Inter-Ocean Hunting Tales

by Edgar Fritz Randolph

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.