In size, it is just midway between the large wolf and fox. With much of the appearance of the former, it combines all the sagacity of the latter. It is usually of a greyish colour, lighter or darker, according to circumstances, and often with a tinge of cinnamon or brown.
As regards its cunning, the fox is “but a fool to it.” It cannot be trapped. Some experiments made for the purpose, show results that throw the theory of instinct quite into the background. It has been known to burrow under a “dead fall,” and drag off the bait without springing the trap. The steel-trap it avoids, no matter how concealed; and the cage-trap has been found “no go.”
Farther illustrations of the cunning of the prairie-wolf might be found in its mode of decoying within reach the antelopes and other creatures on which it preys. Of course this species is as much fox as wolf, for in reality a small wolf is a fox, and a large fox is a wolf. To the traveller and trapper of the prairie regions, it is a pest. It robs the former of his provisions—often stealing them out of his very tent; it unbaits the traps of the latter, or devours the game already secured in them.
It is a constant attendant upon the caravans or travelling-parties that cross prairie-land. A pack of prairie-wolves will follow such a party for hundreds of miles, in order to secure the refuse left at the camps. They usually he down upon the prairie, just out of range of the rifles of the travellers; yet they do not observe this rule always, as they know there is not much danger of being molested. Hunters rarely shoot them, not deeming their hides worth having, and not caring to waste a charge upon them. They are more cautious when following a caravan of California emigrants, where there are plenty of “greenhorns” and amateur-hunters ready to fire at anything.
Prairie-wolves are also constant attendants upon the “gangs” of buffalo. They follow these for hundreds of miles—in fact, the outskirts of the buffalo herd are, for the time being, their home. They he down on the prairie at a short distance from the buffaloes, and wait and watch, in hopes that some of these animals may get disabled or separated from the rest, or with the expectation that a cow with her new-dropped calf may fall into the rear. In such cases, the pack gather round the unfortunate individual, and worry it to death. A wounded or superannuated bull sometimes “falls out,” and is attacked. In this case the fight is more desperate, and the bull is sadly mutilated before he can be brought to the ground. Several wolves, too, are laid hors de combat during the struggle.
The prairie traveller may often look around him without seeing a single wolf; but let him fire off his gun, and, as if by magic, a score of them will suddenly appear. They start from their hiding-places, and rush forward in hopes of sharing in the produce of the shot.
At night, they enliven the prairie-camp with their dismal howling, although most travellers would gladly dispense with such music. Their note is a bark like that of a terrier-dog repeated three times, and then prolonged into a true wolf’s howl. I have heard farm-house dogs utter a very similar bark. From this peculiarity, some naturalists prefer calling them the “barking wolf,” and that (Lupus latrans) is the specific appellation given by Say, who first described them.
Prairie-wolves have all the ferocity of their race, but no creature could be more cowardly. Of course no one fears them under ordinary circumstances, but they have been known to make a combined attack upon persons disabled, and in severe weather, when they themselves were rendered unusually savage by hunger, as already stated. But they are not regarded with fear either by traveller or hunter; and the latter disdains to waste his charge upon such worthless game.
Our guide, Ike, was an exception to this rule. He was the only one of his sort that shot prairie-wolves, and he did so “on sight.” I believe if it had been the last bullet in his pouch, and an opportunity had offered of sending it into a prairie-wolf, he would have despatched the leaden missile. We asked him how many he had killed in his time. He drew a small notched stick from his “possible sack,” and desired us to count the notches upon it. We did so. There were one hundred and forty-five in all.
“You have killed one hundred and forty-five, then?” cried we, astonished at the number.