[Illustration]


THE BIGGEST OF OUR GAME--THE BUFFALO

"Yes, that's a buffalo-bird," said the old Indian, pointing to some
black birds, with gray mates, that flitted or ran across the plain.
"Pretty bad luck when the Buffalo gone. Them little birds make their
nest in a Buffalo's wool, right on his head, and when the Buffalo all
gone, seem like the buffalo-bird die too; 'cause what's the use, no got
any nest."

This is a fragment that reached me long ago in Montana. It seemed like a
lusty myth, whose succulent and searching roots were in a bottomless
bog, with little chance of sound foundation. But the tale bore the
searchlight better than I thought. For it seems that the buffalo-bird
followed the Buffalo everywhere, and was fond of nesting, not in the
shaggy mane between the horns of the ruling monarch, but on any huge
head it might find after the bull had fallen, and the skull, with mane
attached, lay discarded on the plain. While always, even when nesting on
the ground, the wool of the Buffalo was probably used as lining of the
black-bird's nest. I know of one case where an attendant bird that was
too crippled to fly when autumn came, wintered in the mane of a large
Buffalo bull. It gathered seed by day, when the bull pawed up the snow,
and roosted at night between the mighty horns, snuggling in the wool,
with its toes held warm against the monster's blood-hot neck.

In most of the Northwest the birds have found a poor substitute for the
Buffalo in the range-cattle, but oh! how they must miss the wool.

[Illustration: XVIII. Moose--the Widow
_Drawing by E. T. Seton_]

[Illustration: XIX. Buffalo Groups (a) Bull and Cow at Banff; (b)
Yellowstone Bulls

_Photos by G. G. Seton_]


THE SHRUNKEN RANGE

It is not generally known that the American Buffalo ranged as far east
as Syracuse, Washington City, and Carolina, that they populated the
forests in small numbers, as well as the plains in great herds. I
estimate them at over 50,000,000 in A.D. 1500. In 1895 they were down to
800; probably this was the low-ebb year. Since then they have increased
under judicious protection, and now reach about 3,000.

In the June of 1897, as I stood on a hill near Baronett's Bridge,
overlooking the Yellowstone just beyond Yancey's, with an old timer,
Dave Roberts, he said: "Twenty years ago, when I first saw this valley,
it was black-speckled with Buffalo, and every valley in the Park was the
same." Now the only sign of the species was a couple of old skulls
crumbling in the grass.

In 1900 the remnant in the Park had fallen to thirty, and their
extinction seemed certain. But the matter was taken up energetically by
the officers in charge. Protection, formerly a legal fiction, was made
an accomplished fact. The Buffalo have increased ever since, and to-day
number 200, with the possibility of some stragglers.

We need not dwell on the story of the extinction of the great herds.
That is familiar to all,[B] but it is well to remind the reader that it
was inevitable. The land was, or would be, needed for human settlement,
with which the Buffalo herds were incompatible; only we brought it on
forty or fifty years before it was necessary. "Could we not save the
Buffalo as range-cattle?" is the question that most ask. The answer is:
It has been tried a hundred times and all attempts have been eventually
frustrated by the creature's temper. Buffalo, male or female, are always
more or less dangerous; they cannot be tamed or trusted. They are always
subject to stampede, and once started, nothing, not even sure
destruction, stops them; so in spite of their suitability to the
climate, their hardihood, their delicious meat, and their valuable
robes, the attempts at domesticating the Buffalo have not yet been made
a success.

[Illustration]

A small herd of a dozen or so is kept in a fenced range near the Mammoth
Hot Springs, where the traveller should not fail to try for pictures,
and with them he will see the cowbirds, that in some regions replace the
true buffalo-birds. Perched on their backs or heads or running around
them on the ground are these cattle birds as of yore, like boats around
a man-o'-war, or sea-gulls around a whale; living their lives, snapping
up the tormenting flies, and getting in return complete protection from
every creature big enough to seem a menace in the eyes of the old time
King of the Plains.


THE DOOMED ANTELOPE AND HIS HELIOGRAPH

The Antelope, or Pronghorn, is one of the most peculiar animals in the
world. It is the only known ruminant that has hollow horns on a bony
core as with cattle, and also has them branched and shed each year as in
the Deer.

It is a creature of strangely mixed characteristics, for it has the feet
of a Giraffe, the glands of a goat, the coat of a Deer, the horns of an
ox and Deer combined, the eyes of a Gazelle, the build of an Antelope,
and--the speed of the wind. It is the swiftest four-footed creature
native to the plains, and so far as known there is nothing but a blooded
race horse that can outrun it on a mile.

But the peculiarity that is most likely to catch the eye of the
traveller is the white disc on its rear.

[Illustration: The Heliograph]

The first day I was in the Yellowstone I was riding along the upland
beyond Blacktail Creek with T. E. Hofer. Miles away to the southeast we
saw some white specks showing, flashing and disappearing. Then as far to
the northeasterly we saw others. Hofer now remarked, "Two bunches of
Antelope." Then later there were flashes _between_ and we knew that
these two bands had come together. How?

When you have a chance in a zoo or elsewhere to watch Antelope at short
range you will see the cause of these flashes. By means of a circular
muscle on each buttock they can erect the white hair of the rump patch
into a large, flat, snow-white disc which shines in the sun, and
shows afar as a bright white spot.

[Illustration: XX. Near Yellowstone Gate: (a) Antelope _Photo by F. Jay
Haynes_
(b) Captive Wolf _Photo by E. T. Seton_]

[Illustration: XXI. Mountain Sheep on Mt. Evarts
_Photo by E. T. Seton_]

This action is momentary or very brief; the spread disc goes down again
in a few seconds. The flash is usually a signal of danger, although it
answers equally well for a recognition mark.

In 1897 the Antelope in the Park were estimated at 1,500. Now they have
dwindled to about one third of that, and, in spite of good protection,
continue to go down. They do not flourish when confined even in a large
area, and we have reason to fear that one of the obscure inexorable laws
of nature is working now to shelve the Antelope with the creatures that
have passed away. A small band is yet to be seen wintering on the
prairie near Gardiner.


THE RESCUED BIGHORN

At one time the Bighorn abounded along all the rivers where there was
rough land as far east as the western edge of the Dakotas, westerly to
the Cascades, and in the mountains from Mexico and Southern California
to Alaska.

In one form or another the Mountain Sheep covered this large region, and
it is safe to say that in the United States alone their numbers were
millions. But the dreadful age of the repeating rifle and lawless
skin-hunter came on, till the end of the last century saw the Bighorn in
the United States reduced to a few hundreds; they were well along the
sunset trail.

But the New York Zoölogical Society, the Camp Fire Club, and other
societies of naturalists and sportsmen, bestirred themselves mightily.
They aroused all thinking men to the threatening danger of extinction;
good laws were passed and then enforced. The danger having been
realized, the calamity was averted, and now the Sheep are on the
increase in many parts of the West.

During the epoch of remorseless destruction the few survivors were the
wildest of wild things; they would not permit the approach of a man
within a mile. But our new way of looking at the Bighorn has taught them
a new way of looking at us, as every traveller in Colorado or the
protected parts of Wyoming will testify.

In 1897 I spent several months rambling on the upper ranges of the
Yellowstone Park, and I saw not a single Sheep, although it was
estimated that there were nearly a hundred of the scared fugitives
hiding and flying among the rocks.

[Illustration]

In 1912 it was believed that in spite of poachers, Cougars, snow slides,
and scab contracted from domestic sheep, the Bighorn in the Yellowstone
Park had increased to considerably over two hundred, and the traveller
can find them with fair certainty if he will devote a few days to the
quest around Mt. Evarts, Washburn, or the well-known ranges.

[Illustration]

In September, 1912, I left Gardiner with Tom Newcomb's outfit. I was
riding at the end of the procession watching in all directions, when far
up on the slide rock I caught sight of a Sheep. A brief climb brought me
within plain though not near view, to learn that there were half a dozen
at least, and I took a few shots with my camera. I think there were many
more hidden in the tall sage behind, but I avoided alarming them, so did
not find out.

There were neither rams nor lambs with this herd of ewes. The rams keep
their own company all summer and live, doubtless, far higher in the
mountains.

On Mt. Washburn a week later I had the luck to find a dozen ewes with
their lambs; but the sky was dark with leaden clouds and the light so
poor that I got no good results.

In winter, as I learn from Colonel Brett, the Sheep are found in small
bands between the Mammoth Hot Springs and Gardiner, for there is good
feed there, and far less snow than in the upper ranges. I have just
heard that this winter four great rams are seen there every day with
about forty other Sheep; and they are so tame that one can get pictures
within ten feet if desired. Alas! that I have to be so far away with
such thrilling opportunities going to waste.


FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote B: See "Life Histories of Northern Animals," by E. T. Seton.]




       *       *       *       *       *

V

Bats in the Devil's Kitchen

       *       *       *       *       *




V

Bats in the Devil's Kitchen


It is unfortunate that the average person has a deep prejudice against
the Bat. Without looking or thinking for himself, he accepts a lot of
absurd tales about the winged one, and passes them on and on, never
caring for the injustice he does or the pleasure he loses. I have loved
the Bat ever since I came to know him; that is, all my mature life. He
is the climax of creation in many things, highly developed in brain,
marvellously keen in senses, clad in exquisite fur and equipped, above
all, with the crowning glory of flight. He is the prototype and the
realization of the Fairy of the Wood we loved so much as children, and
so hated to be robbed of by grown-ups, who should have known better.

I would give a good deal to have a Bat colony where I could see it
daily, and would go a long way to meet some new kind of Bat.

[Illustration]

I never took much interest in caverns, or geysers, or in any of the
abominable cavities of the earth that nature so plainly meant to keep
hidden from our eyes. I shall not forget the unpleasant sensations I had
when first, in 1897, I visited the Yellowstone Wonderland and stood
gazing at that abominable Mud Geyser, which is even worse to-day. The
entry in my journal of the time runs thus:

"The Mud Geyser is unlike anything that can be seen elsewhere. One hears
about the bowels of the earth; this surely is the end of one of them.
They talk of the mouth of hell; this is the mouth with a severe fit of
vomiting. The filthy muck is spewed from an unseen gullet at one side
into a huge upright mouth with sounds of oozing, retching and belching.
Then as quickly reswallowed with noises expressive of loathing on its
own part, while noxious steam spreads disgusting, unpleasant odours all
around. The whole process is quickly repeated, and goes on and on, and
has gone on for ages, and will go. And yet one feels that this is merely
the steam vent outside of the huge factory where all the actual work is
being done. One does not really see the thing at all, but only stands
outside the building where it is going on. One never wishes to see it a
second time. All are disgusted by it, but all are fascinated."

       *       *       *       *       *

No, I like them not. I have a natural antipathy to the internal
arrangements of Mother Earth. I might almost say a delicacy about gazing
on such exposure. Anyhow, we shall all get underground soon enough; and
I usually drop off when our party prepares to explore dark, horrible,
smelly underground places that have no possible claim (I hold) for the
normal being of healthy instincts.

But near the Mammoth Hot Springs is a hellhole that did attract me. It
is nothing else than the stuffy, blind alley known as the Devil's
Kitchen. There is no cooking going on at present, probably because it is
not heated up enough, but there is a peculiarly hot, close feeling
suggestive of the Monkey house in an old-time zoo. I went down this, not
that I was interested in the Satanic cuisine, but because my ancient
antipathy was routed by my later predilection--I was told that Bats
"occurred" in the kitchen. Sure enough, I found them, half a dozen, so
far as one could tell in the gloom, and thanks to the Park
Superintendent, Colonel L. M. Brett, I secured a specimen which, to my
great surprise, turned out to be the long-eared Bat, a Southern species
never before discovered north of Colorado. It will be interesting to
know whether they winter here or go south, as do many of their kin. They
would have to go a long way before they would find another bedroom so
warm and safe. Even if they go as far as the equator, with its warmth
and its pests, they would probably have reason to believe that the
happiest nights of their lives were those spent in the Devil's Kitchen.

[Illustration]




       *       *       *       *       *

VI

The Well-meaning Skunk

       *       *       *       *       *




VI

The Well-meaning Skunk

[Illustration]


I have a profound admiration for the Skunk. Indeed, I once maintained
that this animal was the proper emblem of America. It is, first of all,
peculiar to this continent. It has stars on its head and stripes on its
body. It is an ideal citizen; minds its own business, harms no one, and
is habitually inoffensive, as long as it is left alone; but it will face
any one or any number when aroused. It has a wonderful natural ability
to take the offensive; and no man ever yet came to grips with a Skunk
without being sadly sorry for it afterward.

Nevertheless, in spite of all this, and the fact that several other
countries have prior claims on the Eagle, I could not secure, for my
view, sufficient popular support to change the national emblem.

From Atlantic to Pacific and from Mexico far north into the wilds of
Canada the Skunk is found, varying with climate in size and colour
indeed, but everywhere the same in character and in mode of defense.

It abounds in the broken country that lies between forest and prairie,
but seems to avoid the thicker woods as well as the higher peaks.

In Yellowstone Park it is not common, but is found occasionally about
Mammoth Hot Springs and Yancey's, at which latter place I had much
pleasant acquaintance with its kind.


HIS SMELL-GUN

Every one knows that the animal can make a horrible smell in defending
itself, but most persons do not realize what the smell is, or how it is
made. First of all, and this should be in capitals, it has nothing at
all to do with the kidneys or with the sex organs. It is simply a highly
specialized musk secreted by a gland, or rather, a pair of them, located
under the tail. It is used for defense when the Skunk is in peril of his
life, or thinks he is. But a Skunk may pass his whole life without using
it.

[Illustration]

He can throw it to a distance of seven to ten feet according to his
power or the wind. If it reaches the eyes of his assailant it blinds him
temporarily. If it enters his mouth it sets up a frightful nausea. If
the vapour gets into his lungs, it chokes as well as nauseates. There
are cases on record of men and dogs being permanently blinded by this
awful spray. And there is one case of a boy being killed by it.

Most Americans know somewhat of its terrors, but few of them realize the
harmlessness of the Skunk when let alone. In remote places I find men
who still think that this creature goes about shooting as wildly and
wantonly as any drunken cowboy.


THE CRUELTY OF STEEL TRAPS

A few days ago while walking with a friend in the woods we came on a
Skunk. My companion shouted to the dog and captured him to save him from
a possible disaster, then called to me to keep back and let the Skunk
run away. But the fearless one in sable and ermine did not run, and I
did not keep back, but I walked up very gently. The Skunk stood his
ground and raised his tail high over his back, the sign of fight. I
talked to him, still drawing nearer; then, when only ten feet away, was
surprised to see that one of his feet was in a trap and terribly
mangled.

[Illustration]

I stooped down, saying many pleasant things about my friendliness, etc.
The Skunk's tail slowly lowered and I came closer up. Still, I did not
care to handle the wild and tormented thing on such short acquaintance,
so I got a small barrel and quietly placed it over him, then removed the
trap and brought him home, where he is now living in peace and comfort.

I mention this to show how gentle and judicious a creature the Skunk is
when gently and judiciously approached. It is a sad commentary on our
modes of dealing with wild life when I add that as afterward appeared
this Skunk had been struggling in the tortures of that trap for three
days and three nights.


FRIENDLINESS OF THE SKUNK

These remarks are preliminary to an account of my adventures with a
family of Skunks in the Park. During the summer I spent in the little
shanty still to be seen, opposite Yancey's, I lost no opportunity of
making animal investigations. One of my methods was to sweep the dust on
the trail and about the cabin quite smooth at night so that any creature
passing should leave me his tracks and I should be sure that they were
recent.

[Illustration]

One morning on going out I found the fresh tracks of a Skunk. Next night
these were seen again, in fact, there were two sets of them. A day or so
later the cook at the nearby log hotel announced that a couple of
Skunks came every evening to feed at the garbage bucket outside the
kitchen door. That night I was watching for them. About dusk one came,
walking along sedately with his tail at half mast. The house dog and the
house cat both were at the door as the Skunk arrived. They glanced at
the newcomer; then the cat discreetly went indoors and the dog rumbled
in his chest, but discreetly he walked away, very stiffly, and looked at
the distant landscape, with his hair on his back still bristling. The
Skunk waddled up to the garbage pail, climbed in, though I was but ten
feet away, and began his evening meal.

[Illustration]

Another came later. Their tails were spread and at each sharp noise rose
a little higher, but no one offered them harm, and they went their way
when they were filled.

After this it was a regular thing to go out and see the Skunks feed when
evening came.


PHOTOGRAPHING SKUNKS AT SHORT RANGE

I was anxious to get a picture or two, but was prevented by the poor
light; in fact, it was but half light, and in those days we had no
brilliant flash powders. So there was but one thing to do, that was trap
my intended sitters.

Next night I was ready for them with an ordinary box trap, and even
before the appointed time we saw a fine study in black and white come
marching around the cow stable with banner-tail aloft, and across the
grass toward the kitchen. The box trap was all ready and we--two women
including my wife, and half a dozen men of the mountaineer type--were
watching. The cat and the dog moved sullenly aside. The Skunk, with the
calm confidence of one accustomed to respect, sniffed his way to the box
trap with its tempting odorous bait. A Mink or a Marten, not to say a
Fox, would have investigated a little before entering. The Skunk
indulged in no such waste of time. What had he to fear--he the little
lord of all things with the power of smell? He went in like one going
home, seized the bait, and down went the door. The uninitiated onlookers
expected an explosion from the Skunk, but I knew quite well he never
wasted a shot, and did not hesitate to approach and make all safe. Now I
wanted to move the box with its captive to my photographic studio, but
could not carry it alone, so I asked the mountaineers to come and help.
Had I asked them to join me in killing a man, shooting up the town, or
otherwise taking their lives in their hands, I would doubtless have had
half a dozen cheerful volunteers; but to carry a box in which was a wild
Skunk--"not for a hundred dollars," and the warriors melted into the
background.

Then I said to my wife, "Haven't _you_ got nerve enough to help with
this box? I'll guarantee that nothing will happen." So she came and we
took the box to my prepared enclosure, where next day I photographed him
to my heart's content. More than once as I worked around at a distance
of six or eight feet, the Skunk's tail flew up, but I kept perfectly
still then; talked softly, apologizing and explaining: "Now don't shoot
at me. We are to be good friends. I wouldn't hurt you for anything. Now
do drop that fighting flag, if you please, and be good."

[Illustration]

Gradually the tail went down and the captive looked at me in mere
curiosity as I got my pictures.

I let him go by simply removing the wire netting of the fence, whereupon
he waddled off under the cabin that I called "home."


WE SHARE THE SHANTY WITH THE SKUNKS

[Illustration]

The next night as I lay in my bunk I heard a sniffing and scratching on
the cabin floor. On looking over the edge of the bed I came face to face
with my friend the Skunk. Our noses were but a foot apart and just
behind him was another; I suppose his mate. I said: "Hello! Here you
are again. I'm glad to see you. Who's your friend?" He did not tell me,
neither did he seem offended. I suppose it was his mate. That was the
beginning of his residence under the floor of my cabin. My wife and I
got very well acquainted with him and his wife before the summer was
over. For though we had the cabin by day, the Skunks had it by night. We
always left them some scraps, and regularly at dusk they came up to get
them. They cleaned up our garbage, so helped to rid us of flies and
mice. We were careful to avoid hurting or scaring our nightly visitors,
so the summer passed without offense. We formed only the kindest
feelings toward each other, and we left them in possession of the cabin,
where, so far as I know, they are living yet, if you wish to call.


THE SKUNK AND THE UNWISE BOBCAT

[Illustration]

As already noted, I swept the dust smooth around our shanty each night
to make a sort of visitors' book. Then each morning I could go out and
by study of the tracks get an exact idea of who had called. Of course
there were many blank nights; on others the happenings were trifling,
but some were full of interest. In this way I learned of the Coyote's
visits to the garbage pail and of the Skunk establishment under the
house, and other interesting facts as in the diagram. I have always used
this method of study in my mountain trips, and recall a most interesting
record that rewarded my patience some twenty years ago when I lived in
New Mexico.

[Illustration: XXII. Track record of Bobcat's adventure with a Skunk]

During the night I had been aroused by a frightful smell of Skunk,
followed by strange muffled sounds that died away. So forth I went at
sunrise and found the odour of Skunk no dream but a stern reality. Then
a consultation of my dust album revealed an inscription which after a
little condensing and clearing up appeared much as in Plate XXII. At A a
Skunk had come on the scene, at B he was wandering about when a hungry
Wild Cat or Bobcat Lynx appeared, C. Noting the promise of something to
kill for food, he came on at D. The Skunk observing the intruder said,
"You better let me alone." And not wishing to make trouble moved off
toward E. But the Bobcat, evidently young and inexperienced, gave chase.
At F the Skunk wheeled about, remarking, "Well, if you will have it,
here goes!" At G the Lynx was hit. The tremendous bound from G to H
shows the effect. At J he bumped into a stone, showing probably that he
was blinded, after which he went bouncing and bounding away. The Skunk
merely said, "I told you so!" then calmly resumed the even tenor of his
way. At K he found the remains of a chicken, on which he feasted, then
went quietly home to bed.

This is my reading of the tracks in the dust. The evidence was so clear
that I have sketched here from imagination the succession of events
which it seemed to narrate.

[Illustration: XXIII. The six chapters of the Bobcat's adventure. (a)
The Bobcat appears on the scene; (b) "Ha," he says, "A meal for me."
"Beware," says the Skunk; (c) "No! Then take that," says the Skunk; (d)
"Ow-w-ow-w"; (e) "I told you so"; (f) "How pleasant is a peaceful meal"
_Sketches by E. T. Seton_]


MY PET SKUNKS

It would not be doing justice to the Skunk if I did not add a word about
certain of the kind that I have at home.

For many years I have kept at least one pet Skunk. Just now I have about
sixty. I keep them close to the house and would let them run loose
indoors but for the possibility of some fool dog or cat coming around,
and provoking the exemplary little brutes into a perfectly justifiable
endeavour to defend themselves as nature taught them. But for this I
should have no fear. Not only do I handle them myself, but I have
induced many of my wild-eyed visitors to do so as a necessary part of
their education. For few indeed there are in the land to-day that
realize the gentleness and forbearance of this righteous little brother
of ours, who, though armed with a weapon that will put the biggest and
boldest to flight or disastrous defeat, yet refrains from using it until
in absolute peril of his life, and then only after several warnings.

By way of rounding out this statement, I present a picture of my little
daughter playing among the Skunks, and need add only that they are
full-grown specimens in full possession of all their faculties. Plate
XXIV.

[Illustration: XXIV. My tame Skunks: (a) Mother Skunk and her brood; (b)
Ann Seton feeding her pets
_Photos by E. T. Seton_]




       *       *       *       *       *

VII

Old Silver-grizzle--The Badger

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]




VII

Old Silver-grizzle--The Badger


A brilliant newspaper man once gave vast publicity to the story that at
last a use had been found for the Badger, with his mania for digging
holes in the ground. By kindness and care and the help of an attached
little steam-gauge speedometer plumb compass, that gave accurate aim,
improved perpendicularity, and increased efficiency to the efforts of
the strenuous excavator, he had been able to produce a dirigible Badger
that was certain to displace all other machinery for digging postholes.

Unfortunately I was in a position to disprove this pretty conceit. But I
think of it every time I put my foot in a Badger hole. Such lovely
holes, so plentiful, so worse than useless where the Badger has
thoughtlessly located them. If only we could harness and direct such
excavatory energies.

[Illustration]

This, indeed, is the only quarrel civilized man can pick with the honest
Badger. He _will_ dig holes that endanger horse's legs and rider's
necks. He may destroy Gophers, Ground-squirrels, Prairie-dogs, insects,
and a hundred enemies of the farm; he may help the crops in a thousand
different ways, _but he will dig post-holes where they are not wanted_,
and this indiscretion has made many enemies for the kindest and
sturdiest of all the squatters on the plains.


THE VALIANT, HARMLESS BADGER

From the Saskatchewan to Mexico he ranges, and from Illinois to
California, wherever there are dry, open plains supplied with
Ground-squirrels and water.

[Illustration]

Many times, in crossing the rolling plains of Montana, the uplands of
Arizona and New Mexico, or the prairies of Manitoba, I have met with
Mittenusk, as the redmen call him. Like a big white stone perched on
some low mound he seems. But the wind makes cracks in it at places, and
then it moves--giving plain announcement to the world with eyes to see
that this is a Badger sunning himself. He seldom allows a near approach,
even in the Yellowstone, where he is safe, and is pretty sure to drop
down out of sight in his den long before one gets within camera range.
The Badger is such a subterranean, nocturnal creature at most times that
for long his home life escaped our observation, but at last a few
paragraphs, if not a chapter of it, have been secured, and we find that
this shy creature, in ill odour among cattlemen as noted, is a rare and
lovely character when permitted to unbend in a congenial group. Sturdy,
strong and dogged, and brave to the last ditch, the more we know of the
Badger the more we respect him.

Let us pass lightly over the facts that in makeup he is between a Bear
and a Weasel, and that he weighs about twenty pounds, and has a soft
coat of silvery gray and some label marks of black on his head.

He feeds chiefly on Ground-squirrels, which he digs out, but does not
scorn birds' eggs, or even fruit and grain at times. Except for an
occasional sun-bath, he spends the day in his den and travels about
mostly by night. He minds his own business, if let alone, but woe be to
the creature of the plains that tries to molest him, for he has the
heart of a bulldog, the claws of a Grizzly, and the jaws of a small
crocodile.

I shall never forget my first meeting with Old Silver-grizzle. It was on
the plains of the Souris, in 1882. I saw this broad, low, whitish
creature on the prairie, not far from the trail, and, impelled by the
hunter instinct so strong in all boys, I ran toward him. He dived into a
den, but the one he chose proved to be barely three feet deep, and I
succeeded in seizing the Badger's short thick tail. Gripping it firmly
with both hands, I pulled and pulled, but he was stronger than I. He
braced himself against the sides of the den and defied me. With anything
like fair play, he would have escaped, but I had accomplices, and the
details of what followed are not pleasant reminiscences. But I was very
young at the time, and that was my first Badger. I wanted his skin, and
I had not learned to respect his exemplary life and dauntless spirit.

In the summer of 1897 I was staying at Yancey's in the Park. Daily I saw
signs of Badgers about, and one morning while prowling, camera in hand,
I saw old Gray-coat wandering on the prairie, looking for fresh
Ground-squirrel holes. Keeping low, I ran toward him. He soon sensed me,
and to my surprise came rushing toward me, uttering sharp snarls. This
one was behaving differently from any Badger I had seen before, but
evidently he was going to give me a chance for a picture. After that was
taken, doubtless I could save myself by running. We were within thirty
yards of each other and both coming strong, when "crash" I went into a
Badger hole _I_ had not seen, just as he went "thump" down tail first
into a hole _he_ had not seen. For a moment we both looked very foolish,
but he recovered first, and rushing a few yards nearer, plunged into a
deep and wide den toward which he evidently had been heading from the
first.


HIS SOCIABLE BENT

The strongest peculiar trait of the Badger is perhaps his
sociability--sociability being, of course, a very different thing from
gregariousness. Usually there are two Badgers in each den. Nothing
peculiar about that, but there are several cases on record of a Badger,
presumably a bachelor or a widower, sharing his life with some totally
different animal. In some instances that other animal has been a Coyote;
and the friendship really had its foundation in enmity and intended
robbery.

This is the probable history of a typical case: The Badger, being a
mighty miner and very able to dig out the Ground-squirrels of the
prairie, was followed about by a Coyote, whose speed and agility kept
him safe from the Badger's jaws, while he hovered close by, knowing
quite well that when the Badger was digging out the Ground-squirrels at
their front door, these rodents were very apt to bolt by the back door,
and thus give the Coyote an excellent chance for a cheap dinner.

So the Coyote acquired the habit of following the hard-working Badger.
At first, no doubt, the latter resented the parasite that dogged his
steps, but becoming used to it "first endured, then pitied, then
embraced", or, to put it more mildly, he got accustomed to the Coyote's
presence, and being of a kindly disposition, forgot his enmity and
thenceforth they contentedly lived their lives together. I do not know
that they inhabited the same den. Yet that would not be impossible,
since similar things are reported of the British Badger and the Fox.

More than one observer has seen a Badger and a Coyote travelling
together, sometimes one leading, sometimes the other. Evidently it was a
partnership founded on good-will, however it may have been begun.


THE STORY OF THE KINDLY BADGER

But the most interesting case, and one which I might hesitate to
reproduce but for the witnesses, reached me at Winnipeg.

[Illustration]

In 1871 there was a family named Service living at Bird's Hill, on the
prairie north of Winnipeg. They had one child, a seven-year-old boy
named Harry. He was a strange child, very small for his age, and shy
without being cowardly. He had an odd habit of following dogs, chickens,
pigs, and birds, imitating their voices and actions, with an exactness
that onlookers sometimes declared to be uncanny. One day he had gone
quietly after a Prairie Chicken that kept moving away from him without
taking flight, clucking when she clucked, and nodding his head or
shaking his "wings" when she did. So he wandered on and on, till the
house was hidden from view behind the trees that fringed the river, and
the child was completely lost.

There was nothing remarkable in his being away for several hours, but a
heavy thunderstorm coming up that afternoon called attention to the fact
that the boy was missing, and when the first casual glance did not
discover him it became serious and a careful search was begun.

Father and mother, with the near neighbours, scoured the prairie till
dark, and began the next day at dawn, riding in all directions, calling,
and looking for signs. After a day or two the neighbours gave it up,
believing that the child was drowned and carried away by the river. But
the parents continued their search even long after all hope seemed
dead. And there was no hour of the day when that stricken mother did not
send up a prayer for heavenly help; nor any night when she did not kneel
with her husband and implore the One who loved and blessed the babes of
Jerusalem to guard her little one and bring him back in safety.


THE EVIL ONE

[Illustration]

There was one neighbour of the family who joined in the search that had
nevertheless incurred the bitter dislike of little Harry Service. The
feeling was partly a mere baby instinct, but pointedly because of the
man's vicious cruelty to the animals, wild or tame, that came within his
power. Only a week before he had set steel traps at a den where he
chanced to find a pair of Badgers in residence. The first night he
captured the father Badger. The cruel jaws of the jag-toothed trap had
seized him by both paws, so he was held helpless. The trap was champed
and wet with blood and froth when Grogan came in the morning. Of what
use are courage and strength when one cannot reach the foe? The Badger
craved only a fair fight, but Grogan stood out of reach and used a club
till the light was gone from the brave eyes and the fighting snarl was
still.

The trap was reset in the sand and Grogan went. He carried the dead
Badger to the Service house to show his prize and get help to skin it,
after which he set off for the town and bartered the skin for what evil
indulgence it might command, and thought no more of the trap for three
days. Meanwhile the mother Badger, coming home at dawn, was caught by
one foot. Strain as she might, that deadly grip still held her; all that
night and all the next day she struggled. She had little ones to care
for. Their hungry cries from down the burrow were driving her almost
mad; but the trap was of strong steel, beyond her strength, and at last
the crying of the little ones in the den grew still. On the second day
of her torture the mother, in desperation, chewed off one of her toes
and dragged her bleeding foot from the trap.

[Illustration]

Down the burrow she went first, but it was too late; her babies were
dead. She buried them where they lay and hastened from that evil spot.

Water was her first need, next food, and then at evening she made for an
old den she had used the fall before.


THE BADGER THAT RESCUED THE BOY

And little Harry, meanwhile, where was he? That sunny afternoon in June
he had wandered away from the house, and losing sight of the familiar
building behind the long fringe of trees by the river, he had lost his
bearings. Then came the thunder shower which made him seek for shelter.
There was nothing about him but level prairie, and the only shelter he
could find was a Badger hole, none too wide even for his small form.
Into this he had backed and stayed with some comfort during the
thunderstorm, which continued till night. Then in the evening the child
heard a sniffing sound, and a great, gray animal loomed up against the
sky, sniffed at the tracks and at the open door of the den. Next it put
its head in, and Harry saw by the black marks on its face that it was a
Badger. He had seen one just three days before. A neighbour had brought
it to his father's house to skin it. There it stood sniffing, and Harry,
gazing with less fear than most children, noticed that the visitor had
five claws on one foot and four on the other, with recent wounds, proof
of some sad experience in a trap. Doubtless this was the Badger's den,
for she--it proved a mother--came in, but Harry had no mind to
surrender. The Badger snarled and came on, and Harry shrieked, "Get
out!" and struck with his tiny fists, and then, to use his own words, "I
scratched the Badger's face and she scratched mine." Surely this Badger
was in a generous mood, for she did him no serious harm, and though the
rightful owner of the den, she went away and doubtless slept elsewhere.

[Illustration]

Night came down. Harry was very thirsty. Close by the door was a pool of
rainwater. He crawled out, slaked his thirst, and backed into the warm
den as far as he could. Then remembering his prayers, he begged God to
"send mamma," and cried himself to sleep. During the night he was
awakened by the Badger coming again, but it went away when the child
scolded it. Next morning Harry went to the pool again and drank. Now he
was so hungry; a few old rose hips hung on the bushes near the den. He
gathered and ate these, but was even hungrier. Then he saw something
moving out on the plain. It might be the Badger, so he backed into the
den, but he watched the moving thing. It was a horseman galloping. As it
came near, Harry saw that it was Grogan, the neighbour for whom he had
such a dislike, so he got down out of sight. Twice that morning men came
riding by, but having once yielded to his shy impulse, he hid again each
time. The Badger came back at noon. In her mouth she held the body of a
Prairie Chicken, pretty well plucked and partly devoured. She came into
the den sniffing as before. Harry shouted, "Get out! Go away." The
Badger dropped the meat and raised her head. Harry reached and grasped
the food and devoured it with the appetite of one starving. There must
have been another doorway, for later the Badger was behind the child in
the den, and still later when he had fallen asleep she came and slept
beside him. He awoke to find the warm furry body filling the space
between him and the wall, and knew now why it was he had slept so
comfortably.

[Illustration]

That evening the Badger brought the egg of a Prairie Chicken and set it
down unbroken before the child. He devoured it eagerly, and again drank
from the drying mud puddle to quench his thirst. During the night it
rained again, and he would have been cold, but the Badger came and
cuddled around him. Once or twice it licked his face. The child could
not know, but the parents discovered later that this was a mother Badger
which had lost her brood and her heart was yearning for something to
love.

Now there were two habits that grew on the boy. One was to shun the
men that daily passed by in their search, the other was to look to
the Badger for food and protection, and live the Badger's life.
She brought him food often not at all to his taste--dead Mice or
Ground-squirrels--but several times she brought in the comb of a bee's
nest or eggs of game birds, and once a piece of bread almost certainly
dropped on the trail from some traveller's lunch bag. His chief trouble
was water. The prairie pool was down to mere ooze and with this he
moistened his lips and tongue. Possibly the mother Badger wondered why
he did not accept her motherly offerings. But rain came often enough to
keep him from serious suffering.

Their daily life was together now, and with the imitative power strong
in all children and dominant in him, he copied the Badger's growls,
snarls, and purrs. Sometimes they played tag on the prairie, but both
were ready to rush below at the slightest sign of a stranger.

Two weeks went by. Galloping men no longer passed each day. Harry and
the Badger had fitted their lives into each other's, and strange as it
may seem, the memory of his home was already blurred and weakened in the
boy. Once or twice during the second week men had passed near by, but
the habit of eluding them was now in full possession of him.


FINDING THE LOST ONE

[Illustration]

One morning he wandered a little farther in search of water and was
alarmed by a horseman appearing. He made for home on all fours--he ran
much on all fours now--and backed into the den. In the prairie grass he
was concealed, but the den was on a bare mound, and the horseman caught
a glimpse of a whitish thing disappearing down the hole. Badgers were
familiar to him, but the peculiar yellow of this and the absence of
black marks gave it a strange appearance. He rode up quietly within
twenty yards and waited.

After a few minutes the gray-yellow ball slowly reappeared and resolved
itself into the head of a tow-topped child. The young man leaped to the
ground and rushed forward, but the child retreated far back into the
den, beyond reach of the man, and refused to come out. Nevertheless,
there was no doubt that this was the missing Harry Service. "Harry!
Harry! don't you know me? I'm your Cousin Jack," the young man said in
soothing, coaxing tones. "Harry, won't you come out and let me take you
back to mamma? Come Harry! Look! here are some cookies!" but all in
vain. The child hissed and snarled at him like a wild thing, and
retreated as far as he could till checked by a turn in the burrow.

[Illustration]

Now Jack got out his knife and began to dig until the burrow was large
enough for him to crawl in a little way. At once he succeeded in
getting hold of the little one's arm and drew him out struggling and
crying. But now there rushed also from the hole a Badger, snarling and
angry; it charged at the man, uttering its fighting snort. He fought it
off with his whip, then swung to the saddle with his precious burden and
rode away as for his very life, while the Badger pursued for a time, but
it was easily left behind, and its snorts were lost and forgotten.


HOME AGAIN

The father was coming in from another direction as he saw this strange
sight: a horse galloping madly over the prairie, on its back a young man
shouting loudly, and in his arms a small dirty child, alternately
snarling at his captor, trying to scratch his face, or struggling to be
free.

The father was used to changing intensity of feeling at these times, but
he turned pale and held his breath till the words reached him: "I have
got him, thank God! He's all right," and he rushed forward shouting, "My
boy! my boy!"

[Illustration]

But he got a rude rebuff. The child glared like a hunted cat, hissed at
him, and menaced with hands held claw fashion. Fear and hate were all he
seemed to express. The door of the house was flung open and the
distracted mother, now suddenly overjoyed, rushed to join the group. "My
darling! my darling!" she sobbed, but little Harry was not as when he
left them. He hung back, he hid his face in the coat of his captor, he
scratched and snarled like a beast, he displayed his claws and
threatened fight, till strong arms gathered him up and placed him on his
mother's knees in the old, familiar room with the pictures, and the
clock ticking as of old, and the smell of frying bacon, his sister's
voice, and his father's form, and, above all, his mother's arms about
him, her magic touch on his brow, and her voice, "My darling! my
darling! Oh! Harry, don't you know your mother? My boy! my boy!" And the
struggling little wild thing in her arms grew quiet, his animal anger
died away, his raucous hissing gave place to a short panting, and that
to a low sobbing that ended in a flood of tears and a passionate "Mamma,
mamma, mamma!" as the veil of a different life was rolled away, and he
clung to his mother's bosom.

[Illustration]

But even as she cooed to him, and stroked his brow and won him back
again, there was a strange sound, a snarling hiss at the open door. All
turned to see a great Badger standing there with its front feet on the
threshold. Father and cousin exclaimed, "Look at that Badger!" and
reached for the ready gun, but the boy screamed again. He wriggled from
his mother's arms and rushing to the door, cried, "My Badgie! my
Badgie!" He flung his arms about the savage thing's neck, and it
answered with a low purring sound as it licked its lost companion's
face. The men were for killing the Badger, but it was the mother's
keener insight that saved it, as one might save a noble dog that had
rescued a child from the water.

It was some days before the child would let the father come near. "I
hate that man; he passed me every day and would not look at me," was the
only explanation. Doubtless the first part was true, for the Badger den
was but two miles from the house and the father rode past many times in
his radiating search, but the tow-topped head had escaped his eye.

It was long and only by slow degrees that the mother got the story that
is written here, and parts of it were far from clear. It might all have
been dismissed as a dream or a delirium but for the fact that the boy
had been absent two weeks; he was well and strong now, excepting that
his lips were blackened and cracked with the muddy water, the Badger had
followed him home, and was now his constant friend.

[Illustration]

It was strange to see how the child oscillated between the two lives,
sometimes talking to his people exactly as he used to talk, and
sometimes running on all fours, growling, hissing, and tussling with the
Badger. Many a game of "King of the Castle" they had together on the low
pile of sand left after the digging of a new well. Each would climb to
the top and defy the other to pull him down, till a hold was secured and
they rolled together to the level, clutching and tugging, Harry
giggling, the Badger uttering a peculiar high-pitched sound that might
have been called snarling had it not been an expression of good nature.
Surely it was a Badger laugh. There was little that Harry could ask
without receiving, in those days, but his mother was shocked when he
persisted that the Badger must sleep in his bed; yet she so arranged it.
The mother would go in the late hours and look on them with a little
pang of jealousy as she saw her baby curled up, sleeping soundly with
that strange beast.

It was Harry's turn to feed his friend now, and side by side they sat to
eat. The Badger had become an established member of the family. But
after a month had gone by an incident took place that I would gladly
leave untold.


THE HUMAN BRUTE

Grogan, the unpleasant neighbour, who had first frightened Harry into
the den, came riding up to the Service homestead. Harry was in the house
for the moment. The Badger was on the sand pile. Instantly on catching
sight of it, Grogan unslung his gun and exclaimed, "A Badger!" To him a
Badger was merely something to be killed. "Bang!" and the kindly animal
rolled over, stung and bleeding, but recovered and dragged herself
toward the house. "Bang!" and the murderer fired again, just as the
inmates rushed to the door--too late. Harry ran toward the Badger
shouting, "Badgie! my Badgie!" He flung his baby arms around the
bleeding neck. It fawned on him feebly, purring a low, hissing purr,
then mixing the purrs with moans, grew silent, and slowly sank down, and
died in his arms. "My Badgie! my Badgie!" the boy wailed, and all the
ferocity of his animal nature was directed against Grogan.

"You better get out of this before I kill you!" thundered the father,
and the hulking halfbreed sullenly mounted his horse and rode away.

A great part of his life had been cut away and it seemed as though a
deathblow had been dealt the boy. The shock was more than he could
stand. He moaned and wept all day, he screamed himself into
convulsions, he was worn out at sundown and slept little that night.
Next morning he was in a raging fever and ever he called for "My
Badgie!" He seemed at death's door the next day, but a week later he
began to mend and in three weeks was strong as ever and childishly gay,
with occasional spells of sad remembering that gradually ceased.