The Yellow Peril

The Yellow Peril By Orville S. Johnson

The southern part of Utah abounds in many kinds of wild animal life, among which is the most fierce of all American animal species. The puma, or so-called cougar, is at one and the same time, the greatest coward, and the coldest murderer of America. Quite by chance one summer, I discovered a den of pumas. There were two kittens and their parents. Their home was a large cave which ran about fifteen feet into a limestone ledge. When I came upon the place, the youngsters were taking a sunbath in front of the cave. I had barely enough time to take a mental picture of them. One was almost twice as big as the other, and slightly darker in color; being tawny yellow, with what appeared to be brown strips of ribbon along his back and down his front legs. About a week later I learned from one of my hunter friends that he had poisoned a big male cougar, by using as a bait a colt that had been very recently killed by the cougars. He said there were two in the killing job, and the one that had escaped eating the bait was probably a female, because not far from where the killing had taken place were two kittens' trails, merging with that of the smaller of the two matured ones. I visited the den again and found it deserted. I became convinced that the father was dead. Especially, when I myself saw the trails of two kittens, and what one would naturally think was their mother's trail, going side by side through the canyon in which was the cave-home. When next I was reminded of the family of cougars, I was at a sheep camp. Hanging upon a tree was the skin of a fullgrown, but small cougar. The herder informed me that it was a female, and that she had had two kittens following her when he shot her; but both had escaped. He described one of the kittens as being much larger than the other. It was probably accident, but I decided that that particular family was getting more than its share of hard luck. I was, further, convinced of this when I heard, upon reaching home, that a pair of fox hounds and their master, Duffin, had captured a young cougar, with which had been another larger one, that had somehow escaped. I began to wonder, if what one

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of the leading naturalists of the world had said, was not more than half true. At the time he made the statement I was quite sure he was partly wrong, for it seemed to me impossible that "AJ1 animal life ended tragically." But here was an example, and I began to wonder how the remaining member of the cougar family would die. It had certainly had a great deal of experience with man. Perhaps it would develop enough cunning to escape him. I knew that the survival of a wolf depended almost entirely upon how well it learned to cope with man. The animals must have ceased long ago to count their other enemies as very harmful. Man has developed so many instruments of destruction that they have to learn how to escape each new one, before they can hope to survive. If all animal life ends tragically, man is the cause of ninety-nine per cent of those endings. For two years I heard reports of an unusually large cougar in the vicinity of the big cave-home. Somehow or other I felt that it must be the one I had seen, with brown strips down the center of its back and down the sides of its front legs. Of course, all male pumas have those markings to some degree, but this particular one was exceptionally well marked, according to one report that came. The one who gave the report was a sheepherder of some renown, who took turns with the one who had shot the mother cougar some time before. He had seen the big cougar upon a moonlight night, as the would-be murderer had entered the closely packed, frightened herd, slugging right and left with huge paws that nearly always meant death to any luckless sheep that chanced to get hit. The cougar does not stand upon its hind feet to hit its heavy blows, but delivers them with its right front paw as he walks, almost leisurely, through a herd of frightened sheep. The herder who saw the cougar killing sheep by moonlight was called Mack. And he was the proud owner of a pair of stag hounds. They were something like the fox hounds, but always impressed me as being more fierce. He boasted that he would get the big cougar, even if he had only wounded it upon the night it had killed twenty sheep. Then, as if to give the boaster more reason to follow up his boast, one of the sheep-men brought news that was really startling. Upon a dark, rainy night, when the herder had been enjoying the shelter of his tent, two hundred sheep had been killed by a single cougar. The herder was firm in his statement that it had been done so noiselessly that it did not awaken him. The tracks had been identified as the same size and shape as the ones that had been left by the cougar Mack had wounded. Thenext day, a company of men were gathered around a

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large, hand-made poster, announcing five hundred dollars' reward for the scalp of the "yellow peril." Then followed a brief description of the cougar that I had become so interested in. Before noon, other sheep-men came, and added sums to the reward that brought the total to a thousand dollars for the capture of one cougar. Mack hesitated about going out with his hounds, because he knew that a cougar will fight two hounds, unless the man is there to kill him, as soon as he is brought to bay. Mack acknowledged that the chances were about even that he would loose. Then came Duffin. Duffin was the owner of the fox hounds, and the owner of the young cougar's pelt before mentioned in this story. He was also the herder who had killed the mother cougar. He chalelnged Mack to a trial for the big prize. "If you fail, I will my dogs." Mack accepted. try; if you succeed, I will sell you The following evening Mack returned without liis dogs. His face was a trifle sad, but not so much on account of the loss of the dogs, for there were plenty more as good, so he said, but because of his failure to get the yellow peril. And there were some who said that he was sad because Duffin could keep his hounds. Mack had always wanted those two hounds. But Duffin thought more of them than he did of anything else in the world; so people said. Duffin was a bachelor of forty and had been a herder and hunter all his life; so people were not so far wrong as one might at first think. He did love his dogs more than most things, and often sacrificed little pleasures for himself, for the sake of the dogs. He tried to get two more dogs to go with his, when Mack came back with his story of what had happened to his hounds, but there Were no dogs to be had, and Duffin felt that he was obliged to act up to his proposal, so he went after the yellow peril. Three days passed, and almost a fourth before Duffin returned. His dogs were not with him. His face was firmly set with one grim resolve. He bought some necessities for the chase and departed to revenge the death of his two pals. It was a month later when I learned the rest of the history of the yellow peril, but it was about as follows: Duffin started with a cow pony which he rode, and another horse which he led. Upon its back was a pack of necessities. At first it had been easy to follow the big cougar's trail, but about the second day, the puma seemed to sense his danger and took to the ledges and rocks. It was about the third day when Duffin was forced to abandon his horses and take up the trail on foot. Upon his back he carried those things he felt were absolute necessities, and turned the horses loose to go where they pleased. For a week he had followed the trail slowly because of the

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difficulty of seeing it upon the hard ground over which it led. Then it began to get fresher and plainer, and he was able to follow faster. But he was out of food. Game was not very scarce, however, so he kept himself in fairly good condition bodily. But whenever he had to shoot something to eat, he knew that it put his chances for the capture of the cougar farther off. Once or twice during the chase, he came upon freshly killed game that the cougar had feasted upon. These he used for his own meals, when there was ample evidence that the kill had been made but the night before, or later. These little meals were not as palatable as he would have liked, but preferable t shooting, and alarming the cougar. It was about the end of the second week when he came across the freshly-made trail of a herd of sheep going back toward his home. He hesitated for some time before he took up the pougar's trail again. And it is probable that he would not have done so then, had not the beast howled so mournfully that Duffin felt sure that it must be about ready to give up. It was the first time he had had a positive sign of the whereabouts of the cougar. And he naturally felt a thrill at the nearness of his quarry. The cry had been low and mournful, like the wail- — ing of a west wind on a stormy night. It made him afraid just a little, but not enough to keep him back from the battle he expected when the last final struggle came. He had had to economize upon food for a few meals, on account of ammunition running low. He might have to fight the battle without a gun, if the chase lasted more than a week longer. Then it started to rain. A slow, dripping rain, that soaks one through and through, and seems to have no ending. The trail led toward a grove of yellow pines; the first big trees that had been encountered in the chase. Duffin didn't like trees because of the cougar's habit of climbing them. He had never seen the yellow peril in a tree, or anywhere else as far as that goes, but he had seen plenty of signs of him, both as having been in trees and upon the ground. So, going through the grove of yellow pines, with the silent fog rolling around, was a little "ticklish." Any moment the yellow peril might bound from a tree and crush the man to the ground. But the day slowly melted into dusky silence, and nothing unusual happened. He slept that night in a tree. Or, rather, he spent the night there, for it would hardly be correct to say he slept. As morning began to show signs of approach, Duffin began to feel very cold. He was wet, and the rain had turned to just damp fog. He started to descend the tree in order to take some exercise. Just as he reached the ground, a low growl reached his ears. It was very low and fierce, and close. He gripped his gun in his

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hands and looked all around for the eyes that he knew were somewhere visible. It was so gray, however, that the growl came again before he located its source. Twenty steps away, two red balls were glowing. Dimly he could make out the outline of a big puma, crouched, waiting for him to try to escape. A puma rarely springs from a point where it first crouches, as a cat does, but reaches its victim with a number of quick leaps. As it leaps it screeches, and generally its victim becomes so paralyzed with fear that it dies a quick death. Duffin knew this, and quickly took the only chance of escape he had. He stepped behind a tree and fired at the eyes. A dim outline of a bounding figure racing away from him caused his breath once more to begin its regular course into his lungs and out. When the day finally did come, it was still foggy, though the rain had almost ceased. Duffin was damp but cheerful. There were blotches of red upon the trail of the yellow peril. He followed the trail eagerly until the low, mournful cry stopped him again. It was not far away. And a few minutes later he caught sight of his quarry in a tree. Not enough time to shoot was given him, however; so he just ran to the tree and looked at the red stain that had recently been made. Suddenly he felt sorry for the big puma. It has had such a short life of peril, that what it had done seemed to be justified. Robbed of mother, father, and mate, it felt that it had a right to all the revenge it could get. But it was too late to go back now. The cougar was wounded and close. And Duffin's two pals were dead, and their killer was not far away. He wondered if the poor animal ever had dreams. If it did, they must be dreadful, sometimes. Everybody that had ever had a chance had given the cougar a hit. He had been shot, chased by hounds, and his food poisoned. Yet he had survived until now. Duffin was walking slowly toward the place where the low, mournful sounds were rising. It sounded so much like an Indian's death chant that he wondered if the puma did not sense the coming events. For the end of one of them was certainly near. Duffin was almost afraid it would be his. He — slowly counted his remaining shells. There were ten plenty for a close fight, but not for a long one, and he was sure that, once convinced that it had reached a crisis, the cougar would turn and he would have to begin shooting then, even if the "peril" was three hundred yards away. And he would have to keep shooting as fast as he could, until he hit that big, yellow body; or that big body would become a thing of fury, and would test its power upon his body. He could see those powerful paws again, as they slapped a sheep that stood in the way. And then he became aware that he had reached a point overlooking a sort of peninsula. He

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was upon a low ridge, and directly beneath him was a deep canyon. The walls of the canyon were two hundred feet of ragged limestone. And the yellow peril was not two hundred yards away, moving slowly out upon that little point, to his left. Once out upon that point, and there would be no escape for the weaker. A drop into the canyon would mean a mangled corpse for either. If the cougar lost to the man, it would be as bad, and if the man lost the fight, it would mean a fierce feast for the beast. Duffin weighed the consequences as he walked swiftly, for the narrow neck of land that marked the beginning of the point. The cougar had failed, so far, to sense its danger. It was walking slowly out to its fame or fate. Just as Duffin came to the neck of land, the cougar reached the point of the peninsula and turned. It saw him and sensed its fate. It did not start toward him, however, as he had expected, but crouched calmly beside a limestone boulder and waited. It was a hundred yards to the "peril" when Duffin began his fire. He was so nervous that most of his shots went wild. But as he approached his last shot, he became more calm, and one of the bullets hit its mark. There was a wild screech, and a yellow body bounded into the air; then came the sound of a rolling stone hitting the jagged edges of the canyon wall, as it pounded its way to the bottom. Suddenly there was a dead thud of a soft body hitting the bottom of the canyon, and all was still. The yellow peril had found its tragic end, and it had been the most tragic of all, as the life of it had been the most fierce of all the little puma family that I had seen that day in the mouth of the cave. Duffin did not bring the scalp home, but people know his story is true now, for the yellow peril has not been heard of since that grim chase began.