WILLIAM WARREN. 333 



be heard running deer or antelope most every night. 

 No one called them prairie wolves there; they have 

 another name, perhaps Mexican or Indian, but people 

 in the East make such a mess of pronouncing it that the 

 name ought not to be printed. I'll tell you: the name is 

 ki-o-ty, but, confound 'em, the scholars spell it "coyote," 

 and that leads a man to make only two syllables of it. 

 He lives in the ground, like a fox, and, if not as cunning 

 as reynard, is as fleet and tireless, and it is said that he 

 hunts deer in relays, one gang resting till the other brings 

 the quarry back on the circle. He doesn't hunt rabbits; 

 just picks 'em up. 



One day Warren came in with four little pups in his 

 coat. I didn't need a "dog" just then, but somebody 

 sjaid they were "just the cutest little things this side of 

 the Santa Fe trail," and one was left for us. The young 



c grew on a liberal diet of milk and table scraps, but 



when the first setting hen came off with a brood he 

 realized his place in nature. He was the fittest and 

 survived. 



The old hen protested, but he ignored the pro- 

 test, and ate her as a piece de resistance, to which the 

 chickens had been merely an entree. I also protested 

 with a switch, but Lupus could not be made to under- 

 stand that chickens were not proper things to eat. At 

 my advanced age I don't understand why chickens should 

 not be eaten, and yet I tried to force that opinion on my 

 protege. He disliked discipline in all its abhorrent forms 

 of switch, club or boot, and before long, perhaps the time 

 required to set several chicks free from their imprison- 

 ment in the shell, it was apparent that there was an ab- 

 sence of cordiality in our intercourse. Lupus was kind 

 to all but me after I put a chain on him and fenced the 

 chickens from his domain. He preferred to chew my 



