On the whole, the play of wild animals is a large field and no writer will exhaust it with one chapter. Very sincerely do we wish that at least one of the many romance writers who are so industriously inventing wild-animal blood-and-thunder stories would do more work with his eyes and less with his imagination.



XXI

COURAGE IN WILD ANIMALS

Either in wild animals or tame men, courage is the moral impulse that impels an individual to fight or to venture at the risk of bodily harm. Like Theodore Roosevelt, the truly courageous individual engages his adversary without stopping to consider the possible consequences to himself. The timid man shrinks from the onset while he takes counsel of his fears, and reflects that "It may injure me in my business," or that "It may hurt my standing;" and in the end he becomes a slacker.

Among the mental traits and passions of wild creatures, a quantitative and qualitative analysis of courage becomes a highly interesting study. We can easily fall into the error of considering that fighting is the all-in-all measure of courage; which very often is far from being true. The mother quail that pretends to be wounded and feigns helplessness in order to draw hostile attention unto herself and away from her young, thereby displays courage of a high order. No quail unburdened by a helpless brood requiring her protection ever dreams of taking such risks. The gray gibbons of Borneo, who quite successfully made their escape from us, but promptly returned close up to my party in response to the S. O. S. cries of a captured baby gibbon, displayed the sublime courage of parental affection, and of desperation. Wary, timid and fearfully afraid of man, at the first sight of a biped they swing away. At the first roar of a gun they literally fly down hill through the treetops, and vanish in a wild panic. And yet, the leading members of that troop halted and swiftly came back, piercing the gloom and silence of the forest with their shrill cries of mingled encouragement and protest. It was quite as courageous and heroic as the act of a father who rushes into a burning building to save his child, at the imminent risk of his own life.

The animal world has its full share of heroes. Also, it has its complement of pugilists and bullies, its cowards and its assassins.

Few indeed are the wild creatures that fight gratuitously, or attack other animals without cause. If a fight occurs, look for the motive. The wild creatures know that peace promotes happiness and long life. Now, of all wild quadrupeds, it is probable that the African baboons are pound for pound the most pugnacious, and the quickest on the draw. The old male baboon in his prime will fight anything that threatens his troop, literally at the drop of a hat. But there is method in his madness. He and his wives and children dwell on the ground in lands literally reeking with fangs and claws. He has to confront the lion, leopard, wild dog and hyena, and make good his right to live. No wonder, then, that his temper is hot, his voice raucous and blood-curdling; his canines fearfully long and sharp, and his savage yell of warning sufficient to keep even the king of beasts off his grass.

Once I saw two baboons fight. We had two huge and splendid adult male gelada baboons, from Abyssinia. They were kept separate, but in adjoining cages; and the time came when we needed one of those cages for another distinguished arrival. We decided to try the rather hazardous experiment of herding those two geladas together.

Accordingly, we first opened the doors to both outside cages, to afford for the moment a free circulation of baboons, and then we opened the partition door. Instantly the two animals rushed together in raging combat. With a fierce grip each seized the other by the left cheek; and then began a baboon cyclone. They spun around on their axis, they rolled over and over on the floor, and they waltzed in speechless rage over every foot of those two cages. Strange to say, beyond coughing and gasping they made no sounds. Never before had we witnessed such a fearsome exhibition of insane hatred and rage.

As soon as the horrified spectators could bring it about, the wild fighters were separated; and strange to say, neither of them was seriously injured. It was a drawn battle.

It is quite difficult to weigh and measure the independent and abstract courage inherent in any wild animal species. All that can be done is to grope after the truth. On this subject there can be almost as many different opinions as there are species of wild animals.

What animal will go farthest in daring and defying man, even the man with a gun, in foraging for food?

Unquestionably and indisputably, the lion. This is no idle repetition of an old belief, or tradition. It is a fact; and we say this quite mindful of the records made by the grizzly bear, the Alaskan brown bear, the tiger, the leopard and the jaguar.

"The Man-Eaters of Tsavo" opened up a strange and new chapter in the life history of the savage lion. That truthful record of an astounding series of events showed the lion in an attitude of permanent aggression, backed by amazing and persistent courage. For several months in that rude construction camp on the arid bank of the Tsavo River, where a railway bridge was being constructed on the famous Uganda Railway line of British East Africa, lions and men struggled mightily and fought with each other, with living men as the stakes of victory. The book written by Col. J.H. Patterson, under the title mentioned above, tells a plain and simple story of the nightly onslaughts of the lions, the tragedies suffered from them, the constant, the desperate though often ill-consideredefforts of the white engineers to protect the terrorized black laborers, and finally the death of the man- eaters. During a series of battles lasting four long months the two lions killed and carried of a total of twenty-eight men! How many natives were killed and not reported never will be known. The most hair-raising episode of all had a comedy touch, and fortunately it did not quite end in a tragedy. This is what happened:

Col. Patterson and his staff decided to try to catch the boldest of the lions in a trap baited with a living man. Accordingly a two-room trap was built, one room to hold and protect the man-bait, the other to catch and hold the lion. A very courageous native consented to be "it," and he was put in place and fastened up. The lion came on schedule time, he found the live bait, boldly entered the trap to seize it, and the dropping door fell as advertised. When the lion found himself caught, did his capture trouble him? Not in the least. Instead of starting in to tear his way out he decided to postpone his escape until he had torn down the partition and eaten the man! So at the partition he went, with teeth and claws.

In mortal terror the live bait yelled for succor. In "the last analysis" the man was saved from the lion, but the lion joyously tore his way out and escaped without a scratch. So far from being daunted by this divertisement he continued his man-killing industry, quite as usual.

Now, the salient points of the man-eaters of Tsavo consist of the unquenchable courage of the two lions, and their persistent defiance of white men armed with rifles. I am sure that there is nowhere in existence another record of wild-animal courage equal to this, and the truthfulness of it is quite beyond question.

The annals of African travel and exploration contain instances innumerable of the unparalleled courage of the lion in taking what he wants when he wants it.

THE GRIZZLY BEAR'S COURAGE. As a subject, this is a hazardous risk, because so many men are able to tell all about it. Judging from reliable records of the ways and means of the grizzly bear, I think we must award the second prize for courage to "Old Ephraim." The list of his exploits in scaring pioneers, in attacking hunters, in robbing camps, and finally in bear- handling and almost killing two guides in the Yellowstone Park, is long and thrilling. The record reaches back to the days of Lewis and Clark, who related many wild adventures with bears. The grizzlies of their day were very courageous, but even then they were not greatly given to attacking men quite unprovoked! In those days of bow-and-arrow Indians, and of white men armed only with ineffective muzzle-loading pea rifles, using only weak black powder, the grizzlies had an even chance with their human adversaries, and sometimes they took first money. In those days the courage of the grizzly was at its highest peak; and it was then conceded by all frontiersmen that the grizzly was thoroughly courageous, and always ready to fight. In the light of subsequent history, and in order to be just to the grizzly, we claim that his fighting was in self defense, for even in those days the unwounded bear preferred to run rather than to fight unnecessarily.

The rise of the high-power, long-range repeating rifle has made the grizzly bear a different animal from what he was in the days of Lewis and Clark. He has learned, thoroughly, the supreme deadliness of man's new weapons, and he knows that he is no longer able to meet men on even terms. Consequently, he runs, he hides, he avoids man, everywhere save in the Yellowstone Park, where he has found out that firearms are prohibited. There he has broken the truce so often that his offenses have had to be met with stern disciplinary measures that have made for the safety of tourists and guides.

Once I saw an amusing small incident. Be it known that when a new black bear cub is introduced to a den of its peers, the newcomer shrinks in fright, and cowers, and takes its place right humbly. But species alter cases. Once when we received an eight-months- old grizzly cub we turned it loose in a big den that contained five black bear cubs a year older than itself. But did the grizzly cub cower and shrink? By no manner of means. With head fully erect, it marched calmly to the centre of the den, and with serene confidence gave the other cubs the once-over with an air that plainly said: "I'm a grizzly! I'm here, and I've come to stay. Do I hear any objections?"

Quite as if in answer to the challenge, an eighteen-months-old black bear presently sidled up and made a trial blow at the grizzly's head. Instantly the grizzly cub's right arm shot out a well-delivered blow that sent the black one scurrying away in a panic, and perceptibly cleared the atmosphere. That cub had grizzly-bear courage and confidence; that was all.

There are a number of American sportsmen who esteem the Cape buffalo as the most aggressive and dangerous wild animal in eastern Africa. He is so courageous and so persistently bold that he is much given to lying in wait for hunters and attacking with real fury. The high grass of his swamps is very helpful to him as a means of defense. In our National Collection of Heads and Horns there is a huge buffalo head (for years the world's highest record) that tells the story of a near tragedy. The brother of Mr. F.H. Barber, of South Africa, fired at the animal, but failed to stop it. His gun jammed, and the charging beast was almost in the act of killing him when F.H. Barber fired without pausing to take aim. His lucky bullet knocked a piece out of the buffalo's left horn, dazed the animal for a moment, and afforded time for the shot that killed the mighty bull.

The leopard is usually a vicious beast. When brought to bay it fights with great fury and success. The black leopard is supremely vicious and intractable. Nearly all leopards hate training, and I have seen two or three leopard "acts" that were nerve-racking to witness because of the clear determination of all the animals to kill their trainer at the first opportunity.

The status of the big Alaskan brown bear has already been referred to in terms that may stand as an estimate of its courage. Really, it is now in the same mental state as the grizzly bears of the days of Lewis and Clark, and the surplus must be shot to admonish the survivors and protect the rights of man.

THE RAGE OF A WILD BULL ELK. One of the most remarkable cases of rage, resentment and fighting courage in a newly captured wild animal occurred near Buttonwillow, California, in November 1904, and is very graphically described by Dr. C. Hart Merriam in the Scientific Monthly for November 1921. The story concerns the leader of a band of the small California Valley Elk (Cervus nannodes) which it was desired to transport to Sequoia Park, for permanent preservation.

The bull refused to be driven to the corral for capture, so he was roped, thrown, hog-tied and hauled six miles on a wagon. This indignity greatly enraged the animal. At the corral he was liberated for the purpose of driving him through a chute and into a car.

From his capture and the jolting ride the bull was furious, and he refused to be driven. His first act was to gore and mortally wound a young elk that unfortunately found itself in the corral with him. Then he was roped again and his horns were sawn off. At first no horseman dared to ride into the corral to attempt to drive the animal. Finally the leader of the cowboys, Bill Woodruff, mounted on a wise and powerful horse who knew the game quite as well as his rider, rode into the corral with the raging elk, and attempted to drive it.

The story of the fight that followed, of raging elk vs. horse and man, makes stories of Spanish bullfights seem tame and commonplace, and the adventure of St. George and the dragon a dull affair. With the stubs of his antlers the bull charged the horse again and again, inflicting upon the splendid animal heart-rending punishment. Finally, after a fearful conflict, the wise and brave horse conquered, and the elk devil was forced into the car.

After a short railway journey the elk was forced into a crate,— fighting at every step,—and hauled a two days' journey to the Park. Reduced to kicking as its sole expression of resentment, the animal kicked continuously for forty-eight hours, almost demolishing the crate.

The final scene of this unparalleled drama of wild-animal rage is thus described by Dr. Merriam: "Then the other gates were raised, giving the bull an opportunity to step out. For the first, time since his capture he did what was wanted; he voluntarily crept to the rear of the wagon and hobbled out on the ground. Looking around for an enemy to attack and not seeing any, —some of the men having stationed themselves outside the park fence, the others on top of the crate,—he set out for the river, only a few rods away.

"His courage had not forsaken him, but his strength had. He was no longer the proudly aggressive wild beast he had been. He had reached his limit. The terrible ordeal he had been through; the struggle incident to his capture; the rough, hot ride to the corral, hog-tied, on the hard floor of the dead-ax wagon; the outbursts of passion in the corral; the fighting and second roping in connection with the sawing off of his horns; the battle with the big horse; the ceaseless violence of his destructive assaults, first in the car, then in the crate, continued for three days and nights, had finally undermined even his iron frame; so when at last he found himself free on the ground, he presented a truly pitiful picture.

"With his head bent to one side and back curved, with one ear up and the other down, and with a dejected, helpless expression on his face, he hobbled wearily away, barely able to step without falling. Slowly he made his way to the river, waded in, drank, crossed to the far side, staggered laboriously up the low bank, and lay down. The next day he was found in the same spot,—dead."

THE DEFENSE OF THE HOME AND FAMILY. Any man who is too cowardly to fight for his home and country deserves to live and die homeless and without a country.

With this subject of courage the parental and fraternal affections of wild animals are inseparably linked. The defense of the home and family unit is the foundation of all courage, and of all fighting qualities in man or animals. The gospel of self-defense is the first plank in the platform of the home defenders. Obviously, the head of a family cannot permit himself to be knocked out, because as the chief fighter in the Home Defense League it is his bounden duty to preserve his strength and his weapons, and remain fit.

In the days of the club, the stone axe and the flint arrow-head, men were few and feeble, and the wild beasts had no cause to fear extermination. Tooth, claw and horn were about as formidable as the clumsy and inadequate weapons of man. The wild species went on developing naturally, and some mighty hosts were the result.

But gunpowder changed all that. In the chase it gave weak men their innings beside the strong. Man could kill at long range, with little danger to himself, or even with none at all. And then in the wild beast world the great final struggle for existence began. Man's flippant phrase,—"the survival of the fittest,"— became charged with sinister and deadly meaning.

But for Mother Love among wild creatures, species would not multiply, and the earth soon would become depopulated. In the entire Deer Family of the world, the annual shedding of all horns is Nature's tribute to motherhood in the herd. A buck deer or a bull moose is a domineering master—so long as his antlers remain upon his head. But with the approach of fawn-bearing time in the herd, down they go. I have seen a bull elk stand with humbly lowered head, and gaze reproachfully upon his fallen antlers. The dehorned buck not only no longer hectors and drives the females, but in fear of hurting his tender new velvet stubs he keeps well away from the front hoofs of the cows. The calves grow up quite safe from molestation within the herd.

It may be set down as a basic truth that all vertebrate animals are ready to defend their homes and their young against all enemies that do not utterly outclass them in size and strength. Of course we do not expect the pygmy to try conclusions with the giant, but at the same time, wild creatures have their own queer ways of defense and counter-attack, and of matching superior cunning against superior force. But now, throughout the animal world, the fear of man is paramount. Nearly all the wild ones have learned it. It is only the enraged, the frightened or the cornered bear, lion, tiger or elephant that charges the Man with a Gun, and seeks to counter upon him with fang and claw before it drops. The deadly supremacy of the repeating rifle that kills big game at half a mile, and the pump shotgun that gets five geese out of a flock, are well recognized by the terrorized big game and small game that flies before the sweeping pestilence of machine guns and automobiles.

THE FIGHTING CANADA GOOSE. In essaying to illustrate the home defense spirit, my memory goes out to one truculent and fearless Canada goose whose mate elected to nest in a horribly exposed spot on the east bank of our Wild-Fowl Pond. The location was an error in judgment. As soon as the nest was finished and the eggs laid therein, the goose took her place upon the collection, and the gander mounted guard.

There were so many hostiles on the warpath that he was kept on the qui vive during all daylight hours. At a radius of about twenty feet he drew an imaginary dead-line around the family nest, and no bird, beast or man could pass that line without a fight. If any other goose, or a swan or duck, attempted to pass, the guardian gander would rush forward with blazing eyes, open beak, wings open for action, and with distended neck hiss out his challenge. If the intruder failed to register respect, and came on, the gander would seize the offender with his beak, and furiously wing-beat him into flight. That gander was afraid of nothing, and his courage and readiness to fight all comers, all day long, caused visitors to accord him full recognition as a belligerent power.

THE CASE OF THE LAUGHING GULL. About that same time, a pair of laughing gulls had the temerity to build a nest on the ground in the very storm centre of the great Flying Cage. Daily and hourly they were surrounded by a truculent mob of pelicans, herons, ibises, storks, egrets and ducks, the most of whom delighted in wrecking households. The keepers sided with the gulls by throwing around their nest a wire entanglement, with a sally-port at one side for the use of the beleaguered pair.

The voice of an angry or frightened laughing gull is it [sic] owner's chief defense. The female sat on her nest and shrieked out her shrill and defiant war cry of "Kah! kah, kah, kah!" The male took post just outside the sally-port, where he postured and screamed and threatened until we wondered why he did not burst with superheated emotion. I am sure that never before did two small gulls ever raise so much racket in so short a time and their cage-mates must have found it rather trying.

The gulls hatched their eggs, they reared their young successfully, and at last peace was restored.

A Mother Antelope Fights Off an Eagle. Mr. Howard Eaton, of Wolf, Wyoming, once saw a female prong-horned antelope put up a strong and successful fight in defense of her newly-born fawn. A golden eagle, whose spring specialty is for fawns, kids and lambs, was seen to swoop swiftly down toward a solitary antelope that had been noticed on a treeless range beside the Little Missouri. It quickly became evident that the eagle was after an antelope fawn. As the bird swooped down toward the mother, and endeavored to seize her fawn in its talons, the doe rose high on her hind legs, and with her forelegs flying like flails struck with her sharp- pointed hoofs again and again. Her blows went home, and feathers were seen to fly from the body of the marauder.

The doe made good her defense. The eagle was glad to escape, and as quickly as possible pulled himself together and flew away.

The Defensive Circle of the Musk-Ox. Several arctic explorers have described the wonderful living-ring defense, previously mentioned, of musk-ox herds against wolves. Mr. Paul Rainey's moving pictures have shown it to us in thrilling detail, with Eskimo dogs instead of wolves. When a musk-ox herd is attacked by the big and deadly arctic white wolves, the bulls and adult cows herd the calves and young stock into a compact group, then take their places shoulder to shoulder around them in a perfect circle, and with lowered heads await the onset. The sharp down-and-up curved horn of the musk-ox is a deadly weapon against all the dangerous animals of the North, except man.

When a wolf approaches near and endeavors to make a breach in the circle, the musk-ox nearest him tries to get him, and will even rush out of the line for a short and brief pursuit. But the bull does not pursue more than twenty yards or so, for fear of being surrounded alone and cut off. At the end of his usually futile run, back he goes and carefully backs into his place in the first line of defense. A charging bull does not rush out far enough that the wolves can cut him off and kill him. He is much too wise for that.

Mr. Stefansson says that the impregnability of the musk-ox defense is so well recognized by the wolves of the North that often a pack will march past a herd in close proximity without offering to attack it, and without even troubling the herd to form the hollow circle.

A Savage Wild Boar. I once had a "fight" with a captive Japanese wild boar, under conditions both absurd and tragic, and from it I learned the courage and fury of such animals. The animal was large, powerful, fearfully savage toward every living thing, and insanely courageous. It was confined in a yard enclosed by a strong wire fence, and while we were all very sure that the fence would hold it, I became uneasy. In mid-afternoon I went alone to the spot, passing hundreds of school children on the way, to study the situation. When I reached the front of the corral and stood still to look at the fence, the boar immediately rushed for me. He came straight on, angry and terrible, and charged the wire like a living battering-ram. He repeated these charges until I became fearful of an outbreak, and decided to try to make him afraid to repeat them. Procuring from the bear dens, a pike pole with a stout spike in the end, I received the next charge with a return thrust meant to puncture both the boar's hide and his understanding. He backed off and charged more furiously than ever, with white foam flying from his jaws.

He cared nothing for his punishment. He charged until his snout bled freely, and the fence bulged at the strain.

Then I became regularly scared! I feared that the savage beast would break through the fence in spite of its strength, and run amuck among those helpless children. I "beat it" back to my office, hurried back with one of my loaded rifles, and without losing a second put a bullet through that raging brain and ended that danger forever.

The Overrated Peccary. This reminds me that the collared peccary has been credited with a degree of courage that has been much exaggerated. While a hunted and cornered peccary will fight dogs or men, and put up a savage and dangerous defense, men whom I know in the peccary belt of Mexico have assured me that a drove of peccaries will not attack a hunter who has killed one of their mates, nor keep him up a tree for hours while they swarm underneath him waiting for his blood. I have been assured by competent witnesses that in peccary hunting there is no danger whatever of mass attack through a desire for revenge, and that peccaries fired at will run like deer.

A Black Bear Killed a Man for Food. There is on record at least one well-authenticated case of a black bear deliberately going out of his way to cross a river, attack a man and kill him.

On May 17, 1907, at a lumber camp of the Red Deer Lumber Company, thirty miles south of Etiomami on the Canadian Northern Railway, Northwest Territory, a cook named T. Wilson was chased by a large black bear, without provocation, struck once on the head, and instantly killed. The bear then picked him up, carried him a short distance, and proceeded to eat him. Ten shots from a .32 calibre revolver had no effect. Later a rifle ball drove the bear away, but only after it had eaten the left thigh and part of the body. (Forest and Stream, Feb. 8, 1908.)

The Status of the Gray Wolf. In America wolves rarely succeed in killing men, although they often follow men's trails in the hope of spoil of some kind. But there are exceptions.

In 1912, around Lake Nipigon, Province of Ontario, Canada, there existed a reign of terror from wolves. The first man killed was a half-breed mail-carrier. Then, in December, another mail-carrier, who was working the lumber camps north of Lake Nipigon, was killed by wolves and completely devoured. The snow showed a terrible struggle, in which four large wolves had been killed by the carrier.

In Russia and in France in the days preceding the use of modern breech-loading firearms, the gray wolves of Europe were very bold, and a great many people were killed by them.

Killings by Wild Beasts in India. The killing by wild beasts of unarmed and defenseless native men, women and children in India is a very different matter from man-killing in resourceful and dangerous North America. The annual slaughter by wild beasts in Hindustan and British Burma is a fairly good index of the courage and aggressiveness of the parties of the first part. In India during the year 1878, in which we were specially interested, the totals were as follows:

Persons killed by elephants, 33; tigers, 816; leopards, 300; bears, 94; wolves, 845; hyenas, 33; snakes, 16,812.

Of course such slaughter as this by the ridiculous hyenas and the absurd sloth bears of India is possible only in a country wherein the swarming millions of people are universally defenseless, and children are superabundant.

As a corollary to the above figures, a comparison of them with the roster of wild animals killed and paid for is of some interest. The dangerous beasts destroyed were as follows:

Elephants, 1; tigers, 1,493; leopards, 3,387; bears, 1,283; wolves, 5,067; hyenas, 1,202; serpents, 117,782.

The Fighting Spirit in Baboons. In the first analysis, we find that courage is an individual trait, and that so far as we know, it never characterizes all the individuals of any one species. The strongest and the best armed of men and beasts usually are accounted the bravest ones of earth. The defenseless ones do well to be timid, to avoid hostilities and to flee from conflict to avoid being destroyed. It is just as much the duty of a professional mother to flee and to hide, in order to save her own life, as it is for "the old he-one" to threaten and to fight.

At the same time, there are many species which are concededly courageous, as species. In making up this list I would place first of all the baboons of eastern Africa, whom I regard collectively as the most bold and reckless fighters per pound avoirdupois to be found in the whole Order Primates. They have weapons, agility, strength and cyclonic courage. On no other basis could they have so long survived on land in a country full of lions, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas and wild dogs.

In order to appreciate the fighting spirit of a male baboon, the observer need only come just once in actual touch with one. A dozen times I have been seized by a powerful baboon hand shot out with lightning quickness between or under his cage bars. The combined strength and ferocity of the grab, and the grip on the human hand or arm, is unbelievable until felt, and this with an accompaniment of glaring eyes, snarling lips and nerve-ripping voice is quite sufficient to intimidate any ordinary man.

But even in the courage and belligerency of baboons, there are some marked differences between species. I rank them as follows:

The most fierce and dangerous species is the East African baboon.

The next for courage is the Rhodesian species.

The spectacular hamadryas baboon is a very good citizen. The long-armed yellow species makes very little trouble, and

The small golden baboon is the best-behaved of them all.

Courage in the Great Apes. After forty years of ape study, with many kinds of evidence, I am convinced that the courage and the alleged ferocity of the gorilla has been much over-rated. I believe this is due to the influence upon the human mind of the great size and terrifying aspect of the animal.

Of all the men whom I have known or read, the late R. L. Garner knew by far the most of gorilla habits and character by personal observation in the gorilla jungles of equatorial Africa. And never, in several years of intimate contact with Mr, Garner did he so much as once put forth a statement or an estimate that seemed to me exaggerated or overcolored.

In our many discussions of gorilla character Mr. Garner always represented that animal as very shy, wary of observation by man, profoundly cunning in raiding in darkness the banana plantations of man's villages, and most carefully avoiding exposures by daylight. He described the gorilla as practically never attacking men unless first attacked by them, and fleeing unless forcibly brought to bay. He told me of are doubtable African tribesman who once captured a baby gorilla on the ground by suddenly attacking the mother with his club and beating her so successfully that she fled from him and abandoned her young. "But," said Mr. Garner, "there is only one tribe in Africa that could turn out a man who would attempt a feat like that."

That the gorilla can and will fight furiously and effectively when brought to bay is well known, and never denied.

Of the apes I have known in captivity, the chimpanzees are by far the most aggressive, courageous and dangerous. A vigorous male specimen over eight years of age is more dangerous than a lion, or tiger, or grizzly bear, and far more anxious to fight something. I think that even if our Boma were muzzled, no five men of my acquaintance could catch him and tie his hands and feet.

The orang-utan is only half the fighter that the chimpanzee is. Even the adult males are not persistently aggressive, or inflamed by savage desires to hurt somebody.

Courage in Elephants as an Asset. In all portions of India wherein tiger hunting with elephants is practiced, elephants with good courage are at a premium. No elephant is fit to carry a howdah in a line of beaters, with a valuable sahib on board, unless its courage can stand the acid test of a wounded tiger's charge. When an elephant can endure without panic an infuriated tiger climbing up its frontispiece to get at the unhappy mahout and the hunter, that elephant belongs in the courageous class. The cowardly elephant screams in terror, bolts for the rear, and if there is a tree in the landscape promptly wrecks the howdah and the sportsman against its lower branches.

A "rogue" elephant always reminds me of my Barbados boatman's description of a pugnacious friend: "De trouble is, he am too brave!" A rogue elephant will attack anything from a wheelbarrow to a hut, and destroy it. The peak of rogue ambition was reached on a railway in Burma, near Ban Klap, in March 1908, when a rogue elephant "on hearing the locomotive whistle, trumpeted loudly and then, lowering his head, charged the oncoming train. The impact was tremendous. Such was the impetus of the great pachyderm that the engine was partially derailed, the front of the smoke-box shattered as far as the tubes, the cow-catcher was crushed into a shapeless piece of iron, and other damages of minor importance were sustained. The train was going thirty-four miles per hour, and the engine alone weighed between forty and fifty tons.

"Of course the elephant was killed by the shock, its head being completely smashed.... It is believed that this particular rogue had been responsible for considerable damage to villages in the vicinity of Lopbusi. A number of houses have been pulled down recently and havoc wrought in other ways."

On another occasion a vicious rogue elephant elected to try conclusions with a railway train. In 1906, on the Korat branch of the Siamese State Railway, a bull elephant attacked a freight train running at full speed. He charged the rushing locomotive, with the result that the locomotive and several cars were derailed and sent down the side of the grade, and two persons were killed. The elephant was killed outright and buried under the wreck of the train. This occurred in open country, where there was no excuse for an elephant on the track, and therefore the charge of the rogue was wholly gratuitous.

Captive elephants whose managers are too humane to punish them for manifestations of meanness become spoiled by their immunity, just as mean children are spoiled when fond and foolish parents feel that their little jackets are too sacred ever to be tanned. Such complete immunity is as bad for bad elephants as for bad children, but in practice the severe punishment of an elephant with real benefit to the animal is next door to an impossibility, and so we never attempt it. We do, however, inflict mild punishments, of the fourth order of efficiency.

Animals and Men. Among the animals that are most courageous against man are the species and individuals that are most familiar with him, and feel for him both contempt and hatred. The cat scratches, the bad dog bites, the vicious horse kicks or bites, and the mean pet bear, tiger, ape, leopard, bison or deer will attempt injury or murder whenever they think the chance has arrived. I know a lady whose pet monkey is a savage and mean little beast, and because she never thrashes it as it deserves, both of her arms from wrist to elbow have been scarified by its teeth.

Mr. E. R. Sanborn, official photographer of the Zoological Park, once made an ingenious and also terrifying experiment. He made an excellent dummy keeper, stood it up, and tied it fast against the fence inside the yard of our very large and savage male Grevy Zebra. Then he posed his moving picture camera in a safe place, and the keeper turned the zebra into the yard. The moment the bad zebra caught sight of the presumptive keeper,—at last within his power,—he rushed at the dummy with glaring eyes and open mouth, and seized his victim by the head. With furious efforts he tore the dummy loose from its moorings, whirled it into the middle of the yard, where in a towering rage he knelt upon it, bit and tore its heart out. Of course the unfortunate dummy perished. The zebra reveled in his triumph, and altogether it was a fearsome sight.

CAUTION. A thoroughly cowardly horse never should be ridden, nor driven to anything so light that a runaway is possible. Such animals are too expensive both to human life and to property. A dangerous horse can be just as great a risk as a bad lion or bear.



IV.—THE BASER PASSIONS

XXII

FEAR AS A RULING PASSION

If we were asked, "Which one may be called the ruling passion of the wild animal?" we would without hesitation answer,—it is fear.

From the cradle to the grave, every strictly wild animal lives, day and night, in a state of fear of bodily harm, and dread of hunger and famine.

"Now the 'free, wild life' is a round of strife, And of ceaseless hunger and fear; And the life in the wild of the animal child Is not all skittles and beer."

The first thing that the wild baby learns, both by precept and example, is safety first! When the squalling and toddling bear cub first goes abroad, the mother bear is worried and nervous for fear that in a sudden and dangerous emergency the half-helpless little one will not be able to make a successful get-away when the alarm- signal snort is given. During the first, and most dangerous, days in the life of the elk, deer and antelope fawn, the first care of the mother is to hide her offspring in a spot cunningly chosen beside a rock, beside a log, or in thick bushes. In the absence of all those she looks for a depression in the earth wherein the fawn can lie without making a hump in the landscape. The first impulse of the fawn,—even before nursing if the birth occurs in daylight,—is to fold its long legs, short body and reptilian neck into a very small package, hug the earth tightly, close its eyes and lie absolutely motionless until its mother gives the signal to arise and sup. Such infants may lie for long and weary hours without so much as moving an ear; and the anxious mother strolls away to some distance to avoid disclosing her helpless offspring.

Now, suppose you discover and touch an elk or a deer fawn while thus hiding. What will it do? Nine times out of ten it will bound up as if propelled by steel springs, and go off like an arrow from a bow, dashing in any direction that is open and leads straight away. The horrified mother will rush into view in dangerously near proximity, and I have seen a wild white-tailed deer doe tear madly up and down in full view and near by, to attract the danger to herself.

Thousands of men and boys have seen a mother quail flop and flutter and play wounded, to lead the dangerous boy away from her brood of little quail mites, and work the ruse so daringly and successfully as to save both her babies and herself. I well remember my surprise and admiration when a mother quail first played that trick upon me. I expected to pick her up,—and forgot all about the chicks,—until they were every one safely in hiding, and then Mrs. Quail gave me the laugh and flew away.

Was it strategy? Was it the result of quail thought and reason? Or did it come by heredity, just like walking? To deny the cold facts in the quail case is to discredit our own ability to reason and be honest.

Fear is the ruling emotion alike of the most timid creatures, and also the boldest. Of course each wild animal keeps a mental list of the other animals of which he is not afraid; and the predatory animal also keeps a card catalogue of those which he may safely attack when in need of food.

But, with all due consideration to mighty forearm, to deadly claws and stabbing fangs, there is (I think) absolutely no land animal that is not afraid of something. Let us progressively consider a few famous species near at hand.

The savage and merciless weasel fears the fox, the skunk, the wolf and the owl. The skunk fears the coyote which joyously kills him and devours all of him save his jaws and his tail. The marten, mink and fisher have mighty good reason to fear the wolverine, who in his turn cheerfully gives the road to the gray wolf. The wolf and the lynx carefully avoid the mountain lion and the black bear, and the black bear is careful not to get too close to a grizzly. Today a cotton-tail rabbit is not more afraid of a hound than a grizzly bear is of a man. The polar bear once was bold in the presence of man; but somebody has told him about breech-loading high power rifles; and now he, too, runs in terror from every man that he sees. The lion, the tiger, the leopard and the jaguar all live in wholesome fear of man, and flee from him at sight. The lordly elephant does likewise, and so does the rhinoceros, save when he is in doubt about the identity of the biped animal and trots up to get certainty out of a nearer view. Col. Roosevelt became convinced, that most of the alleged "charging" of rhinoceroses was due to curiosity and poor vision, and the desire of rhinos to investigate at close range.

Today the giant brown bears of Alaska exhibit less fear of man than any other land animals that we know, and many individuals have put themselves on record as dangerous fighters. And this opens the door to the great Alaskan controversy that for a year raged,—chiefly upon one side,—in certain Alaskan newspapers and letters.

Early in 1920, certain parties in Alaska publicly asked people to believe that W. T. Hornaday in his "published works" had set up the Alaskan brown bear as "a harmless animal." All these statements and insinuations were notoriously false, but the repetition of them went on right merrily, even while the author's article portraying the savage and dangerous character of the brown bear was being widely circulated in the United States through Boys' Life magazine.

The indisputable facts regarding the temper of the great Alaskan brown bears are as follows: Usually, unless fired at, these big brown bears flee from man at sight of him, and by many experienced Alaskan bear hunters who can shoot they are not regarded as particularly dangerous, save when they are attacked by man, or think that they are to be attacked.

They are just now the boldest of all bears, and the most dangerous.

They often attack men who are hunting them, and have killed several.

They have attacked a few persons who were not hunting.

Where they are really numerous they are a menace and a nuisance to frontiersmen who need to traverse their haunts.

In all places where Alaskan brown bears are quite too numerous for public safety, their numbers should thoroughly be reduced; and everywhere the bears of Alaska should be pursued and shot until the survivors acquire the wholesome respect for man that now is felt everywhere by the polar and the grizzly. Then the Alaskans will have peace, and our Alaskan enemies possibly will cease to try to discredit our intelligence.

The most impressive exhibition of wild-animal fear that Americans ever have seen was furnished by the African motion pictures of Paul J. Rainey. They were taken from a blind constructed within close range of a dry river bed in northern British East Africa, where a supply of water was held, by a stratum of waterproof clay or rock, about four feet below the surface of the dry river bed. By industrious pawing the zebras had dug a hole down to the water, and to this one life-saving well wild animals of many species flocked from miles around. The camera faithfully recorded the doings of elephants, giraffes, zebras, hartebeests, gnus, antelopes of several species, wart-hogs and baboons.

The personnel of the daily assemblage was fairly astounding, and to a certain extent the observer of those wonderful pictures can from them read many of the thoughts of the animals.

Next to the plainly expressed desire to quench their thirst, the dominant thought in the minds of those animals, one and all, was the fear of being attacked. In some species this ever- present and harassing dread was a pitiful spectacle. I wish it might be witnessed by all those ultra-humane persons who think and say that the free wild animals are the only happy ones!

With the possible exception of the sanguine-tempered elephants, all those animals were afraid of being seized or attacked while drinking. One and all did the same thing. An animal would approach the water-hole, nervously looking about for enemies. The fore feet cautiously stepped down, the head disappeared to reach the water, —but quickly shot upward again, to look for the enemies. It was alternately drink, look, drink, look, for a dozen quick repetitions, then a scurry for safety.

Even the stilt-legged and long-necked giraffes went through that same process,—a mouthful of water greedily seized, and a fling of the head upward to stare about for danger. Group by group the animals of each species took their turns. The baboons drifted down over the steep rocky slope like a flock of skimming birds, and watched and drank by turn. Having finished, they paused not for idle gossip or play, but as swiftly as they came drifted up the slope and sought safety elsewhere.

And yet, it was noticeable that during the whole of that astounding panorama of ferae naturae unalloyed by man's baleful influence, no species attacked another, there was no fighting, nor even any threatening of any kind. Had there been a white flag waving over that water-hole, the truce of the wild could not have been more perfect.

Effect of Fear in Captive Animals. Among captive wild animals, by far the most troublesome are those that are obsessed by slavish fear of being harmed. The courageous and supremely confident grizzly or Alaskan brown bear is in his den a good-natured and reliable animal, who obeys orders when the keepers enter the den to do the daily housework and order him to "Get up out of here." The fear-possessed Japanese black bear, Malay sun bear and Indian sloth bear are the ones that are most dangerous, and that sometimes charge the keepers.

Our famous "picture lion," Sultan, was serenely confident of his own powers, his nerves were steady and reliable, and he never cared to attack man or beast. Once when by the error of a fellow keeper the wrong chain was pulled, and the wrong partition door was opened, the working keeper bent his head, and broom in hand walked into what he thought was an empty cage. To his horror, he found himself face to face with Sultan, with only the length of the broom handle between them.

The startled and helpless keeper stood still, and said in a calm voice, without batting an eye.

"Hello, Sultan."

Sultan calmly looked at him, wonderingly and inquiringly, but without even a trace of excitement; and feeling sure that the keeper did not mean to harm him, he seemed to have no thought of attacking.

The keeper quietly backed through the low doorway, and gently closed the door. Had the keeper lost his nerve, and shown it, there might have been a tragedy.

Lions are the best of all carnivorous performing animals, because of their courage, serenity, self-confidence and absence of jumpy nerves. Leopards are the worst, and polar bears stand next, with big chimpanzees as a sure third. Beware of all three.

Exceptions to the Rule of Fear. Fortunately for the wild animal world, there are some exceptions to the rule of fear. I will indicate the kinds of them, and students can supply the individual cases.

Whenever a wild animal species inhabits a spot so remote and inaccessible that man's blighting hand never has fallen upon it, nor in any way influenced its life or its fortunes, that species knows no fear save from the warring elements, and from predatory animals. The wonderful giant penguins found and photographed near the south pole by Sir Ernest Shackleton never had seen nor heard of men, never had been attacked by predatory animals or birds. You may search this wide world over, and you will not find a more striking example of sublime isolation. Those penguins had been living in a penguin's paradise. The sea-leopard seals harmed them not, and until the arrival of the irrepressible British explorer the spell of that antarctic elysium was unbroken.



Those astounding birds knew no such emotion as fear. Under the impulse of the icy waves dashing straight up to the edge of the ice floes, those giant penguins shot out of the water, sped like catapulted birds curving through the air, and landed on their cushioned breasts high and dry, fully ten feet back from the edge of the floe. They flocked together, they waddled about erect and serene, heads high in air, and marched close up to the ice-bound ship to see what it was all about. Men and horses freely walked among them without exciting fear, and when the birds gathered in a vast assemblage the naturalists and photographers were welcomed everywhere.

And indeed those birds were well-nigh the most fortunate birds in all the world. The men who found them were not low-browed butchers thinking only of "oil" or "fertilizer"; and they did not go to work at once to club all those helpless birds into masses of death and corruption. Those men wondered at them, laughed at them, photographed them, studied them,—and left them in peace!

What a thundering contrast that was with the usual course of Man, the bloody savage, under such circumstances! The coast of Lower California once swarmed with seals, sea-lions and birds, and the waters of the Gulf were alive with whales. Now the Gulf and the shores of the Peninsula are as barren of wild life as Death Valley.

The history of the whaling industry contains many sickening records of the wholesale slaughter by savage whalers of newly discovered herds of walrus, seals and sea birds that through isolation knew no fear, and were easily clubbed to death en masse.

Wild creatures generally subscribe to the political principle that in union there is strength. In the minds of wild animals, birds and reptiles, great numbers of individuals massed together make for general security from predatory attacks. The herd with its many eyes and ears feels far greater security, and less harrowing fear, than the solitary individual who must depend upon his own two pair. The herd members relax and enjoy life; but the solitary bear, deer, sheep, goat or elephant does not. His nerves always are strung up to concert pitch, and while he feeds or drinks, or travels, he watches his step. A moving object, a strange-looking object, a strange sound or a queer scent in the air instantly fixes his attention, and demands analysis.

On the North American continent the paramount fear of the wild animal is aroused to its highest pitch by what is called "man scent." And really, from the Battery to the North Pole, there is good reason for this feeling of terror, and high wisdom in fleeing fast and far.

Said a wise old Ojibway Indian to Arthur Heming:

"My son, when I smell some men, and especially some white men, I never blame the animals of the Strong Woods for taking fright and running away!"

And civilization also has its terrors, as much as the wilderness.

The fox, no matter what is the color of his coat, or his given name, is the incarnation of timidity and hourly fear. The nocturnal animals go abroad and work at night solely because they are afraid to work in the daytime. The beaver will cheerfully work in daytime if there is no prospect of observation or interference by man. The eagle builds in the top of the tallest tree, and the California condor high up on the precipitous side of a frightful canyon wall, because they are afraid of the things on the ground below. In the great and beautiful Animallai Forest (of Southern India), in 1877 the tiger walked abroad in the daytime, because men were few and weak, but in the populous and dangerous plains he did his traveling and killing at night, and lay closely hidden by day.

Judging by the records of those who have hunted lions, I think that naturally the lion has more courage and less fear of bodily harm than any other wild animal of equal intelligence. By reason of his courage and self-confidence, as well as his majesty of physique, the lion is indeed well worthy to be called the King of Beasts.

Among the few animals that seem naturally bold and ready to take risks, a notable species is the gray wolf. But is it really free from fear? Far from it. When in touch with civilization, from dawn until dark the wolf never forgets to look out for his own safety. He fears man, he fears the claws of every bear, he fears traps, poison and the sharp horns of the musk-ox. Individually the wolf is a contemptible coward. Rarely does he attack all alone an animal of his own size, unless it is a defenseless colt, calf or sheep. No animal is more safe from another than an able-bodied bull from the largest wolf. The wolf believes in mass action, not in single combat.

But there is hope for the harassed and nerve-racked children of the wild. The Game Sanctuary has come! Its area of safety, and its magic boundary, are quickly recognized by the harried deer, elk, sheep, goat and antelope, and right quickly do these and all other wild animals set up housekeeping on a basis of absolute safety. Talk about wild animals not "reasoning!" For shame. What else than REASON convinced the wild mountain sheep in the rocky fastnesses they once inhabited in terror that now they are SAFE, even in the streets of Ouray, and that "Ouray" rhymes with "your hay"?

On account of his crimes against wild life, man (both civilized and savage) has much to answer for; but each wild life sanctuary that he now creates wipes out one chapter. From the Cape to Cairo, from the Aru Islands to Tasmania and from Banks Land to the Mexican boundary, they are growing and spreading. In them, save for the misdoings of the few uncaught and unkilled predatory animals, fear can die out, and the peace of paradise regained take its place.

HYSTERIA OF FEAR IN A BEAR. Among wild animals in captivity hysteria, of the type produced by fear, is fairly common. A case noticed particularly on October 16, 1909, in a young female Kadiak bear, may well be cited as an example.

The subject was then about two and one-half years old, and was caged in a large open den with four other bears of the same age. Of a European brown bear male, only a trifle larger than herself, she elected to be terror-stricken, as much so as ever a human child was in terror of every move of a brutal adult tormentor. Strangely enough, the cause of all this terror was wholly unconscious of it, and in the course of an observation lasting at least twenty minutes he made not one hostile movement. The greater portion of the time he idly moved about in the central space of the den, wholly oblivious of the alarm he was causing.

The young Kadiak, in full flesh and vigor, first attracted my attention by her angry and terrified snorting, three quick snorts to the series. On the top of the rocks she raced to and fro, constantly eyeing the bear in the centre of the den. If he moved toward the rocks, she wildly plunged down, snorting and glaring, and raced to the front end of the den. If the bogey stopped to lick up a fallen leaf, she took it as a hostile act and wildly rushed past him and scrambled up the rocks at the farther end of the den. This was repeated about fifteen times in twenty minutes, accompanied by a continuous series of terrified snorts. She panted from exhaustion, frothed at the mouth, and acted like an animal half crazed by terror.

Not once, however, did the bogey bear pay the slightest attention to her, and his sleepy manner was anything but terrifying.

These spells of hysteria (without real cause) at last became so frequent that they seemed likely to injure the growth of a valuable animal, and finally the bogey bear was removed to another den.



XXIII

FIGHTING AMONG WILD ANIMALS

Quarrels and combats between wild animals in a state of nature are almost invariably due to one of two causes—attack and defense in a struggle for prey, or the jealousy of males during the mating season. With rare exceptions, battles of the former class occur between animals of different Orders,—teeth and claws against horns and hoofs, for instance; and it is a fight to the death. Hunger forces the aggressor to attack something, and the intended victim fights because it is attacked. The question of good or ill temper does not enter in. On both sides it is a case of "must," and neither party has any option. Such combats are tests of agility, strength, and staying powers, and, in a few cases, of thickness of bone and hide.

How Orang-Utans Fight. Of the comparatively few animals which do draw blood of their own kind through ill temper or jealousy, I have never encountered any more given to internecine strife than orang-utans. Their fighting methods, and their love of fighting, are highly suggestive of the temper and actions of the human tough. They fight by biting, and usually it is the fingers and toes that suffer. Of twenty-seven orang-utans I shot in Borneo, and twelve more that were shot for me by native hunters, five were fighters, and had had one or more fingers or toes bitten off in battle. Those specimens were taken in the days when the museums of America were one and all destitute of anthropoid apes.

A gorilla, chimpanzee, or orang-utan, being heavy of body, short of neck, and by no means nimble footed, cannot spring upon an adversary, choose a vulnerable spot, and bite to kill; but what it lacks in agility it makes up in length and strength of arm and hand. It seizes its antagonist's hand, carries it to its own mouth, and bites at the fingers. Usually, the bitten finger is severed as evenly as by a surgeon's amputation, and heals quite as successfully.

I never saw two big orang-utans fighting, but I have had several captive ones seize my arm and try to bring my fingers within biting distance. The canine teeth of a full grown male orang, standing four feet four inches in height, and weighing a hundred and fifty pounds or more, are just as large and dangerous as the teeth of a bear of the same size, and the powerful incisors have one quality which the teeth of a bear do not possess. A bear pierces or tears an antagonist with his canines, but very rarely bites off anything. An orang-utan bites off a finger as evenly as a boy nips off the end of a stick of candy.

When orang-utans fight, they also attack each other's faces, and often their broad and expansive lips suffer severely. My eleventh orang bore the scars of many a fierce duel in the tree-tops. A piece had been bitten out of the middle of both his lips, leaving in each a large, ragged notch. Both his middle fingers had been taken off at the second joint, and his feet had lost the third right toe, the fourth left toe, and the end of one hallux. His back, also, had sustained a severe injury, which had retarded his growth. This animal we called "The Desperado."

Orang No. 34 had lost the entire edge of his upper lip. It had been bitten across diagonally, but adhered at one corner, and healed without sloughing off, so that during the last years of his life a piece of lip two inches long hung dangling at the corner of his mouth. He had also suffered the loss of an entire finger. No. 36 had lost a good sized piece out of his upper lip, and the first toe had been bitten off his left foot.

All these combats must have taken place in the tree-tops, for an adult orang-utan has never been known to descend to the earth except for water. In some manner it has become a prevalent belief that in their native jungles all three of the great apes— gorilla, orang, and chimpanzee—are dangerous to human beings, and often attack them with clubs. Nothing could be farther from the truth. According to the natives of West Africa, a gorilla or chimpanzee fights a hunter by biting his face and fingers, just as an orang-utan does. I believe that no sane orang ever voluntarily left the safety of a tree top to fight at a serious disadvantage on the ground; and I am sure an orang never struck a blow with a club, unless carefully taught to do so.

WILD ANIMALS ARE NOT QUARRELSOME. As a species, man appears to be the most quarrelsome animal on the earth; and the same quality is strongly reflected in his most impressionable servant and companion, the domestic dog. Nearly all species of wild animals have learned the two foundation facts of the philosophy of life— that peace is better than war, and that if one must fight, it is better to fight outside one's own species. To this rule, however, wolves are a notable exception; for wherever wolves are abundant a wounded wolf is a subject for attack, and usually it is killed and eaten by the other members of the pack.

I have observed the daily habits of many kinds of wild animals in their wild haunts, but in the field I never yet have seen either a fight between animals of the same species, or between two of different species. This may seem a very humiliating admission for a hunter to make, but it happens to be true. In the matter of finding big snakes, having exciting adventures, and witnessing combats between wild animals, there are some men who never are in luck.

Now there was the "Old Shekarry,"—whose elephants, tigers, bison, bears, and sambar always were so much larger than mine. In his book, "Sport in Many Lands," he describes an affair of honor between a tiger and a bull bison, which was a truly ideal combat. The champions met by appointment,—by the light of the moon, in order to be safe from interference by the jungle police,—and they fought round after round, in the most orthodox prize ring style, under the Queensberry rules. So fairly did they fight that neither claimed a foul, and at the finish the two combatants retired to their respective corners and died simultaneously, "to the musical twitter of the night bird."

Another writer has given a vivid description of a battle to the death between a wild bull and a grizzly bear; and we have read of several awful combats between black bears and alligators, in Florida; but some of us have yet to find either a black bear or an alligator that will stop to fight when he has an option on a line of retreat. When he has lived long,—say to the length of twelve feet,—the alligator is a hideous and terrorizing beast; but, for all that, he knows a thing or two; and a full grown, healthy black bear of active habit is about the last creature on earth that a 'gator would care to meddle with. Pigs and calves, fawns, stray dogs, ducks and mud hens are antagonists more to his liking.

The Fighting Tactics of Bears. In captivity, bears quarrel and scold one another freely, at feeding time, but seldom draw blood. I have questioned many old hunters, and read many books by bear hunters, but Ira Dodge, of Wyoming, is the only man I know who has witnessed a real fight between wild bears. He once saw a battle between a cinnamon and a grizzly over the carcass of an elk.

In attacking, a bear does three things, and usually in the same order. First, he delivers a sweeping sidewise blow on the head of his antagonist; then he seizes him by the cheek, with the intention of shifting to the throat as quickly as it is safe to do so. His third move consists in throwing his weight upon his foe and bearing him to the earth, where he will have a better chance at his throat. If the fighters are fairly matched, the struggle is head to head and mouth to mouth. After the first onset, the paws do little or no damage, and the attacks of the teeth rarely go as far down as the shoulders. Often the assailant will seize his opponent's cheek and hold on so firmly that for a full minute the other can do nothing; but this means little.

In combats between bears, the one that is getting mauled, or that feels outclassed, will throw himself upon the ground, flat upon his back, and proceed to fight with all four sets of claws in addition to his teeth. This attitude is purely defensive, and often is maintained until an opportunity occurs to attack with good advantage, or to escape. It is very difficult for a standing bear to make a serious impression upon an antagonist who lies upon his back, clawing vigorously with all four feet at the head of his assailant.

Tiger Versus Grizzly Bear. Often is the question asked, "If a grizzly bear and a tiger should fight, which would whip the other?" One can answer only with opinions and deductions, not by reference to the records of the ring; for it seems that the terrors of the occident and the orient have never yet been matched in a fight to a finish.

One of the heaviest tigers ever weighed, prior to 1878, scaled four hundred and ninety five pounds, and was as free from surplus flesh and fat as a prizefighter in the ring. He stood three feet seven inches at the shoulder, measured thirty-six inches around the jaws, and twenty inches around the forearm. Very few lions have ever exceeded his weight or dimensions. So far as I know, a wild grizzly bear of the largest size has never been scaled, but it is not at all certain that any California grizzly has weighed more than twelve hundred pounds. The silvertip of the Rocky Mountain region is a totally different animal, being smaller, as well as different in color.

In a match between a grizzly and a tiger of equal weights, the activity of the latter, combined with the greater spread of his jaws and length of his canine teeth, would insure him the victory. The superior attack of the tiger would give him an advantage which it would probably be impossible to overcome. The blow of a tiger's paw is as powerful as that of a grizzly of the same size, though I doubt if it is any quicker in delivery. The quickness with which a seemingly clumsy bear can deliver a smashing blow is astonishing. Moreover, nature has given the grizzly a coat of fur which as a protection in fighting is almost equal to chain mail. Its length, combined with its density, makes it difficult for teeth or claws to cut through it, and in a struggle with a tiger, protective fur is only a fair compensation for a serious lack of leaping power in the hinder limbs. Though the tiger would win at equal weights, it is extremely probable that an adult California grizzly would vanquish a tiger of the largest size, for his greater bulk would far outweigh the latter's agility.

The Great Cats as Fighters. Tigers, when well matched, fight head to head and mouth to mouth, as do nearly all other carnivora, and at the same time they strike with their front paws. One of the finest spectacles I ever witnessed was a pitched battle between two splendid tigers, in a cage which afforded them ample room. With loud, roaring coughs, they sprang together, ears laid tight to their heads, eyes closed until only sparks of green and yellow fire flashed through four narrow slits, and their upper lips snarling high up to clear the glittering fangs beneath. Coughing, snarling, and often roaring furiously, each sprang for the other's throat, but jaw met jaw until their teeth almost cracked together. They rose fully erect on their hind legs, with their heads seven feet high, stood there, and smashed away with their paws, while tufts of hair flew through the air, and the cage seemed full of sparks. Neither gave the other a chance to get the throat hold, nor indeed to do aught else than ward off calamity; and each face was a picture of fury.

This startling combat lasted a surprisingly long time, without noticeable advantage to either side. Finally the tigers backed away from each other, and when at a safe distance apart dropped their front feet to the floor, growling savagely and licking their lips wherever a claw had drawn blood.

Of all the wild animals that are preyed upon by lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars, and pumas, only half a dozen species do anything more than struggle to escape. The gaur and the wild buffalo of India are sufficiently vindictive in dealing with a human hunter whose aim is not straight, but both fly before the tiger, and count themselves lucky when they can escape with nothing worse to show than a collection of long slits on their sides and hind quarters made by his knife-like claws. They do not care to return to do battle for the sake of revenge, and seek to put the widest possible stretch of jungle between themselves and their dreaded enemy.

The same is true of the African buffalo and the lion. As to the antelopes of Africa and the deer of India, what can they do but make a desperate effort to escape, and fly like the wind whenever they succeed? Of course many of these defenseless animals make a gallant struggle for their lives, and not a few succeed in throwing off their assailants and escaping. Even domestic cattle sometimes return to the hill country villages of southern India bearing claw marks on their sides—usually the work of young tigers, or of rheumatic old ones.

Here is a deer and puma story. In the picturesque bad-lands of Hell Creek, Montana, I saw my comrade, Laton A. Huffman, kill a large mule deer buck that three months previously had been attacked by a puma. From above it, the great cat had leaped upon the back of the deer, and laid hold with teeth and claws. In its struggle for life the buck either leaped or fell off the edge of a perpendicular "cut bank," and landed upon its back, with the puma underneath. Evidently the puma was so seriously injured that it could not continue the struggle; but it surely left its ear-marks.

One ear of the buck was fearfully torn. There was a big wound on the top of the neck, where the puma jaws had lacerated the skin and flesh; and both hind legs had been badly clawed by the assailant's hind feet. The main beam of the right antler had been, broken off half-way up, while the antlers were still in the velvet, which enabled us to fix the probable date of the encounter.

In the great Wynaad forest I once got lost, and in toiling through a five acre patch of grass higher than my head, and so dense that it was not negotiable except by following the game trails, my simple old Kuramber and I came suddenly upon the scene of a great struggle. In the center of a space about twenty feet in diameter, on which the tall grass had been trampled flat, lay the remains of a sambar stag which had very recently been killed and eaten by a tiger. The neck had not been dislocated, and the sambar had fought long and hard. Evidently the tiger had lain in wait on the runway, and had failed to subdue the sambar by his first fierce onslaught. Now an angry stag with good antlers is no mean antagonist, and it is strange if the tiger in the case went through that struggle without a puncture in his tawny skin.

In South Africa, Vaughan Kirby once found the dead bodies of a "patriarchal bull" sable antelope and a lion, "which had evidently been a fine specimen," lying close together, where the two animals had fallen after a great struggle. The sable antelope must have killed its antagonist by a lucky backward thrust of its long, curved horns as the lion fastened upon its back to pull it down.

Mr. Kirby's dogs once disturbed a sanguinary struggle between a leopard and a wild boar, or "bush pig," which had well-nigh reached a finish. The old boar, when bayed by the dogs, was found to be most terribly mauled. Its tough skin hung literally in shreds from its neck and shoulders, presenting ghastly open wounds. The entrails protruded from a deep claw gash in the side, and the head was a mass of blood and dirt. "On searching around," says Mr. Kirby, "we found unmistakable evidence of a life and death struggle. The ground was covered with gouts of blood and yellow hair, to some of which the skin (of the leopard) was still attached. Blood was splashed plentifully on the tree stems and the low brushwood, which for a space of a dozen yards around was trampled flat." The leopard had fled upon the approach of the dogs, leaving a trail of blood, which, though followed quickly, was finally lost in bad ground. It is no wonder that from the above and many other evidences equally good, Mr. Kirby considers the bush pig a remarkably courageous animal. He says that it was "never yet known to show the white feather," and declares that "a pig is never defeated until he is dead."

The Combats of Male Deer. The sable antelope is one of the few exceptions to the well-nigh universal rule against fighting between wild animals of the same species. Of this species, Mr. Kirby says: "Sable antelope bulls fight most fiercely amongst themselves, and though I have never actually witnessed an encounter between them, I have often seen the results of such, evidenced by great gaping wounds that could have been made by nothing else than the horns of an opponent. I once killed a large bull with a piece of another's horn tip, fully three inches long, buried in its neck. In 1889 I shot an old bull on the Swinya with a terrible wound in its off shoulder, caused by a horn thrust."

During the jealous flashes of the mating season, the males of several species of deer fight savagely. After a long period of inaction while the new antlers are developing—from April to September—the beginning of October finds the male deer, elk, or moose of North America with a new suit of hair, new horns, a swollen neck, and all his usual assertiveness. The crisp autumn air promotes a disposition to fight something, precisely as it inspires a sportsman to "kill something." During October and November, particularly, it is well for an unarmed man to give every antlered deer a wide berth.

At this period, fights between the males of herds of mule deer, white-tailed deer and elk are of frequent occurrence, but in a wild state they rarely end in bloodshed or death, save from locked antlers. Many times, however, two bucks will come together, and playfully push each other about without being angry. Many pairs of bucks have been found with their antlers fast locked in death—and I never see a death lock without a feeling of grim satisfaction that neither of the quarrelsome brutes had had an opportunity to attack some defenseless man, and spear him to death.

The antlers of the common white-tailed deer seem peculiarly liable to become interlocked so tightly that it is well-nigh impossible to separate them. And whenever this happens, the doom of both deer is sealed. Unless found speedily and killed, they must die of starvation. While it is quite true that two deer playing with their antlers may become locked fast, it is safe to say that the great majority meet their fate by charging each other with force sufficient to spring the beams of their antlers, and make the lock so perfect that no force they can exert will release it. A deer cannot pull back with the same power it exerts in plunging forward.

All members of the deer family that I know follow the same natural law in regard to supremacy. Indeed, this is true of nearly all animals. Leadership is not always maintained by the largest and strongest member of a herd, but very often by the most pugnacious. Sometimes a herd of elk is completely tyrannized by an old doe, who makes the young bucks fly from her in terror, when one prod of their sharp antlers would quickly send her to the rear.

When bucks in a state of freedom fight for supremacy, the weaker does not stay to be overthrown and speared to death by the victor. As soon as he feels that he is mastered he releases his antlers at the first opportunity, flings himself to one side, and either remains in the herd as an acknowledged subject of the victor, or else seeks fresh fields and pastures new.

Battles in Zoological Parks. In captivity, where escape is impossible, it is no uncommon thing for elk to kill each other. In fact, with several adult males in a small enclosure, tragedies may always be expected in the autumn and early winter. The process is very simple. So long as the two elk can stand up and fight head to head, there are no casualties; but when one wearies and weakens before the other, its guard is broken. Then one strong thrust in its side or shoulder sends it to the earth, badly wounded; and before it can rise, it is generally stabbed to death with horn thrusts into its lungs and liver. But, as I said before, I have never known of a fatal duel between elk outside of a zoological garden or park.

One of the most novel and interesting fights that has yet taken place in the New York Zoological Park was a pitched battle between two cow elk—May Queen and the Dowager. A bunch of black fungus suddenly appeared on the trunk of a tree, about twelve feet from the ground. My attention was first called to this by seeing May Queen, a fine young cow, standing erect on her hind legs in order to reach the tempting morsel with her mouth. A little later the Dowager, the oldest and largest cow elk in the herd, met her under the tree, whereupon the two made wry faces at each other, and champed their teeth together threateningly. Suddenly both cows rose on their hind legs, struck out viciously with their sharp pointed front hoofs, and, after a lively sparring bout, they actually clinched. The young cow got both front legs of the old cow between her own, where they were held practically helpless, and then with her own front hoofs she fiercely rained blows upon the ribs of her assailant. The Dowager backed away and fled, completely vanquished, with May Queen close upon her heels; and thus was the tyrannical rule of the senior cow overthrown forever.

During the breeding season, our wild buffaloes of the great vanished herds were much given to fighting, and always through jealousy. The bulls bellowed until they could be heard for miles, tore up earth and threw it into the air, rolled their eyes, and often rushed together in a terrifying manner; but beyond butting their heads, pushing and straining until the weaker turned and ran, nothing came of it all. I have yet to find a man who ever saw a wild buffalo that had been wounded to the shedding of blood by another wild buffalo. It is probable that no other species ever fought so fiercely and did so little damage as the American bison.

Elephants, Wolves, and Others. In ordinary life the Indian elephant is one of the most even-tempered of all animals. I have spent hours in watching wild herds in southern India, sometimes finding the huge beasts all around me, and in dangerously close proximity. Several times I could have touched a wild elephant with a carriage whip, had I possessed one. So far from fighting, I never saw an elephant threaten or even annoy another.

Elephants, being the most intelligent of all animals in the matter of training, have been educated to fight in the arena, usually by pushing each other head to head. A fighting tusker can lord it over almost any number of tuskless elephants, because he can pierce their vitals, and they cannot pierce his. A female fights by hitting with her head, striking her antagonist amidships, if possible. Once when the late G. P. Sanderson was in a keddah, noosing wild elephants, and was assulted [sic] by a vicious tusker, his life was saved by a tame female elephant, whose boy driver caused her to attack the tusker with her head, and nearly bowl him over by the force of her blows upon his ribs.

In captivity, wolves are the meanest brutes on earth, and in a wild state they are no better. As a rule, the stronger ones are ever ready to kill the weaker ones, and eat them, too. One night, our male Russian wolf killed his mate, and ate nearly half of her before morning. A fox or a wolf cub which thrusts one of its legs between the partition bars and into a wolf's den almost invariably gets it bitten off as close to the body as the biter can go. In the arctic regions, north of the Great Slave Lake, "Buffalo" Jones and George Rea fought wolves incessantly for several days, and every wolf they wounded was immediately killed and devoured by its pack mates.

In captivity, a large proportion of mammals fight, more or less; and the closer the confinement, the greater their nervousness and irritability, and the more fighting. Monkeys fight freely and frequently. Serpents, lizards, and alligators rarely do, although large alligators are prone to bite off the tails or legs of their small companions, or even to devour them whole. Storks, trumpeter swans, darters, jays, and some herons are so quarrelsome and dangerous that they must be kept well separated from other species, to prevent mutilation and murder. In 1900, when a pair of trumpeter swans were put upon a lake in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, with three brown pelicans for associates, they promptly assailed the pelicans, dug holes in their backs, and killed all three. The common red squirrel is a persistent fighter of the gray species, and, although inferior in size, nearly always wins.

A Fight Between a Whale and a Swordfish. One of the strangest wild animal combats on record was thus described in the Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London, for 1909.

"Mr. Malcolm Maclaren, through Mr. C. Davies Sherborn, F. Z. S., called the attention of the Fellows to an account of a fight between a whale and a swordfish observed by the crew of the fishing-boat 'Daisy' in the Hauraki Gulf, between Ponui Island and Coromandel, as reported in the 'Auckland Weekly News,' 19th Nov., 1908. A cow whale and her calf were attacked by a 12 ft. 6 in. swordfish, the object of the fish being the calf. The whale plunged about and struck in all directions with her flukes. Occasionally the fins of the swordfish were seen as he rose from a dive, his object apparently being to strike from below. For over a quarter of an hour the whale circled round her calf, lashing furiously and churning up the water so that the assailant was unable to secure a good opportunity for a thrust. At last, after a fruitless dive, the swordfish came close up and made a thrust at the calf, but received a blow from the whale's flukes across the back, which apparently paralyzed it. It was killed and hauled on board the boat without difficulty, while the whale and calf went off towards Coromandel with splashings and plungings. The whale's blow had almost knocked off the back fin of the swordfish, and heavily bruised the flesh around it. No threshers accompanied the swordfish."

Beyond question, as firearms and hunters multiply, all wild animals become more timid, less inclined to attack man, and also less inclined to attack one another. The higher creatures are the most affected by man's destructiveness of animal life, and the struggle for existence has become so keen that fighting for the glory of supremacy, or as a pastime, will soon have no important place in the lives of wild animals.



XXIV

WILD ANIMAL CRIMINALS AND CRIME

Many human beings are "good" because they never have been under the harrow of circumstances, nor sufficiently tempted to do wrong. It is only under the strain of strong temptation that human character is put through the thirty-third degree and tried out. No doubt a great many of us could be provoked to join a mob for murder, or forced to steal, or tortured into homicidal insanity. It is only under the artificial conditions of captivity, with loss of freedom, exemption from the daily fear of death, abundant food without compensating labor, and with every want supplied, that the latent wickedness of wild creatures comes to the surface. A captive animal often reveals traits never recognized in the free individual.

"Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."

These manifestations are of many kinds; but we propose to consider the criminal tendencies of wild animals both free and captive.

The persistence of the mental and moral parallelism between men and wild animals is a source of constant surprise. In a state of freedom, untrammeled by anything save the fear of death by violence, the deer or the mountain sheep works out in his own way his chosen scheme for the survival of the fittest,—himself. In the wilds we see very few manifestations of the criminal instinct. A fight between wild elk bulls for the supremacy of a herd is not a manifestation of murder lust, but of obedience to the fundamental law of evolution that the largest, the strongest and the most courageous males of every herd shall do the breeding. The killing of natural prey for daily food is not murder. A starving wolf on the desolate barren grounds may even kill and devour a wounded pack-mate without becoming a criminal by that act alone. True, such a manifestation of hard-heartedness and bad taste is very reprehensible; but its cause is hunger, not sheer blackness of heart. Among wild animals, the wanton killing of a member of the killer's own species would constitute murder in the first degree, and so is all unnecessary and wanton killing outside the killer's own species.

To many a wild animal there comes at tunes the murder lust which under the spur of opportunity leads to genuine crime. In some of the many cases that have come under my notice, the desire to commit murder for the sake of murder has been as sharply defined as the fangs or horns of the criminal. Of the many emotions of wild animals which are revealed more sharply in captivity than in a state of nature, the crime-producing passions, of jealousy, hatred, desire for revenge, and devilish lust for innocent blood, are most prominent. In the management of large animals in captivity, the criminal instinct is quite as great a trouble- breeder and source of anxiety as are wild-animal diseases, and the constant struggle with the elements.

In many cases there is not the slightest premonitory manifestation of murderous intent on the part of a potential criminal. Indeed, with most cunning wisdom, a wild-animal murderer will often conceal his purpose until outside interference is an impossibility, and the victim is entirely helpless. These manifestations of fiendish cunning and premeditation are very exasperating to those responsible for the care of animals in captivity.

In every well regulated zoological park, solitary confinement is regarded as an unhappy or intolerable condition. Animals that live in herds and groups in large enclosures always exercise more, have better appetites, and are much more contented and happy than individuals that are singly confined.

To visitors, a happy and contented community of deer, antelopes, bears, wolves, or birds is a source of far more mental satisfaction than could be found in any number of solitary animals. A small pen with a solitary animal in it at once suggests the prison-and-prisoner idea, and sometimes arouses pity and compassion rather than pleased admiration. The peaceful herd or flock is the thing to strive for as the highest ideal attainable in an exhibition of wild animals. But mark well the difficulties.

All the obstacles encountered in carrying out the community idea are created by the evil propensities of the animals themselves. Among the hoofed animals generally, every pair of horns and front hoofs is a possible storm-center. No keeper knows whether the members of his herd of deer will live together in peace and contentment until tomorrow, or whether, on any autumn or winter night, a buck will suddenly develop in his antlered head the thought that it is a good time to "kill something."