Animal Heroes — The Winnipeg Wolf, part 1

THE WINNIPEG WOLF

I

It was during the great blizzard of 1882 that I first met the Winnipeg Wolf.

I had left St. Paul in the middle of March to cross the prairies to Winnipeg, expecting to be there in twenty-four hours, but the Storm King had planned it otherwise and sent a heavy-laden eastern blast.

The snow came down in a furious, steady torrent, hour after hour.

Never before had I seen such a storm.

All the world was lost in snow--snow, snow, snow--whirling, biting, stinging, drifting snow--and the puffing, monstrous engine was compelled to stop at the command of those tiny feathery crystals of spotless purity.

Many strong hands with shovels came to the delicately curled snowdrifts that barred our way, and in an hour the engine could pass--only to stick in another drift yet farther on.

It was dreary work--day after day, night after night, sticking in the drifts, digging ourselves out, and still the snow went whirling and playing about us.

"Twenty-two hours to Emerson," said the official; but nearly two weeks of digging passed before we did reach Emerson, and the poplar country where the thickets stop all drifting of the snow.

Thenceforth the train went swiftly, the poplar woods grew more thickly--we passed for miles through solid forests, then perhaps through an open space.

As we neared St. Boniface, the eastern outskirts of Winnipeg, we dashed across a little glade fifty yards wide, and there in the middle was a group that stirred me to the very soul.

In plain view was a great rabble of Dogs, large and small, black, white, and yellow, wriggling and heaving this way and that way in a rude ring; to one side was a little yellow Dog stretched and quiet in the snow; on the outer part of the ring was a huge black Dog bounding about and barking, but keeping ever behind the moving mob.

And in the midst, the centre and cause of it all, was a great, grim, Wolf.

Wolf?

He looked like a Lion.

There he stood, all alone--resolute-calm--with bristling mane, and legs braced firmly, glancing this way and that, to be ready for an attack in any direction.

There was a curl on his lips--it looked like scorn, but I suppose it was really the fighting snarl of tooth display.

Led by a wolfish-looking Dog that should have been ashamed, the pack dashed in, for the twentieth time no doubt.

But the great gray form leaped here and there, and chop, chop, chop went those fearful jaws, no other sound from the lonely warrior; but a death yelp from more than one of his foes, as those that were able again sprang back, and left him statuesque as before, untamed, unmaimed, and contemptuous of them all.

How I wished for the train to stick in a snowdrift now, as so often before, for all my heart went out to that Gray-wolf; I longed to go and help him.

But the snow-deep glade flashed by, the poplar trunks shut out the view, and we went on to our journey's end.

This was all I saw, and it seemed little; but before many days had passed I knew surely that I had been favored with a view, in broad daylight, of a rare and wonderful creature, none less than the Winnipeg Wolf.

His was a strange history--a Wolf that preferred the city to the country, that passed by the Sheep to kill the Dogs, and that always hunted alone.

In telling the story of le Garou, as he was called by some, although I speak of these things as locally familiar, it is very sure that to many citizens of the town they were quite unknown.

The smug shopkeeper on the main street had scarcely heard of him until the day after the final scene at the slaughter-house, when his great carcass was carried to Hine's taxidermist shop and there mounted, to be exhibited later at the Chicago World's Fair, and to be destroyed, alas!

in the fire that reduced the Mulvey Grammar School to ashes in 1896. II

It seems that Fiddler Paul, the handsome ne'er-do-well of the half-breed world, readier to hunt than to work, was prowling with his gun along the wooded banks of the Red River by Kildonan, one day in the June of 1880. He saw a Gray-wolf come out of a hole in a bank and fired a chance shot that killed it.

Having made sure, by sending in his Dog, that no other large Wolf was there, he crawled into the den, and found, to his utter amazement and delight, eight young Wolves--nine bounties of ten dollars each.

How much is that?

A fortune surely.

He used a stick vigorously, and with the assistance of the yellow Cur, all the little ones were killed but one.

There is a superstition about the last of a brood--it is not lucky to kill it.

So Paul set out for town with the scalp of the old Wolf, the scalps of the seven young, and the last Cub alive.

The saloon-keeper, who got the dollars for which the scalps were exchanged, soon got the living Cub.

He grew up at the end of a chain, but developed a chest and jaws that no Hound in town could match.

He was kept in the yard for the amusement of customers, and this amusement usually took the form of baiting the captive with Dogs.

The young Wolf was bitten and mauled nearly to death on several occasions, but he recovered, and each month there were fewer Dogs willing to face him.

His life was as hard as it could be.

There was but one gleam of gentleness in it all, and that was the friendship that grew up between himself and Little Jim, the son of the saloonkeeper.

Jim was a wilful little rascal with a mind of his own.

He took to the Wolf because it had killed a Dog that had bitten him.

He thenceforth fed the Wolf and made a pet of it, and the Wolf responded by allowing him to take liberties which no one else dared venture.

Jim's father was not a model parent.

He usually spoiled his son, but at times would get in a rage and beat him cruelly for some trifle.

The child was quick to learn that he was beaten, not because he had done wrong, but because he had made his father angry.

If, therefore, he could keep out of the way until that anger had cooled, he had no further cause for worry.

One day, seeking safety in flight with his father behind him, he dashed into the Wolf's kennel, and his grizzly chum thus unceremoniously awakened turned to the door, displayed a double row of ivories, and plainly said to the father: "Don't you dare to touch him."

If Hogan could have shot the Wolf then and there he would have done so, but the chances were about equal of killing his son, so he let them alone and, half an hour later, laughed at the whole affair.

Thenceforth Little Jim made for the Wolf's den whenever he was in danger, and sometimes the only notice any one had that the boy had been in mischief was seeing him sneak in behind the savage captive.

Economy in hired help was a first principle with Hogan.

Therefore his "barkeep" was a Chinaman.

He was a timid, harmless creature, so Paul des Roches did not hesitate to bully him.

One day, finding Hogan out, and the Chinaman alone in charge, Paul, already tipsy, demanded a drink on credit, and Tung Ling, acting on standing orders, refused.

His artless explanation, "No good, neber pay," so far from clearing up the difficulty, brought Paul staggering back of the bar to avenge the insult.

The Celestial might have suffered grievous bodily hurt, but that Little Jim was at hand and had a long stick, with which he adroitly tripped up the Fiddler and sent him sprawling.

He staggered to his feet swearing he would have Jim's life.

But the child was near the back door and soon found refuge in the Wolf's kennel.

Seeing that the boy had a protector, Paul got the long stick, and from a safe distance began to belabor the Wolf, The grizzly creature raged at the end of the chain, but, though he parried many cruel blows by seizing the stick in his teeth, he was suffering severely, when Paul realized that Jim, whose tongue had not been idle, was fumbling away with nervous fingers to set the Wolf loose, and soon would succeed.

Indeed, it would have been done already but for the strain that the Wolf kept on the chain.

The thought of being in the yard at the mercy of the huge animal that he had so enraged, gave the brave Paul a thrill of terror.

Jim's wheedling voice was heard--"Hold on now, Wolfie; back up just a little, and you shall have him.

Now do; there's a good Wolfie"--that was enough; the Fiddler fled and carefully closed all doors behind him.

Thus the friendship between Jim and his pet grew stronger, and the Wolf, as he developed his splendid natural powers, gave daily evidence also of the mortal hatred he bore to men that smelt of whiskey and to all Dogs, the causes of his sufferings.

This peculiarity, coupled with his love for the child--and all children seemed to be included to some extent--grew with his growth and seemed to prove the ruling force of his life.

III

At this time--that is, the fall of 1881--there were great complaints among the Qu'Appelle ranchmen that the Wolves were increasing in their country and committing great depredations among the stock.

Poisoning and trapping had proved failures, and when a distinguished German visitor appeared at the Club in Winnipeg and announced that he was bringing some Dogs that could easily rid the country of Wolves, he was listened to with unusual interest.

For the cattle-men are fond of sport, and the idea of helping their business by establishing a kennel of Wolfhounds was very alluring.

The German soon produced as samples of his Dogs, two magnificent Danes, one white, the other blue with black spots and a singular white eye that completed an expression of unusual ferocity.

Each of these great creatures weighed nearly two hundred pounds.

They were muscled like Tigers, and the German was readily believed when he claimed that these two alone were more than a match for the biggest Wolf.

He thus described their method of hunting: "All you have to do is show them the trail and, even if it is a day old, away they go on it.

They cannot be shaken off.

They will soon find that Wolf, no matter how he doubles and hides.

Then they close on him.

He turns to run, the blue Dog takes him by the haunch and throws him like this," and the German jerked a roll of bread into the air; "then before he touches the ground the white Dog has his head, the other his tail, and they pull him apart like that."

It sounded all right; at any rate every one was eager to put it to the proof.

Several of the residents said there was a fair chance of finding a Gray-wolf along the Assiniboine, so a hunt was organized.

But they searched in vain for three days and were giving it up when some one suggested that down at Hogan's saloon was a Wolf chained up, that they could get for the value of the bounty, and though little more than a year old he would serve to show what the Dogs could do.

The value of Hogan's Wolf went up at once when he knew the importance of the occasion; besides, "he had conscientious scruples."

All his scruples vanished, however, when his views as to price were met.

His first care was to get Little Jim out of the way by sending him on an errand to his grandma's; then the Wolf was driven into his box and nailed in.

The box was put in a wagon and taken to the open prairie along the Portage trail.

The Dogs could scarcely be held back, they were so eager for the fray, as soon as they smelt the Wolf.

But several strong men held their leash, the wagon was drawn half a mile farther, and the Wolf was turned out with some difficulty.

At first he looked scared and sullen.

He tried to get out of sight, but made no attempt to bite.

However, on finding himself free, as well as hissed and hooted at, he started off at a slinking trot toward the south, where the land seemed broken.

The Dogs were released at that moment, and, baying furiously, they bounded away after the young Wolf.

The men cheered loudly and rode behind them.

From the very first it was clear that he had no chance.

The Dogs were much swifter; the white one could run like a Greyhound.

The German was wildly enthusiastic as she flew across the prairie, gaining visibly on the Wolf at every second.

Many bets were offered on the Dogs, but there were no takers.

The only bets accepted were Dog against Dog.

The young Wolf went at speed now, but within a mile the white Dog was right behind him--was closing in.

The German shouted: "Now watch and see that Wolf go up in the air."

In a moment the runners were together.

Both recoiled, neither went up in the air, but the white Dog rolled over with a fearful gash in her shoulder--out of the fight, if not killed.

Ten seconds later the Blue-spot arrived, open-mouthed.

This meeting was as quick and almost as mysterious as the first.

The animals barely touched each other.

The gray one bounded aside, his head out of sight for a moment in the flash of quick movement.

Spot reeled and showed a bleeding flank.

Urged on by the men, he assaulted again, but only to get another wound that taught him to keep off.

Now came the keeper with four more huge Dogs.

They turned these loose, and the men armed with clubs and lassos were closing to help in finishing the Wolf, when a small boy came charging over the plain on a Pony.

He leaped to the ground and wriggling through the ring flung his arms around the Wolf's neck.

He called him his "Wolfie pet," his "dear Wolfie"--the Wolf licked his face and wagged its tail--then the child turned on the crowd and through his streaming tears, he--Well it would not do to print what he said.

He was only nine, but he was very old-fashioned, as well as a rude little boy.

He had been brought up in a low saloon, and had been an apt pupil at picking up the vile talk of the place.

He cursed them one and all and for generations back; he did not spare even his own father.

If a man had used such shocking and insulting language he might have been lynched, but coming from a baby, the hunters did not know what to do, so finally did the best thing.

They laughed aloud--not at themselves, that is not considered good form--but they all laughed at the German whose wonderful Dogs had been worsted by a half-grown Wolf.

Jimmie now thrust his dirty, tear-stained little fist down into his very-much-of-a-boy's pocket, and from among marbles and chewing-gum, as well as tobacco, matches, pistol cartridges, and other contraband, he fished out a flimsy bit of grocer's twine and fastened it around the Wolf's neck.

Then, still blubbering a little, he set out for home on the Pony, leading the Wolf and hurling a final threat and anathema at the German nobleman: "Fur two cents I'd sic him on you, gol darn ye."