ROUNDING UP CATS IN COLORADO
The mountain lion of the West is the panther or cougar of our Eastern States, sometimes called “painter” by the old-fashioned backwoodsman; in some localities it goes by the name of “Indian devil,” no doubt on account of the weird, unearthly noises it makes at night. In Mexico it is known as the “puma,” and grows to a larger size than elsewhere. In appearance the mountain lion is very similar to the African lioness, having a smooth, tawny skin, without any mane; a full-grown animal that will measure from seven to eight feet from its nose to the end of the tail and weighs about 180 pounds, is considered a large specimen. They seldom exceed this, and more frequently fall below it.
Although often engaged in hunting big game, I never saw a mountain lion at large except when one has been rounded up by a pack of dogs. In their habits they are stealthy and secretive, carefully keeping concealed, and never willing to fight unless cornered, with no chance of escape. Occasionally, when the odds are overwhelmingly in its favor, a lion will provoke a battle, but this is not often the case.
In disposition and character the mountain lion belies its name; of all carnivorous beasts it is, perhaps, the most cowardly. Being exceedingly destructive, it not only kills for food, but it also kills out of wantonness. I have run across numbers of deer that have been destroyed by the same animal within short distances of each other, the carcasses being allowed to remain almost entire. It has also been stated on good authority that one lion will be likely to kill in the course of a year about one hundred and fifty deer.
Considering its destructive disposition, I have no doubt that in a country where the deer are at all numerous, this statement is not far from the truth. The ranchman has a cordial hatred for this destroyer of his stock, and the cunning displayed by the lion in evading traps and turning away from poisoned meat makes him all the more unpopular. This animal will not eat of any kill unless it is his own or that of some other lion. Extremity of hunger may cause him to act differently, but it is exceptional. Most success in hunting this game is to be found in localities where the deer are plentiful. It is practically useless to attempt any hunting of this kind unless you have a pack of well trained dogs handled by some one who has complete control over them. Great care and patience has to be exercised in breaking a pack of dogs for this purpose, and to prevent them from running other game. If, for example, a pack should take after a timber wolf, that animal is so fleet that he would distance most of his pursuers and string them out considerably. The wolf has been known to turn on the pack thus separated and kill a number of the dogs, one after the other, before the pack could be united. The disappointed huntsman, reaching the end of the run on his jaded horse, might survey the remnants of his pack—first the survivors with downcast heads and apologetic tails between their legs—and then some dog fur scattered over the blood-bespattered ground, and here and there a mangled corpse. It is no joke to have a pack run for miles after the wrong game over rough country, your whole day’s sport broken up, and perhaps lose your dogs for several days.
The mountain lion has not much endurance in the chase, although very fast for a short distance, which he covers by a series of leaps. In a short time he is treed or driven to the ledge of a precipice or into some hiding place. If you are fond of hunting with a camera, you generally have ample time to take a photograph of your prize, perhaps posing in the branches of a tree and looking as pleasant as possible—for a mountain lion!
The lively serenade furnished by the dogs, which the lion recognizes by continual growls, displaying his whole set of ivories, completes a scene not soon forgotten. Your share of the business is very tame, although absolutely effective. A shot at close range behind the shoulder, and the lion tumbles among the savage dogs to engage in a losing fight; while in the agony of death, not infrequently he leaves some little reminders of his long claws and strong teeth upon his assailants.
In the month of January, 1900, I engaged the services of John B. Goff, who possessed a good pack of dogs to hunt “lions” and “cats” in Colorado. The “cats” referred to are bobcats, not the Canada lynx with which they are sometimes confounded. The winter was unusually free from snowfalls, and the ground being very dry, it made hunting difficult, because the dogs could hardly follow the scent.
My first destination was a ranch on Strawberry Creek belonging to the guide, about twelve miles from Meeker. Here for several days we engaged in a fruitless hunt, until one morning a fresh fall of snow covered the ground, when our efforts were rewarded by the dogs striking a couple of cat trails; these we followed a short distance, with the whole pack tearing away ahead of us in full cry. The dogs followed the trail to a great pile of massive rocks, which towered a hundred feet above our heads, and there became bewildered. What had become of the stealthy bobcats? The guide and myself climbed the rocks to search for them. Looking down from the summit I saw one of them lying in front of a cave surveying the dogs, which were silently and swiftly nosing around below it. It was easy enough to shoot the cat where it was, but as it rested on the ledge of a rock of some breadth, it was a grave question whether it might not die there where it would be practically inaccessible, and we would have all our pains for nothing.
To drive the cat from its position into a better one was more than a doubtful possibility, as it was likely to run back into the cave. So I took a chance and fired. Like a crash of lightning above their heads, the excited dogs heard the report and knew that “there was something doing.” The wounded cat gave a sudden leap into space and fell among them. If there is any question about a “cat having nine lives,” it seems that the dogs were bound to be on the safe side, for they mauled the remains until I began to fear that the fur might be damaged before I could come to the rescue. Through a fatal curiosity, the other cat peeped over the precipice, and paid for its rashness with its hide, which I added to my collection. The job of skinning the cats I turned over to the guide.
The big dogs sat around in sullen dignity, particularly avoiding any familiarity with smaller dogs and with each other. Each one seemed to consider himself the hero of the occasion. I have had occasion to observe that the pack would work and fight well together, but after the fray they seemed to be intensely jealous of each other.
Several of the dogs interested me considerably. One of them was called “Old Jim,” a big black-and-tan foxhound, with a deep bass voice which would swell the chorus when the pack was in full cry and sometimes almost drown it. Old Jim would occasionally provoke the not over angelic temper of the guide by leading the whole pack after a coyote. On one occasion he had distinguished himself by whipping a coyote, and whenever one of these “sassy” prairie wolves would show itself, he could not resist the temptation of giving chase, leading the whole pack after him.
Any one acquainted with Western hunting knows how useless it is for dogs to attempt to outrun a coyote. The coyotes would frequently come close to the pack, if there was no man nearby, as though to provoke a chase for our special annoyance. The dogs, however, would never run the coyotes’ trail; they were broken of that.
Another interesting acquaintance was a dog called Turk, a cross-breed, but a very strong and stubborn fighter, all seamed with scars. Turk kept near the guide, and did not run with the pack except when there was something in view. He was a good-natured dog ordinarily, but an ugly customer in a scrap.
There was another dog called Boxer which had a very keen scent; long before the rest could discover a trail one could hear Boxer’s knowing yelps, which would gradually develop into a chorus, as one by one the other dogs would detect the scent as it became warmer. Boxer had more judgment than any other dog in the pack, and was very good in puzzling out a broken trail.
We spent several days longer at the ranch on Strawberry Creek. While there the guide purchased a broken-down horse to feed to the dogs. It is not a particularly easy matter to keep twenty-one dogs supplied with food. When the horse was led out for execution the dogs became intensely excited and seemed to know “what was up.” The moment the animal was shot, and almost before it fell to the ground, the whole pack of dogs, big and small, was tearing eagerly at the carcass. No doubt the habit of attacking wild animals as soon as they have been shot developed their naturally savage dispositions.
At the suggestion of the guide, we decided to go to a ranch near the Bear River Cañon, two days’ journey from our present location. When we arrived at the ranch, after a long day’s ride on horseback, we found the ranchman’s wife keeping house; her husband had left for several days. She seemed in no condition to entertain us on account of a bad headache, but kindly offered to do whatever she could. We volunteered to help her out with her domestic duties. First of all I prescribed for her headache; the medicine went down the wrong way, which caused her to vomit, after which she declared she felt better. My professional pride did not permit me to enlighten her as to the unexpected result of my prescription. I say professional pride, because I went by the nickname of the Doctor on account of an emergency case I carried with me.
I made myself useful in doing most of the chores usual on such occasions, while the guide held the baby, which howled incessantly. The expression on his face while performing this duty was as angelic as I have seen it when Old Jim would lead the whole pack off on a chase after a coyote against his impotent protest. When the meal was served, two other children turned up, one a little girl nine years old, who was censured for not taking care of the baby; the other a boy of about eleven, who was particularly good, according to his mother’s account of him. Our first day’s experience with these interesting children caused us to reverse the parental opinion. When we returned from our hunt the evening of the following day, the guide missed his lasso; the good little boy had tried to lasso a cat which was selecting some delicacies from a tin can, the cat took a sudden leap to escape the lasso, and in doing so shoved its head into the can and cinched the lasso round its body; cat, can and lasso disappeared in the sage brush and were never found.
The country around Bear River Cañon is very rough and picturesque. The cañon is steep and cuts a great gorge in the mountain, and is very difficult to cross. In one place we were headed off by the precipice, which must have been fully a thousand feet in depth; I rolled a stone off the edge, and its descent seemed to take a considerable time. A shower of broken fragments and dust, followed a second or two afterward by a dull crash which reverberated through the cañon, announced the termination of its fall.
The dogs finally succeeded in jumping a lion, running right upon him. From a distance I could see the chase along the side of a mountain until it turned in the direction of the cañon. The lion did not seem to be going very fast while covering the ground by long leaps, which he appeared to do without much effort; but when I looked at the pack, which did not seem to be gaining on him, they were straining every nerve, and looked as if they were “going it for all they were worth.” No doubt the easy gait of the lion made his speed deceptive. The lion took refuge upon a ledge of the precipice some fifteen feet below the crest. When we arrived at the spot the dogs were raising an awful din in their impotent frenzy, as they looked down upon the smiling countenance of the lion, which was displaying all his teeth. It was thought inadvisable to shoot the lion on the ledge where he was, because there was a good chance of his dying in an inaccessible spot, so we dropped stones on him, hoping to drive him out of that place and compel him to run to the top of the precipice and take refuge in a tree.
For some time the lion savagely snapped at the stones, much to our diversion. In their eagerness to see the lion the dogs crowded one another near the edge of the precipice, and occasionally crowded me. As I leaned over to drop a stone on the lion’s tail a big dog planted his forefeet on my shoulders. Perhaps he did this to get a better view, or it may have been because he was not able to say “down in front,” that he adopted this method of giving me a gentle hint that I was obstructing his view. The action was not pleasant to me. I did not relish the idea of being shoved over the precipice and dashed to pieces below, with the possible alternative of landing on the ledge where the lion was located. Our efforts at last resulted in causing the tormented beast to seek refuge elsewhere. After abandoning the ledge he ran upon the top of the precipice and came so close to me that I could have touched him—but I didn’t. A little foxhound ventured too close and his impertinence was rewarded by a snap from the lion which grazed the dog’s head and slit his ear in twain. Instead of taking to a tree, as we had vainly hoped, the lion discovered a way of getting down upon another ledge of the precipice, more inaccessible than the first, and became concealed from view. It became evident that we were taking too many chances, so the guide and myself found a way, very steep and rough, below the lion’s last resort, where it was just possible to see, several hundred feet away, the head and neck of the animal. I took careful aim and fired. The bullet went a little higher than I intended, breaking the lower jaw. I wished to preserve the skull entire for a mount; but the character of the wound inflicted made this impossible. In spite of the injury received the tawny form glided along the almost perpendicular side of the precipice, picking out here and there a foot rest to aid in its ascent. I fired another shot, which struck behind the shoulder, but did not stop the animal from reaching the top of the precipice, where the dogs soon discovered him. I was not too late to see some of the fight. In the scrimmage the lion got Turk’s head partly in his mouth, and for a moment I felt alarmed on account of the dog. Fortunately, the lion’s lower jaw refused to work, and Turk got off with light punishment—merely a scalp wound, from which the blood flowed freely.
I began to arrange my camera, intending to take a snap-shot of the melee, but the shade of the trees made the light bad for an instantaneous photograph, the only one that could be taken of a moving scene; the guide, seeing my dilemma, caught hold of the lion’s tail, while still fighting the dogs, and dragged the tangled bunch a few yards down the side of the hill into the sunlight. When this was done the lion was dead, and I was not able to accomplish my purpose. As I surveyed my first lion trophy I could not help admiring the game fight it had put up against hopeless odds. There could be no skepticism respecting the execution of its terrible teeth, for not a few wounds were inflicted on the dogs. The beast must have weighed 170 to 180 pounds, and its skin was in fine condition; but, unfortunately, the skull was ruined.
After hard hunting for about a week, the dogs took up a fresh scent, and in a short time they treed a small lion which the guide called a “kitten,” because it was not full grown. The branches of the tree were quite close together and near the ground. One of the dogs managed to climb a considerable way up the tree by the aid of the easy support the branches afforded, and was in some peril. The report of my rifle helped to swell the chorus of the dogs, which only abated when their jaws were employed to a better purpose on the struggling “kitten.” The poor beast which had climbed the tree remained a disappointed spectator of the fight, being unable to take part. Afterward I helped him down from his ridiculous although somewhat dangerous position.
On a number of occasions the dogs have climbed trees for a considerable distance above the ground. The piñon trees, where the lions frequently take refuge, are supplied with branches which begin to sprout near the base, rendering the feat easier of accomplishment, but nevertheless it is a remarkable sight to see a dog up a tree, sometimes furnishing an unwilling subject for a camera. Any one wishing to obtain some impression of how a dog would look in such an attitude can have his curiosity satisfied by examining the photographs of wild animals in Mr. Wallihan’s remarkable book, where snap-shots were taken of some of the dogs which were in the pack I hunted with.
HITTING THE TRAIL.
We had barely skinned the “kitten,” when at some distance we heard the pack baying another animal. We rode as rapidly as possible in the direction we heard the noise. We soon arrived at the edge of the valley, which lay some five or six hundred feet below. The baying broke upon our hearing with great distinctness. The country beneath was free from big timber, being dotted profusely with piñon trees and smaller growth, with here and there great pillars of red sandstone fashioned into mushroom shapes by the erosion of the elements through countless ages. In the clear, bright sunshine every object stood out with great distinctness, producing a curious and beautiful effect.
It was an attractive sight to watch the pack as it swiftly coursed about in the valley. It finally disappeared around the base of the mountain. We took a short cut across the spur of the mountain and soon caught the steady baying of the dogs, and I knew that something was treed or cornered. On the side of a steep slope, which extended hundreds of feet down to the valley, stood a piñon tree with a fine, large lion perched in its branches—a more beautiful pose for a photograph I could hardly imagine. The light was good and the surroundings all that could be desired to produce the proper effect. The guide suggested a doubt in regard to the lion’s remaining in his present position very long, and that one of us should cover him with a rifle while the other used the camera. My love of sport is not so platonic that I could readily forego the deadly part of the pastime for the æsthetic. So I held the rifle carefully pointed at a vital spot, and after a little space the animal quivered, as though just about in the act of taking a spring out of the tree, which, had he effected, would have sent him down the slope at a speed that would have distanced the dogs; once at large in the rough country which spread through the valley, he would have given us another long and fatiguing chase, with a good chance of losing him. Before the trembling limbs could launch into space a bullet pierced his heart and he tumbled from his perch and rolled nearly a hundred feet down the mountain side, where his further descent was arrested by the dogs in no gentle fashion. The struggle with the lion was brief. The guide and myself had more of a struggle with the dogs in driving them away from the carcass.
I was disappointed to learn that the guide had not succeeded in getting a photo. If I could have had a snap-shot with the camera at the lion close by, while in the act of springing, with satisfactory results, I would have had something of more value than the animal’s skin.
I added a few more trophies to my collection before finishing my hunt for that season. My experience, however, had convinced me that the best reminiscences of a hunting trip are good photographs of wild animals in their natural state. The ease with which trophies can often be secured, so far as the question of skill is concerned, has somewhat taken the keen edge off of my desire to kill. Securing a good trophy is quite as often a question of time and patience as skill. Coolness is also required, for frequently easy shots are missed through being over anxious.