Wild Animals I Have Known. Ernest Thompson Seton

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      This book is dedicated to Jim

      Contents

      A List of the Stories in this Book

      1 Title Page

      2 Dedication

      3 Note to the Reader

      4 LOBO, the King of Currumpaw

      5 SILVERSPOT, the Story of a Crow

      6 RAGGYLUG, the Story of a Cottontail Rabbit

      7 BINGO, the Story of My Dog

      8 THE SPRINGFIELD FOX

      9 THE PACING MUSTANG

      10 WULLY, the Story of a Yaller Dog

      11 REDRUFF, the Story of the Don Valley Partridge

      12 Tailpiece: The Thought

      13 Plates

      14 Copyright

       NOTE TO THE READER

      THESE STORIES are true. Although I have left the strict line of historical truth in many places, the animals in this book were all real characters. They lived the lives I have depicted, and showed the stamp of heroism and personality more strongly by far than it has been in the power of my pen to tell.

      I believe that natural history has lost much by the vague general treatment that is so common. What satisfaction would be derived from a ten-page sketch of the habits and customs of Man? How much more profitable it would be to devote that space to the life of some one great man. This is the principle I have endeavored to apply to my animals. The real personality of the individual and his view of life are my theme, rather than the ways of the race in general, as viewed by a casual and hostile human eye.

      This may sound inconsistent in view of my having pieced together some of the characters, but that was made necessary by the fragmentary nature of the records. There is, however, almost no deviation from the truth in Lobo, Bingo, and the Mustang.

      Lobo lived his wild romantic life from 1889 to 1894 in the Currumpaw region, as the ranch-men know too well, and died, precisely as related, on January 31, 1894.

      Bingo was my dog from 1882 to 1888, in spite of interruptions caused by lengthy visits to New York, as my Manitoban friends will remember. And my old friend, the owner of Tan, will learn from these pages how his dog really died.

      The Mustang lived not far from Lobo in the early nineties. The story is given strictly as it occurred, excepting that there is a dispute as to the manner of his death. According to some testimony he broke his neck in the corral that he was first taken to. Old Turkeytrack is where he cannot be consulted to settle it.

      Wully is, in a sense, a compound of two dogs; both were mongrels, of some collie blood, and were raised as sheep-dogs. The first part of Wully is given as it happened, after that it was known only that he became a savage, treacherous sheep-killer. The details of the second part belong really to another, a similar yaller dog, who long lived the double life – a faithful sheep-dog by day, and a bloodthirsty, treacherous monster by night. Such things are less rare than is supposed, and since writing these stories I have heard of another double-lived sheep-dog that added to its night amusements the crowning barbarity of murdering the smaller dogs of the neighborhood. He had killed twenty, and hidden them in a sand-pit, when discovered by his master. He died just as Wully did.

      All told, I now have information of six of these Jekyll-Hyde dogs. In each case it happened to be a collie.

      Redruff really lived in the Don Valley north of Toronto, and many of my companions will remember him. He was killed in 1889, between the Sugar Loaf and Castle Frank, by a creature whose name I have withheld, as it is the species, rather than the individual, that I wish to expose.

      Silverspot, Raggylug, and Vixen are founded on real characters. Though I have ascribed to them the adventures of more than one of their kind, every incident in their biographies is from life.

      The fact that these stories are true is the reason why all are tragic. The life of a wild animal always has a tragic end.

      Such a collection of histories naturally suggests a common thought – a moral it would have been called in the last century. No doubt each different mind will find a moral to its taste, but I hope some will herein find emphasized a moral as old as Scripture – we and the beasts are kin. Man has nothing that the animals have not at least a vestige of, the animals have nothing that man does not in some degree share.

      Since, then, the animals are creatures with wants and feelings differing in degree only from our own, they surely have their rights. This fact, now beginning to be recognized by the Caucasian world, was first proclaimed by Moses and was emphasized by the Buddhist over two thousand years ago.

      THIS BOOK was made by my wife, Grace Gallatin Thompson Seton. Although the handiwork throughout is my own, she chiefly is responsible for designs of cover, title-page, and general make-up. Thanks are due her also for the literary revision, and for the mechanical labor of seeing the book through the press.

      E. T. S.

       LOBO The King of Currumpaw

       LOBO The King of Currumpaw

       URRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in northern New Mexico. It is a land of rich pastures and teeming flocks and herds, a land of rolling mesas and precious running waters that at length unite in the Currumpaw River, from which the whole region is named. And the king whose despotic power was felt over its entire extent was an old gray wolf.

      Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called him, was the gigantic leader of a remarkable pack of gray wolves that had ravaged the Currumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and, wherever he appeared with his trusty band, terror reigned supreme among the cattle, and wrath and despair among their owners. Old Lobo was a giant among wolves, and was cunning and strong in proportion to his size. His voice at night was well-known and easily distinguished from that of any of his fellows. An ordinary wolf might howl half the night about the herdsman’s bivouac without attracting more than a passing notice, but when the deep roar of the old king came booming down the cañon, the watcher bestirred himself and prepared to learn in the morning that fresh and serious inroads had been made among the herds.

      Old Lobo’s band was but a small one. This I never quite understood, for usually, when a wolf rises to the position and power that he had, he attracts a numerous following. It may be that he had as many as he desired, or perhaps his ferocious temper prevented the increase of his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only five followers during the latter part of his reign. Each of these, however, was a wolf of renown, most of them were above the ordinary size, one in particular, the second in command, was a veritable giant, but even he was far below the leader in size and prowess. Several of the band, besides the two leaders, were especially noted. One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that the Mexicans called Blanca; this was supposed to be a female, possibly Lobo’s mate. Another was a yellow wolf of remarkable swiftness, which, according to current stories had, on several occasions, captured