A WINTER STORY OF COLORADO.
The wild beasts upon Hicks Mountain were limited almost entirely to thecoyotes; these persisted, in spite of advancing settlement, but in thissection of Colorado the grey wolf, the mountain-lion, and the bear hadbeen practically exterminated. For five years the stock had run thehills quite unmolested. A coyote will kill sheep, but its depredationsare confined otherwise to the poultry, barring now and then a sick andabandoned calf.
However, in the winter of 1905, rumors spread that the grey wolves hadreturned. Calves were being killed and eaten, sows mutilated, and evenlarge steers torn about the legs and chest. One rancher discovered inthe timber across the pasture from his house the remains of a yearlingheifer killed only that night; whatever had attacked it had devouredit, hide and all, to the very largest bones, leaving only the scatteredremnants of a skeleton.
Now, a mountain-lion would have eaten part and buried the rest; a bearwould also have eaten part, and saved the rest for later; coyotes wouldonly have gnawed and mangled the carcass; the great grey wolf alonewould have worked a destruction so complete.
The ground was bare of snow, and covered with pine-needles, thusbeing unfavorable for tracks. Mr. Jeffries had heard no howling.Nevertheless, the grey wolf, the stockman's scourge, was blamed.
Traps were set, and poisoned meat was discreetly put out, but only thecoyotes suffered, apparently. Then Ned Coswell, early one morning,while searching for a lost milk-cow, came over a little rise, and sawbelow him in a hollow in the park a number of wolfish animals collectedabout a dead body, tearing at it. Ned was unarmed, but, spurring hishorse, he rode down upon them recklessly, whooping.
"There were about a dozen of them," related Ned, "and I knew theyweren't wolves, because they were colored differently, more like dogs.They looked at me coming, and, boys, I didn't know for a minute whetherthey were going to get out of the way or not. Old Medicine Eye"--hishorse--"wasn't a bit afraid; just pricked his ears and kept on, whichmade me think all the more they weren't wolves.
"They were dogs, boys, nothing but dogs. There was a brindled one thatlooked like a bulldog, and several woolly dogs, like sheep-dogs, andone big black-and-white shaggy fellow, biggest of all. They all liftedtheir heads, and stood staring at me, and I was beginning to thinkthat maybe I'd been in too much of a hurry. But first one sneaked off,showing his teeth, into the brush, and another and another, and theyall went, and I was mighty glad to have them go. They'd been eating ata dead steer--mine, too--but I don't know whether they'd killed it ornot. I wish I'd had a gun."
After that the ranchers made it a habit again to carry a gun of somekind when out on the range. However, for a long time nobody, whenarmed, caught any glimpse of the wild dogs. That is likely to be thecase in hunting; the unprepared frequently have the opportunities.
For instance, Frank Warring, while on his way home from town in hiswagon, toward evening of a cloudy day, beheld the pack cross the roadright in front of him, the animals in single file, one followinganother, silent as specters, noses outstretched, the big, shaggyblack-and-white fellow leading. In the rear were two or three puppies,perhaps nine months old. Frank had no gun. Somebody else also saw thepack.
The brutes' depredations continued, being limited, so far as we couldascertain, to our vicinity, as if they had selected Hicks Mountainfor a hunting-ground. They hunted without howling. A spasmodic, rabidbark was the only sound that we could attribute to them, but it wassufficient.
We were afraid of this wild pack; more afraid than of wolves. There issomething uncanny about a dog gone wild, for he combines the lessonstaught by domesticity with the instincts of savagery.
As nobody from our section had missed dogs, we concluded that this bandhad come down upon us from Wyoming, a hundred and fifty miles north.Up in Wyoming wild dogs had been bothering the sheep-range. Probablyenergetic measures adopted by the irate sheep men had driven themarauders to seek new fields.
Finally, Sam Morris had a chance to retaliate. He was hunting deerafoot. The day was dark and snowy. As he was sitting motionless besidea boulder, watching the slope below and the ascent across the draw,the dog-pack suddenly streamed out from the pines down there, and allat a lope threaded the bottom of the draw, onward bound. The shaggyblack-and-white was leading, as usual.
Sam's gun was loaded with buckshot, and he waited greedily, that hemight get more than one dog with his charge. But the animals weretoo shrewd to travel bunched; they left intervals, as do the wolveswhen trailing, and when at last Sam would desperately have "whangedaway," his gun missed fire. Rather chagrined was Sam, telling his taleafterward. He confirmed the previous statements that the pack wasvariously colored, made up of different breeds; a strange invasionsurely.
The trail through the draw remained unobliterated, for no snow fellfor two weeks thereafter. We found that the dog-pack was utilizingthis draw for a pass. It appeared to lead from one favorite point toanother. The trail grew more distinct, but it scarcely widened; thedogs stepped always, so it seemed, in the same spots. It was vain toset traps; the disturbance of the snow was noticed at once. Poison wasdisregarded. The pack kept on ranging the country and attacking stock.
Sam was anxious to retrieve himself, and he and I agreed to put in ourtime watching that trail until we should "fix" some of those outlaws. Iremember that it was the tenth day of January, and toward four o'clockin the afternoon, when, for perhaps the sixth or seventh time, weensconced ourselves between two boulders on the slope overlooking thetrail below.
The sky was cloudy; a snowstorm was evidently approaching. Cloudydays seemed to be those upon which the dog-pack was most likely to besighted. Probably upon such days it emerged earlier on account of thewaning light. This afternoon we had been in ambush only a half-hourwhen the pack appeared.
In silent, single file the pack came trotting out of the timber onour right, and across before us, following the trail in the draw. Thebig, black-and-white, shaggy fellow was the first; next to him was thebrindle. I recognized them, for every narrative had contained them.
I don't know exactly why, but the sight of them all, trotting sosilently, so swiftly, business-bent, thrilled me with a little chill.About their steady gait was something ominous, unreal. A pack of wolvesI could have surveyed without special emotion, for I should have knownwhat to expect, but a pack of dogs, gone wild--ugh! They are neitherdogs nor wolves, but, as has been said, an uncanny blending.
We had agreed what to do. Sam only nudged me, and levelled his gun.There was an instant of suspense, and we fired practically together.
We had rifles, and were using black powder, and the smoke wasmomentarily thick. When it cleared, the shaggy leader was kicking inthe snow, and the brindle was lying still. My bullet had not sped quiteas truly as Sam's; his aim had been the brindle. The rest of the packwere racing madly onward, and although we fired twice more, we did nothit any of them.
We went down to our victims. The brindle had just life enough in him tosnarl at us ere he died. The big black-and-white was gasping.
Then a strange thing occurred. As I stood over him, he wagged his bushytail; his eyes were not wild, but soft, suffering, appealing. He wasnow all dog and would turn to his chosen friend, man, for sympathy andaid.
"Poor old chap!" I said.
His eyes were glazing fast; he hauled himself on his side over the snowtoward me.
"Look out!" warned Sam.
But there was no need. With a final effort, the animal just managed tolick my boot-toe, and with his head upon it, he shivered and was still.I declare, a lump rose in my throat.
As I bent to pat his coat--I love dogs, and he had struck me rightto the heart, marauder though he had been--I felt a collar round hisneck, concealed by his long, curly hair. Upon the collar was a plate,engraved "Prince." Somebody's "Prince" had he been, somebody's pet. Butwhose?
A more perfect example of atavism, reversion to type--call it what youwill--would be hard to present.
The dog-pack never again, as far as there was evide
nce, traversed thattrail. Nor was it seen again upon Hicks Mountain. It seemed almost asif it had been composed of weird phantoms, like the spectral packs ofGerman and Proven?al legend, and had dissolved at our gunshots.
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TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 22nd
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Transcriber's Notes:
Italics are represented by _underscores_, bold by =equal signs=.
Retained some unusual spellings (e.g. "bloming") within dialogue on theassumption they are intentional.
Page 4, changed "Billy Ruffin" to "Billy Ruffian" to match secondinstance of ship's nickname.
Page 12, added missing quote after "while I was down in Phoenix."Changed oe ligature in "Phoenix" to oe (ligature retained in HTMLedition).
Page 13, removed unnecessary quote after "slaps from his cousin Ralph."
Page 17, removed unnecessary quote before "It was impossible, ofcourse...." Changed "intendeing" to "intending" ("What Motor Matt wasintending to do").
Page 18, changed "Someting" to "Something" ("Something was about tohappen").
Page 19, removed unnecessary apostrophe after "Mings" ("Mings was insuch a position").
Page 20, changed "medding" to "meddling" ("meddling with Sercomb'sbusiness").
Page 21, changed "Mat" to "Matt" ("Matt started along the gully").
Page 25, changed "than" to "that" ("frame that enclosed").
Page 26, changed "in" to "is" ("house is like").
Page 28, changed "Villianous" to "Villainous" in "Villainous Plot."
Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto Page 21