, where he had expected to carry the little
grouse, and there lay gasping with red drops trickling down his
wicked snout. The partridges left him lying there, and what
became of him they never knew, but he troubled them no more.
The family went on toward the water, but a cow had left deep
tracks in the sandy loam, and into one of these fell one of the
chicks and peeped in dire distress when he found he could not get
out.
This was a fix. Neither old one seemed to know what to do, but as
they trampled vainly round the edge, the sandy bank caved in, and,
running down, formed a long slope, up which the young one ran
and rejoined his brothers under the broad veranda of their mother's
tail.
Brownie was a bright little mother, of small stature, but keen of
wit and sense, and was, night and day, alert to care for her darling
chicks. How proudly she stepped and clucked through the arching
woods with her dainty brood behind her; how she strained her little
brown tail almost to a half-circle to give them a broader shade, and
never flinched at sight of any foe, but held ready to fight or fly,
whichever seemed the best for her little ones.
Before the chicks could fly they had a meeting with old Cuddy;
though it was June, he was out with his gun. Up the third ravine he
went, and Tike, his dog, ranging ahead, came so dangerously near
the Brownie brood that Redruff ran to meet him, and by the old but
never failing trick led him on a foolish chase away back down the
valley of the Don.
But Cuddy, as it chanced, came right along, straight for the brood,
and Brownie, giving the signal to the children, 'Krrr, krrr' (Hide,
hide), ran to lead the man away .just as her mate had led the dog.
Full of a mother's devoted love, and skilled in the learning of the
woods, she ran in silence till quite near, then sprang with a roar of
wings right in his face, and tumbling on the leaves she shammed a
lameness that for a moment deceived the poacher. But when she
dragged one wing and whined about his feet, then slowly crawled
away, he knew just what it meant--that it was all a trick to lead
him from her brood, and he struck at her a savage blow; but little
Brownie was quick, she avoided the blow and limped behind a
sapling, there to beat herself upon the leaves again in sore distress,
and seem so lame that Cuddy made another try to strike her down
with a stick. But she moved in time to balk him, and bravely,
steadfast still to lead him from her helpless little ones, she flung
herself before him and beat her gentle breast upon the ground, and
moaned as though begging for mercy. And Cuddy, failing again to
strike her, raised his gun and firing charge enough to kill a bear, he
blew poor brave, devoted Brownie into quivering, bloody rags.
This gunner brute knew the young must be hiding near, so looked
about to find them. But no one moved or peeped. He saw not one,
but as he tramped about with heedless, hateful feet, he crossed and
crossed again their hiding-ground, and more than one of the silent
little sufferers he trampled to death, and neither knew nor cared.
Redruff had taken the yellow brute away off downstream, and now
returned to where he left his mate. The murderer had gone, taking
her remains, to be thrown to the dog. Redruff sought about and
found the bloody spot with feathers, Brownie's feathers, scattered
around, and now he knew the meaning of that shot.
Who can tell what his horror and his mourning were? The outward
signs were few, some minutes dumbly gazing at the place with
downcast, draggled look, and then a change at the thought of their
helpless brood. Back to the hiding-place he went, and called the
wellknown 'kreet, kreet.' Did every grave give up its little inmate
at the magic word? No, barely more than half; six little balls of
down unveiled their lustrous eyes, and, rising, ran to meet him, but
four feathered little bodies had found their graves indeed. Redruff
called again and again, till he was sure that all who could respond
had come, and led them from that dreadful place, far, far away
up-stream, where barb-wire fences and bramble thickets were
found to offer a less grateful, but more reliable, shelter.
Here the brood grew and were trained by their father just as his
mother had trained him; though wider knowledge and experience
gave him many advantages. He knew so well the country round
and all the feeding-grounds, and how to meet the ills that harass
partridge-life, that the summer passed and not a chick was lost.
They grew and flourished, and when the Gunner Moon arrived
they were a fine family of six grown-up grouse with Redruff,
splendid in his gleaming copper feathers, at their head. He had
ceased to drum during the summer after the loss of Brownie, but
drumming is to the partridge what singing is to the lark; while it is
his lovesong, it is also an expression of exuberance born of health,
and when the molt was over and September food and weather had
renewed his splendid plumes and braced himself up again, his
spirits revived, and finding himself one day near the old log he
mounted impulsively, and drummed again and again.
From that time he often drummed, while his children sat around,
or one who showed his father's blood would mount some nearby
stump or stone, and beat the air in the loud tattoo.
The black grapes and the Mad Moon now came on. But Redruff's
blood were of a vigorous stock; their robust health meant robust
wits, and though they got the craze, it passed within a week, and
only three had flown away for good.
Redruff, with his remaining three, was living in the glen when the
snow came. It was light, flaky snow, and as the weather was not
very cold, the family squatted for the night under the low, flat
boughs of a cedar-tree. But next day the storm continued, it grew
colder, and the drifts piled up all day. At night, the snow-fall
ceased, but the frost grew harder still, so Redruff, leading the
family to a birch-tree above a deep drift, dived into the snow, and
the others did the same. Then into the holes the wind blew the
loose snow--their pure white bed-clothes, and thus tucked in they
slept in comfort, for the snow is a warm wrap, and the air passes
through it easily enough for breathing. Next morning each
partridge found a solid wall of ice before him from his frozen
breath, hut easily turned to one side and rose on the wing at
Redruff's morning 'Kreet, kreet, kwit,' (Come children, come
children, fly.)
This was the first night for them in a snow-drift, though it was an
old story to Redruff, and next night they merrily dived again into
bed, and the north wind tucked them in as before. But a change of
weather was brewing. The night wind veered to the east. A fall of
heavy flakes gave place to sleet, and that to silver rain.
The whole wide world was sheathed in ice, and when the grouse
awoke to quit their beds, they found them selves sealed in with a
great cruel sheet of edgeless ice. The deeper snow was still quite
soft, and Redruff bored his way to the top, but there the hard,
white sheet defied his strength. Hammer and struggle as he might
he could make no impression, and only bruised his wings and
head. His life had been made up of keen joys and dull hardships,
with frequent sudden desper ate straits, but this seemed the
hardest brunt of all, as the slow hours wore on and found him
weakening with his struggles, but no nearer to freedom. He could
hear the struggling of his family, too, or sometimes heard them
calling to him for help with their long-drawn plaintive
'p-e-e-e-e-e-t-e, p-e-e-e-e-e-t-e.'
They were hidden from many of their enemies, but not from the
pangs of hunger, and when the night came down the weary
prisoners, worn out with hunger and useless toil, grew quiet in
despair. At first they had been afraid the fox would come and find
them imprisoned there at his mercy, but as the second night went
slowly by they no longer cared, and even wished he would come
and break the crusted snow, and so give them at least a fighting
chance for life,
But when the fox really did come padding over the frozen drift, the
deep-laid love of life revived, and they crouched in utter stillness
till he passed. The second day was one of driving storm. The north
wind sent his snow-horses, hissing and careering over the white
earth, tossing and curling their white manes and kicking up more
snow as they dashed on. The long, hard grinding of the granular
snow seemed to be thinning the snow-crust, for though far from
dark below, it kept on growing lighter. Redruff had pecked and
pecked at the under side all day, till his head ached and his bill was
wearing blunt, but when the sun went down he seemed as far as
ever from escape. The night passed like the others, except no fox
went trotting overhead. In the morning he renewed his pecking,
though now with scarcely any force, and the voices or struggles of
the others were no more heard. As the daylight grew stronger he
could see that his long efforts had made a brighter spot above him
in the snow, and he continued feebly pecking. Outside, the
storm-horses kept on trampling all day, the crust was really
growing thin under their heels, and late that afternoon his bill went
through into the open air. New life came with this gain, and he
pecked away, till just before the sun went down he had made a
hole that his head, his neck, and his ever-beautiful ruffs could pass.
His great broad shoulders were too large, but he could now strike
downward, which gave him fourfold force; the snow-crust
crumbled quickly, and in a little while he sprang from his icy
prison once more free.
But the young ones? Redruff flew to the nearest bank, hastily
gathered a few red hips to Stay his gnawing hunger, then returned
to the prison-drift and clucked and stamped. He got only one reply,
a feeble 'peek, peete,' and scratching with his sharp claws on the
thinned granular sheet he soon broke through, and Graytail feebly
crawled out of the hole. But that was all; the others, scattered he
could not tell where in the drift, made no reply, gave no sign of
life, and he was forced to leave them. When the snow melted in
the spring their bodies came to view, skin, bones, and feathers--
nothing more.
VII
It was long before Redruff and Graytail fully recovered, but food
and rest in plenty are sure cure-alls, and a bright clear day in
midwinter had the usual effect of setting the vigorous Redruff to
drumming on the log. Was it the drumming, or the tell-tale tracks
of their snow-shoes on the omnipresent snow, that betrayed them
to Cuddy? He came prowling again and again up the ravine, with
dog and gun, intent to hunt the partridges down. They knew him of
old, and he was coming now to know them well. That great
copperruffed cock was becoming famous up and down the valley.
During the Gunner Moon many a one had tried to end his splendid
life, just as a worthless wretch of old sought fame by burning the
Ephesian wonder of the world. But Redruff was deep in woodcraft.
He knew just where to hide, and when to rise on silent wing, and
when to squat till overstepped, then rise on thunder wing within a
yard to shield himself at once behind some mighty tree-trunk and
speed away.
But Cuddy never ceased to follow with his gun that red-ruffed
cock; many a long snapshot he tried, but somehow always found a
tree, a bank, or some safe shield between, and Redruff lived and
throve and drummed.
When the Snow Moon came he moved with Graytail to the Castle
Frank woods, where food was plenty as well as grand old trees.
There was in particular, on the east slope among the creeping
hemlocks, a splendid pine. It was six feet through, and its first
branches began at the tops of the other trees. Its top in
summer-time was a famous resort for the bluejay and his bride.
Here, far beyond the reach of shot, in warm spring days the jay
would sing and dance before his mate, spread his bright blue
plumes and warble the sweetest fairyland music, so sweet and soft
that few hear it but the one for whom it is meant, and books know
nothing at all about it.
This great pine had an especial interest for Redruff, now living
near with his remaining young one, but its base, not its far-away
crown, concerned him. All around were low, creeping hemlocks,
and among them the partridge-vine and the wintergreen grew, and
the sweet black acorns could be scratched from under the snow.
There was no better feeding-ground, for when that insatiable
gunner came on them there it was easy to run low among the
hemlocks to the great pine, then rise with a derisive whirr behind
its bulk, and keeping the huge trunk in line with the deadly gun,
skim off in safety. A dozen times at least the pine had saved them
during the lawful murder season, and here it was that Cuddy,
knowing their feeding habits, laid a new trap. Under the bank he
sneaked and watched in ambush while an accomplice went around
the Sugar Loaf to drive the birds. He came trampling through the
low thicket where Redruff and Graytail were feeding, and long
before the gunner was dangerously near Redruff gave a low
warning 'rrrrr' (danger) and walked quickly toward the great pine
in case they had to rise.
Graytail was some distance up the hill, and suddenly caught sight
of a new foe close at hand, the yellow cur, coming right on.
Redruff, much farther off, could not see him for the bushes, and
Graytail became greatly alarmed.
'Kwit, kwit' (Fly, fly), she cried, running down the hill for a start.
'Kreet, k-r-r-r' (This way, hide), cried the cooler Redruff, for he
saw that now the man with the gun was getting in range. He gained
the great trunk, and behind it, as he paused a moment to call
earnestly to Graytail, 'This way, this way,' he heard a slight noise
under the bank before him that betrayed the ambush, then there
was a terrified cry from Graytail as the dog sprang at her, she rose
in air and skimmed behind the shielding trunk, away from the
gunner in the open, right into the power of the miserable wretch
under the bank.
Whirr, and up she went, a beautiful, sentient, noble being.
Bang, and down she fell--battered and bleeding, to gasp her
life out and to lie, mere carrion in the snow.
It was a perilous place for Redruff. There was no chance for a safe
rise, so he squatted low. The dog came within ten feet of him, and
the stranger, coming across to Cuddy, passed at five feet, but he
never moved till a chance came to slip behind the great trunk away
from both. Then he safely rose and flew to the lonely glen by
Taylor's Hill.
One by one the deadly cruel gun had stricken his near ones down,
till now, once more, he was alone. The Snow Moon slowly passed
with many a narrow escape, and Redruff, now known to be the
only survivor of his kind, was relentlessly pursued, and grew
wilder every day.
It seemed, at length, a waste of time to follow him with a gun, so
when the snow was deepest, and food scarcest, Cuddy hatched a
new plot. Right across the feeding-ground, almost the only good
one now in the Stormy Moon, he set a row of snares. A cottontail
rabbit, an old friend, cut several of these with his sharp teeth, but
some remained, and Redruff, watching a far-off speck that might
turn out a hawk, trod right in one of them, and in an instant was
jerked into the air to dangle by one foot.
Have the wild things no moral or legal rights? What right has man
to inflict such long and fearful agony on a fellow-creature, simply
because that creature does not speak his language? All that day,
with growing, racking pains, poor Redruff hung and beat his great,
strong wings in helpless struggles to be free. All day, all night,
with growing torture, until he only longed for death. But no one
came. The morning broke, the day wore on, and still he hung there,
slowly dying; his very strength a curse. The second night crawled
slowly down, and when, in the dawdling hours of darkness, a great
Horned Owl, drawn by the feeble flutter of a dying wing, cut short
the pain, the deed was wholly kind.
The wind blew down the valley from the north. The snow-horses
went racing over the wrinkled ice, over the Don Flats, and over the
marsh toward the lake, white, for they were driven snow, but on
them, scattered dark, were riding plumy fragments of partridge
ruffs--the famous rainbow ruffs. And they rode on the winter wind
that night, away and away to the south, over the dark and
boisterous lake, as they rode in the gloom of his Mad Moon flight,
riding and riding on till they were engulfed, the last trace of the
last of the Don Valley race.
For now no partridge comes to Castle Frank. Its wood-birds miss
the martial spring salutc, and in Mud Creek Ravine the old pine
drumlog, since unused, has rotted in silence away.
End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Wild Animals I Have Known
by Ernest Thompson Seton
Livros Grátis
( http://www.livrosgratis.com.br )
Milhares de Livros para Download:
Baixar livros de Administração
Baixar livros de Agronomia
Baixar livros de Arquitetura
Baixar livros de Artes
Baixar livros de Astronomia
Baixar livros de Biologia Geral
Baixar livros de Ciência da Computação
Baixar livros de Ciência da Informação
Baixar livros de Ciência Política
Baixar livros de Ciências da Saúde
Baixar livros de Comunicação
Baixar livros do Conselho Nacional de Educação - CNE
Baixar livros de Defesa civil
Baixar livros de Direito
Baixar livros de Direitos humanos
Baixar livros de Economia
Baixar livros de Economia Doméstica
Baixar livros de Educação
Baixar livros de Educação - Trânsito
Baixar livros de Educação Física
Baixar livros de Engenharia Aeroespacial
Baixar livros de Farmácia
Baixar livros de Filosofia
Baixar livros de Física
Baixar livros de Geociências
Baixar livros de Geografia
Baixar livros de História
Baixar livros de Línguas
Baixar livros de Literatura
Baixar livros de Literatura de Cordel
Baixar livros de Literatura Infantil
Baixar livros de Matemática
Baixar livros de Medicina
Baixar livros de Medicina Veterinária
Baixar livros de Meio Ambiente
Baixar livros de Meteorologia
Baixar Monografias e TCC
Baixar livros Multidisciplinar
Baixar livros de Música
Baixar livros de Psicologia
Baixar livros de Química
Baixar livros de Saúde Coletiva
Baixar livros de Serviço Social
Baixar livros de Sociologia
Baixar livros de Teologia
Baixar livros de Trabalho
Baixar livros de Turismo
