--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Huff, Lee collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 18 number: 12 published: 1915-10 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Huff, Lee, "Joe’s Coyote," *Improvement Era* 18, no. 12 (October 1915): 1053–1059.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera18012unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera18012unse start_page: 1053 end_page: 1059 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1915-10) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera18012unse publication_year: 1915 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1915, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Joe’s Coyote Joe's Coyote A Thrilling Animal Story for Boys BY LEE HUFF [This story arouses sympathy for "the under dog," and awakens admiration for his persistence and grit. It was written by a young man who evidently possesses both of these admirable qualities in his own make-up. His college teacher writes that he has kept himself in school three years, by his own work, besides assisting his brother. The persistent win. The laughter and jeers of friends at their fail- ures are but incentives to greater, more persistent effort. — Editors.] A light frost fell, and with it came the coyotes. Joe had never seen a coyote and his interest was aroused. A lazy, white moon swung over the horizon, quenching the campfire's glow, and flooding the plain with a ghostly glory. From far away in the east came a melancholy ki-yi, and Joe rose up and listened. Suddenly, from nowhere, appeared the first coyote — a splen- did specimen, with yellow-black flanks and a flaunting, feathery tail. He took a clump of sagebrush at a bound, lit on his haunches, pointed his nose to the sky's high dome, and let loose one quiv- ering, ghoulish wail. As has been said, the dog was interested. Something more came to him now — he was stricken dumb. Here was an arrogant stranger, sitting — without invitation — upon Joe's own prairie, dis- turbing the peace in a hateful, alien tongue. The serene cheek of it ! — a devil-lipped ghost-imp, yapping at Joe's moon ! The eyes of the dog swept pathetically the circle of lounging cow-men, until they rested upon his master, and then seemed to enquire as plain as words : "Fer Pat's sake, Mr. Mott, what is it?" A camp humorist kindlv supplied the information : "That thing out there, Joe, is a hell-warbler. Sick 'em, good boy." Joe took the suggestion without hesitation. A noiseless, brown streak extended itself out toward the serenader ; but Mr. Coyote saw it coming, ended his song with a crisp crescendo, and departed in an easy, shambling lope. The dog was too much inter- ested to hear the coarse ripple of amusement following his exit, or to see his master stir a sleeper with his foot and remark, with a widening grin : "Come, git up, Vern, 'n' see the spo't. My dawg's a linkin' after a kiyote." 1054 IMPROVEMENT ERA A more perfect stage could not have been desired : the moon for footlights ; Tongue, a Mexican mongrel, and nineteen cow- men for audience ; a coyote for comedian, and Joe, of course, for the star actor. The chase went south for half a mile, doubled itself, and passed the camp again ; the maneuver being repeated three sep- arate times, apparently for the amusement of the watchers. It was a close chase, too, or seemed to be ; for seldom was the collie's black nose more than a yard behind his victim's flaunting tail ; the coyote, however, looking back for rods at a time. Never before had the wolf-hound breed cropped out so strongly. Joe ran low ; his muscles ached and burned, his eyes bulged out, and he whimpered with savage desire ; yet try as he would, he failed to reduce the lead, while the beast in front reeled off the distances without changing once his shambling lope. But now Joe gained. He moaned aloud with joy. His blood was up, and he went for his enemy in crazy, heart-breaking leaps. Three times he snapped, and bit nothing but his own dry tongue. And then something happened. The coyote, tiring of the game — for he had evidently been playing with Joe — took his foot in his hand and faded away, just as a wood-chuck leaves a weasel. Joe sat down and thought about it. Nothing short of a pis- tol ball could travel like that little yellow dot on the horizon. There was something wrong about the whole affair, but just what it was the half-cur, quarter collie, quarter wolf-hound could not figure out. Possibly the cow-men could enlighten him, or at least offer sympathy. With this false hope at heart, he trotted slowly back, his hot breath coming in labored gasps, his stump tail sag- ging badly. Joe's reception, however, was very different from that he had imagined. Instead of pats and courteous explanation, the cow-boys greeted him with a roar of vulgar laughter, and taunts which stung him to the quick. That dogs are sensitive to ridicule is a fact too well known to admit of argument ; but collies perhaps are the most humanly sensitive of all. And this is where Joe's collie breed cropped out to stay. He was stunned at first. He couldn't take it in ; but when the taunts continued, the dog's already heated blood began to boil. He was ready to fight for his last torn shred of pride — and pride dies hard. He crouched ominiously beside the campfire, his rough hair bristling along his spine, his ugly nose distorted by a still uglier wrinkle. And so it was when Ches Wright, the camp humorist, laughed louder than the rest, and pointed a derisive finger at the fallen hero, the cur side of the dog came out, and Joe forgot to be a gentleman. A rawhide boot is a tough proposition at any time; but Joe JOE'S COYOTE 1055 bit through it, through the trousers beneath and into the flesh and sinew, till his strong teeth met. With a bellow of rage and pain, the humorist pulled out and reached for his Winchester. He was a quick man, too, but John Mott was a fraction quicker. His hand flew out and disturbed the aim, and the bullet went whining out across the desert, impairing the market value of an innocent long- horn. "Drop it!" commanded Mott, then added, by way of pacify- ing argument: "Ef you had made a screamin' ass of yoself, as Joe has, and we'd laffed at you, burn me if you wouldn't want to cut our throats." This was logic all right, but Ches failed to see it. He was a little like the clog — part yellow himself. His fingers tingled on the trigger of the smoking gun, while he argued his death-claim with a quivering chin. "The cur — he's chawed a piece outer me laig." Mott answered promptly and heartlessly : "Well, charge the so' place up to profit an' loss, 'n' run 'n' tell yo' ma, or I'll bloody you nose." Ches's nose had been bloodied once before, and memory lin- gered ; so he dropped the discussion in a Christian spirit, wrapped his leg up with a whisky-soaked rag, and strove to forget the incident. So much for the man's wound. The dog had received a se- verer one — deeper and more pitiless. A bull's eye had been made of his vanity, and only death or the coyote's blood could soothe the pain away. Next morning he tried to persuade himself that it had all been a dream ; but Ches limped, and a dog's heart doesn't ache so fiercely because of dreams. The day dragged on and on, but i cached a close at last. A purple twilight came sneaking over the West, deeper, then darker, till once more the lazy moon arose, and again the campfire paled — a lonely, flickering blotch on a vast prairie. And then fell a silence — God's silence, — which even a whisper mars, like a curse on a woman's lips. From out the east a faint yap! yap! rose and sang again. Joe heard it, and strove to give no sign ; but his hair would rise, and his lips roll back from his yellow fangs. Silence again, more holy than before ; then another ghost-beast leaped the sagebrush, squatted and profaned the night with a nerve-searching, driveling howl. "Hi. Joe !" said a merry-hearted gentleman, "there's yer frien' callin' of you ; run along, son, 'n' play with him." The suggestion was received with much laughter, and the dog arose and went; not toward the cause of his degradation, but deep into the silent cattle herd, where his soul — if dogs have souls = — was emptied of all emotions, save hate and shame alone. 1056 IMPROVEMENT ERA The nights which followed were, to Joe, a living death. With fateful punctuality the "hell-warbler" jumped the sagebrush and nightly began his haunting serenade. He seemed to jeer at Joe, and drove the dog to the verge of madness. He called to him by names unbearable, and dared him to a chase. Joe did try it once more, on the sly, just to prove to himself the utter absurdity of it. Thereafter he resorted to strategy and laid for his enemy, but without avail. These tactics seemed to amuse the cow-men vastly. Each sad failure, though wormwood to Joe, was a new delight to them. Somehow thev fancied the words fun and brutality to be synony- mous ; and instead of calling for the dog's parlor tricks, of which Joe had a varied repertoire, they took to tormenting him past all endurance. Indeed, if the truth must be confessed, Joe had no heart for f-irks. Even the ace and deuce-spot seemed to have lost their charm. The dog grew thin and hollow-eyed, moaning and bat- tling in his sleep, when false dreams gave his enemy into his jaws. The warbler next took to calling in the day-time, and bring- ing his friends and family with him. He would glide into camp, when the men were out, and steal something, then slink away un- harmed, pursued onlv by the raw profanity of the cook and a badly-aimed pistol-ball. Joe loathed the intruder, but was ashamed of his own ineffi- ciency. No longer did he wait now for the cow-men's nightly jests. At the first faint ki-yi he would rise from the camp-fire and slink into outer darkness, to hide his face from the sight of man. Joe's cup of woe was full — almost, but not quite ; for an- other sorrow awaited him : his master went away without taking leave. John Mott rode off in the night on a hurry call to the Book mountains, while the dog was stalking his hateful enemy many miles from camp. Of course, there may have been a trail, and Joe was quite capable of following it ; but a heavy rain was falling, which is bad for trails ; and when a man in the West simply goes away — well, none but fools, or sheriffs follow after. And now Joe was alone indeed. For a time even the coyote was forgotten in a profound grief for the one square man who had offered pats, low-spoken words, and a sympathetic eye. Shame and bitterness for a dog are hard to bear; but grief for a loved, one, whisked perhaps into the Great Unknown, is a pang undreamed of by man. Tt rends him, while his dog heart slowly breaks, and he too slips awav to the dog's happv hunting ground — wh^ knows? — and licks a^ain a master's spirit-hand. Taking advantage of Joe's dejection, the Mexican dog was of late laosing into arrogance. Joe thrashed him soundly, but got no pleasure out of it ; thus proving to himself that his case JOE'S COYOTE 1057 was bad indeed. Then he wandered away on the prairie alone — and made a find. It wasn't much in itself — a calf-skin tobacco- pouch — but it had belonged to John Mott. Joe nosed it eagerly, and hope came trickling back to him. And now the collie stock cropped out again, assisted by the strain of the cur. Joe noted the distant camp, drew an imaginary line between it and his find, and knew that his master's broncho had traveled north. This was enough. The ugly ears lay back, and the long limbs stretched themselves into a swinging stride. Straight as an arrow toward the pole-star sped the faithful creature, while his heart beat high with a bounding, hungering joy. Somewhere ahead of him his master waited and behind him lay the camp, the jeering cow-men, and a gang of mad coyotes yapping at the stars. Then suddenly Joe stopped — so suddenly that he slid. For a long, long time he sat motionless upon his haunches ; at last he arose, looked northward with one wistful glance, then trotted back to camp, depositing the calf-skin tobacco pouch on his master's bunk. Now such fidelity in a human might be called heroic ; in a cur it has no name. Joe's miseries settled down on him again ; for there again was a brazen warbler, defiantly near the camp. But things cannot remain black forever, and even a dog's grief comes to an end. Joe celebrated his change of heart, by giving Tonque another thrashing, and this time he enjoyed it to the very marrow ; also, he ate a square meal, and began to study the habits of coyotes from a scientific point of view. "Say, Joe," said Frisco Jim, with a greasy smile, "why don't you put some salt on yo' cousin's tail ?" Joe passed up the jest or implied insult without apparent no- tice, for now he had "other fish to fry." To be explicit, he went out nightly and lay down among the long-horns, hoping the fumes of their smoking bodies might disguise his scent. Then, if Mr. Coyote chanced to wander carelessly among the cattle, as he did at times, then — perhaps ! And the "warbler" did come — only to laugh, however, as one who derides a tenderfoot ; and shortly after he "bored a hole" in the wind with Joe dropping disgracefully behind. This was disappointing, at least from the dog's side of it ; but Joe's next encounter proved to be of greater interest to all con- cerned, and these were many. Joe made a wide detour, assaulted the enemy in his rear, and got him pocketed in a bunch of sleeping cattle. This was rather well done. The coyote's only roa 1 to hope lay directly across the backs of several hundred steers ; a perilous path, at best, for the beasts rose up in unexpected places, thus causing the race track to become lumpy and uncertain. Long-horns are peaceful creatures, as a rule ; but think, my friend ! If you yourself were wakened suddenly from dreams of 1058 IMPROVEMENT ERA cuds and luscious grass by a charging coyote and a whimpering, foaming dog, perhaps you would look at things from a bovine point of view. At any rate, the cattle made progress difficult and uncertain, and once the race was all but run. A big steer tossed the coyote fifteen or twenty feet ; but another one tossed Joe at the same instant, so honors were even, so to speak. And now, indeed, the tumult was on. The terror-stricken cattle, fleeing from they knew not what, surged backward bel- lowing; then in frenzy rushed round and round in a swiftly con- verging circle, tightening into a sort of whirlpool knot, and known technically upon the plains as a "cattle mill." In daylight a "mill" is dreaded. At night — well, ask the cow-men. "Wake up, boys!" screamed Ranger Ed, as he ran for his horse that was staked near camp. "Joe's millin' the meat fer to ketch his ki-yote !" Now, whether or not it was Joe's design, is a matter beyond the ken of man ; but this we know : ere sweet tranquility was re- stored again, the cow-punchers had expended their uttermost supply of plainsmen's three P's, which is to say — powder, perspi- ration, and profanity. Yet peace and order did arrive at last ; and when it came, a little brown dot was yapping on the far horizon, while Joe sneaked panting into camp, defeated again but hope- ful. The gods had almost smiled upon him, yet with the cow-men he was less popular than before. Twice more the cow-dog failed — failed by a narrow margin, though, and the days slipped away one by one. Each day was a brooding time for the memories of wrong and ridicule, a time of yearning for the loved-one far away in the north. Each night the coyote took the sagebrush at a flying leap, and stabbed the still- ness with his hideous, ghoulish cry. One day Joe lay thinking — hard. Suddenly he cocked his ears, took a short stroll on the prairie and came back satisfied ; then he waited many days for chance and a cold, propitious wind. It came — an icy whistler — tearing out from the east till the bron- chos backed their tails against it, while the men blasphemed and built a bigger fire. At twilight Joe stole out beside a certain clump of sage-brush, scratching till he made a hole. In this he squatted, his black nose pointing dead toward the blast, the seven senses of his three breeds alert for trouble. Again came night, but without the lazy moon. Again came silence, save for the moaning of the wind ; the wind and one other wail — a faint yap ! yap ! that dribbled from out the east. A horrid note, it was, a very caricature of sound ; yet was it music now to the ears of the waiting dog ! Nearer it came,, and nearer still ; no longer an echo down the wind, but a full, deep-throated challenge, mingled with the nattering of velvet feet It came, a rush — a JOE'S COYOTE 1059 swish — the shadow of a ghost-beast sailing over the sagebrush in a beautiful, unsuspicious leap. It was in fact a perfect leap, high, graceful, and full of deep design ; but it had its disadvantages. In midair the coyote saw his fate beneath him, and tried to turn. He did turn partially — and lit upon his back. In an instant Joe was all over him. Oh the bliss and sublime brutality of that battle in the dark none save Joe alone will ever know. But, oh, the glory of it ! The feel of a scuffling enemy beneath one's paws, when teeth meet teeth through flesh and bone, to lock with a rasping click ! The savage joy of a foeman fighting back at last, instead of run- ning, frothing, tearing in a coward's fury of despair! Then the peace which passeth understanding, when the vicious, cowardly brute lies dead ! Joe closed his eyes and rested. His throat-grip was still upon his prey, a grip which relaxed not once till he had dragged the coyote's body across the plain, and laid it beside the camp-fire, bloody, limp, and still. "He's got 'im, at last," roared the tent humorist, and the camp woke up and cheered. In their night clothes they formed a circle about the victor and his victim. They applauded the grim hero ; but the dog backed away and snarled. He hadn't asked applause. He wanted justice — justice for a dog. The cow-men looked and marveled. A dozen hands reached out to pat the ugly head — for human beasts can honor courage, even in a lesser beast ; but the cur remembered many things. The black nose wrinkled wickedly ; the coarse brown hair rankled along his spine ; he barked one curse of anger and contempt — then turned and left the camp. In vain they whistled after him ; in vain they shouted and called his name. Their voices were lost in the rush of icy wind. The dog was gone. Not once did Joe look back. He settled down into a tireless, swinging trot— measured, monotonous, but having for its goal a loved one waiting somewhere in the trackless north. His soul was satisfied ; his dog heart beat with the peaceful pride of one who has wiped away a stain. There was blood upon his coat — the blood of an enemy — and Joe could look his master in the face. Your Dog is True The sympathy of your dog is unfailing and unobtrusive. If you are sad, so is he ; if you are merry, no one is so willing to leap and laugh with you as he. To your dog, you are never poor, never old ; whether you are rich or poor, he does not care. If all other friends forsake you, he is true. — Farm Journal.