ALPINE ANIMALS IN 
COLORADO. 
W. H. NELSON, 
The Easterner who, in quest of health 
or pleasure, becomes a resident of the Col- 
orada Alps will find many new and inter- 
esting forms of animal life whose habits he 
may study, and whose friend he is sure to 
become if he have in him the spirit of the 
woods. 
It is my lot in these latter days to oc- 
cupy a cabin amid the peaks of the Rock- 
ies, where, if one be a worshipper of Na- 
ture, he finds himself in her temple, indeed. 
Northward the lofty peak to which Lieu- 
tenant Long gave his name rears itself a 
sovereign among giant subjects, its ‘silver 
crown sometimes glistening under the rays 
of the sun, sometimes hidden within a 
cloud. Hidden, however, or revealed, the 
peak is always sublime. Westward Ara- 
paho towers, almost as lofty as Long, while 
to the South stand Chief, Squaw and Pap- 
poose, grim sentinels, unchanged and un- 
changing when those whose wigwams once’ 
held the people who named them have 
passed away forever. The animals that 
choose their home in such a region must 
be unlike their cousins farther East and 
on lower land. 
When the first level beams of the sun set 
the frost a-glittering, out from beneath my 
cabin comes a tiny chipmunk. He is a 
lightning streak for 5 or 6 feet, then stops 
and up-ends himself, jerking his funny 
little scraggly tail and cocking his weather 
eye at me, as much as to say: “Well, old 
fellow! How do you find yourself this 
fine morning?” He is about the same size 
as the similar animal in the East, but dif- 
ferently colored. The ground color of his 
coat is cream, the stripes quite dark. He 
has much the same disposition as his East- 
ern cousin, curious, timid, venturesome. If 
I remain still he will sit as if carved from 
a striped stone. If I move but a_ hand, 
however, he is back to his den, from which 
I soon see the dainty nose protrude. He 
is scouting, and will coine on or go back as 
I stand still or move. No amount of sur- 
reptitious feeding seems to overcome his 
suspicious timidity, no number of alarms 
to drive him from his home. 
Where a massive rock projects above the 
level of the cone not far from the cabin a 
rock squirrel has his tabernacle. Tiny and 
quick, nimble and inquisitive, he is like a 
little boy of the family of squirrels, but 
chain lightning would have to get a wiggle 
on it to catch him in a square race. Every- 
thing about him is in miniature and _ his 
diminutiveness is grotesque. 
The earth in the little parks is as full 
of holes as a pepper-box lid. Little gopher 
35 
wt 
mounds are everywhere, while the ground 
under the surface seems a labyrinth of gal- 
leries and dens. 
In the cliffs not far off, the coyotes have 
their dens. Every night, when the business 
of the ranch has been suspended, and the 
passing of the domestic animals to and fro 
has ceased, the father and mother coyotes 
put their babies to sleep, slip out softly 
and steal away to the cadaver of an unfor- 
tunate cow not far from the cabin. She 
has grown ripe, too ripe, indeed, when the 
wind is in that quarter. Other couples 
come from other coyote castles, and as they 
wind their various ways toward the feast, 
each couple in turn sits down and sounds 
a call which is answered from all around. 
One of these serenaders will sound her 
call no more, and her children, doubtless, 
have died for lack of food. As the ranch- 
man, whom I shall call Leon, passed 
through part of his land, a favorite spaniel 
came yelping and running for dear life to 
the wagon and took refuge under it, with 
a coyote nipping at his heels. Had he 
been farther away when the race began 
poor Nigg’s book had been closed, for he 
was much too small and too silky to with- 
stand his rugged antagonist. With the next 
load the boy Aden was sent to invite me 
to take the Remington and go along. I 
did so, trusting No. 3 to Aden to carry, 
the asthma claiming all my attention. We 
went out on a 4-horse wagon, Leon and 
I on a seat at front, Aden and No. 3 stand- 
ing farther back. All at once Leon pulled 
up the team, saying, “Gim me the gun! 
There she is!’ Glancing to the left amongst 
the pines I saw, sure enough, the flitting 
gray shadow. It stopped facing us, its fiery 
eyes fixed on poor Nigg, who trembled in 
his refuge beneath the wagon. The range 
was short—not over 25 yards, the shot easy, 
the trees open, and in an instant 250 grains 
of lead bored a hole through the glaring 
beast—endways. It entered in the right 
breast, passing slantwise through the inter- 
nal machinery, and out in the left flank. 
She turned a back somersault and ran about 
290 yards. When Leon reached her she was 
dead. 
I have, in my time, shot many rifles, and 
some of them favorites at the time, among 
others the old English Enfield, in the inter- 
esting shindy kicked up by our unruly 
brethren of the sunny Southland. The Win- 
chester, the Stevens and the Ballard I have 
used, and I hope to be forgiven by the breth- 
ren of the trigger, if I say that the Reming- 
ton satisfies my longings as nothing else can 
