Enos A. Mills

Nine healthy coyote puppies were playing in the sunshine with all their might. After days of searching I had at last discovered their den. The puppies had not noticed me and I enjoyed watching their training for the game of life. They wrestled, played at fighting, rolled over and over, bit at one another’s feet and tails, and occasionally all mixed in one merry heap.

Their mother came along the hillside above the den. She walked back and forth on the skyline where I could not miss seeing her. Then she came nearer and passed within thirty or forty feet of me. I kept my eyes upon the puppies and pretended not to see their mother. She turned and passed still closer to me. This time she was limping badly on one forefoot and holding up one hind foot. She was making every effort to have me follow her—to lure me away from her home and her puppies.

A moving object down the slope caught the attention of the puppies. As soon as they made out what this was they scampered racing away. Going only a short distance, they sat down, as though at a dead line. Evidently there is a small zone of safety surrounding the den beyond which the puppies are not allowed to go. At this moment Mr. Coyote appeared, from down the slope, with a jack rabbit in his jaws. He was coming quickly along and had not suspected my presence. How eagerly the puppies watched him! As he came up they commenced snapping and tearing at the rabbit he carried. Mrs. Coyote hastily joined them, and all scurried into the den. The following morning the den was deserted. It is common for coyotes to move their puppies promptly to another den when they think they are discovered.

Photo. by Enos A. Mills

A Beaver Canal

Another mother coyote decoyed me into watching a vacant den. Her children were in another den a quarter of a mile away. In carrying food to them she went out of her way to enter the vacant den, then left it by a different entrance and proceeded by a circuitous route to the waiting puppies. Both of the old coyotes hunt and carry food to the den for their puppies.

Repeatedly I have seen a mother or a father coyote lure a hunter or trapper away from the den or spot where the young were hidden. I have also seen one or more coyotes stay near a crippled coyote as though taking care of him, and endeavour to lure away any hunter who approached.

Someone has said that a beautiful coyote hide wraps up more deviltry than any other hide of equal dimensions stretched over an animated form. His successful cunning and his relentless ways of getting a living cause him to be cursed by those whom he plunders. But he is always interesting and appears to enjoy life even in the midst of lean times.

The coyote is the Clown of the Prairie. He is wise, cynical, and a good actor. He has a liking for action and adventure. He really is a happy fellow, something of a philosopher and full of wit.

I have seen a coyote look at a deserted and tumble-down building and strike an attitude of mockery at the failures of man. Sometimes he catches a chicken while the family is away; and, carrying this to the back porch to feast, leaves the unconsumed feathers there. Two nights a coyote raided a settler’s hen roost and each time left the feathers near my camp. I was ordered out of the country!

Once I tried for more than half a day to get a picture of a coyote. He appeared to know that I was unarmed and harmless, and allowed me to approach moderately close, but not quite close enough. At last he laid down by a cliff and pretended to go to sleep. When I came almost near enough to photograph him he rose, looked at me, yawned as though bored, and ran away. A common prank of his is to lure a dog from a camp or ranch to a point where the coyote is safe, then to pounce upon the dog and chase him back in confusion.

As I sat one day on a hillside, watching the antics of calves among a herd of cattle, two coyotes trotted into the scene. They caused no alarm and did not receive even a second look from the cattle. Slowly and knowingly the coyotes walked here and there among them, as though selecting a victim or looking for one whose days were numbered. Near me was a crippled old cow that plainly did not have long to live. The instant the coyotes came within view of her one of them sat down, plainly satisfied with the outlook; and the other laid down with the easy, contemptuous air of a cynic before a waiting feast. To add to the effectiveness of the scene a number of magpies, which usually are watchful enough to arrive first at any promised feast, joined them.

On an Arizona desert I saw two coyotes walking along apparently without any heads. What scheme are they up to now? was my first thought as I stood looking at this magic scene. But off on the desert was a suspended lake mirage. Two coyotes appeared just beneath the near edge, their heads completely lost in the mirage, their headless bodies walking—a most startling exhibit, even for a desert.

The coyote has a peculiar mental make-up. He has all the keen alertness of the wolf and the audacious cunning of the fox. His fox-like face at times takes on a serio-comic expression. At other times he has a most expectant look as he sits and watches, or listens, with head tilted on one side and sharp ears pointing slightly forward. He has actions, characteristics, and attitudes that make him excel even the fox for the purpose of fable making.

There are numerous Indian myths concerning the coyote; in fact, he takes the place the fox has in primitive European folklore. Numerous tribes pay the coyote tribute in daily food. Their belief accredits him with the audacity and the cunning to seize fire from forbidden sources and deliver this enduring comfort to the fireless red men. Among most Indian tribes he is regarded with favour. Many Indian dogs are descendants of the coyote.

The coyote is a small, fleet-footed, keen-witted animal, tawny or yellowish brown in colour. He is, of course, a wolf; but he is only a little more than half the weight of his large relative, the gray wolf. Originally he was scattered over most of North America. Though scientifically classified into a number of species and sub-species, they are very much alike in colour and habit.

The home range of the coyote is rarely ten miles across, except on the margin of mountains where sometimes it is twice this. In many localities a pair will have three or four square miles to themselves; in other localities there are a few pairs to the square mile.

Coyotes probably mate for life. A pair commonly hunt together, though each often hunts alone. They are said to live from eight to fifteen years. I kept track of one for eight years, who appeared mature when I first met him and showed no signs of decay when I saw him last.

The coyote usually lies up in a den when not hunting; but at times he simply hides in underbrush or in ravines. A den I measured lay nearly four feet below the surface and had a length of fourteen feet. It was expanded into a room-like place near the farther end and there were a number of small pockets extending from it. The den may be made by the coyotes themselves or it may be the den of a badger which they have re-shaped. Occasionally they take advantage of cave-like places between large stones. The den commonly is in an out-of-the-way place and the entrance to it is concealed by stones or bushes.

Coyotes often have three or more dens. A change is probably helpful in keeping down parasites, and I am certain that their use of more than one den confuses and defeats their pursuers. Many a man has dug into a coyote’s den and found it empty when only the day before he had seen it used by the entire family.

The young are born in April or May, in litters of from five to ten. They grow rapidly and in a few weeks show all the cunning ways and playfulness of puppies. When safe they spend hours outside the den, wrestling, digging, or sleeping in the sun. In two dens I examined each youngster had a separate compartment or pocket for himself; and, judging from claw marks, probably he had dug this himself. In July the youngsters are taken out into the world, where they learn the tactics of wresting a living from the fields.

The coyote is a swift runner and easily outstrips the gray wolf. The average horse cannot catch him and probably the greyhound is the only dog that can overtake him. Swift as he is, however, the jack rabbit and the antelope leave him behind.

Coyotes often hunt in pairs and occasionally in packs. When hunting in pairs one will leisurely hunt, or pretend to be hunting, in plain view of a prairie dog or other animal. While this active coyote holds the attention of the victim the other slips close and rushes or springs upon it. They often save their legs and their lives with their brains; they succeed by stealth instead of sheer physical endurance.

Antelopes, rabbits, and other animals are frequently captured by several coyotes taking part in the chase. Commonly they scatter in a rude circle and run in relays. Those near the place toward which the animal is running lie in concealment close to its probable course. As the victim weakens all unite to pull it down and are present at the feast.

They are not always successful, however. I have seen jack rabbits break the circle and escape across the prairie. Two pursuing coyotes quickly gave up the race with an antelope when it turned at a sharp angle and struck off at increased speed. A deer, which several coyotes had frightened into running, suddenly stopped in a little opening surrounded by bushes. Here he put up such an effective and successful fight that two of the attackers received broken ribs and the others drew off.

An antelope on the Wyoming plains started several times for water, but, without reaching it, turned and hurried back to the starting place. Going closer I discovered that she had a young kid with her. This was being watched by a near-by coyote. A part of the time he laid near. If the antelope drove him off he at once returned and paced back and forth dangerously near the kid. Some animal had already secured one of her young, and I fear that the coyote wore the mother out and feasted on the other.

The gray wolf often kills wantonly—kills for fun, when food is not needed. Rarely, I think, does the coyote do this. In times of plenty he becomes an actor and gives plays and concerts; but if fate provides an excess of food he is likely to cache or store it. A miner lost half a sheep from his pack horse. Half an hour later I went along his trail and discovered a coyote burying a part of this, covering it by means of his nose, like a dog. He had eaten to roundness and had nothing in his outlines to suggest the lean wolf.

He eats about everything that has any food value—meat, fruit, grasses, and vegetables in all stages of greenness and ripeness. He has the bad habit of killing young big game; capturing birds and robbing their nests; raiding barnyards for chickens, ducks, and turkeys; and sometimes he feeds on sheep and occasionally kills a calf. Often he catches a fish or frog, eats roots, tender shoots, or has a feast of fruit or melons.

The coyote is wise enough to keep near the trail and camp of hunters and trappers. Here he gets many a rich meal of camp scraps and cast-off parts of killed animals. I have known him to travel with a mountain lion and to follow the trail of a bear. In certain localities the chipmunks retire in autumn to their holes, fat and drowsy, and temporarily fall into a heavy sleep. Before the earth is frozen they are energetically dug out by the coyotes. But this is only one of the many bits of natural history known and made use of by the coyote.

But the coyote’s food habits are not all bad. At some time in every locality, and in a few localities at all times, he has a high rank in economic biology, and may be said to coÖperate silently with the settlers in eradicating damaging pests. He is especially useful in fruit-growing sections. He is at the head of the list of mouse-catching animals. He is a successful ratter, and is the terror of prairie dogs, ground squirrels, and rabbits.

If scavengers are helpful, then he is a useful member of society. He has a liking for carcasses, no matter how smelly or ancient. I once saw a coyote feeding on a dead mule along with ravens and buzzards. He did appear to be a trifle ashamed of his companions; for, though he seeks adventure and is almost a soldier of fortune, he has a pride that does not sanction indiscriminate associates.

He is commonly considered a coward; but this does not appear to be a proper classification of his characteristics. Being shy and cautious is the very price of his existence. He displays both courage and fighting blood whenever there is anything to be gained by such display. Rarely is it cowardly to avoid being a target for the deadly long-range rifle or to slip away from an attack by dogs at overwhelming odds. Recklessness and rashness do not constitute bravery.

The coyote constantly uses his wits. In a Utah desert I often saw him watching the flights of buzzards. If the buzzards came down, the coyote made haste to be among those at the feast. In returning from a far-off expedition on plain or desert he seems to be guided by landmarks; appears to recognize striking objects seen before and to use them as guide posts.

That he is mentally above the average animal is shown in the quickness with which he adjusts himself to changes or to the demands of his environment. If constantly pursued with gun, dogs, and traps he becomes most wary; but if no one in the neighbourhood attempts to swat him he shows himself at close range, and is often bold.

Near Canon City, Colorado, an apple grower showed me a three-legged coyote that used his orchard. The coyote had been about for four or five years and was quite tame. He was fed on scraps and was wise enough to stay in the small zone of safety round the house.

But the coyote never forgets. His keen senses and keen wits appear to be always awake, even though surroundings have long been friendly. For a time I stayed at an isolated cattle ranch upon which hunting was forbidden. But one day a man carrying a gun strolled into the field. While he was still a quarter of a mile away the coyotes became watchful and alarmed. To me the appearance of the man and gun differed little from that of the men carrying fishing poles; but the wise coyotes either scented or could distinguish the gun. Presently all hurried away. While the gunner remained, at least one of the coyotes sat where he could overlook the field. But all came strolling back within a few minutes after the gunner left.

In western Wyoming, not far from a ranch house, were three small hills. On these the wolves and coyotes frequently gathered and howled. One day a number of traps were set on each of these hills. That evening the wolves and coyotes had their usual serenade; but they gathered in the depressions between the hills. Quickly they adjusted themselves to the new conditions, with “Safety first!” always the determining factor.

The coyote has a remarkable voice. It gives him a picturesque part. Usually his spoken efforts are in the early evening; more rarely in early morning. Often a number, in a pack or widely separated, will engage in a concert. It is a concert of clowns; in it are varying and changing voices; all the breaks in the evening song are filled with startling ventriloquistic effects. The voice may be thrown in many directions and over varying distances at once, so that the sounds are multiplied, and the efforts of two or three coyotes seem like those of a numerous and scattered pack.

However, the coyote uses his voice for other things than pleasure. He has a dialect with which he signals his fellows; he warns them of dangers and tells of opportunities; he asks for information and calls for assistance. He is constantly saving himself from danger or securing his needed food by coÖperating with his fellows. These united efforts are largely possible through his ability to express the situation with voice and tongue.

Through repetition a coyote’s signals are ofttimes relayed for miles. A leader mounts a lonely butte and proclaims his orders over the silent prairie. This proclamation is answered by repeating coyotes a mile or more away. Farther away, at all points of the compass, it is repeated by others. And so, within a fraction of a minute, most of the coyotes within a radius of miles have the latest news or the latest orders.

Sometimes the stratum of air above the prairie is a mellow sounding-board; it clearly and unresistingly transmits these wild wireless calls far across the ravines and hills of the prairie. The clear notes of a single coyote often ring distinctly across a radius of two or three miles. When groups congregate in valley concerts all the air between the near and the far-off hills vibrates with the wild, varying melody. This may reach a climax in a roar like the wind, then break up into a many-voiced yelping.

I love to hear the shoutings and the far-off cries of the coyote. These elemental notes are those of pure gladness and wildness. To me they are not melancholy. Their rollicking concerts remind me of the merry efforts of live boys.

The calls of the coyote have a distinct place in the strangeness and wildness of the Great Plains.