Caught at Last.
In late summer the young leave the maternal home in exchange for an independent life, and it may truly be said that the coyote's childhood day's are over, and it must face the stern realities of life with all its serious consequences. It now prefers to live the life of a hermit, with an occasional short interview with its neighbors.
Contrary to the habits of its cousin and neighbor, the wolf, the coyote is not often seen except singly or in pairs, though it is probable that they are more in the habit of congregating during the night, when the eyes of the hunter and his dogs are closed in sleep, and they are at liberty to roam at will. Their stealthy maneuvers are not apt to disclose their presence, and one usually is not aware of the fact that coyotes are near until he is suddenly reminded of it by one of those unearthly screeching, yelping utterances given vent to by the coyote during the long still night. Immediately the call is taken up by some prowler in a different direction, and in turn is repeated by others further away, until the air fairly resounds with that weird cry. Whether uttered in pleasure or in pain, it is one of nature's most unpleasant calls, and embodies all the hopelessness and despair so apparent on the wide plains of the west.
It is hard to describe the cry of the coyote, though a fair idea may be had by imagining a series of sharp, harsh yelps, terminating into a long drawn painfully entreating howl. Often repeated and echoed by several further away, half a dozen are able to produce enough noise to lead a stranger to believe that he is in the midst of a hundred blood thirsty demons who are proclaiming vengeance on any one that might lack of proper protection.
The coyote is detrimental to but a small degree except to the sheep industry. It is true that coyotes, when hard pressed by hunger, have been known to rob the ranches of its poultry or even to kill a calf or colt, but it is on the defenseless sheep and lambs that they commit their greatest ravages.
In some of the western states, where stock raising is an important industry, large bounties have been paid at different times for the destruction of the coyotes, and these bounties, together with those offered by stock associations and private parties, have induced a number of men and sometimes women, too, to make a business of the extermination of the coyote. Where formerly little time or trouble was spared to destroy these pests, now everybody who has an opportunity eagerly sets traps or poisonous baits for them, shoots at them at long range, runs them down with his bronco to ensnare them in the fatal noose of his lariat, or digs them and their families out of the depths of their underground retreat. The result is obvious. But few localities remain where coyotes hold their own in their original numbers.
The coyote is a wary animal and hard to approach within reasonable pistol shot range, and then only an experienced eye can draw a bead through the gun sights on its dull coat against the usual background of brown or grey. They are fleet foot creatures, and anything short of a greyhound, they are apt to leave behind struggling in the dust. Grey hounds and fox hounds are sometimes employed to run them down, and if one is caught out on the open plain by a pack of these hounds it is quickly dispatched. Frightened almost out of his wits, it repeatedly takes a quick glance back over its shoulder at the furious mob pursuing it, only to find that they are each time a little nearer, until it feels the sharp clasp of the jaws of the leader in deathly embrace. What sport this would be to some of our noblemen across the sea.
Like the red fox, the coyote will sometimes form the friendship of the farmer's dog, and once arrived at a mutual understanding amicable relationship is not easily broken.