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BACHING IN THE BAD LANDS L53 
bank of the dam and their job proved a 
bootless one, or, rather, a beaverless one. 
I could have told them different and what 
a mistake they were making, but did not 
feel called upon to do so. 
Then there are the covotes—the weehing 
sheep dogs of the plains—not greatly to 
be feared, and yet not the least to be liked. 
They make nights gruesome with their 
hair-uplifting sounds and Indian Creek 
provides shelters and dens for them in 
her washouts and shaly clay banks. They 
are the unclean, the leprosy of the other- 
wise wholesome and healthful land. They 
yelp and snarl and threaten the belated 
hunter and follow close in the track of the 
lost shackman, but instead of attacking 
him they hie them away, after they have 
played their bluff, and kill a weak-legged, 
tottering new-born calf whose mother is 
browsing at a safe distance. Pariahs of the 
plains, they seem to understand that they 
are regarded as odious and revenge them- 
selves by doing odious acts. . 
There is a fine showing of humanity in 
these Indian Creek coyotes, after all. The 
shack of the writer is in an isolated district, 
hitherto undisturbed by man, and they 
resented the intrusion in a demonstrative and 
almost bold way. They yelped at my very 
door and held indignation meetings in 
plain sight. The light of the shack window 
disturbed them and they bayed at it, as a 
dog bays at the moon. Now and then I 
meet one in my walks in broad daylight 
and there is an exchange of courtesies that 
does honor to us both. He is a master of 
billingsgate and calls me a liar and odious 
names before I have fairly caught sight of 
him. Then I return the compliment, but 
he has the upper “‘hold,” and I never feel 
that I have gotten quite even with him, and 
pretty soon he disappears over the divide 
and I go on my way wondering what a 
person would be justified in doing under 
the circumstances. 
Lynxes, or ‘‘bob-cats,”? abound. They 
live in the deep washouts and house-high 
flood trash that the great floods have de- 
posited along Indian Creek. This débris 
makes rare hiding and breeding places for 
these animals and they have grown bold 
in taking possession of them. They make 
a feint of bravery, but as a rule only reach 
the height of courage of stealing a round 
of beef swung on a pole over the door from 
the roof of a shack. One can hear their 
stealthy tread around the cabin at night, 
in search of an easily accomplished snack. 
There is something “‘creepy”’ about them 
—a feeling as of a snake pulling itself 
silently upon one—a sensation that some- 
thing is going to happen. Their scream 
puts a ripple, a shudder on the usually 
calm and unresponsive surface of the 
creek, and when one has once heard it, it 
is not likely to be forgotten. And of a 
dark night, alone on the plains, a bob-cat 
is far from a pleasant companion. 
There was a time, not very remote, that 
larger game made comrades of the stream. 
Only yesterday I found the head of a 
monster buffalo glued to a bank and stand- 
ing out in relief over the water like a 
butcher’s sign. There was a whole pathetic 
history init. It fell to pieces as I drew it out, 
all but one massive horn, and I shied this at 
a blinkless, staring-eyed rattlesnake that 
had pulled itself up near to me to see 
what was going on. 
Indian Creek looks commonplace to the 
observer who does not observe. But it is 
not. It is full of vivid, fascinating interest. 
It simply does not talk much, but it is a 
good listener; it knows a lot and is con- 
tent"and minds its own business. ‘i 

