HUNTING THE COYOTE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20450, 3 July 1928, Page 13

HUNTING THE COYOTE.

AN AMERICAN SPORT. Though lacking the red coats and hunting horns of the English fox hunt, the wolf chases of the Western plains furnish the farmers there the same excitement and comradeship, writes a correspondent of the New York Times. Business is mixed with pleasure in them, for they have been induced not only by the love of sport, but as a measure of selfdefence. Although called “ wolf ” hunts, they usually have as their objects coyotes, and are organised whenever a number of farmers in a vicinity complain of lost chickens, lambs, and pigs. Usually 200 or 300 farmers surround four sections of land—an area two miles square. Eight companies or “ crowds "’ are organised, each having a captain who directs the advance. A zero hour is determined, usually about half-past two in the morning. The hunters are lined up in groups about a mile apart. At the appointed hour each captain’s shrill whistle is heard. Through tbe trees, or over the fields, and the chase is on. . As the long line marches, jack-rabbits spring up. There are barks from shotguns and the rabbits turn double somersaults and fall dead. Crows, too, fall victims to the sportsmen’s guns. Then comes a coyote, skulking down the gully of a low ridge. Espying the farmers he races off, his tail well down. He is lanky and grey-yellow, and far from attractive. . .. “There he is! ” “Get him! The farmers are quick to sight him, and their guns blaze like a battle line. The coyote is a worthy object of their aim. Darting in and out of a hedge like a dull streak, he runs up a ridge only to meet the line of farmers approaching from that direction. Hesitating a moment to calculate his predicament, ne resolves to fight for his life against the converging lines of hunters. •He drops down into a gully, out of sight for a moment. But the hunters come on, knowing that sooner or later he will reappear. Suddenly he is seen, galloping madly. He does not run away from them. He takes his only chance and charges at the line, attempting to break through and lose his pursuers. It is one chance in a thousand. Shots crash out to the right and left as the coyote speeds at them. One farmer crouches directly in his path, and, as the coyote is almost upon him, fires. There is only an instant between the discharge of his first barrel and the second. The coyote tumbles, knocked from his feet by the impact. After a moment he rises and darts into the weeds seemingly uninjured. “ Missed him,” the farmers chide, “ He ran right through you.” They realise, however, that the animal has been shot, and it will only be a question of time until they find its body. Dogs run into the weeds and before long there are tell-tale barks. The farmers tear into the weeds. One .raises the coyote by the hind legs, a limp bunch of fur.