As has been said, the coyote is swift afoot, but its wind is easily exhausted, and many a one has fallen a prey, through this lack, to the lariat of the hardy cowboy, who desires nothing more exciting for recreation than a rough and tumble chase through a prairie dog town in pursuit of one of these nimble creatures. Imagine the roughly clad westerner with hair and kerchief flying in the breeze, and the magic noose swinging round and round over his head, whooping at the top of his voice and urging his steed on to its best. Imagine him shooting forth that magic noose and see it settle over the coyote's head. A jerk of the hand tightens the rope, and a turn in the horse's course takes the coyote off his feet and drags him along bouncing from mound to mound into insensibility.
Coyotes cannot be said to possess a vicious nature. Armed with a short club, one may safely enter their burrows, and when trapped the same weapon will complete the work, as they are cowardly and rarely show fight.
Though possessing considerable cunning, coyotes are easier trapped than foxes, though they are slow at taking bait. Large numbers, however, are annually poisoned by placing strychnine in the carcasses of animals that have fallen, through old age or otherwise, of which the pangs of hunger are apt to force coyotes to make a meal. The action of strychnine is exceedingly fast, and it is no unusual occurrence to find a dead coyote a few feet from where it had been enjoying a dinner of poisoned meat.
Of all methods resorted to, however, none is highly responsible for the reduction of the coyote as that of digging up the young (and this often gives up the mother too) from the burrows. By one who is versed in coyote habits, the burrows are easily found, and the work of an hour or two with pick and shovel usually forces them to give up their treasures.
Not always, however, are the results so easily and quickly arrived at. The writer well remembers the first litter of pups he was fortunate enough to capture. After a three days' search among the deep coulees, along the upper Missouri, a den was located. But where? In the crevice of a ledge of sand rock. By placing my ear to the mouth of the burrow, I could hear the pups whining. The burrow was too small to admit me, and as it was too late in the day to commence operations, I plugged up the opening lest the bitch should proceed to transfer her young to some other place of refuge during the night. The greater part of the next day a friend and myself spent in enlarging the burrow with sledge and crowbar, and it was not until late in the afternoon that I was able to crawl in far enough and with the aid of a short stick with some nails drawn through the end, to rake out the six young, one by one.
CHAPTER XXI.
WOLF TRAPPING AN ART.
By Captain Jack O'Connell.
For more than 40 years "Old Hank" Morrison has made his home in the lonely cabin on the shore of a small lake miles from any human habitation, in Alger County. I have often visited this strange old chap, and although the frosts of 70 winters has bent his giant form and silvered his hair, his heart is young. His past life I have never been able to fathom, but to judge from the choice books in several languages in his little cabin, I am led to believe there is a romance in the long, long ago.
The writer slowly recovering from a stroke of paralysis, wishing to get outside the confines of civilization, decided to drop in on "Old Hank" recently. I made a trip despite the deep snow and the protest of my doctor. When I pounded on his door it was rather late at night. "Who in ----," and then pausing in astonishment, threw the door wide open and held out his hand. "Hello Jack," he fairly shouted, shaking my hand in real pump handle fashion, and with all the vigor of his mighty frame. "Blest if I ever expected to see you again! Well! well! well!" He helped me put the horse away in good shape, and then got me a regular "bang up" supper despite the late hour.