--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Bowers, Wreno collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 25 number: 4 published: 1922-02 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'Wreno Bowers, "Br’er Coyote," *Improvement Era* 25, no. 4 (February 1922): 300–308.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2504unse 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: improvementera2504unse start_page: 300 end_page: 308 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1922-02) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2504unse publication_year: 1922 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 1922, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # Br’er Coyote Br'er Coyote By Wreno Bowers "Long 'go; 0, long time 'go," says the Indian, when the Creator made the fishes, the animals, and the birds, the Great Spirit commanded them all to assemble, in order to assign to each its rank, by distributing bows and arrows. There were arrows of many lengths, the longest to be given to the most powerful, and so on down the scale. So the night previous to the distribution all the fishes, beasts and birds met together. When they had all assembled the Great Spirit said to them, "Now all go to sleep and sleep until morning, then the arrows will be given." They all went to sleep, except the coyote, who determined to stay awake all night and go forth earliest in the morning to secure the longest arrow. He took extraordinary pains to keep awake, but over- reached himself in an excess of ingenuity and fell asleep just before dawn. When he awoke all the other animals were gone and the very shortest arrow was left for him. He took -the arrow and slunk quietly away lest some of the more fortunate animals should see him and have a hearty laugh at his expense. Not long afterwards he came to the Great Spirit with a complaint. "See," he said, "you are good to everybody but me — you gave me the shortest arrow. The panther is strong and tireless; nothing can get away from him — not even the great moose. The bear sleeps all winter, when game is scarce, and in summer eats everything — roots and mice and ants and berries and meat and honey. So he is always full and happy. The lynx has a soft, gray coat that is almost invisible in the woods, summer and winter, so that he moves about like the shadows that play, and can catch what he will. I am weak and always hungry. Now, make me cunning, in order that I might catch what I need to eat." Then the Great Spirit spoke: "You know," said he, "the reason why you got the shortest arrow. It was all through your own selfishness and dishonesty. You did not do as I com- manded. You stayed awake all night plotting against your fellow-creatures when I had told you to sleep. And now you come to me complaining." But the Great Spirit, who was kind to all animals, pitied his weakness and disappointment, and gave him cunning ten times greater than before, so that he is the wisest and wariest of all animals. Nor did the Great Spirit BR'ER COYOTE 301 forget his disobedience and selfishness, for he put a curse upon him, so that he could not sleep. And that is why in the night- time, when the majestic stars are shining, you hear their long whining howl, that seems to express all the hopeless despair of some wretched spirit of the blind aimless wind that whirls away before a storm seeking for something that it has lost, it cannot find. The day was cold, the hills were wet, and the weather was beastly altogether when we drove our sheep onto a favorite bedding ground on the spring range and set our camp. The sheep were cold — having been robbed of their warm woolen overcoats — and weary from the long day's drive so they re- quired but little attention. Some stood or lay shivering on the bed-ground, their backs to the driving rain, while others browsed on the contiguous shrubs and foliage. I built a fire and cooked supper, while Pickard, the fore- man of the herd, belled the horses and put out the sheep salt. Soon we were doing full justice to the most delicious supper of mutton chops a la Cleveland and sourdough bread ever served. When we had finished eating we sat tete-a-tete in the camp wagon, while the rain continued its steady drip on the roof. I had never had any previous experience with sheep, and Pickard was going to leave me in the morning, alone among the lonely hills, with the full responsibility of the herd. So I determined to learn all that I could that night on the art of sheepherding from the old man of experience. He was a French half-breed, and he knew sheepherding thoroughly. He could fortell in the morning, by the actions of his sheep when they left the bed-ground, whether or not they would re- turn of their own accord at night. It was getting dark, and some of the sheep while browsing had strayed some distance from the bed-ground. I picked up my hat and started out to drive them back. "#«," laughed Pickard, "ye lettle ole tenderfoot." Then he thrust his head out of the door and emitted a wild veil. On the instant a stampede overran the bed-ground and sheep rushed in from different directions and huddled to- gether. "Dey's know w'at dat mean all right." Soon the sheep quieted down and the sounds receded and died away. Only an occasional ba-a-a-ah was heard with the dripping of the rain. "Well, the sons-of-guns," I said. What d've think of that! Ain't they well educated, though? Gee! all I'll have to do is stay up here and eat mutton chops and sourdough bread and 302 IMPROVEMENT ERA draw a hundred and fifty big round 'bucks' a month clear sal- ary— and just sit here in the wagon and tell 'em what to do." "Ba oui" objected Pickard. "Maybee you don' t'ink so — not moche. Maybee you seet here an' eet mutteen, purty soon no mutteen to eet." "I'll kill another when this one is gone," I defended. "A herder has the right to kill a mutton whenever he needs one." uBa oui. Maybee dey is non' to keel. Maybee Br'er Coyote has keel dem all firs'." We both laughed. "I'll fix him," I said, as I reached over on the bed and picked up my Savage rifle. "I don' know. Dat Br'er Coyote ver' queek. Sometam' you ver' slow. Dat mak' wan beeg deef 'ranee. Maybee you can' hit heem." "I'll practice till I can." "Den you wan' practice plaintee. I tell you dat Br'er Coyote is wan devil." The smile had left the half-breed's face. This was evidently too serious a matter to be taken lightly. "You don' need wa'ch dem sheep ver' moche. You wa'ch dat Br'er Coyote. Heem keel wan, two, t'ree sheep pret' queek. Heem keel wan sheep w'anever he is wan' to." Br'er Coyote, as Pickard called him, was an artful old coyote that had ravaged Hoyt's Canon, and played havoc with Pickard's herd for a number of years. All of Pickard's herders knew him well, but had been unsuccessful with his capture. "De ot'er herders," said the half-breed, "mak' hees nam' Wajosh — dat roan fox. He know everyt'ing. He is ver' queek an' ver' sly. It tak' firs'-rate man to shoot heem. You don' see heem till eet is too lat' for mak' good shot. He see you firs' nearlee ever4 tam'. An' eet tak' ver' great man to trap heem. He won' step in dat trap — not moche. You set dat trap ver' earful — he know jess sam'. Ba, eet is up-hill beez-ness to ketch dat Br'er Coyote. He is wan devil." The intimation of a trouble I had not thought of before affected me so that I could not sleep, and for a long time that night I lay awake, listening to the diminishing drip of rain on the roof — thinking. Presently the rain ceased and I began to doze. Then, from a neighboring eminence, a coyote barked sharply, and trailed off into the long-drawn, shrill howl of his species. Pickard moved slightly. "Ba," he whispered, "dat is Br'er Coyote." That was my first introduction to the coyote that, for the succeeding four years, was my nearest neighbor and constant enemy. He was all that Pickard had said he was, and more, too. BR'ER COYOTE 303 I soon learned to distinguish his voice easily from that of any of his fellows. An ordinary coyote might howl about my camp half the night without attracting more than a passing notice, but when the sharp, shrill howl of old Br'er Coyote came echo- ing down the canon, I began to prepare for a morning of humiliating experiences. He would come in the nighttime and station himself upon some convenient elevation near my camp, and there, sitting back on his gaunt haunches, with his nose upturned to the unsympathetic stars, he would pour out the concentrated venom of his soul for hours at a time. The hatred of most stock-raisers toward the coyote is reso- lute and relentless. The stockman dislikes him on general principles, and the sheep herder abhors him because he is a constant menace to straying sheep. He preys upon sage grouse and prairie chicken, and often grouse and wild ducks are cap- tured on the nest, both birds and eggs being gobbled with a relish. Hence the lover of wing shooting views him with aver- sion. The fur dealer pays a good price for his soft, yellowish- gray fur, and Ration and state offer bounties on his scalp, wherefore the professional trapper and hunter seeks him for profit. And everybody looks upon him with the jaundiced eye of disfavor, because he is sneaky, furtive and sly, and un- wholesome of aspect, but most of all because he hates mankind and shows it. By day he slinks through the sagebrush, a living disfigure- ment to the landscape. He is intermediate in size between the foxes and the larger wolves; and is characterized chiefly by a sharp, pointed muzzle, heavy, upright ears, and a moderately long, bushy tail. The color is fulvous, grizzled with black and white hairs on the shoulders and back, and the tail tipped with black. He combines the swiftness, shy cunning and greed of the wolf and fox, but lacks the ferociousness of his larger cousin, the timber wolf. He is often called the prairie wolf to dis- tinguish him from the timber wolf and gray wolf. In the bunch-grass plains and the plateau, wherever there is waste land, there also is the coyote, sneaking after living things and fleeing from them, winning his livelihood, not by courage and muscular ferocity, but by fearful cunning aided by a famished stomach. They make their dens among the broken sandstone ridges of the lonely mountains, or dig burrows on the open plains, making little or no attempt to hide the entrance or exit hole from sight. Here in early spring from four to nine coyote pups are born. They play about their den during June; desert it in July, and finally, by the first of August, shift for themselves. When occasion suits the coyote, he forages in the broad 304 IMPROVEMENT ERA daylight, for he is always hungry, and nearly always famished. He moves through the sagebrush and waste land at his favorite dog-trot — a lean, hungry-looking wretch, with all the insolence of a hoodlum and the cunning of a thief. If you pursue him he jogs away rapidly; but if you give up the chase and return he stops and follows you back, to watch you from some knoll. It would seem that with all creation arrayed against him, he should have been exterminated long ago, but he absolutely refuses to give in to the implacable foe. In some regions of the west he has actually increased in number. Most coyotes are too canny to be caught with traps or de- ceived with poison. His ravenous appetite, however, frequently gets him into trouble, for in winter he picks up every scrap of meat that he finds, first making sure that there are no hidden traps beside it for his especial non-benefit. But he cannot always tell when the meat has been poisoned, and large num- bers are destroyed every year by poisoned meat. So the coyote, which is so crafty and wise — so canny about pitfalls and so sapient about lures and snares — persists because he is so wise. The food of the coyote is varied. He partakes greedily of almost every kind of animal food, from sheep and rabbits to snakes and lizards. In the parching desert, which is the true haunt of this shaggy prowler, he is sometimes forced to live on juniper berries, mesquite beans, and cacti. At such times he becomes gaunt, leathery, almost savage — his sun-scorched hair stands up in stiff bristles, and he looks dusty, sandy and worn away. He skulks along the arroyos snapping his white teeth in the wild desert air — silent, sun-scorched, dusty, a perfect emblem of the silent, dusty, scorching desert. In the more fer- tile valleys of the West he cultivates a better taste and enjoys a more agreeable fare — jack rabbits, squirrels, and birds are all plentiful, and sheep graze on every hillside and plateau. The evidence of the coyote's craftiness is shown in hits method of capturing a rabbit. Two or more coyotes trot along together until a rabbit is sighted, when one of them starts at full speed in pursuit. The others seek some knoll or eminence from which they watch the chase. They are artful enough to know that a pursued rabbit always runs in a big circle. When they learn the general lay of the circle one of them saunters off to meet it on its return, and takes up the chase, while the first coyote rests. So the race goes on, each coyote taking its turn until finally the exhausted rabbit is taken. The coyotes gather; and, contrary to their habit, have no discord in shar- ing equally the prize. A single coyote catches a rabbit by lying in bunches of grass or behind bushes near a regular run, and pouncing upon it as it passes by. As coyotes are usually alone, this is the most frequent method of capture. BR'ER COYOTE 305 Sheep are also slain with a craftiness that shows the leading characteristics of the coyote. He lurks about in the cover until a sheep grazes near, then seizes it at a bound. At first he moves about slowly and cautiously; eyes, nose, and ears alert to catch the slightest warning of any danger that may lurk in the shadows. If, however, after killing two or three sheep he is not restrained by the sharp crack of the herder's rifle, he takes immediate advantage of the herder's absence and dashes straight- way into the herd, biting open the throats of half a dozen or more adults, and disappearing suddently with a lamb in hi3 fangs. I have seen coyotes run and play for minutes at a time with a bunch of frisking lambs, watching their chance to seize a lamb and rush away without causing a stampede among the herd. The greatest damage is done when two or more coyotes work together. At such a time they run straight-way into the herd and kill sheep right and left, as if tearing open their throats were a mere diversion. Occasionally a pack of coyotes will stampede a sheep encampment in the nighttime, and, if not checked, not only jugulate many, but scatter the whole herd for miles over the range to slaughter at will. In this manner I once knew of coyotes killing as many as three hundred head of sheep at a single raid. It was a moon- light night, and the covotes attacked the herd sometime between midnight and dawn. When the herders went to the bed-ground at daybreak, they found sixty head lying dead within a few hundred yards of the encampment, and the herd scattered in every direction of the four winds. Three days later, when the scattered herd was finally gathered and a count taken, three hundred head were missing, including ten markers. But of all the coyotes, and there were many that I had to contend with, the most troublesome was old Br'er Coyote. For four years I labored in vain to destroy him, and all the while his choice and daily food was the best and fattest yearl- ing of my herd. I spared no labor or pains, I adapted every device I could think of that might help to insure success. But my efforts were all useless. Old Br'er Coyote was too cunning If any man thinks for one moment that wild animals do not think, and cannot reason from cause to effect, let him look just once upon old Br'er Coyote. If I went out ahead of my sheep in the morning, he would come in from behind and kill his breakfast on the very edge of the bed-ground. And if I stayed near camp with the hope of beating him at his own game, he would be out in the lead, amusing himself by killing, or breakfasting on the tender part of a freshly killed yearling. 306 IMPROVEMENT ERA The last year that I was with Pickard's herd, I resolved to destroy his mate and some of the little Br'ers if I did not get the old king himself. His den was located among the rocks, in a picturesque canon, within a mile of my camp. There old Br'er Coyote and his mate lived all summer and raised their family, while I vainly racked my brain for some method of capturing them. But always they escaped entirely unscratched, and continued their ravages as before. When fall finally came, and by natural impulse the sheep commenced to get restless and move westward toward the des- ert, Pickard came to assist me. The second day after Jris arrival I made an interesting discovery. I was on my way to camp after a long morning's hike when I came upon a well- defined coyote trail. It led off toward the rocks in which old Br'er Coyote and his mate had selected their den, and the recently made tracks showed that a coyote had passed along it but a short time previous. Evidently the coyote frequented this trail every morning, for there were obsolete tracks as well ah the distinct ones. This suggested a new plan. The first light of the morning's dawn found me stationed behind a large burnt stump about fifty yards from the trail. The crisp morning breeze breathed gently from the trail to me, so the coyote could not detect my presence by the scent of the wind. There I lay and waited. For an hour or more I waited expectantly, then, just as the gladdening sun sent its rifted rays through the treetops, my eye caught a movement in the trail below. At first sight I knew that it was old Br'er Coyote's mate. She came up the trail to- ward me, nearer and nearer, always at her favorite dog-trot. How my nerves tingled as I raised the savage rifle to my shoulder, ready to spit its deadly contents into the cunning thief. Then the sharp report of the rifle sounded clear and echoing through the silent hills. Simultaneously the coyote sprang straight into the air and fell to the ground, a struggling, quivering heap. Then I started triumphantly toward camp, carrying the dead coyote, and exulting over this, the first death- blow I had been able to inflict on old Br'er Coyote's family. This bit of success gave me renewed hope and encourage- ment, so I varied my methods and redoubled my precautions and concentrated all my energies on capturing the old king coyote before we departed for the winter range. By this time T had learned the coyote's habit of approaching every carcass they get the wind of, in order to examine it, even when they have no intention of eating, and I hoped this habit would bring old Br'er Coyote within reach of my latest stratagem. I gathered in all my traps and set them around every car* BR'ER COYOTE 30? Cass that I could find in the canon near Br'er Coyote's den. Each trap was separately fastened to a drag and each trap and drag separately buried. In burying them, I carefully removed the sod and every particle of earth, so that after the sod was re- placed and all was completed, the eye could detect no trace of human handiwork. When the traps were concealed, I backed slowly away on my own tracks and brushed away every track with the branch of an oak tree. Every precaution and device known to me I used, and retired at a late hour to await the result. Darkness had no sooner come than old Br'er Coyote com- menced his howling as usual. For an hour or more he kept us awake with his hideous cries; then he ceased abruptly, and we heard no more of him the remainder of the night. At breakfast next morning Pickard said, "Dat pret' funny — old Br'er Coyote queet howlin' all so queek." After breakfast, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there — was it? — yes! one of the traps was gone. I set out on the trail, and in the late afternoon discovered that the hapless coyote was old king Br'er. Always he went at a gallop, and although encumbered by the drag, which weighed over twenty-five pounds, he speedily out-distanced me. But I overtook him when he reached the rocks, for the drag caught and held him fast. As I drew near, the fulvous form arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to escape. His eyes glared green with hate and fear as he made his last great struggle for freedom. Soon he sank exhausted to the ground. He looked calmly at me for a moment with his big, yellow eyes which seemed to say, "Well, you have got me at last, now do as you please with me." And from that time on he took no more notice of me. His breath came evenly as though sleeping, and his eyes were bright and clear again, but they did not rest on me. Afar down the canon they gazed, away on the rolling hills — his hills, his kingdom — where for years he had lived and reigned. I raised the rifle to my shoulder. Something like com- punction came over me as I prepared to deal out to him that which so many had suffered at his fangs. But when I thought of the hundreds that he had killed — killed for the mere pleasure of killing — my discrimination scattered to the winds all the blind sentimentality aroused by the animal's helplessness. He was a murderer, and he must pay the supreme penalty which all murderers must pay — his own life. Then, as he lay calmly on his breast, and gazed with his steadfast, yellow eyes away past me down through the gateway of the canon, over the roll- ing hills — his hills, strewn with hundreds of decaying carcasses 308 IMPROVEMENT ERA destroyed at his hand — I pressed the trigger. It could not be otherwise. Darkness had again come on before I arrived at camp with the dead coyote. I carried the old king into the wagon and threw him down at Pickard's feet. uBa oui, eet is ol' Br'er Coyote at las'!" Then, as we looked down at old Br'er Coyote and his male lying side by side in the wagon, six little Br'ers raised their voices on the night air and howled out their revenge. Kamas, UtaJi