Jack the Young Cowboy: An Eastern Boy's Experiance on a Western Round-up

by George Bird Grinnell

"More so than anything that's likely to happen to you again out in this country," drawled Hugh.

"You were saying that the wolves were dogs; and I know that's just what Swiftfoot always seemed to be. He would get scared like a dog; when he was pleased he would wag his tail and lay back his ears and show his teeth like a dog; if I took him out in the country and turned him loose, he hunted like a dog; and finally, when he got lost and could not see me, he became confused and lost his wits like a dog."

"Well, I've seen a lot of half-breed wolves, and if these half-breeds get away, and become wild, they're worse than the wolves themselves; they're a good deal smarter, and it seems as if they were hungrier, and they certainly have plenty of courage. I never saw many of these half-breeds that had gone wild, but I do remember one bunch down near the Dismal River, in Nebraska, that certainly made a lot of trouble. Old Lute North killed a number of 'em, and I got the story from him, and got it straight, and if you'd care to hear it, I'll tell it to you."

"Sure, Hugh, I'd give anything to hear it."

"Well," said Hugh, "this is what Captain North told me. It didn't happen so very long ago. It seems that one fall Major Frank North brought up to the ranch at the head of the Dismal River a big mongrel dog that some one in Columbus had given him. The dog was big and black, that's about all you could say about him. His hair was longish—not so long as that of a Newfoundland, but a good deal longer than that of a Great Dane. In fact, he looked as if he might be a cross between those two breeds.

"About the middle of that winter this dog went off from the ranch one night with a big gray wolf, and the next morning Lute followed their tracks in the snow for several miles, but could not find them. The dog was never seen again, and Lute always believed that the wolves killed him, for he saw places in the snow on the trail where the dog and a wolf had fought.

"Next spring, Al Pratt, one of the cow punchers at the Cody and North ranch, saw an old she-wolf traveling and seven puppies following her. Four of these puppies were black, and three were gray. Al chased the wolves and managed to get close enough to them to kill two of the black ones. All through the summer the others were seen now and then, but nobody could get near enough to get a shot at them. That fall Bill Burke, another puncher, shot and killed one of the gray puppies, and that winter a trapper poisoned the other gray ones. The only ones of the family now left were the mother and two black puppies, but they were a fearful trouble on the range. They would kill stock of all kinds. They were just as ready to take a steer as a calf, and Lute told me that one time he found where they'd killed a cow, a two-year-old and a yearling in one day. They were very shy and always on the lookout, and they seemed never to go back to the animal that they had killed for a second meal, so it was impossible to poison them. Lute said, too, that there was a band of six or eight coyotes traveling around behind 'em, and that after the wolves had eaten all they wanted when they killed, then the coyotes had their chance.

"Lute told me that he hunted those wolves a good many days; and, of course, bein' out riding all the time, and all the time on the lookout, and bein' the kind of a shot he is, it seemed pretty sure that finally he would get 'em.

"When he did get his shot, it was just by accident. He was hunting a big black-tail deer, creeping along the ground and trying to get within shot, when he saw one of the black half-breeds standing on a sand-hill nearly a mile away. He watched him, and after a time the wolf lay down. Then Lute began to hunt him, and I expect he did some mighty careful hunting. Anyhow, he told me it took him a couple of hours to get to the foot of the hill they were on. The hill was steep, and you may guess something about what it is to climb one of those steep hills in that sand. I reckon Lute was about out of wind when he stopped to get his breath. He stood looking toward the top of the hill, when the old mother wolf, who was lying in a sand blow-out, raised up and stood with her fore feet on the bank looking down at him.

"There wasn't any time to think, and he jerked his rifle to his shoulder and fired, and she disappeared. He scrambled up the hill as fast as he could, and when he got to where he could look over, he could see the two black wolves going down the side of the hill. They were jumping up on their hind legs and looking back for their mother.