Prepared by David Reed haradda@aol.com or davidr@inconnect.com



Wild Animals I Have  Known
By Ernest Thompson Seton

Books by Ernest Thompson Seton
Biography of a Grizzly
Lives of the Hunted
Wild Animals at Home
Wild Animal Ways

Stories in This Book
Lobo, the King of Currumpaw 
Silverspot, the Story of a Crow
Raggylug, the Story of a Cottontail Rabbit   
Bingo, the Story of My Dog
The Springfield Fox
The Pacing Mustang
Wully, the Story of a Yaller Dog
Redruff, the Story of the Don Valley Partridge
 
THESE STORIES are true. Although I have left the strict line of
historical truth in many places, the animals in this book were all
real characters. They lived the lives I have depicted, and showed
the stamp of heroism and personality more strongly by far than it
has been in the power of my pen to tell.

I believe that natural history has lost much by the vague general
treatment that is so common. What satisfaction would  be derived
from a ten-page sketch of the habits and customs of  Man? How
much more profitable it would be to devote that  space to the life
of some one great man. This is the principle I have endeavored to
apply to my animals. The real personality of the individual, and
his view of life are my theme, rather  than the ways of the race in
general, as viewed by a casual  and hostile human eye.

This may sound inconsistent in view of my having pieced  together
some of the characters, but that was made necessary  by the
fragmentary nature of the records. There is, however,  almost no
deviation from the truth in Lobo, Bingo, and the Mustang.

Lobo lived his wild romantic life from 1889 to 1894 in the
Currumpaw region, as the ranchmen know too well, and died,
 precisely as related, on January 31, 1894.

Bingo was my dog from 1882 to 1888, in spite of interruptions,
caused by lengthy visits to New York, as my Manitoban  friends
will remember. And my old friend, the owner of Tan,  will learn
from these pages how his dog really died.

The Mustang lived not far from Lobo in the early nineties. The
story is given strictly as it occurred, excepting that there  is a
dispute as to the manner of his death. According to some
testimony he broke his neck in the corral that he was first taken to.
Old Turkeytrack is where he cannot be consulted to settle it.

Wully is, in a sense, a compound of two dogs; both were mongrels,
of some collie blood, and were raised as sheep-dogs. The first part
of Wully is given as it happened, after that it was known only that
he became a savage, treacherous sheep-killer. The details of the
second part belong really to another, a similar yaller dog, who long
lived the double-life---a faithful sheep-dog by day, and a
bloodthirsty, treacherous monster by night. Such things are less
rare than is supposed, and since writing these stories I have heard
of another double-lived sheep-dog that added to its night
amusements the crowning barbarity of murdering the smaller dogs
of the neighborhood. He had killed twenty, and hidden them in a
sandpit, when discovered by his master. He died just as Wully did.

All told, I now have information of six of these Jekyll-Hyde dogs.
In each case it happened to be a collie.

Redruff really lived in the Don Valley north of Toronto, and many
of my companions will remember him. He was killed in i88g,
between the Sugar Loaf and Castle Frank, by a creature whose
name I have withheld, as it is the species, rather than the
individual, that I wish to expose.

Silverspot, Raggylug, and Vixen are founded on real characters.
Though I have ascribed to them the adventures of more than one of
their kind, every incident in their biographies is from life.

The fact that these stories are true is the reason why all are tragic.
The life of a wild animal always has a tragic end.

Such a collection of histories naturally suggests a common
thought--a moral it would have been called in the last century. No
doubt each different mind will find a moral to its taste, but I hope
some will herein find emphasized a moral as old as Scripture--we
and the beasts are kin. Man has nothing that the animals have not
at least a vestige of, the animals have nothing that man does not in
some degree share.

Since, then, the animals are creatures with wants and feelings
differing in degree only from our own, they surely have their
rights. This fact, now beginning to be recognized by the Caucasian
world, was first proclaimed by Moses and was emphasized by the
Buddhist over 2,000 years ago.

ERNEST THOMPSON SET0N

LOBO
The King of Currumpaw 

I

CUBRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in northern New Mexico. It
is a land of rich pastures and teeming flocks and herds, a land of
rolling mesas and precious running waters that at length unite in
the Currumpaw River, from which the whole region is named. And
the king whose despotic power was felt over its entire extent was
an old gray wolf.

Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called him, was the
gigantic leader of a remarkable pack of gray wolves, that had
ravaged the Currumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the
shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and, wherever he
appeared with his trusty band, terror reigned supreme among the
cattle, and wrath and despair among their owners. Old Lobo was a
giant among wolves, and was cunning and strong in proportion to
his size. His voice at night was well-known and easily
distinguished from that of any of his fellows. An ordinary wolf
might howl half the night about the herdsman's bivouac without
attracting more than a passing notice, but when the deep roar of
the old king came booming down the canon, the watcher bestirred
himself and prepared to learn in the morning that fresh and serious
inroads had been made among the herds.

Old Lobo's band was but a small one. This I never quite
understood, for usually, when a wolf rises to the position and
power that he had, he attracts a numerous following. It may be that
he had as many as he desired, or perhaps his ferocious temper
prevented the increase of his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only
five followers during the latter part of his reign. Each of these,
however, was a wolf of renown, most of them were above the
ordinary size, one in particular, the second in command, was a
veritable giant, but even he was far below the leader in size and
prowess. Several of the band, besides the two leaders, were
especially noted. One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that the
Mexicans called Blanca; this was supposed to be a female,
possibly Lobo's mate. Another was a yellow wolf of remarkable
swiftness, which, according to current stories had, on several
occasions, captured an antelope for the pack.

It will be seen, then, that these wolves were thoroughly
well-known to the cowboys and shepherds. They were frequently
seen and oftener heard, and their lives were intimately associated
with those of the cattlemen, who would so gladly have destroyed
them. There was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who would
not readily have given the value of many steers for the scalp of any
one of Lobo's band, but they seemed to possess charmed lives, and
defied all manner of devices to kill them. They scorned all hunters,
derided all poisons, and continued, for at least five years, to exact
their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to the extent, many
said, of a cow each day. According to this estimate, therefore, the
band had killed more than two thousand of the finest stock, for, as
was only too well-known, they selected the best in every instance.

The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a starving state, and
therefore ready to eat anything, was as far as possible from the
truth in this case, for these freebooters were always sleek and
well-conditioned, and were in fact most fastidious about what they
ate. Any animal that had died from natural causes, or that was
diseased or tainted, they would not touch, and they even rejected
anything that had been killed by the stockmen. Their choice and
daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly killed yearling heifer.
An old bull or cow they disdained, and though they occasionally
took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear that veal or horseflesh
was not their favorite diet. It was also known that they were not
fond of mutton, although they often amused themselves by killing
sheep. One night in November, 1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf
killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently for the fun of it, and
did not eat an ounce of their flesh.

These are examples of many stories which I might repeat, to show
the ravages of this destructive band. Many new devices for their
extinction were tried each year, but still they lived and throve in
spite of all the efforts of their foes. A great price was set on Lobo's
head, and in consequence poison in a score of subtle forms was put
out for him, but he never failed to detect and avoid it. One thing
only he feared--that was firearms, and knowing full well that all
men in this region carried them, he never was known to attack or
face a human being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was to take
refuge in flight whenever, in the daytime, a man was descried, no
matter at what distance. Lobo's habit of permitting the pack to eat
only that which they themselves had killed, was in numerous cases
their salvation, and the keenness of his scent to detect the taint of
human hands or the poison itself, completed their immunity.

On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard the too familiar
rallying-cry of Old Lobo, and, stealthily approaching, he found the
Currumpaw pack in a hollow, where they had 'rounded' up a small
herd of cattle. Lobo sat apart on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest
was endeavoring to 'cut out' a young cow, which they had selected;
but the cattle were standing in a compact mass with their heads
outward, and presented to the foe a line of horns, unbroken save
when some cow, frightened by a fresh onset of the wolves, tried to
retreat into the middle of the herd. It was only by taking advantage
of these breaks that the wolves had succeeded at all in wounding
the selected cow, but she was far from being disabled, and it
seemed that Lobo at length lost patience with his followers, for he
left his position on the hill, and, uttering a deep roar, dashed
toward the herd. The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he
sprang in among them. Then the cattle scattered like the pieces of
a bursting bomb. Away went the chosen victim, but ere she had
gone twenty-five yards Lobo was upon her. Seizing her by the
neck, he suddenly held back with all his force and so threw her
heavily to the ground. The shock must have been tremendous, for
the heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also turned a
somersault, but immediately recovered himself, and his followers
falling on the poor cow, killed her in a few seconds. Lobo took no
part in the killing--after having thrown the victim, he seemed to
say, "Now, why could not some of you have done that at once
without wasting so much time?"

The man now rode up shouting, the wolves as usual retired, and
he, having a bottle of strychnine, quickly poisoned the carcass in
three places, then went away, knowing they would return to feed,
as they had killed the animal themselves. But next morning, on
going to look for his expected victims, he found that, although the
wolves had eaten the heifer, they had carefully cut out and thrown
aside all those parts that had been poisoned.

The dread of this great wolf spread yearly among the ranchmen,
and each year a larger price was set on his head, until at last it
reached $1,000, an unparalleled wolf-bounty, surely; many a good
man has been hunted down for less, Tempted by the promised
reward, a Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day galloping
up the ca¤on of the Currumpaw. He had a superb outfit for
wolf-hunting--the best of guns and horses, and a pack of enormous
wolf-hounds. Far out on the plains of the Panhandle, he and his
dogs had killed many a wolf, and now he never doubted that,
within a few days, Old Lobo's scalp would dangle at his
saddlebow.

Away they went bravely on their hunt in the gray dawn of a
summer morning, and soon the great dogs gave joyous tongue to
say that they were already on the track of their quarry. Within two
miles, the grizzly band of Currumpaw leaped into view, and the
chase grew fast and furious. The part of the wolf-hounds was
merely to hold the wolves at bay till the hunter could ride up and
shoot them, and this usually was easy on the open plains of Texas;
but here a new feature of the country came into play, and showed
how well Lobo had chosen his range; for the rocky cadons of the
Currumpaw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in every
direction. The old wolf at once made for the nearest of these and
by crOssing it got rid of the horseman. His band then scattered and
thereby scattered the dogs, and when they reunited at a distant
point of course all of the dogs did not turn up, and the wolves, no
longer outnumbered, turned on their pursuers and killed or
desperately wounded them all. That night when Tannerey
mustered his dogs, only six of them returned, and of these, two
were terribly lacerated. This hunter made two other attempts to
capture the royal scalp, but neither of them was more successful
than the first, and on the last occasion his best horse met its death
by a fall; so he gave up the chase in disgust and went back to
Texas, leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the region.

Next year, two other hunters appeared, determined to win the
promised bounty. Each believed he could destroy this noted wolf,
the first  by means of a newly devised poison, which was to be laid
out in an entirely new manner; the other a French Canadian, by
poison assisted with certain spells and charms, for he firmly
believed that Lobo was a veritable "loup-garou," and could not be
killed by ordinary means. But cunningly compounded poisons,
charms, and incantations were all of no avail against this grizzly
devastator. He made his weekly rounds and daily banquets as
aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, Calone and Laloche
gave up in despair and went elsewhere to hunt.

In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful attempt to capture
Lobo, Joe Calone had a humiliating experience, which seems to
show that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had
absolute confidence in himself. Calone's farm was on a small
tributary of the Currumpaw, in a picturesque ca¤on, and among the
rocks of this very ca¤on, within a thousand yards of the house, Old
Lobo and his mate selected their den and raised their family that
season. There they lived all summer and killed Joe's cattle, sheep,
and dogs, but laughed at all his poisons and traps and rested
securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe
vainly racked his brain for some method of smoking them out, or
of reaching them with dynamite. But they escaped entirely
unscathed, and continued their ravages as before. "There's where
he lived all last summer," said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff,
"and I couldn't do a thing with him. I was like a fool to him."

II

This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to
believe until, in the fall of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the
wily marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly
than anyone else. Some years before, in the Bingo days, I had been
a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then had been of another
sort, chaining me to stool and desk. I was much in need of a
change, and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner on the
Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could
do anything with this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and,
eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as possible
among the mesas of that region. I spent some time riding about to
learn the country. and at intervals my guide would point to the
skeleton of a cow to which the hide still adhered, and remark,
"That's some of his work."

It became quite clear to me that, in this rough country, it was
useless to think of pursuing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that
poison or traps were the only available expedients. At present we
had no traps large enough, so I set to work with poison.

I need not enter into the details of a hundred devices that I
employed to circumvent this 'loup-garou'; there was no
combination of strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid, that I
did not essay; there was no manner of flesh that I did not try as
bait; but morning after morning, as I rode forth to learn the result, I
found that all my efforts had been useless. The old king was too
cunning for me. A single instance will show his wonderful
sagacity. Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted some
cheese together with the kidney fat of a freshly killed heifer,
stewing it in a china dish, and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid
the taint of metal.

When the mixture was cool, I cut it into lumps, and making a hole
in one side of each lump, I inserted a large dose of strychnine and
cyanide, contained, in a capsule that was impermeable by any
odor; finally I sealed the holes up with pieces of the cheese itself.
During the whole process, I wore a pair of gloves steeped in the
hot blood of the heifer, and even avoided breathing on the baits.
When all was ready, I put them in a raw-hide bag rubbed all over
with blood, and rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of the
beef at the end of a rope. With this I niade a ten-mile circuit,
dropping a bait at each quarter of a mile, and taking the utmost
care, always, not to touch any with my hands.

Lobo, generally, came into this part of the range in the early part of
each week, and passed the latter part, it was supposed. around the
base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday, and that same evening,
as we were about to retire, I heard the deep bass howl of his
majesty. On hearing it one of the boys briefly remarked, "There he
is, we'll see."

The next morning I went forth, eager to know the result. I soon
came on the fresh trail of the robbers, with Lobo in the lead--his
track was always easily distinguished. An ordinary wolf's forefoot
is 4 1/2  inches long, that of a large wolf 4 3/4 inches, but Lobo's,
as measured a number of times, was 5 1/2 inches from claw to
heel; I afterward found that his other proportions were
commensurate, for he stood three feet high at the shoulder, and
weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore, though obscured by those
of his followers, was never difficult to trace. The pack had soon
found the track of my drag, and as usual followed it. I could see
that Lobo had come to the first bait, sniffed about it, and finally
had picked it up.

Then I could not conceal my delight. "I've got him at last," I
exclaimed; "I shall find him stark within a mile," and I galloped on
with eager eyes fixed on the great broad track in the dust. It led me
to the second bait and that also was gone. How I exulted--I surely
have him now and perhaps several of his band. But there was the
broad pawmark still on the drag; and though I stood in the stirrup
and scanned the plain I saw nothing that looked like a dead wolf.
Again I followed--to find now that the third bait was gone--and the
king-wolf's track led on to the fourth, there to learn that he had not
really taken a bait at all, but had merely carried them in his mouth,
Then having piled the three on the fourth, he scattered filth over
them to express his utter contempt for my devices. After this he
left my drag and went about his business with the pack he guarded
so effectively.

This is only one of many similar experiences which convinced me
that poison would never avail to destroy this robber, and though I
continued to use it while awaiting the arrival of the traps, it was
only because it was meanwhile a sure means of killing many
prairie wolves and other destructive vermin.

About this time there came under my observation an incident that
will illustrate Lobo's diabolic cunning. These wolves had at least
one pursuit which was merely an amusement; it was stampeding
and killing sheep, though they rarely ate them. The sheep are
usually kept in flocks of from one thousand to three thousand
under one or more shepherds. At night they are gathered in the
most sheltered place available, and a herdsman sleeps on each side
of the flock to give additional protection. Sheep are such senseless
creatures that they are liable to be stampeded by the veriest trifle,
but they have deeply ingrained in their nature one, and perhaps
only one, strong weakness, namely, to follow their leader. And this
the shepherds turn to good account by putting half a dozen goats in
the flock of sheep. The latter recognize the superior intelligence of
their bearded cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they crowd
around them, and usually are thus saved from a stampede and are
easily protected. But it was not always so. One night late in last
November, two Perico shepherds were aroused by an onset of
wolves. Their flocks huddled around the goats, which, being
neither fools nor cowards, stood their ground and were bravely
defiant; but alas for them, no common wolf was heading this
attack. Old Lobo, the werewolf, knew as well as the shepherds that
the goats were the moral force of the flock, so, hastily running
over the backs of the densely packed sheep, he fell on these
leaders, slew them all in a few minutes, and soon had the luckless
sheep stampeding in a thousand different directions. For weeks
afterward I was almost daily accosted by some anxious shepherd,
who asked, "Have you seen any stray OTO sheep lately?" and
usually I was obliged to say I had; one day it was, "Yes, I came on
some five or six carcasses by Diamond Springs"; or another, it was
to the effect that I had seen a small "bunch" running on the Malpai
Mesa; or again, "No, but Juan Meira saw about twenty, freshly
killed, on the Cedra Monte two days ago."

At length the wolf traps arrived, and with two men I worked a
whole week to get them properly set out. We spared no labor or
pains, I adopted every device I could think of that might help to
insure success. The second day after the traps arrived, I rode
around to inspect, and soon came upon Lobo's trail running from
trap to trap. In the dust I could read the whole story of his doings
that night. He had trotted along in the darkness, and although the
traps were so carefully concealed, he had instantly detected the
first one. Stopping the onward march of the pack, he had
cautiously scratched around it until he had disclosed the trap, the
chain, and the log, then left them wholly exposed to view with the
trap still unsprung, and passing on he treated over a dozen traps in
the same fashion. Very soon I noticed that he stopped and turned
aside as soon as he detected suspicious signs on the trail, and a
new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself. I set the traps in
the form of an H; that is, with a row of traps on each side of the
trail, and one on the trail for the cross-bar of the H. Before long, I
had an opportunity to count another failure. Loho came trotting
along the trail, and was fairly between the parallel lines before he
detected the single trap in the trail, but he stopped in time, and
why or how he knew enough I cannot tell, the Angel of the wild
things must have been with him, but without turning an inch to the
right or left, he slowly and cautiously backed on his own tracks,
putting each paw exactly in its old track until he was off the
dangerous ground. Then returning at one side he scratched clods
and stones with his hind feet till he had sprung every trap. This he
did on many other occasions, and although I varied my methods
and redoubled my precautions, he was never deceived, his sagacity
seemed never at fault, and he might have been pursuing his career
of rapine to-day, but for an unfortunate alliance that proved his
ruin and added his name to the long list of heroes who,
unassailable when alone, have fallen through the indiscretionof a
trusted ally.

III

Once or twice, I had found indications that every. thing was not
quite right in the Currumpaw pack. There were signs of
irregularity, I thought; for instance there was clearly the trail of a
smaller wolf running ahead of the leader, at times, and this I could
not understand until a cowboy made a remark which explained the
matter.

"I saw them to-day," he said, "and the wild one that breaks away is
Blanca." Then the truth dawned upon me, and I added, "Now, I
know that Blanca is a she-wolf, because were a he-wolf to act thus,
Lobo would kill him at once."

This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer, and set one or two
rather obvious traps about the carcass. Then cutting off the head,
which is considered useless offal, and quite beneath the notice of a
wolf, I set it a little apart and around it placed six powerful steel
traps properly deodorized and concealed with the utmost care.
During my operations I kept my hands, boots, and implements
smeared with fresh blood, and afterward sprinkled the ground with
the same, as though it had flowed from the head; and when the
traps were buried in the dust I brushed the place over with the skin
of a coyote, and with a foot of the same animal made a number of
tracks over the traps. The head was so placed that there was a
narrow passage between it and some tussocks, and in this passage I
buried two of my best traps, fastening them to the head itself.

Wolves have a habit of approaching every carcass they get the
wind of, in order to examine it, even when they have no
intention of eating it, and I hoped that this habit would bring the
Currumpaw pack within reach of my latest stratagem. I did not
doubt that Lobo would detect my handiwork about the meat, and
prevent the pack approaching it, but I did build some hopes on the
head, for it looked as though it had been thrown aside as useless.

Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there, oh,
joy! were the tracks of the pack, and the place where the beef-head
and its traps had been was empty. A hasty study of the trail showed
that Lobo had kept the pack from approaching the meat, but one, a
small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine the head as it lay
apart and had walked right into one of the traps.

We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the
hapless wolf was Blanca. Away she went, however, at a gallop,
and although encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over
fifty pounds, she speedily distanced my companion, who was on
foot. But we overtook her when she reached the rocks, for the
horns of the cow's head became caught and held her fast. She was
the handsomest wolf I had ever seen. Her coat was in perfect
condition and nearly white.

She turned to fight, and, raising her voice in the rallying cry of her
race, sent a long howl rolling over the ca¤on. From far away upon
the mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her
last call, for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and
breath were devoted to combat.

Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank
from afterward more than at the time. We each threw a lasso over
the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite
directions until the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed,
her limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode,
carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first death-blow
we had been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.

At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode
homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the
distant mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had
never really deserted her, but, knowing that he could not save her,
his deep-rooted dread of firearms had been too much for him when
he saw us approaching. All that day we heard him wailing as he
roamed in his quest, and I remarked at length to one of the boys,
"Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was his mate."

As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home ca¤on,
for his voice sounded continually nearer.

There was an unmistakable note of sorrow in it now. It was no
longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail; "Blanca!
Blanca!" he seemed to call. And as night came down, I noticed that
he was not far from the place where we had overtaken her. At
length he seemed to find the trail, and when he came to the spot
where we had killed her, his heartbroken wailing was piteous to
hear. It was sadder than I could possibly have believed. Even the
stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had "never heard a wolf
carry on like that before." He seemed to know exactly what had
taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.

Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the
ranch-house. Whether in hopes of finding her there, or in quest of
revenge, I know not, but the latter was what he found, for he
surprised our unfortunate watchdog outside and tore him to little
bits within fifty yards of the door. He evidently came alone this
time, for I found but one trail next morning, and he had galloped
about in a reckless manner that was very unusual with him. I
had half expected this, and had set a number of additional traps
about the pasture. Afterward I found that he had indeed fallen into
one of these, but, such was his strength, he had torn himself loose
and cast it aside.

I believed that he would continue in the neighborhood until he
found her body at least, so I concentrated all my energies on this
one enterprise of catching him before he left the region, and while
yet in this reckless mood. Then I realized what a mistake I had
made in killing Blanca, for by using her as a decoy I might have
secured him the next night.

I gathered in all the traps I could command, one hunred and thirty
strong steel wolf-traps, and set them in fours in every trail that led
into the ca¤on; each trap  was separately fastened to a log, and
each log was separately buried. In burying them, I carefully
removed the sod and every particle of earth that was lifted we put
in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced and all was finished
the eye could detect no trace of human handiwork. When the traps
were concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca over each place,
and made of it a drag that circled all about the ranch, and finally I
took off one of her paws and made with it a line of tracks over
each trap. Every precaution and device known to me I used, and
retired at a late hour to await the result. 

Once during the night I thought I heard Old Lobo, but was not sure
of it. Next day I rode around, but darkness came on before I
completed the circuit of the north canon, and I had nothing to
report. At supper one of the cowboys said, "There was a great row
among the cattle in the north ca¤on this morning, maybe there is
something in the traps there." It was afternoon of the next day
before I got to the place referred to, and as I drew near a great
grizzly form arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to escape,
and there revealed before me stood Lobo, King of the Currumpaw,
firmly held in the traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to
search for his darling, and when he found the trail her body had
made he followed it recklessly, and so fell into the snare prepared
for him. There he lay in the iron grasp of all four traps, perfectly
helpless, and all around him were numerous tracks showing how
the cattle had gathered about him to insult the fallen despot,
without daring to approach within his reach. For two days and two
nights he had lain there, and now was worn out with struggling.
Yet, when I went near him, he rose up with bristling mane and
raised his voice, and for the last time made the ca¤on reverberate
with his deep bass roar, a call for help, the muster call of his band.
But there was none to answer him, and, left alone in his extremity,
he whirled about with all his strength and made a desperate effort
to get at me. All in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over three
hundred pounds, and in their relentless fourfold grasp, with great
steel jaws on every foot, and the heavy logs and chains all
entangled together, he was absolutely powerless. How his huge
ivory tusks did grind on those cruel chains, and when I ventured to
touch him with my rifle-barrel he left grooves on it which are there
to this day. His eyes glared green with hate and fury, and his jaws
snapped with a hollow 'chop,' as he vainly endeavored to reach me
and my trembling horse. But he was worn out with hunger and
struggling and loss of blood, and he soon sank exhausted to the
ground.

Something like compunction came over me, as I prepared to deal
out to him that which so many had suffered at his hands.

"Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand lawless raids, in a few
minutes you will be but a great load of carrion. It cannot be
otherwise." Then I swung my lasso and sent it whistling over his
head. But not so fast; he was yet far from being subdued, and
before the supple coils had fallen on his neck he seized the noose
and, with one firce chop, cut through its hard thick strands, and
dropped it in two pieces at his feet.

Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but I did not wish to
spoil his royal hide, so I galloped back to the camp and returned
wth a cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our victim a stick of
wood which he seized in his teeth, and before he could relinquish
it our lassoes whistled through the air and tightened on his neck.

Yet before the light had died from his fierce eyes, I cried, "Stay,
we will not kill him; let us take him alive to the camp." He was so
completely powerless now that it was easy to put a stout stick
through his mouth, behind his tusks, and then lash his jaws with a
heavy cord which was also fastened to the stick. The stick kept the
cord in, and the cord kept the stick in so he was harmless. As soon
as he felt his jaws were tied he made no further resistance, and
uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us and seemed to say,
"Well, you have got me at last, do as you please with me." And
from that time he took no more notice of us.

We tied his feet securely, but he never groaned, nor growled, nor
turned his head. Then with our united strength we were just able to
put him on my horse. His breath came evenly as though sleeping,
and his eyes were bright and clear again, but did not rest on us.
Afar on the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his passing
kingdom, where his famous band was now scattered. And he gazed
till the pony descended the pathway into the ca¤on, and the rocks
cut off the view,

By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in safety, and after
securing him with a collar and a strong chain, we staked him out in
the pasture and removed the cords.

Then for the first time I could examine him closely, and proved
how unreliable is vulgar report when a living hero or tyrant is
concerned. He had not a collar of gold about his neck, nor was
there on his shoulders an inverted cross to denote that he had
leagued himself with Satan. But I did find on one haunch a great
broad scar, that tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno, the
leader of Tannerey's wolf-hounds--a mark which she gave him the
moment before he stretched her lifeless on the sand of the ca¤on.

I set meat and water beside him, but he paid no heed. He lay
calmly on his breast, and gazed with those steadfast yellow eyes
away past me down through the gateway of the ca¤on, over the
open plains--his plains-- nor moved a muscle when I touched him.
When the sun went down he was still gazing fixedly across the
prairie. I expected he would call up his band when night came,
and prepared for them, but he had called once in his extremity, and
none had come; he would never call again.

A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a
dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and
who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the three-fold brunt,
heart-whole? This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he
was lying there still in his position of calm repose, his body
unwounded, but his spirit was gone--the old kingwolf was dead.

I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy helped me to carry him to
the shed where lay the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him
beside her, the cattle-man exclaimed: "There, you would come to
her, now you are together again."

SILVERSPOT 
The Story of a Crow

I

HOW MANY of us have ever got to know a wild animal? I do not
mean merely to meet with one once or twice, or to have one in a
cage, but to really know it for a long time while it is wild, and to
get an insight into its life and history. The trouble usually is to
know one creature from his fellow. One fox or crow is so much
like another that we cannot be sure that it really is the same next
time we meet. But once in awhile there arises an animal who is
stronger or wiser than his fellow, who becomes a great leader, who
is, as we would say, a genius, and if he is bigger, or has some mark
by which men can know him, he soon becomes famous in his
country, and shows us that the life of a wild animal may be far
more interesting and exciting than that of many human beings.

Of this class were Courtant, the bob-tailed wolf that terrorized the
whole city of Paris for about ten years in the beginning of the
fourteenth century; Clubfoot, the lame grizzly bear that left such a
terrific record in the San Joaquin Valley of California; Lobo, the
king-wolf of New Mexico, that killed a cow every day for five
years, and the Seonee panther that in less than two years killed
nearly three hundred human beings--and such also was Silverspot,
whose history, so far as I could learn it, I shall now briefly tell.

Silverspot was simply a wise old crow; his name was given
because of the silvery white spot that was like a nickel, stuck on
his right side, between the eye and the bill, and it was owing to this
spot that I was able to know him from the other crows, and put
together the parts of his history that came to my knowledge.

Crows are, as you must know, our most intelligent birds.--'Wise as
an old crow' did not become a saying without good reason. Crows
know the value of organization, and are as well drilled as
soldiers--very much better than some soldiers, in fact, for crows
are always on duty, always at war, and always dependent on each
other for life and safety. Their leaders- not only are the oldest and
wisest of the band, but also the strongest and bravest, for they must
be ready at any time with sheer force to put down an upstart or a
rebel. The rank and file are the youngsters and the crows without
special gifts.

Old Silverspot was the leader of a large band of crows that made
their headquarters near Toronto, Canada, in Castle Fra uk, which is
a pine-clad hill on the northeast edge of the city. This band
numbered about two hundred, and for reasons that I never
understood did not increase. In mild winters they stayed along the
Niagara River; in cold winters they went much farther south. But
each year in the last week of February, Old Silverspot would
muster his followers and boldly cross the forty miles of open water
that lies between Toronto and Niagara; not, however, in a straight
line would he go, but always in a curve to the west, whereby he
kept in sight of the familiar landmark of Dundas Mountain, until
the pine-clad hill itself came in view. Each year he came with his
troop, and for about six weeks took up his abode on the hill. Each
morning thereafter the crows set out in three bands to forage. One
band went southeast to Ashbridge's Bay. One went north up the
Don, and one, the largest, went northwestward up the ravine. The
last, Silverspot led in person. Who led the others I never found out.

On calm mornings they flew high and straight away. But when it
was windy the band flew low, and followed the ravine for shelter.
My windows overlooked the ravine, and it was thus that in 1885 I
first noticed this old crow. I was a newcomer in the neighborhood,
but an old resident said to me then "that there old crow has been
a-flying up and down this ravine for more than twenty years." My
chances to watch were in the ravine, and Silverspot doggedly
clinging to the old route, though now it was edged with houses and
spanned by bridges, became a very familiar acquaintance. Twice
each day in March and part of April, then again in the late summer
and the fall, he passed and repassed, and gave me chances to see
his movements, and hear his orders to his bands, and so, little by
little, opened my eyes to the fact that the crows, though a litle
people, are of great wit, a race of birds with a language and a
social system that is wonderfully human in many of its chief
points, and in some is better carried out than our own.

One windy day I stood on the high bridge across the ravine, as the
old crow, heading his long, straggling troop, came flying down
homeward. Half a mile away I could hear the contented 'All's well,
come right along!' as we should say, or as he put it, and as also his
lieutenant echoed it at the rear of the band. They were flying very
low to be out of the wind, and would have to rise a little to clear
the bridge on which I was. Silverspot saw me standing there, and
as I was closely watching him he didn't like it. He checked his
flight and called out, 'Be on your guard,'  and rose much higher in
the air. Then seeing that I was not armed he flew over my head
about twenty feet, and his followers in turn did the same, dipping
again to the old level when past the bridge.

Next day I was at the same place, and as the crows came near I
raised my walking stick and pointed it at them. The old fellow at
once cried out 'Danger,' and rose fifty feet higher than before.
Seeing that it was not a gun, he ventured to fly over. But on the
third day I took with me a gun, and at once he cried out, 'Great
danger--a gun.' His lieuteiiant repeated the cry, and every crow in
the troop began to tower and scatter from the rest, till they were far
above gun shot, and so passed safely over, coming down again to
the shelter of the valley when well beyond reach. Another time, as
the long, straggling troop came down the valley, a red-tailed hawk
alighted on a tree close by their intended route. The leader cried
out, 'Hawk, hawk,' and stayed his flight, as did each crow on
nearing him, until all were massed in a solid body. Then, no longer
fearing the hawk, they passed on. But a quarter of a mile farther on
a man with a gun appeared below, and the cry, 'Great danger--a
gun, a--gun; scatter fur your lives,' at once caused them to scatter
widely and tower till far beyond range.
Many others of his words of command I learned in the course of
my long acquaintance, and found that sometimes a very littre
difference in the sound makes a very great difference in meaning.
Thus while No. 5 means hawk, or any large, dangerous bird, this
means 'wheel around,' evidently a combination of No. 5, whose
root idea is danger, and of No. 4, whose root idea is retreat, and
this again is a mere 'good day,' to a far away comrade. This is
usually addressed to the ranks and means 'attention.'

Early in April there began to be great doings among the crows.
Some new cause of excitement seemed to have come on them.
They spent half the day among the pines, instead of foraging from
dawn till dark. Pairs and trios might be seen chasing each other,
and from time to time they showed off in various feats of flight. A
favorite sport was to dart down suddenly from a great height
toward some perching crow, and just before touching it to turn at a
hairbreadth and rebound in the air so fast that the wings of the
swooper whirred with a sound like distant thunder. Sometimes one
crow would lower his head, raise every feather, and coming close
to another would gurgle out a long note like. What did it all mean?
I soon learned. They were making love and pairing off. The males
were showing off their wing powers and their voices to the lady
crows. And they must have been highly appreciated, for by the
middle of April all had mated and had scattered over the country
for their honeymoon, leaving the sombre old pines of Castle Frank
deserted and silent.

II

The Sugar Loaf hill stands alone in the Don Valley. It is still
covered with woods that join with those of Castle Frank, a quarter
of a mile off. in the woods, between the two hills, is a pine-tree in
whose top is a deserted hawk's nest. Every Toronto school-boy
knows the nest, and, excepting that I had once shot a black squirrel
on its edge, no one had ever seen a sign of life about it. There it
was year after year, ragged and old, and falling to pieces. Yet,
strange to tell, in all that time it never did drop to pieces, like other
old nests.

One morning in May I was out at gray dawn, and stealing gently
through the woods, whose dead leaves were so wet that no rustle
was made. I chanced to pass under the old nest, and was surprised
to see a black tail sticking over the edge. I struck the tree a smart
blow, off flew a crow, and the secret was out. I had long suspected
that a pair of crows nested each year about the pines, but now I
realized that it was Silverspot and his wife. The old nest was
theirs, and they were too wise to give it an air of spring-cleaning
and housekeeping each year. Here they had nested for long, though
guns in the hands of men and boys hungry to shoot crows were
carried under their home every day. I never surprised the old
fellow again, though I several times saw him through my
telescope.

One day while watching I saw a crow. crossing the  Don Valley
with something white in his beak. He flew to the mouth of the
Rosedale Brook, then took a short flight to the Beaver Elm. There
he dropped the white object, and looking about gave inc a chance
to recognize my old friend Silverspot. After a minute he picked up
the white thing--a shell--and walked over past the spring, and here,
among the docks and the skunk-cabbages, he unearthed a pile of
shells and other white, shiny things. He spread them out in the sun,
turned them over, turned them one by one in his beak, dropped
them, nestled on them as though they were eggs, toyed with them
and gloated over them like a miser. This was his hobby, his
weakness. He could not have explained why he enjoyed them, any
more than a boy can explain why he collects postage-stamps, or a
girl why she prefers pearls to rubies; but his pleasure in them was
very real, and after half an hour he covered them all, including the
new one, with earth and leaves, and flew off. I went at once to the
spot and examined the hoard; there was about a hatful in all,
chiefly white pebbles, clam-shells, and some bits of tin, but there
was also the handle of a china cup, which must have been the gem
of the collection. That was the last time I saw them. Silverspot
knew that I had found his treasures, and he removed them at once;
where, I never knew.

During the space that I watched him so closely he had many little
adventurcs and escapes. He was once severely handled by a
sparrowhawk, and often he was chased and worried by kingbirds.
Not that these did him much harm, but they were such noisy pests
that he avoided their company as quickly as possible, just as a
grown man avoids a conflict with a noisy and impudent small boy.
He had some cruel tricks, too. He had a way of going the round of
the small birds' nests each morning to eat the new laid eggs, as
regularly as a doctor visiting his patients. But we must not judge
him for that, as it is just what we ourselves do to the hens in the
barnyard.

His quickness of wit was often shown. One day I saw him flying
down the ravine with a large piece of bread in his bill. The stream
below him was at this time being bricked over as a sewer. There
was one part of two hundred yards quite finished, and, as he
flew over the open water just . above this, the bread fell from his
bill, and was swept by the current out of sight into the tunnel. He
flew down and peered vainly into the dark cavern, then, acting
upon a happy thought, he flew to the downstream end of the
tunnel, and awaiting the reappearance of the floating bread, as it
was swept onward by the current, he seized and bore it off in
triumph.

Silverspot was a crow of the world. He was truly a successful
crow. He lived in a region that, though full of dangers, abounded
with food. In the old, unrepaired nest lie raised a brood each year
with his wife, whom, by the way, I never could distinguish, and
when the crows again gathered together he was their
acknowledged chief.

The reassembling takes place about the end of June-- the young
crows with their bob-tails, soft wings, and falsetto voices are
brought by their parents, whom they nearly equal in size, and
introduced to society at the old pine woods, a woods that is at once
their fortress and college. Here they find security in numbers and
in lofty yet sheltered perches, and here they begin their schooling
and are taught all the secrets of success in crow life, and in crow
life the least failure does not simply mean begin again. It means
death.

The first week or two after their arrival is spent by the young ones
in getting acquainted, for each crow must know personally all the
others in the band. Their parents meanwhile have time to rest a
little after the work of raising them, for now the youngsters are
able to feed themselves and roost on a branch in a row, just like
big folks.

In a week or two the moulting season comes. At this time the old
crows are usually irritable and nervous, but it does not stop them
from beginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course, do not
much enjoy the punishment and nagging they get so soon after they
have been mamma's own darlings. But it is all for their good, as
the old lady said when she skinned the eels, and old Silverspot is
an excellent teacher. Sometimes he seems to make a speech to
them. What he says I cannot guess, but judging by the way they
receive it, it must be extremely witty. Each morning there is a
company drill, for the young ones naturally drop into two or three
squads according to their age and strength. The rest of the day they
forage with their parents.