The Coyote
(Canis latrans)
The coyote, prairie-wolf, or Canis latrans, as the books call him, is
now found in nearly all the States west of the Mississippi, though he
formerly ranged east of it to some extent. The coyote varies somewhat in
size in different sections, and in the northern States his yellowish-gray
coat, sometimes mottled with black, is perceptibly heavier than it is
farther south. In fact, modern scientists divide coyotes into several
species, but to the common man they are all alike, just coyotes. He has a
bushy tail resembling the brush of a fox, though in reality the animal is
a wild dog, having many of the characteristics of the wolf. Probably his
great shrewdness may be attributed in part to this fact.
The coyote usually burrows in the earth, concealing his den so
ingeniously that the ordinary observer, and indeed those more skilled in
woodcraft, might pass it a dozen times without discovering it. Coyotes
feed largely on birds, rabbits, and other small animals, though in thinly
settled parts of the country they are very destructive to lambs. If two of
the marauders are together, they will not hesitate to attack very young
calves, though those of a few days are seldom molested.
The coyote is very fleet footed and possesses remarkable qualities of
endurance. "The Last of a Hated Race" lived between the years
1881 and 1892, in Richland Township, Keokuk County, Iowa.
CHAPTER THREE
The Last of a Hated Race
The region had been settled for years. At least twenty years before
this story opens the last claims were taken up. The tall prairie grass,
which had once grown so freely over the whole country, was fast
disappearing, and fences had been built or were rapidly being built
around every field. The hazel thickets that had come up wherever the
plain had been broken and then allowed to lie waste for a few years,
were being cleared out fast by the enterprising farmers to make room for
corn. Sheep and cattle had eaten and trampled the underbrush in the
woods till in most places it was no longer dense enough to afford
sufficient shelter for the wildlings who had owned this country for ages
before the white men had thought of settling it. In those forever lost
but unforgotten days there were room and food enough for all, and the
Indians, who came and went at will over the prairies or hunted in the
dark forests, would never have changed the situation.
But there came a time when it must change. The great chief, Black
Hawk, having been forcibly deposed by the arms of Uncle Sam, had led a
few faithful braves into this neighborhood, and here they had formed
their camp. A little later, Keokuk, who had taken his place as head of
the tribe, established his headquarters on a side hill overlooking
Richland Creek, at a point almost opposite the place where it forks
for the last time into two creeks. But rapidly and silently the red men
have passed away, till now their whole possession in this region is
comprised of a ten-acre timber preserve on the Skunk River, about ten
miles from the old camp. Here the remaining children and grandchildren
of the tribe sometimes camp for a few weeks, looking over the old home
and trapping mink and muskrats.
The same influences that had driven the red man from his home were
fast exterminating the tribe of coyotes. Once their weird call could be
heard from every hill and high prairie at sunrise and sunset. But as
they were picked off, one after another, by the settler's murderous
rifle while chanting their evening hymn, they gradually learned to slink
into the brush or tall grass in some valley at sunset, and to defer
their song till far into the night. They were hunted down mercilessly
with dog, gun, trap, and poison, by fair means and by foul, till it was
beginning to be remarked upon in the neighborhood as a notable thing
when anyone saw a coyote or heard its lonesome call.
However, it was well known that the coyotes were not all gone. A few
sturdy specimens survived and grew fat through spoiling the spoilers.
Two of these made for themselves a home in Brown's woods, a
two-hundred-acre tract on the high divide between the Wimore Branch and
Richland Creek. Here, among the earliest settlers in the country, two
brothers had taken up a large tract, each having something over a
hundred acres of uncleared land on his claim. This was not molested. In
vain did the neighbors come to them for posts or firewood. Others might
cut their timber if they wished, they would leave theirs as it was. The
land was not even pastured, and the brush and wild blackberries grew so
thick that one could scarcely make his way through the timber. Vines and
shrubs, flowers and grass, weeds and brush, as well as the thick shelter
of the protecting forestall combined to make this an ideal retreat for
the few wildlings remaining in the country.
This was the place chosen by two of these sagacious coyotes for their
home, and here, a little later, their family cares were increased by the
arrival of seven pretty puppies. When these sturdy infants were a few
days old, they began to come out of the den when their mother was at
home to guard them, and tumble and romp and scramble in the sunshine. A
charming sight it was to the fond mother, as she watched their
frolicsome games in the heart of the sheltered old wood. Though she
seemed to see nothing but her babies, not a twig could crack nor a
branch rustle unduly that her ears did not prick up and her eyes glance
alertly around, while her nose unconsciously sniffed the air for news of
the cause.
Nor was it always a false alarm. One day when the Puppies were quite
large she heard a snuffing near her, and immediately scented a dog.
There was a growl, almost too low to be heard, but the puppies slipped
into the den as quietly as shadows, and the mother reconnoitered to
discover what the dog wanted. It was only a cur chasing squirrels or
rabbits while his mistress was picking berries; for the wood was mostly
unfrequented save by women and children in the berry season. Mistress
Coyote ran snarling toward the intruder, and he promptly tucked his tail
between his cowardly legs and clipped for home as fast as he could go.
Satisfied with this inglorious retreat, she gave her attention to the
berry pickers. These she did not dare approach; but she came as near as
she could, and yet remain out of sight, taking the precaution to stand
where the wind blew from them to her, and watched every move till they
left the woods that evening. The wise little puppies stayed in the
stifling den all the long, hot afternoon, till their mother returned.
That night she took her brood to a place where the dog had been digging
for a mouse, and though they did not know why, the hair unconsciously
raised on every one of their little backs as they smelled it. They had
had their first lesson; ever after they would know the smell of dog.
A few days later another dog wandered near the den, but when the
mother tried to drive him away, there followed a fierce fight. The
puppies heard, and as the familiar scent was borne to them, they crept
into the hole. They had learned to hate dogs.
The fight would not have lasted long if the dog and the wolf had been
left to have it out together. But reinforcements arrived-
in behalf of the dog. A man appeared just in time to scatter a few shot
into the coyote as she fled into the brush. But he was not satisfied
with that; well he knew that no coyote would have attacked his dog in
broad daylight save for one cause- the cause
of motherhood protecting her young. He began to look for the den, which
he knew must be near at hand. His search was soon rewarded, for the
mother, secure in her retreat, had allowed the puppies to play around it
more than was wise, and by the trampled grass and scattered bits of
bones and feathers he found it easily. He had no tools to dig it out,
but he thoughtfully stopped it up- and went
home for a spade and an ax.
From a distance the mother and her mate had watched his proceedings
in agonized but impotent fear, and he was scarcely out of sight before
they were working desperately to get the hole open.
With all their might they tugged at the log that had been placed in
the opening of the den, biting and tearing it with their teeth till the
blood ran, but to no avail. Finally they gave up, and began to dig. This
was no small task, but what is effort when the life of one's family-
one's own flesh and blood- is at stake? They
dug for dear life, taking turns, and finally the hole was open! But that
was not safety. Each took his favorite puppy by the back of the neck,
and together they galloped to the Graham brush, two miles away-
the only available refuge. The woods people have their favorites among
their brood, and if compelled to move them, they always take these
first. I have tested this by making a mother move the same brood several
times, and noting the order in which the young were carried. But while
this is true, a wild mother will risk her own life as quickly for the
last of the brood as for the first.
It took some time to carry the puppies to the chosen city of refuge,
and more was consumed in hunting for a suitable brush pile for a safe
temporary home. Their search was finally rewarded, however, and without
more ado the coyotes deposited the puppies, who remained perfectly quiet
in their new quarters, and returned for the other babies. But alas! they
were only in time to see the rest of the brood taken out and killed-
all but one, which was carried home for a pet. They followed discreetly
behind till the men left the timber, and then fell on the dog, which had
remained to smell about the hole, and would have torn him limb from limb
had not his howls again brought him help. When the men came back, the
coyotes fled to their new home. A wild mother, however deep her grief,
does not waste her time in idle mourning, unless entirely bereft, but
wisely gives her care and loving attention to those of her brood that
are still living.
The little captive coyote was taken to the home of the hunter,
chained, and finally forced by hunger to eat a little. In a few days,
because he acted surly and snarled if the children came too near, he was
killed- no doubt the happiest fate for him,
because the lot of the pet in the ordinary home is anything but
enviable.
It was perhaps an advantage to the puppies that were left that their
brothers and sisters were killed, for now they had all the food and care
that would otherwise have gone to the whole brood. This is an important
factor in the life of all wildlings, since they often do not get all
they need to eat. But these little fellows lived at peace in their brush
heap, ate all they wanted, and grew plump and hardy. And a fat, strong
wild animal is usually a wise one.
They early learned the secrets of coyote lore. Among their first
lessons was mouse hunting. Mice are not a regular article of diet with
grown-up coyotes, but it is important to know how to catch them. The
mother would take her babies to a place where mouse runs were numerous,
and then all would sit down and watch for a mouse to pass. It was not
many days till the puppies could catch a mouse as well as their mother.
The next lesson was to stalk rabbits. Of course a coyote can run a
rabbit down, if everything is favorable, but it is often an undertaking
fraught with danger, as there is no knowing where the chase may lead.
Besides, it is not always successful in the end. So they learned to go
through the brush looking for a rabbit that was sleeping under some
bush, and to pounce upon it before it was aware that an enemy was near.
This was a hard lesson, for bunny sleeps with one eye open, and her legs
doubled for a leap, on the lookout for this very thing to happen. At the
least sound she starts, ready to run for her pursued little life. But by
perseverance, the art was acquired, and the puppies understood just how
to pass softly and soundlessly through the woods, and yet locate every
rabbit that came within range of their nose.
And not an hour too soon! for now the hazelnuts were ripe, and
scarcely a day passed that did not bring a load of merry nutters to
their home. Dogs raced everywhere through the brush, and these puppies
knew the evil of dogs only too well. Often they would see a man with a
gun only a few feet from them, but they would slink away as quietly as a
shadow flits across the fields, and be safe. Their schooling had been a
serious matter while they were young, but it was a training they needed.
Had they in puppyhood been dealing with regular hunters and hounds, this
history would never have been written, but the lessons learned then
enabled them to cope with greater dangers later.
Now they were old enough to run about at will, and the mother was
giving them their last lessons before leaving them to fight the cruel
world alone. Among the very last tests of skill was the dangerous game
of robbing a hen roost. This involves finding, first of all, whether
there is a dog on the premises, and what he is doing. If the coast is
clear, the roost may be reached without discovery, a chicken grabbed
without alarm, and a quick and skillful retreat accomplished, that shall
leave no trail. There are always guns to shun and traps to avoid. By the
time the winter was over, all these lessons were mastered, and the
coyote puppies were fully equipped to take care of themselves.
Besides this, they had been in one or two chases, and knew the
meaning of the deep bay of the foxhound. They had learned that in, a
chase it is wise to keep to the high, dry ground, for there the trail
becomes cold much more quickly than near a creek or along the river
bottom. They also knew that if one is forced to cross a stream, he
should wade either up or down it for a distance before coming out, since
water leaves no trail.
Toward spring their mother and father left them and were never seen
again. The young coyotes took up their permanent home in the Graham
brush and the surrounding country, and lived there till the end of their
life. Of this it is possible to give only a brief account; because they
took care that most of it should not be known to any man.
One summer day two little boys went to the creek by the foot of the
tree where Mr. Screech Owl was born, to learn to swim. They were very
brave little six-year-olds, and were talking about wolves, and what they
would do if one should come out of the brush, when the coyotes saw them
and, perhaps moved by a spirit of mischief, came out on the brow of the
hill that overlooked the creek, sat down, and began to howl. In the face
of this alarming reality the boys forgot all about the brave things they
were going to do, and never even stopped to dress till half a mile away,
within safe sight of home. And so the coyotes learned that six-year-old
boys are not to be feared.
As time passed it became generally known that there were coyotes in
the neighborhood. Poultry disappeared without warning, and lambs were
not safe in the fields after sunset. Night after night the peculiar cry
of the coyote was heard on the hillsides, and the depredations of hen
roost and sheepfold stirred the farmers to vengeance. The coyotes must
be killed. That was the verdict. In the county were several packs of
hounds- the property of typical hound owners.
About the house of these men there was no fence to keep the cattle out
of the yard. Indeed, there was small need of any. The neighbors' fields
were fenced to keep their cattle at home, so what use had they for
fences? They had a dozen lank, longeared hounds instead. There was never
much of a crop; there was no time to attend to such matters. The dogs
would forget how to trail if they were not taken out two or three times
a week, and one cannot plow who has followed dogs all night. But they
must be kept in good trim, for of what use are dogs that are not well
trained?
The door was usually off the hinges, and the hounds were lying under
the table, stove, or cupboard. In the pasture were a few thin hogs,
which would be fattened in the fall, and these would furnish meat for
the winter. The wants of such a man are few. A pair of blue overalls and
a denim shirt in the summer, a sweater, a pair of jeans, and some
high-topped boots added in the winter, are all that are required in the
way of clothes. He is happy when he is following his hounds, and his
wife and children can cultivate a little patch of corn and make a garden
if they want any. What is a wife for, anyway, if not to help make a
living?
These men made up their minds that they would have those wolves. And
with this decision began a long battle of cunning matched against
cunning, strength against strength. Night after night the hounds were
out, one pack one night, and another the next. There was scarcely a
night that the chase did not lead over the fields and into the woods.
Fortunately there were a few foxes in the country, and the hounds
sometimes chased these, or the hated race would in all probability have
become extinct in that region long before it did.
As it was, their manner of escape from the hounds and from the
hunters acquired the dignity of a science. They reared their young every
summer, yet none of them were ever killed till after they were weaned
and left to care for themselves. Then they were promptly disposed of.
But Graham's brush was jealously guarded by the old coyotes. As soon as
the hunters started from home with their dogs, the coyotes would hear
the bay of the anxious dogs, and one of them would cunningly leave the
brush, and meet the hounds at quite a distance, leading them on a chase
far and wide over the country, but bringing them back when it was tired
and wished to change off in the chase with its mate.
The den was always in the Graham brush, but for the same reason the
wolves were never to be found there. From whatever side the hunters
approached, they were sure to strike a hot trail before they came near
the brush, and for this reason the animals were not suspected of having
a den there. Later in the season, when there was no family of helpless
puppies to suffer, it was a common thing for the coyotes to lead the
chase to the brush. Once, and once only, did a hunter find the den; and
when he had gone to a neighboring house, brought tools, and dug the nest
out, he found it, still warm, but empty; nor could his hounds track the
babies. They were led away on a long chase, and tired out instead.
The accompanying drawing shows the true map of the haunts of these
remarkable animals. The chase usually started within a mile or two of
the brush, at a point marked on the map as the starting-point, and
followed down to Richland Creek by way of the high divide. Then it
turned down the creek to the river, then up the river to a point
opposite the brush. Here the wolves would change off, and the weary one
would rest till the chase came that way again. The tired wolf would
return on the track of the fresh wolf to a safe place, and the fresh
wolf would wait till the dogs came so near that he was sure they were
following him instead of his weary mate. If this could not be
accomplished in any other way, he would allow them to sight him. Then
the chase took up the river across near Rock Creek through Brown's
timber.
As they grew older, they did less running, but still baffled the
dogs. About a mile from the brush was a large pasture in which were
always from fifty to seventy-five steers. When the dogs would strike
their trail, the coyotes would run till tired, then cross a high bridge
and a field, and enter the pasture. They knew the cattle, and would run
about here and there under and among the steers for a time. When the
trail was hopelessly mixed, they would take the back trail to the
bridge, jump to the water, follow downstream for a short distance, then
cross to a highland overlooking the pasture, and deliberately watch the
success of their ruse.
The dogs would follow all right till they entered the pasture with
the cattle. Then the trouble began. The cattle paid no attention to the
coyote, but they resented the presence of the loud-mouthed hounds. The
steers interfered with the dogs so much that they would lose the trail
every time, and here the chase would close, perhaps with the wolf in
plain sight. I have often seen one of the coyotes lying here, watching
the country, and have seen two or three men, coming from as many
different ways, try to slip up near enough to get a shot at him, but in
vain. The spirit of the woods folk always warned him at the right
moment, and he did just the unexpected- and
escaped. I have known him to pass through the barn lot of a man who was
lying in wait for him elsewhere, thinking the coyote would never venture
near a house during the day; nor would he if the owner had stayed at
home! Occasionally he was met face to face in the woods, but only when
one was without weapons. He did not appear greatly frightened either,
knowing well when he was safe.
Near the brush was a pasture where sheep were kept. It is charged
that one of the coyotes, when pursued, would even rush in among these
animals, jump on the back of one of them, and when it had carried him
far enough for the dogs to lose the trail, jump off and go his way
undisturbed. If the wolf was very close pressed, he would sometimes run
in among a herd of cattle, keep under them, and let them fight off his
tormentors.
For at least ten years I knew these wolves. Many a winter's night
have I seen them in the fields, keeping in the shelter of a hedge fence
as together they hunted the country for their daily food. They lived
mostly on rabbits, and as there were plenty of them, the wolves seldom
did any other harm than frighten the boys and girls coming home from
some country church service or spelling school. Often have I seen them
sit down side by side in a secluded fence corner and howl till it
sounded as if the whole country was full of coyotes. Apparently they
could not resist the fun of setting up a howl whenever they found
themselves near children, always provided there were no grown people
along. Perhaps they remembered the good old days of their puppyhood, and
the brave lads who went a-swimming. If not, they had had abundant
opportunity later to learn that children would run from them.
One beautiful winter night, when the snow lay deep and the moon was
full, some boys and girls walked across the meadows to attend evening
service at a country chapel. As they were returning, they reached a
place where three hedges joined. Here they parted to go to their several
homes. No sooner were they separated than these coyotes, which,
concealed behind some bushes, had been watching the little company, set
up their loudest howls. From the way those boys and girls scampered for
home, one would have thought that a lion was running at large.
I know at least one boy who waited at the door till he had stopped
breathing hard, and then quietly entered and asked his father and mother
to come out and listen to the wolves, as unconcerned as if he were used
to such things, every night of his life.
But with the most favored of the wildlings there comes a time when
fortune seems to desert them. No one can explain it; there is no fault
with the planning, but nothing comes out right. So with these coyotes.
One day a pack of hounds was chasing the old mother coyote. Being sore
pressed, she crossed into the pasture and made her usual run among the
steers. The hounds were drawing near, and she was hastening on her back
track to the bridge, where she would jump into the stream, and leave her
trail a blank. The bridge was almost reached when a company of men who
were working on the road happened to see her and began hallooing and
encouraging the dogs.
The baffled animal had but one way of escape-
to turn back into the pasture. The dogs sighted her there, but since the
men were so near, encouraging the hounds, she was afraid to remain among
the cattle. Hoping to elude the dogs, she crossed another field and
started up a new road, keeping in the dust, as this would help make the
trail cold.
But just as she reached a deep cut in the road, she was met by two
men with pitchforks, and forced to turn back. By this time the dogs were
close on her trail, and there was nothing to do but run right in among
them. They closed on her, but she fought them off valiantly and
succeeded in getting into the brush again. Her strength was failing, and
she was being driven directly away from her mate, who alone of all the
world would help her. She ran on bravely for several miles, and might
have escaped after all in the face of all the odds; but as she neared
the point where she would start up Richland Creek toward home, and hope
was reviving in her heart, a pack of fresh hounds rushed in hard behind
her on the trail. One of these, a famous wolf dog, had been recently
imported from Kentucky. The inevitable followed. The poor old coyote was
soon run down. She fought like a tiger, madly tearing one after another
of the cringing dogs, and for some time held the whole pack at bay. Even
the famous wolf dog would have been forced to own her master had not the
men come up. Then, surrounded on all sides by bloodthirsty hounds and
deadly bullets, she gave up the life that was as sweet to her as to any
other living creature on the earth.
And her mate? Without his companion the old coyote knew that he could
not meet the dangers of the brush. She had stood by him all his life,
and perhaps he did not feel equal to facing the perils of existence
alone. At all events, from that day he disappeared and was never seen
again.
And now the song of the coyote is no more heard when the moon
glistens on the whitened fields of winter. The hated race is gone. But
whatever the faults of the family at large we cannot but feel, as we
think of the two whose history has been recorded here, that we have
spoken of heroes.
(See second story in Zip Coon)
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