Graycoat,
the last of the hated race of coyotes, left my old home neighborhood after
his mate had been killed, he did not die of a broken heart; neither did he
starve. True, his faithful
mate was dead, and equally true, he could no longer stay in the country he
had loved so long, for single-handed he could not hope to outwit the
relentless hunters and their bloodthirsty hounds but life still looked
sweet to him.
He
had listened anxiously to the progress of the race that ended so
disastrously for his mate, and realized things were not going as they
should, He had faithfully done his part by cutting across the fields to
the usual meeting places to relieve her, and take his turn in leading; the
race so she might rest, but every time she had turned the wrong way before
reaching the appointed place, and he was not even near when she made her
last stand. He had been surprised when the baying of the hounds ceased and
was troubled at the sound of gunshots; but he was safe, and surely his
mate must be also. He would go home and wait her return. There was plenty,
of time for this before dark. Then, as the shadows would begin to gather,
they would raid some farmer's hen roost and collect their pay for the hard
day's chase.
So
he loped leisurely across the fields to Graham's brush, carefully keeping
along the side of a hill or in the valley along some stream so his outline
might not show against the skyline till he reached home. Arriving there he
lay down to wait on a hillside overlooking the creek. He was tired and
sleepy, but it was never safe to sleep unless his mate was near to give
warning of approaching danger, so he merely lay down with his head between
his paws and waited, his nose, his eyes, and his ears all alert to catch
the slightest danger signal.
Evening
came and found him still there. The sun set, and darkness gathered; and
still he lay and gazed, but his mate did not return. As soon as the
shadows were deep enough to offer safety, he stepped out to the edge of
the brush, sat down, and pointing his nose toward the moon, gave forth a
long series of sharp cries, yap-yap-ya-yaya, till the woods and fields
rang with the gathering cry of the coyote. He stepped back into the brush
and waited and listened, but he heard no answering cry, and no mate
appeared. He repeated his call at intervals of fifteen or twenty minutes
for an hour or more. As our house was not more than a half-mile away, we
could hear him clearly; and finally father remarked, "That wolf is
calling for his mate. He does not know she has been killed." Just how
long he kept up this calling I do not know, for farmers go to bed early in
the summer time, and farm boys are soon asleep.
But
the neighbors said that for hours that night they heard most piteous
crying near the spot where his mate had been killed. Early the next
morning someone told Jim Mills what occurred, and he took his hounds to
the spot to see if Graycoat had really been there. He found traces all
about the spot where the fight had taken place the day before, and saw
that the poor fellow had torn up the earth where his mate's blood had been
spilled. Then he had left the country.
The
hounds took up the trail and, followed it up Richland Creek, across by
Brown's woods, over the fields and into the woods along Skunk River, then
directly up the river till the hounds gave up the trail and came home. The
word soon passed that Graycoat had left the country, and it was not long
before everyone knew this was really true.
The
farmers were pleased. Their ducks and chickens were safe. The coyotes were
gone. No more need chicken houses be fastened up at night or sheep driven
inside the fold. The oldest hunter of them all, Riley Coble, died, and his
hounds died with him. Jim Mills married and moved out of the neighborhood,
taking his dogs with him. Bob Cortis owned the only hound left for miles
around, the famous wolfhound he had shipped from Kentucky. He boasted he
would not take fifty dollars for that dog. No one asked him to do so. But
if he would not take fifty dollars for his dog, neither would he feed it;
so soon it became known and hated for miles around because it made its
living by sucking eggs.
One
day it came to our house as usual and raided the hens' nests. I had just
come home from college for a few days' visit, and found it in the hen
house and swore vengeance on it. Mother said I must not do anything about
it, for Mr. Cortis would not take fifty dollars for his dog. I said he
would never need to do so.
The
next day the dog came back, and again I caught it robbing a hen's nest.
One shot with father's old gun and its troubles were over. It would never
go hungry again, neither would it ever rob any more hens' nests. Father
gave it a decent private burial in the far end of the raspberry patch.
Again the neighborhood was glad. Not only were the coyotes gone - their
old enemies, those disturbers of the evening peace - but the foxhounds
were gone also.
Thirty
miles west of the old home neighborhood, Skunk River flowed through a
district that was not settled so soon or by such progressive farmers as
the rest of the country. Here the river overflowed the lowlands
regularly, and they were flanked on either side by rough hills, and many
of these hills were still covered with hazel brush and timber. Even much
of the lowlands were still just as the white man had found them, natural
meadows of wild grass that grew three or four feet tall.
It
was to this country the old coyote fled when his mate was killed. Here
were rabbits in abundance, - fat, tender rabbits that could be had for
the catching. Quails and prairie chickens nested in every grassy meadow,
or led their young to the open spaces to bask in the sunshine or catch
baby grasshoppers. The birds were almost as easy to catch as the farmers'
stupid hens, and they were even more satisfying to the appetite.
When
Graycoat left the scene of his mate's death he had no intention of leaving
the country. He merely knew daylight was coming and it was dangerous to
stay where he was. He had not eaten for twenty-four hours, and he had run
many miles during that time and was tired. He would go to Brown's woods
and rest for the day. Perhaps he might even pick up a rabbit. But he had
scarcely reached there and lain down in a thicket of blackberry briars and
hazel brush before he heard the baying of hounds and was soon aware that
they were trailing him.
Usually
he would have regarded this as nothing to worry about, but yesterday's
experience had upset him. He left his bed at once and ran across the
fields to the farthest part of his domain. He even forgot to be cautious,
and that explains why as Van Williams went out to plow that morning he saw
a coyote crossing their field in full flight long before he heard the
hounds coming,
When
he reached the place where Rock Creekflows into Skunk River, he entered
the creek and waded up stream for perhaps a quarter of a mile, then
climbed a steep bluff on the opposite side and lay down among the gray
stones to rest. Water carries away all scents, as Graycoat knew well. He
also knew that by wading the creek he made a break in his trail that would
baffle all but the most experienced hounds.
When
foxhounds follow a trail, they seldom run fast. Even when the trail is
fresh, they may spend fifteen or twenty minutes in running a mile; and
Graycoat had run fully twelve miles since he left Brown's woods. So he had
a chance to sleep two hours or more before he was awakened by the dogs
trying to find where he had gone when he had entered the water.
Usually
he would have waited till he learned whether they succeeded in finding
which way he had gone, and only when they were near would he have
recrossed the creek and cut across the fields for Graham's brush or
Brown's woods. But this was no usual time. He was thoroughly frightened,
so he quietly slipped back through the woods and up the river.
The
hounds never found his trail. They were tired from yesterday's chase and
so did not try very hard, but he never knew this. He was fleeing for his
life through unknown country now, so he kept well under cover and used all
the tricks he knew, such as doubling back on his trail, jumping up on high
logs and running on them for some distance and then making a long leap to
the ground and running off in a different direction. But he kept his
general direction and before night he had passed beyond the town of Delta
and entered the territory already mentioned. When at last he entered the
tall grass of a wild meadow, he felt safe. Here he could rest. He had
heard no hounds for more than three hours; and even if they followed him
here, he could easily outwit them in the tall grass. So he lay down on
some dry grass and slept for hours.
When
he awakened, the moon was shining brightly, and two rabbits were playing
tag in the edge of a pasture near by. He was hungry, so he crept so
noiselessly through the tall grass to the edge of the pasture that even
the alert ears of the rabbits heard no sound. Where the rabbit path led
from the pasture into the meadow he crouched ready to spring, and waited.
He did not have to wait long. One foolish rabbit came down the path as
fast as he could run, his playmate not far behind. There was a snap of
jaws, a squeak of terror, and Graycoat was eating his first meal for two
days.
A
full-grown rabbit makes a good meal for a coyote, so when Graycoat had
eaten he went back to his bed and to sleep again, and there he remained
through the rest of the night and all of the next day.
That
evening he was awakened by the gathering call of the coyotes, and knew
there were others of his kind near by. He was thrilled by the sound. Now
he did not feel so lonesome. He got up leisurely, stretched himself, and
went out to see what he could learn. To his ears, the call he heard did
not seem to come from everywhere in general and no place in particular, as
it does to ours. He had no trouble in locating the coyote that was
howling, and reached the spot where she stood just as two others trotted
up.
He
had looked for something like this, but was surprised to see two instead
of one coyote answer the call. Clearly this was a mother and her two
almost grown pups. He lay down a few feet from them and waited, partly to
see if her mate would come, and partly because very few wildlings ever
force their company on strangers. They know that to do this is almost sure
to mean a fight, and a fight is no way to make friends. Besides, wild
animals seldom fight when there is nothing to gain by it.
Presently
one of the pups came over and smelled of him and growled a bit, but
Graycoat sat still and submitted to the inspection in silence. Soon the
pup trotted back to his mother, and all started towards the meadow.
Graycoat followed a few paces behind. Soon all were busy hunting field
mice, the game of inexperienced pups.
Now
Graycoat knew his new acquaintance had no mate, or he would have joined
the party before the hunt began. He did not know that Al Hicklen lived
less than a mile away, and that he kept two hounds, and that after a
recent chase of several hours he had succeeded in shooting her mate as he
circled back towards his home after losing the hounds.
Old
Coyotes seldom hunt field mice, though they never fail to catch them
should they find them unexpectedly; but it is a part of every pup's
training to learn to hunt them, for in an emergency any coyote may have to
live on mice. These pups were in training, hence the hunt.
Graycoat
entered into the hunt with zest and caught several mice, which he ate.
Then he jumped up a rabbit. The wind had been against him, and he had not
scented it at all. Immediately the two pups bounded away in full pursuit.
Graycoat did not resent this, though it was his rabbit, for when wolves
are hunting they do not stand on ceremony. The most important thing is to
catch the game. Its ownership can always be settled later.
Graycoat
did not follow them. He saw they were green at hunting and were not so
fleet of foot as they would be later. He observed which way the rabbit was
turning, and cut across in such a way that it ran almost into his jaws
before it saw him. It only took a bound or two to catch it and crush its
life out. This he did just as the pups came up.
They
were enraged that this intruder should have caught what they regarded as
their prey. Without hesitation they attacked him, and so the inevitable
fight began. They were two to one, but they were but puppies. They lacked
weight and size as well as fighting experience. Besides, their adult teeth
were not fully developed. They were attacking a veteran fighter in the
prime of life - a wolf who had been able to defend his range against all
comers for years. The fight did not last long, though it was fierce enough
while it lasted. Soon the puppies were bleeding and completely cowed.
Their
mother sat at a distance watching. The stranger had not provoked the
fight, and she did not interfere. Besides, her puppies had already reached
the age when they should be driven from home. Had she not lost her mate
they would have been driven away before this. This newcomer might do the
unpleasant task for her.
Graycoat
was not resentful. He did not push his advantage. When he had taught the
pups their place, he picked up his rabbit, walked over and gave it to
their mother. Then he stood by while she ate it, lest the pups get a part
it.
With
no other demonstration, the pair of coyotes walked away together, and when
the pups attempted to follow, Graycoat raised his bristles and growled
threateningly. Thus warned, they stopped and were left behind. Graycoat
and his new friend hunted that night, and so simply and quickly are
attachments made among the creatures of the wild that they were boon
companions by morning, and together they slept in her favorite hiding
place the next day.
They
hunted together that fall and winter, and made their den in a piece of
thick brush near where I boarded while attending high school; This den was
less than a quarter of a mile from Al Hicklen's home and hounds. That
winter we saw the coyotes frequently, but that was all. They managed to
keep a safe distance all winter and the next summer. But in the fall,
things began to happen. Bill Rea began clearing up the brush where
Graycoat and his new mate were living and where they had reared their
young. Al Hicklen helped him and Al always took his hounds with him. Of
course they found the coyotes' trail fresh every morning and ran them most
of the day. Graycoat was growing old, and did not enjoy this as he once
would have done.
One
day Al Hicklen sent an invitation to a friend across the river who kept
hounds to come over and help catch these wolves. The friend came over with
his dogs, and for a night and a day they ran Graycoat and his mate.
Finally, hard pressed and cut off in all other directions, they were
forced to run down the river towards Graycoat's old home. When at last the
dogs gave up the chase, Graycoat and his mate were on the border of his
old domain. Both were tired, so he led the way to a safe resting place
where they slept till night.
When
night came, they were ravenously hungry. His mate did not know the
country, so again Graycoat led the way. Even animals love their old home,
and never fail to return to it if they have an opportunity. After Graycoat
had led the way to a near-by hen roost where each secured a fat hen, they
trotted a mile or two farther to one of his old dens. Here they spent a
few days in idleness and luxury, but at last Graycoat's love for home
prevailed, and they galloped to Brown's woods.
Much
of it had been cleared, but there was enough left for safety, and besides
it was home. In a few days they visited Graham's brush and found it a
cornfield, but even here two or three acres along the creek were left in
brush. It was enough. They decided to remain.
They
kept themselves carefully concealed for months. Both were old and did not
care to take any chances. But the old wolf hunters and their hounds were
gone. The old duck and squirrel hunters had also grown too old to hunt,
and the younger generation were busy raising prize corn and fat steers.
They might occasionally hunt rabbits or squirrels, but they would never
disturb a coyote. They would not even discover there were any in the
country.
There
never had been so many mice and rabbits in this neighborhood before, and
it never had been so easy to steal chickens and ducks. It was even easy to
get a goose occasionally.
Most
people suppose the wildlings cannot live in an old, thickly settled
country. The facts are that all but the largest of them are safer there
than in an unsettled country. Their natural enemies are fewer and it is
easier to get food. Even inside our largest cities there are a
surprisingly large number of wild animals. It was recently reported that
wild deer had been seen within the limits of New York City; and one
morning during the fall of 1927, a wild fox was seen on Market Square in
the very heart of Nashville, Tennessee. It was chased for several blocks
by men and boys, but easily escaped. There are too many hiding places and
too few hunting dogs in a modern city to make it dangerous for wild
animals. No one is allowed to use a gun within the limits of a modern
city. It is no wonder small animals thrive there.
A
few years ago I was back in the old home neighborhood. When I asked my
brother if there were any coyotes in the neighborhood again, he said they
were becoming so plentiful as to be a nuisance, and no one knew what to do
about it.
So
again when the evening shadows gather, or when the moon shines full on the
winter snow, in the old haunts, where I heard it as a boy, one may hear
the gathering call of the coyote, or his chant to the moon, and many a
child who is caught alone in the night doubtless feels the same cold
chills creep up and down his spine when he hears them that I felt when I
was a boy.
WHAT'S
NEW? 
