Part 17

We joined Maje at the point where we had last seen the wolf, which by this time had disappeared. Going over a rise, we dropped down into an arroyo, where the foxhound again gave tongue, and started back on the trail almost in the same direction in which we had come. Thinking that for once he was at fault, and back-tracking, I took the two dogs in slips up the arroyo, while Maje, Zach and the pack of dogs followed the foxhound, and were soon out of sight and hearing. Circling around for some distance and seeing no sign of the wolf, I rode upon a high point, and, searching the country carefully through my glasses, I could see the party probably a mile and a half away; and, from the manner in which they were getting over the ground, I knew they had again sighted. A hard ride of two miles, in which the dogs almost dragged me from my horse in their eagerness, brought me within sighting distance of the dogs--the voice of the foxhound, which was in the rear, floating back to me in strong and melodious tones across the plains. Slipping Dan and Scotty, they went from the slips like a pair of bullets and soon left me far behind. Upon rounding a point of rocks, I saw one of the young dogs lying upon the ground. A hasty glance showed me, from the violent manner in which he strained to catch his breath, that he had tackled the wolf and his windpipe was injured. It afterward developed that he had become separated from the pack, and, in cutting across country, had imprudently taken hold of the wolf, which, with one snap of his powerful jaws, had utterly disabled him, and then continued his flight. Like most wolves, he seemed to be able to keep up the pace he had set over all kinds of ground. It seemed to him a matter of indifference whether the way was up or down hill, and he evidently sought the roughest and stoniest ground, following ravines and coulees--this giving him a great advantage over horses and hounds. My horse beginning to show signs of distress, I realized that, if the chase was to be a straightaway, I would see but little of it and probably not be in at the death anyway; so I again sought a high point that gave a commanding view over a large area of country, and determined to await developments. Every once in a while, with the aid of my glasses, I could see the pack, fairly well bunched, straining every muscle, running as though for life. I could catch occasional glimpses of the wolf far in advance, as he scurried through the sagebrush, showing little power of strategy, but a determined obstinacy to outfoot his relentless foes.

Fortune again favored me. By degrees the superior speed and stamina of the hounds began to tell, though both seemed to be running with undiminished speed. The wolf, finding that, with all his speed and cunning, they were slowly but surely overtaking him, circled in my direction, and I was soon again an important factor in the hunt, urging the dogs with shouts of encouragement. I was now near enough to note that one of the young greyhounds, which had evidently been running cunning by lying back and cutting across, was far in advance of the pack--not over 100 yards behind the wolf, and gaining rapidly. Striking a rise in the ground, he overtook the wolf and seized him by the shoulder. The wolf seemed to drag him several yards before he reached around, and with his powerful, punishing jaws gave him a slash that laid his skull bare and rolled him over on the prairie.

Slight as this interruption was, it encouraged Dan to greater effort, and the next minute he had distanced the pack, nailed the wolf by the jowl, and over they went, wolf on top. Scotty was but a few paces behind, and, taking a hind hold, tried to stretch him. With a mighty effort the wolf tore himself loose from both and started to run again. He had not gone thirty paces before Scotty bowled him over again. Rising, he sullenly faced his foes, who, with wholesome respect for his glistening ivories, seemed to hesitate while recovering their wind, as they were sadly blown after their long run, the day being an intensely hot one. At this point I rode up. The wolf lay closely hugging the ground, his swollen tongue protruding from foam-flecked chops, and with keen and wary eye he watched the maddened pack circling about looking for a vulnerable point. Varied experience in the art of self-defense had taught him skill and quickness, and as each dog essayed to assail him he found a threatening array of teeth. Throwing myself from the saddle, I cheered them on. Dan and Scotty hesitated no longer, but rushed savagely at him, one on either side, and the whole pack, including the one recently scalped, regardless of his gaping wound, followed them.

For a few minutes the pile resembled a struggling mass of dogs, and the air seemed filled with flying hair, fur and foam, and the snapping of teeth was like castanets. At first the wolf seemed only intent upon shaking off his foes and escaping, but the punishment he was receiving could not long be borne; and from then on to the last gasp, with eyes flaming with rage, every power seemingly put forth, he fought like a demon possessed. As he tossed the dogs about, seemingly breaking their hold at will, I was singularly impressed with his enormous size and strength, his shaggy appearance and his generally savage look, and suggested to Maje and Zach, who had come up in the meantime, that we take a hand in the fray, as I doubted the ability of the dogs to finish him without serious loss. However, we decided to give them the opportunity, and ere long they had him _hors de combat_, stretched upon the ground, his body crimson with his own life's blood, in the last throes of death. He was one of the largest specimens I had ever seen, weighing not less than 120 pounds, the green pelt weighing twenty-four. His carcass, when stood up alongside of Scotty, seemed several inches taller, and I afterward measured the latter and found him to be thirty-one inches.

All of the dogs received more or less punishment; none escaped scathless, but really much less damage was done than I expected. This was owing to the fact that Dan and Scotty, two of the staunchest seizers I ever saw, engaged him constantly in front, while the other dogs literally disemboweled him. Scotty had a bad cut on the side of the neck, requiring several stitches to close, and the muscles of his shoulder were laid bare; while Dan's most serious hurt was a cut from dome of skull to corner of eye, from which he never entirely recovered, as he ever afterward had a weeping eye. One of the cross-breeds, whose pads were not well indurated, suffered from lacerated feet, and one of his stoppers was torn almost off, necessitating removal. A wolf's bite is both cruel and dangerous, and wounds on dogs are obstinate and very hard to heal--more so than those of any other animal. While skinning the wolf, our horses were standing with lowered heads, heaving flanks, shaking and trembling limbs; my horse, much to my satisfaction, evidently without a good buck left in him.

After a full hour's rest for man and beast, we started back to the ranch. Taking Steamboat with the buckboard, I went back to the point of rocks with the intention of taking up the injured dog. Upon arrival there no trace of him could be found; he had mysteriously disappeared. Thinking that he had recovered sufficiently to make his way back to the ranch, we increased our speed and soon joined the others, who had been heading directly for home. The ride home was devoid of incident, the monotony being occasionally broken by our frantic efforts to restrain the dogs from chasing innumerable jack rabbits that bounded away on three legs, in their most tantalizing way, inviting us to a chase. We also got within rifle shot of a band of antelope, seeming quite at ease, feeding and gamboling sportively with each other, until a pistol shot at long range sent them skimming gracefully over the plains, finally vanishing like a flying shadow in the distance. While crossing the creek below, and within sight of the ranch, we again heard Lead give tongue in the chaparral above the ranch, and in a few minutes he had a coyote busy, doubtless the same one we had disturbed in taking a constitutional in the morning. The dogs, now a sorry looking set, had been jogging lazily along behind us, but in a moment were all life and action. Their spirits were contagious, and, though we had positively agreed under no circumstances to run a coyote, we very soon found ourselves flying after the vanishing pack in full pursuit. A pretty race ensued. When first dislodged the coyote appeared lame to such an extent that I thought his leg broken; but after warming up this affection entirely disappeared, and the pace was a hot one for the first mile. The dogs ran well together, and were gradually lessening the gap between them and their wily foe, who, realizing this, displayed tact in selecting the very worst possible ground for footing, and soon regained his lost vantage. It began to look as though the coyote would again give us the slip, when one of the young dogs, that Zach in his excitement had ridden over several minutes before and presumably killed, was seen to dash out from a draw and bowl over the coyote. His hold was not a good one, but he succeeded in turning the coyote, who then made a straight line for a bunch of cattle grazing near, becoming temporarily unsighted among the cattle. The dogs again fell behind, and when again sighted the coyote was making a bee line for the ranch. By the time the creek was reached, he was in evident distress and sorely pressed. With a final effort he dashed through the creek up the opposite bank, and, as he dodged into the open corral gate, one of the greyhounds flicked the hair from his hind quarters. It was his last effort. By the time we reached the corral, he was being literally pulled to pieces. We could not see that he made additional wounds upon any of the dogs. In the excitement of the finish of the chase I had lost Maje, and it was only after the death in the corral that I missed him. Going to the adobe wall, I peered over and saw him some distance away standing beside his horse. Upon going back to him, we found that his horse had stepped into a prairie dog hole, throwing him violently, and, turning a somersault, had landed upon him. The only damage to Maje was, he had been converted for the time being into a cactus pincushion; but his "States" horse had broken his fore leg at the pastern joint and had to be shot.

After the long run of the morning, this race afforded us ample scope for testing both the speed and staying qualities of the dogs as well as of our horses.

We were disappointed in not finding the injured dog at the ranch. In fact, he was never afterward heard of, and doubtless crawled away among the rocks and died alone. After sewing up Scotty's wounds, dressing the minor cuts of the other dogs and removing the cactus and prickly pear points from their feet (the latter not a small job by any means), we were soon doing full justice to Steamboat's satisfying if not appetizing meal.

In contrast to our simple preparations and equipment for this, an average wolf-hunt in that country, wolf-hunts in Russia, as described to me by my friend, St. Allen, of St. Petersburg, are certainly grand affairs; but when the two methods of hunting are compared, I cannot but believe that the balance of sport is in our favor.

I have frequently been asked what breed of dogs I consider best for wolf-hunting. Having tried nearly all kinds, experience and observation justify me in asserting that the greyhound is undoubtedly the best. In the first place, there is no question of their ability to catch wolves, and, when properly bred and reared, their courage is undoubted. It is a general supposition that the greyhound is devoid of the power of scent. This is a mistake, as can be attested by anyone who has ever hunted them generally in the West upon large game, especially wolves, which give a stronger scent than any other animal. Of course, this power is not as well developed in the greyhound as in other breeds, because the uses to which he is put do not require scent, and, under the law of evolution, it has deteriorated as a natural consequence. Unrivaled in speed and endurance, these qualities have been developed and bred for, while the olfactory organs have been necessarily neglected by restricting the work of the dogs to sight hunting. Experience has taught me that they are the only breed of dogs that, without special training or preparation, will take hold and stay in the fight with the first wolf they encounter until they have killed him. I have heard it said that this was because they did not have sense enough to avoid a wolf. At all events, it is a fact that they will unhesitatingly take hold of a wolf when dogs older, stronger and better adapted to fighting will refuse to do so. I have found that, while all dogs will hunt or run a fox spontaneously, with seeming pleasure, they have a natural repugnance and great aversion to the proverbially offensive odor peculiar to the wolf. I once hunted a pack of high-bred foxhounds, noted for their courage. They had not only caught and killed scores of red foxes, but had also been used in running down and killing sheep-killing dogs. Though they had never seen a wolf, I did not doubt for an instant that they would kill one. While they trailed and ran him true, pulling him down in a few miles, they utterly refused to break him up when caught. The following extract, from an article I wrote some years ago on the "Greyhound," for the "American Book of the Dog," expresses my views of the courage and adaptability of the greyhound for wolf-hunting:

"A general impression prevails that the greyhound is a timid animal, lacking heart and courage. This may be true of some few strains of the breed, but, could the reader have ridden several courses with me at meetings of the American Coursing Club which I have judged, and have seen greyhounds, as I have seen them, run until their hind legs refused to propel them further, and then crawl on their breasts after a thoroughly used up jack rabbit but a few feet in advance, the singing and whistling in their throats plainly heard at fifty yards, literally in the last gasp of death, trying to catch their prey, he or she would agree with me in crediting them with both the qualities mentioned."

In hunting the antelope, it is not an uncommon thing to see a greyhound, especially in hot weather, continue the chase until he dies before his master reaches him. An uninjured antelope is capable of giving any greyhound all the work he can stand, and unless the latter is in prime condition his chances are poor indeed to throttle. A peculiar feature of the greyhound is that he always attacks large game in the throat, head or fore part of the body. I have even seen them leave the line of the jack rabbit to get at his throat. Old "California Joe," at one time chief of scouts with Gen. Custer, in 1875 owned a grand specimen of the greyhound called Kentuck, presented to him by Gen. Custer. I saw this dog, in the Big Horn country, seize and throw a yearling bull buffalo, which then dragged the dog on his back over rough stones, trampled and pawed him until his ears were split, two ribs broken, and neck and fore shoulders frightfully cut and lacerated, yet he never released his hold until a Sharps rifle bullet through the heart of the buffalo ended the unequal struggle. Talk about a lack of courage! I have seen many a greyhound single-handed and alone overhaul and tackle a coyote, and in a pack have seen them close in and take hold of a big gray timber wolf or a mountain lion and stay throughout the fight, coming out bleeding and quivering, with hardly a whole skin among them. In point of speed, courage, fortitude, endurance and fine, almost human judgment, no grander animal lives than the greyhound. He knows no fear; he turns from no game animal on which he is sighted, no matter how large or how ferocious. He pursues with the speed of the wind, seizes the instant he comes up with the game, and stays in the fight until either he or the quarry is dead. Of all dogs these are the highest in ambition and courage, and, when sufficiently understood, they are capable of great attachment.

In selecting dogs for wolf-killing, the most essential qualities to be desired are courage, strength and stamina to sustain continued exertion, with plenty of force and dash. Training is a matter requiring unlimited patience, coupled with firmness and judgment, and a large amount of love for a dog. It also requires constant watchfulness of a dog's every movement and mood to make a successful wolf-courser of him. Many a good dog has been ruined at the outset by not being fully understood.

They should receive their first practical work when about one year old, provided they are sufficiently developed to stand the hard work necessary. They generally have mind enough at this age to know what is expected of them. It is, of course, better to hunt a young dog first with older and experienced dogs, which will take hold of any kind of game. The larger and stronger the dog, the better; for it requires immense powers of endurance, hardihood and strength to hold, much less kill, a wolf. The latter are particularly strong in the fore quarters and muscles of the neck and jaw. As an evidence of their great strength, I saw a wolf, while running at full speed, seize the Siberian wolfhound Zlooem by the shoulder and throw him bodily into the air, landing him on his back several feet away, and yet this wolf did not weigh as much as the dog.

Particular care should be taken to see that a young dog gets started right in his practical training. Encourage him with your presence; do all you can to see that he is sighted promptly; spare no expense or pains in getting a good mount, and keep as close as possible during the fighting; enliven him with your voice, and encourage him to renewed effort; for his ardor increases in proportion to the encouragement and praise received. Ride hard, to be in early at the death. His confidence once gained, he will place implicit reliance in your assistance; but, let him be beaten off once or twice through lack of encouragement, and he will soon lose his relish for the sport and show a disposition to hang back; while he may seem to be doing his best, a practiced eye will soon detect a want of ardor and dash. A pack of hounds, with a good strike dog and confidence in their owner, will carry everything before them; by keeping them in good heart they always expect success to crown their efforts.

If from any cause in the final struggle the dogs are getting the worst of it, or the other dogs refuse to assist the seizers, one must not hesitate an instant about assisting them; this requires perfect coolness, self-control and presence of mind, so as not to injure the dog. To attempt the use of the pistol or gun is too dangerous. A well-directed blow with a good strong hunting knife, delivered between the shoulders, will generally break the spine, leaving the wolf entirely at the mercy of the hounds.

I would advise no one to attempt the Russian method of taping the jaws while the wolf is held by the seizers. I had an experience of this kind once. After a long chase, the wolf, in his efforts to escape, leaped a wall, and, in alighting upon the farther side, thrust his head and neck through a natural loop formed by a grapevine growing around a tree. Reaching him as soon as the hounds, I fought them off; but, although he was virtually as fast as if in a vise, it required the united efforts of five of us to bind his legs and tape his jaws, and this was only accomplished after a severe struggle of some minutes. I am sure I would not have trusted any dog or dogs I ever hunted to have held him during this operation.

One should always be provided with a spool of surgeon's silk and a needle, for these will assuredly be called into use. Old Major, a greyhound owned by Dr. Van Hummel and myself, full of years and honors, is still alive. He was a typical seizer and afraid of nothing that wore hair. His entire body is seamed with innumerable scars, and has been sewed up so often that he resembles a veritable piece of needlework. As an evidence of his speed, strength and early training, I recollect that, shortly after I had hunted him in the West, I had him at my home in Kentucky. The Doctor was on a visit to me, and we had taken Major to the country with us while inspecting stock farms. At Wyndom Place, where we were admiring a handsome two-year-old Longfellow colt, running loose in the field, the owner, before we were aware of his intention, set Major after the colt "to show his speed and style." We both instantly saw his error, but it was too late--we could not call the dog off. He soon overhauled the colt, and, springing at his throat, down they went in a heap--the colt, worth a thousand dollars, ruined for life.

One of the most glaring instances of improper training and handling of wolfhounds that ever came under my observation was the Colorado wolf-hunt that attracted so much attention in the sporting press of this country, England and Russia. Mr. Paul Hacke, an enthusiastic fancier, of Pittsburg, Pa., while in Russia attended a wolf-killing contest in which the barzois contested with captive wolves. He became so much enamored of the sport that he purchased a number of trained barzois and brought them to this country. They were a handsome lot and attracted much attention while being exhibited at the bench shows. I was one of the official judges at the Chicago Bench Show in 1892, and wolfhound classes were assigned me. While I admired them very much for their handsome, showy appearance, I expressed grave doubts as to their ability to catch and kill timber wolves, notwithstanding I had read graphic accounts of their killing coyotes in thirty-five seconds. This doubt was shared and expressed by others present who had had practical experience in wolf-hunting. This coming to the ears of Mr. Hacke, who is always willing to back his opinion with his money, he issued a sweeping challenge offering to match a pair of barzois against any pair of dogs in the United States for a wolf-killing contest, for $500 a side. His challenge was promptly accepted by Mr. Geo. McDougall, of Butte City, Montana.

I was selected to judge the match, and in the spring of 1892 we made up a congenial carload and journeyed to Hardin, in the wilds of Colorado, where our sleeper was sidetracked. Arrangements were made at an adjoining horse ranch, and every morning a band of horses was promptly on hand at daylight. On the night of our arrival at Hardin, a fine saddle horse had been hamstrung in his owner's stable by wolves. It was a pitiful sight, and added zest to our determination to exterminate as many as possible.

We were awakened from our sound sleep the first morning by the familiar sounds of saddling, accompanied by the pawing and bucking of horses, swearing of men, and snarling and growling of dogs. After a hasty breakfast, eaten by lamplight, we were soon mounted and in motion for the rendezvous. We had hardly crossed the Platte River, near which our camp was located, before the advance guard announced a wolf in full flight. A glance through my field-glasses convinced me that it was an impudent coyote, and we continued our search. We had probably ridden an hour through sand and cactus before one of the hunters had a wolf up and going.