Chapter VI (6)

Quarrels and combats between wild animals in a state of nature are almost invariably due to one of two causes--attack and defense in a struggle for prey, or the jealousy of males during the mating season. With rare exceptions, battles of the former class occur between animals of different Orders,--teeth and claws against horns and hoofs, for instance; and it is a fight to the death. Hunger forces the aggressor to attack something, and the intended victim fights because it is attacked. The question of good or ill temper does not enter in. On both sides it is a case of "must," and neither party has any option. Such combats are tests of agility, strength, and staying powers, and, in a few cases, of thickness of bone and hide.

How Orang-Utans Fight. Of the comparatively few animals which do draw blood of their own kind through ill temper or jealousy, I have never encountered any more given to internecine strife than orang-utans. Their fighting methods, and their love of fighting, are highly suggestive of the temper and actions of the human tough. They fight by biting, and usually it is the fingers and toes that suffer. Of twenty-seven orang-utans I shot in Borneo, and twelve more that were shot for me by native hunters, five were fighters, and had had one or more fingers or toes bitten off in battle. Those specimens were taken in the days when the museums of America were one and all destitute of anthropoid apes.

A gorilla, chimpanzee, or orang-utan, being heavy of body, short of neck, and by no means nimble footed, cannot spring upon an adversary, choose a vulnerable spot, and bite to kill; but what it lacks in agility it makes up in length and strength of arm and hand. It seizes its antagonist's hand, carries it to its own mouth, and bites at the fingers. Usually, the bitten finger is severed as evenly as by a surgeon's amputation, and heals quite as successfully.

I never saw two big orang-utans fighting, but I have had several captive ones seize my arm and try to bring my fingers within biting distance. The canine teeth of a full grown male orang, standing four feet four inches in height, and weighing a hundred and fifty pounds or more, are just as large and dangerous as the teeth of a bear of the same size, and the powerful incisors have one quality which the teeth of a bear do not possess. A bear pierces or tears an antagonist with his canines, but very rarely bites off anything. An orang-utan bites off a finger as evenly as a boy nips off the end of a stick of candy.

When orang-utans fight, they also attack each other's faces, and often their broad and expansive lips suffer severely. My eleventh orang bore the scars of many a fierce duel in the tree-tops. A piece had been bitten out of the middle of both his lips, leaving in each a large, ragged notch. Both his middle fingers had been taken off at the second joint, and his feet had lost the third right toe, the fourth left toe, and the end of one hallux. His back, also, had sustained a severe injury, which had retarded his growth. This animal we called "The Desperado."

Orang No. 34 had lost the entire edge of his upper lip. It had been bitten across diagonally, but adhered at one corner, and healed without sloughing off, so that during the last years of his life a piece of lip two inches long hung dangling at the corner of his mouth. He had also suffered the loss of an entire finger. No. 36 had lost a good sized piece out of his upper lip, and the first toe had been bitten off his left foot.

All these combats must have taken place in the tree-tops, for an adult orang-utan has never been known to descend to the earth except for water. In some manner it has become a prevalent belief that in their native jungles all three of the great apes-- gorilla, orang, and chimpanzee--are dangerous to human beings, and often attack them with clubs. Nothing could be farther from the truth. According to the natives of West Africa, a gorilla or chimpanzee fights a hunter by biting his face and fingers, just as an orang-utan does. I believe that no sane orang ever voluntarily left the safety of a tree top to fight at a serious disadvantage on the ground; and I am sure an orang never struck a blow with a club, unless carefully taught to do so.

WILD ANIMALS ARE NOT QUARRELSOME. As a species, man appears to be the most quarrelsome animal on the earth; and the same quality is strongly reflected in his most impressionable servant and companion, the domestic dog. Nearly all species of wild animals have learned the two foundation facts of the philosophy of life-- that peace is better than war, and that if one must fight, it is better to fight outside one's own species. To this rule, however, wolves are a notable exception; for wherever wolves are abundant a wounded wolf is a subject for attack, and usually it is killed and eaten by the other members of the pack.

I have observed the daily habits of many kinds of wild animals in their wild haunts, but in the field I never yet have seen either a fight between animals of the same species, or between two of different species. This may seem a very humiliating admission for a hunter to make, but it happens to be true. In the matter of finding big snakes, having exciting adventures, and witnessing combats between wild animals, there are some men who never are in luck.

Now there was the "Old Shekarry,"--whose elephants, tigers, bison, bears, and sambar always were so much larger than mine. In his book, "Sport in Many Lands," he describes an affair of honor between a tiger and a bull bison, which was a truly ideal combat. The champions met by appointment,--by the light of the moon, in order to be safe from interference by the jungle police,--and they fought round after round, in the most orthodox prize ring style, under the Queensberry rules. So fairly did they fight that neither claimed a foul, and at the finish the two combatants retired to their respective corners and died simultaneously, "to the musical twitter of the night bird."

Another writer has given a vivid description of a battle to the death between a wild bull and a grizzly bear; and we have read of several awful combats between black bears and alligators, in Florida; but some of us have yet to find either a black bear or an alligator that will stop to fight when he has an option on a line of retreat. When he has lived long,--say to the length of twelve feet,--the alligator is a hideous and terrorizing beast; but, for all that, he knows a thing or two; and a full grown, healthy black bear of active habit is about the last creature on earth that a 'gator would care to meddle with. Pigs and calves, fawns, stray dogs, ducks and mud hens are antagonists more to his liking.

The Fighting Tactics of Bears. In captivity, bears quarrel and scold one another freely, at feeding time, but seldom draw blood. I have questioned many old hunters, and read many books by bear hunters, but Ira Dodge, of Wyoming, is the only man I know who has witnessed a real fight between wild bears. He once saw a battle between a cinnamon and a grizzly over the carcass of an elk.

In attacking, a bear does three things, and usually in the same order. First, he delivers a sweeping sidewise blow on the head of his antagonist; then he seizes him by the cheek, with the intention of shifting to the throat as quickly as it is safe to do so. His third move consists in throwing his weight upon his foe and bearing him to the earth, where he will have a better chance at his throat. If the fighters are fairly matched, the struggle is head to head and mouth to mouth. After the first onset, the paws do little or no damage, and the attacks of the teeth rarely go as far down as the shoulders. Often the assailant will seize his opponent's cheek and hold on so firmly that for a full minute the other can do nothing; but this means little.

In combats between bears, the one that is getting mauled, or that feels outclassed, will throw himself upon the ground, flat upon his back, and proceed to fight with all four sets of claws in addition to his teeth. This attitude is purely defensive, and often is maintained until an opportunity occurs to attack with good advantage, or to escape. It is very difficult for a standing bear to make a serious impression upon an antagonist who lies upon his back, clawing vigorously with all four feet at the head of his assailant.

Tiger Versus Grizzly Bear. Often is the question asked, "If a grizzly bear and a tiger should fight, which would whip the other?" One can answer only with opinions and deductions, not by reference to the records of the ring; for it seems that the terrors of the occident and the orient have never yet been matched in a fight to a finish.

One of the heaviest tigers ever weighed, prior to 1878, scaled four hundred and ninety five pounds, and was as free from surplus flesh and fat as a prizefighter in the ring. He stood three feet seven inches at the shoulder, measured thirty-six inches around the jaws, and twenty inches around the forearm. Very few lions have ever exceeded his weight or dimensions. So far as I know, a wild grizzly bear of the largest size has never been scaled, but it is not at all certain that any California grizzly has weighed more than twelve hundred pounds. The silvertip of the Rocky Mountain region is a totally different animal, being smaller, as well as different in color.

In a match between a grizzly and a tiger of equal weights, the activity of the latter, combined with the greater spread of his jaws and length of his canine teeth, would insure him the victory. The superior attack of the tiger would give him an advantage which it would probably be impossible to overcome. The blow of a tiger's paw is as powerful as that of a grizzly of the same size, though I doubt if it is any quicker in delivery. The quickness with which a seemingly clumsy bear can deliver a smashing blow is astonishing. Moreover, nature has given the grizzly a coat of fur which as a protection in fighting is almost equal to chain mail. Its length, combined with its density, makes it difficult for teeth or claws to cut through it, and in a struggle with a tiger, protective fur is only a fair compensation for a serious lack of leaping power in the hinder limbs. Though the tiger would win at equal weights, it is extremely probable that an adult California grizzly would vanquish a tiger of the largest size, for his greater bulk would far outweigh the latter's agility.

The Great Cats as Fighters. Tigers, when well matched, fight head to head and mouth to mouth, as do nearly all other carnivora, and at the same time they strike with their front paws. One of the finest spectacles I ever witnessed was a pitched battle between two splendid tigers, in a cage which afforded them ample room. With loud, roaring coughs, they sprang together, ears laid tight to their heads, eyes closed until only sparks of green and yellow fire flashed through four narrow slits, and their upper lips snarling high up to clear the glittering fangs beneath. Coughing, snarling, and often roaring furiously, each sprang for the other's throat, but jaw met jaw until their teeth almost cracked together. They rose fully erect on their hind legs, with their heads seven feet high, stood there, and smashed away with their paws, while tufts of hair flew through the air, and the cage seemed full of sparks. Neither gave the other a chance to get the throat hold, nor indeed to do aught else than ward off calamity; and each face was a picture of fury.

This startling combat lasted a surprisingly long time, without noticeable advantage to either side. Finally the tigers backed away from each other, and when at a safe distance apart dropped their front feet to the floor, growling savagely and licking their lips wherever a claw had drawn blood.

Of all the wild animals that are preyed upon by lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars, and pumas, only half a dozen species do anything more than struggle to escape. The gaur and the wild buffalo of India are sufficiently vindictive in dealing with a human hunter whose aim is not straight, but both fly before the tiger, and count themselves lucky when they can escape with nothing worse to show than a collection of long slits on their sides and hind quarters made by his knife-like claws. They do not care to return to do battle for the sake of revenge, and seek to put the widest possible stretch of jungle between themselves and their dreaded enemy.

The same is true of the African buffalo and the lion. As to the antelopes of Africa and the deer of India, what can they do but make a desperate effort to escape, and fly like the wind whenever they succeed? Of course many of these defenseless animals make a gallant struggle for their lives, and not a few succeed in throwing off their assailants and escaping. Even domestic cattle sometimes return to the hill country villages of southern India bearing claw marks on their sides--usually the work of young tigers, or of rheumatic old ones.

Here is a deer and puma story. In the picturesque bad-lands of Hell Creek, Montana, I saw my comrade, Laton A. Huffman, kill a large mule deer buck that three months previously had been attacked by a puma. From above it, the great cat had leaped upon the back of the deer, and laid hold with teeth and claws. In its struggle for life the buck either leaped or fell off the edge of a perpendicular "cut bank," and landed upon its back, with the puma underneath. Evidently the puma was so seriously injured that it could not continue the struggle; but it surely left its ear-marks.

One ear of the buck was fearfully torn. There was a big wound on the top of the neck, where the puma jaws had lacerated the skin and flesh; and both hind legs had been badly clawed by the assailant's hind feet. The main beam of the right antler had been, broken off half-way up, while the antlers were still in the velvet, which enabled us to fix the probable date of the encounter.

In the great Wynaad forest I once got lost, and in toiling through a five acre patch of grass higher than my head, and so dense that it was not negotiable except by following the game trails, my simple old Kuramber and I came suddenly upon the scene of a great struggle. In the center of a space about twenty feet in diameter, on which the tall grass had been trampled flat, lay the remains of a sambar stag which had very recently been killed and eaten by a tiger. The neck had not been dislocated, and the sambar had fought long and hard. Evidently the tiger had lain in wait on the runway, and had failed to subdue the sambar by his first fierce onslaught. Now an angry stag with good antlers is no mean antagonist, and it is strange if the tiger in the case went through that struggle without a puncture in his tawny skin.

In South Africa, Vaughan Kirby once found the dead bodies of a "patriarchal bull" sable antelope and a lion, "which had evidently been a fine specimen," lying close together, where the two animals had fallen after a great struggle. The sable antelope must have killed its antagonist by a lucky backward thrust of its long, curved horns as the lion fastened upon its back to pull it down.

Mr. Kirby's dogs once disturbed a sanguinary struggle between a leopard and a wild boar, or "bush pig," which had well-nigh reached a finish. The old boar, when bayed by the dogs, was found to be most terribly mauled. Its tough skin hung literally in shreds from its neck and shoulders, presenting ghastly open wounds. The entrails protruded from a deep claw gash in the side, and the head was a mass of blood and dirt. "On searching around," says Mr. Kirby, "we found unmistakable evidence of a life and death struggle. The ground was covered with gouts of blood and yellow hair, to some of which the skin (of the leopard) was still attached. Blood was splashed plentifully on the tree stems and the low brushwood, which for a space of a dozen yards around was trampled flat." The leopard had fled upon the approach of the dogs, leaving a trail of blood, which, though followed quickly, was finally lost in bad ground. It is no wonder that from the above and many other evidences equally good, Mr. Kirby considers the bush pig a remarkably courageous animal. He says that it was "never yet known to show the white feather," and declares that "a pig is never defeated until he is dead."

The Combats of Male Deer. The sable antelope is one of the few exceptions to the well-nigh universal rule against fighting between wild animals of the same species. Of this species, Mr. Kirby says: "Sable antelope bulls fight most fiercely amongst themselves, and though I have never actually witnessed an encounter between them, I have often seen the results of such, evidenced by great gaping wounds that could have been made by nothing else than the horns of an opponent. I once killed a large bull with a piece of another's horn tip, fully three inches long, buried in its neck. In 1889 I shot an old bull on the Swinya with a terrible wound in its off shoulder, caused by a horn thrust."

During the jealous flashes of the mating season, the males of several species of deer fight savagely. After a long period of inaction while the new antlers are developing--from April to September--the beginning of October finds the male deer, elk, or moose of North America with a new suit of hair, new horns, a swollen neck, and all his usual assertiveness. The crisp autumn air promotes a disposition to fight something, precisely as it inspires a sportsman to "kill something." During October and November, particularly, it is well for an unarmed man to give every antlered deer a wide berth.

At this period, fights between the males of herds of mule deer, white-tailed deer and elk are of frequent occurrence, but in a wild state they rarely end in bloodshed or death, save from locked antlers. Many times, however, two bucks will come together, and playfully push each other about without being angry. Many pairs of bucks have been found with their antlers fast locked in death--and I never see a death lock without a feeling of grim satisfaction that neither of the quarrelsome brutes had had an opportunity to attack some defenseless man, and spear him to death.

The antlers of the common white-tailed deer seem peculiarly liable to become interlocked so tightly that it is well-nigh impossible to separate them. And whenever this happens, the doom of both deer is sealed. Unless found speedily and killed, they must die of starvation. While it is quite true that two deer playing with their antlers may become locked fast, it is safe to say that the great majority meet their fate by charging each other with force sufficient to spring the beams of their antlers, and make the lock so perfect that no force they can exert will release it. A deer cannot pull back with the same power it exerts in plunging forward.

All members of the deer family that I know follow the same natural law in regard to supremacy. Indeed, this is true of nearly all animals. Leadership is not always maintained by the largest and strongest member of a herd, but very often by the most pugnacious. Sometimes a herd of elk is completely tyrannized by an old doe, who makes the young bucks fly from her in terror, when one prod of their sharp antlers would quickly send her to the rear.

When bucks in a state of freedom fight for supremacy, the weaker does not stay to be overthrown and speared to death by the victor. As soon as he feels that he is mastered he releases his antlers at the first opportunity, flings himself to one side, and either remains in the herd as an acknowledged subject of the victor, or else seeks fresh fields and pastures new.

Battles in Zoological Parks. In captivity, where escape is impossible, it is no uncommon thing for elk to kill each other. In fact, with several adult males in a small enclosure, tragedies may always be expected in the autumn and early winter. The process is very simple. So long as the two elk can stand up and fight head to head, there are no casualties; but when one wearies and weakens before the other, its guard is broken. Then one strong thrust in its side or shoulder sends it to the earth, badly wounded; and before it can rise, it is generally stabbed to death with horn thrusts into its lungs and liver. But, as I said before, I have never known of a fatal duel between elk outside of a zoological garden or park.

One of the most novel and interesting fights that has yet taken place in the New York Zoological Park was a pitched battle between two cow elk--May Queen and the Dowager. A bunch of black fungus suddenly appeared on the trunk of a tree, about twelve feet from the ground. My attention was first called to this by seeing May Queen, a fine young cow, standing erect on her hind legs in order to reach the tempting morsel with her mouth. A little later the Dowager, the oldest and largest cow elk in the herd, met her under the tree, whereupon the two made wry faces at each other, and champed their teeth together threateningly. Suddenly both cows rose on their hind legs, struck out viciously with their sharp pointed front hoofs, and, after a lively sparring bout, they actually clinched. The young cow got both front legs of the old cow between her own, where they were held practically helpless, and then with her own front hoofs she fiercely rained blows upon the ribs of her assailant. The Dowager backed away and fled, completely vanquished, with May Queen close upon her heels; and thus was the tyrannical rule of the senior cow overthrown forever.

During the breeding season, our wild buffaloes of the great vanished herds were much given to fighting, and always through jealousy. The bulls bellowed until they could be heard for miles, tore up earth and threw it into the air, rolled their eyes, and often rushed together in a terrifying manner; but beyond butting their heads, pushing and straining until the weaker turned and ran, nothing came of it all. I have yet to find a man who ever saw a wild buffalo that had been wounded to the shedding of blood by another wild buffalo. It is probable that no other species ever fought so fiercely and did so little damage as the American bison.

Elephants, Wolves, and Others. In ordinary life the Indian elephant is one of the most even-tempered of all animals. I have spent hours in watching wild herds in southern India, sometimes finding the huge beasts all around me, and in dangerously close proximity. Several times I could have touched a wild elephant with a carriage whip, had I possessed one. So far from fighting, I never saw an elephant threaten or even annoy another.

Elephants, being the most intelligent of all animals in the matter of training, have been educated to fight in the arena, usually by pushing each other head to head. A fighting tusker can lord it over almost any number of tuskless elephants, because he can pierce their vitals, and they cannot pierce his. A female fights by hitting with her head, striking her antagonist amidships, if possible. Once when the late G. P. Sanderson was in a keddah, noosing wild elephants, and was assulted [sic] by a vicious tusker, his life was saved by a tame female elephant, whose boy driver caused her to attack the tusker with her head, and nearly bowl him over by the force of her blows upon his ribs.

In captivity, wolves are the meanest brutes on earth, and in a wild state they are no better. As a rule, the stronger ones are ever ready to kill the weaker ones, and eat them, too. One night, our male Russian wolf killed his mate, and ate nearly half of her before morning. A fox or a wolf cub which thrusts one of its legs between the partition bars and into a wolf's den almost invariably gets it bitten off as close to the body as the biter can go. In the arctic regions, north of the Great Slave Lake, "Buffalo" Jones and George Rea fought wolves incessantly for several days, and every wolf they wounded was immediately killed and devoured by its pack mates.

In captivity, a large proportion of mammals fight, more or less; and the closer the confinement, the greater their nervousness and irritability, and the more fighting. Monkeys fight freely and frequently. Serpents, lizards, and alligators rarely do, although large alligators are prone to bite off the tails or legs of their small companions, or even to devour them whole. Storks, trumpeter swans, darters, jays, and some herons are so quarrelsome and dangerous that they must be kept well separated from other species, to prevent mutilation and murder. In 1900, when a pair of trumpeter swans were put upon a lake in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, with three brown pelicans for associates, they promptly assailed the pelicans, dug holes in their backs, and killed all three. The common red squirrel is a persistent fighter of the gray species, and, although inferior in size, nearly always wins.

A Fight Between a Whale and a Swordfish. One of the strangest wild animal combats on record was thus described in the Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London, for 1909.

"Mr. Malcolm Maclaren, through Mr. C. Davies Sherborn, F. Z. S., called the attention of the Fellows to an account of a fight between a whale and a swordfish observed by the crew of the fishing-boat 'Daisy' in the Hauraki Gulf, between Ponui Island and Coromandel, as reported in the 'Auckland Weekly News,' 19th Nov., 1908. A cow whale and her calf were attacked by a 12 ft. 6 in. swordfish, the object of the fish being the calf. The whale plunged about and struck in all directions with her flukes. Occasionally the fins of the swordfish were seen as he rose from a dive, his object apparently being to strike from below. For over a quarter of an hour the whale circled round her calf, lashing furiously and churning up the water so that the assailant was unable to secure a good opportunity for a thrust. At last, after a fruitless dive, the swordfish came close up and made a thrust at the calf, but received a blow from the whale's flukes across the back, which apparently paralyzed it. It was killed and hauled on board the boat without difficulty, while the whale and calf went off towards Coromandel with splashings and plungings. The whale's blow had almost knocked off the back fin of the swordfish, and heavily bruised the flesh around it. No threshers accompanied the swordfish."

Beyond question, as firearms and hunters multiply, all wild animals become more timid, less inclined to attack man, and also less inclined to attack one another. The higher creatures are the most affected by man's destructiveness of animal life, and the struggle for existence has become so keen that fighting for the glory of supremacy, or as a pastime, will soon have no important place in the lives of wild animals.

XXIV

WILD ANIMAL CRIMINALS AND CRIME

Many human beings are "good" because they never have been under the harrow of circumstances, nor sufficiently tempted to do wrong. It is only under the strain of strong temptation that human character is put through the thirty-third degree and tried out. No doubt a great many of us could be provoked to join a mob for murder, or forced to steal, or tortured into homicidal insanity. It is only under the artificial conditions of captivity, with loss of freedom, exemption from the daily fear of death, abundant food without compensating labor, and with every want supplied, that the latent wickedness of wild creatures comes to the surface. A captive animal often reveals traits never recognized in the free individual.

"Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."

These manifestations are of many kinds; but we propose to consider the criminal tendencies of wild animals both free and captive.

The persistence of the mental and moral parallelism between men and wild animals is a source of constant surprise. In a state of freedom, untrammeled by anything save the fear of death by violence, the deer or the mountain sheep works out in his own way his chosen scheme for the survival of the fittest,--himself. In the wilds we see very few manifestations of the criminal instinct. A fight between wild elk bulls for the supremacy of a herd is not a manifestation of murder lust, but of obedience to the fundamental law of evolution that the largest, the strongest and the most courageous males of every herd shall do the breeding. The killing of natural prey for daily food is not murder. A starving wolf on the desolate barren grounds may even kill and devour a wounded pack-mate without becoming a criminal by that act alone. True, such a manifestation of hard-heartedness and bad taste is very reprehensible; but its cause is hunger, not sheer blackness of heart. Among wild animals, the wanton killing of a member of the killer's own species would constitute murder in the first degree, and so is all unnecessary and wanton killing outside the killer's own species.

To many a wild animal there comes at tunes the murder lust which under the spur of opportunity leads to genuine crime. In some of the many cases that have come under my notice, the desire to commit murder for the sake of murder has been as sharply defined as the fangs or horns of the criminal. Of the many emotions of wild animals which are revealed more sharply in captivity than in a state of nature, the crime-producing passions, of jealousy, hatred, desire for revenge, and devilish lust for innocent blood, are most prominent. In the management of large animals in captivity, the criminal instinct is quite as great a trouble- breeder and source of anxiety as are wild-animal diseases, and the constant struggle with the elements.

In many cases there is not the slightest premonitory manifestation of murderous intent on the part of a potential criminal. Indeed, with most cunning wisdom, a wild-animal murderer will often conceal his purpose until outside interference is an impossibility, and the victim is entirely helpless. These manifestations of fiendish cunning and premeditation are very exasperating to those responsible for the care of animals in captivity.

In every well regulated zoological park, solitary confinement is regarded as an unhappy or intolerable condition. Animals that live in herds and groups in large enclosures always exercise more, have better appetites, and are much more contented and happy than individuals that are singly confined.

To visitors, a happy and contented community of deer, antelopes, bears, wolves, or birds is a source of far more mental satisfaction than could be found in any number of solitary animals. A small pen with a solitary animal in it at once suggests the prison-and-prisoner idea, and sometimes arouses pity and compassion rather than pleased admiration. The peaceful herd or flock is the thing to strive for as the highest ideal attainable in an exhibition of wild animals. But mark well the difficulties.

_All the obstacles encountered in carrying out the community idea are created by the evil propensities of the animals themselves._ Among the hoofed animals generally, every pair of horns and front hoofs is a possible storm-center. No keeper knows whether the members of his herd of deer will live together in peace and contentment until tomorrow, or whether, on any autumn or winter night, a buck will suddenly develop in his antlered head the thought that it is a good time to "kill something."

In the pairing season we always watch for trouble, and the danger signal always is up. In October a male elk may become ever so savage, and finally develop into a raging demon, dangerous to man and beast; but when he first manifests his new temper openly and in the broad light of day, we feel that he is treating fairly both his herd-mates and his keepers. If he gives fair warning to the world about him, we must not class him as a mean criminal, no matter what he may do later on. It is our duty to corral him at night according to the violence of his rage. If we separate him from the herd, and he tears a fence in pieces and kills his rival, that is honest, open warfare, not foul murder. But take the following case.

In October, 1905, the New York Zoological Park received from the state of Washington a young mule deer buck and two does. Being conspicuous members of the worst species of "difficult" deer to keep alive at Atlantic tidewater, and being also very thin and weak, it required the combined efforts of several persons to keep them alive. For six months they moped about their corral, but at last they began to improve. The oldest doe gave birth to two fawns which actually survived. But, even when the next mating season began, the buck continued to be lanquid and blase. At no time did he exhibit signs of temper, of even suspicious vigor.

In the middle of the night of November 6, 1906, without the slightest warning, he decided to commit a murder, and the mother of the two nursing fawns was selected as the victim. Being weak from the rearing of her offspring, she was at his mercy. He gored her most savagely, about twenty times, and killed her.

That was deliberate, fiendish and cowardly murder. The killing of any female animal by her male consort is murder; but there are circumstances wherein the plea of temporary insanity is an admissible defense. In the autumn, male members of the deer family _often become temporarily insane and irresponsible,_ and should be judged accordingly. With us, sexual insanity is a recognized disease.

Such distressing cases as the above are so common that whenever I go deer-hunting and kill a lusty buck, the thought occurs to me,-- "another undeveloped murderer, perhaps!"

The most exasperating thing about these corral murders is the cunning treachery of the murderers. Here is another typical case: For three years a dainty little male Osceola deer from Florida was as gentle as a fawn and as harmless as a dove. But one crisp morning Keeper Quinn, to whom every doe in his charge is like a foster-daughter, was horrified at finding blood on the absurd little antlers of the Osceola pet. One of the females lay dead in a dark corner where she had been murdered during the night; and this with another and older buck in the same corral which might fairly have been regarded as an offensive rival.

The desire to murder for the sake of killing is born in some carnivorous animals, and by others it is achieved. Among the largest and finest of the felines, the lions and tigers, midnight murders very rarely occur. We never have known one. Individual dislike is shown boldly and openly, and we are given a fair chance to prevent fatalities. Among the lions, tigers, leopards, jaguars and pumas of the New York Zoological Park, there has been but one murder. That was the crime of Lopez, the big jaguar, who richly deserved instant death as a punishment. It was one of the most cunning crimes I have ever seen among wild animals, and is now historic.

For a year Lopez _pretended,_ ostentatiously, to be a good- natured animal! Twenty times at least he acted the part of a playful pet, inviting me to reach in and stroke him. At last we decided to give him a cage-mate, and a fine adult female jaguar was purchased. The animals actually tried to caress each other through the bars, and the big male completely deceived us, one and all.

At the end of two days it was considered safe to permit the female jaguar to enter the cage of Lopez. She was just as much deceived as we were. An animal that is afraid always leaves its traveling- cage slowly and unwillingly, or refuses to leave it at all. When the two sets of doors were opened, the female joyously walked into the cage of her treacherous admirer. In an instant, Lopez rushed upon her, seized her whole neck in his powerful jaws, and crushed her cervical vertebrae by his awful bite. We beat him over the head; we spiked him; we even tried to brain him; but he held her, as a bull-dog would hold a cat, until she was dead. He had determined to murder her, but had cunningly concealed his purpose until his victim was fully in his power.

Bears usually fight "on the square," openly and above-board, rarely committing foul murder. If one bear hates another, he attacks at the very first opportunity, He does not cunningly wait to catch the offender at a disadvantage and beyond the possibility of rescue. Sometimes a captive bear kills a cage-mate or mauls a keeper, but not by the sneaking methods of the human assassin who shoots in the dark and runs away.

I do not count the bear as a common criminal, even though at rare intervals he kills a cage-mate smaller and weaker than himself. One killing of that kind, done by Cinnamon Jim to a small black bear that had annoyed him beyond all endurance, was inflicted as a legitimate punishment, and was so recorded. The attack of two large bears, a Syrian and a sloth bear, upon a small Japanese black bear, in which the big pair deliberately attempted to disembowel the small victim, biting him only in the abdomen, always has been a puzzle to me. I cannot fathom the idea which possessed those two ursine minds; but I have no doubt that some of the book-making men who read the minds of wild animals as if they were open books could tell me all about it.

On the ice-pack in front of his stone hut at the north end of the Franz Josef Archipelago Nansen saw an occurrence that was plain murder. A large male polar bear feeding upon a dead walrus was approached across the ice-pack by two polar-bear cubs. The gorging male immediately stopped feeding and rushed toward the small intruders. They turned and fled wildly; but the villain pursued them, far out upon the ice. He overtook them, killed both, and then serenely returned to his solitary feast.

In February, 1907, a tragedy occurred in the Zoological Park which was a close parallel of the Lopez murder. It was a case in which my only crumb of satisfaction was in my ability to say, "I told you so,"--than which no consolation can be more barren.

For seven years there had lived together in the great polar bears' den of the Zoological Park two full-grown, very large and fine polar bears. They came from William Hagenbeck's great group, and both were males. Their rough-and-tumble wrestling, both in the swimming pool and out of it, was a sight of almost perennial interest; and while their biting and boxing was of the roughest character, and frequently drew blood, they never got angry, and never had a real fight.

In the autumn of 1906 one of the animals sickened and died, and presently the impression prevailed that the survivor was lonesome. The desirability of introducing a female companion was spoken of, but I was afraid to try the experiment.

By and by, Mr. Carl Hagenbeck, who had handled about forty polar bears to my one, wrote to us, offering a fine female polar as a mate to the survivor. She was conceded to be one-third smaller than the big male, but was fully adult. Without loss of time I answered, declining to make the purchase, on the ground that our male bear would kill the female. It was my belief that even if he did not at once deliberately murder her, he soon would wear her out by his rough play.

Mr. Hagenbeck replied with the assurance that, in his opinion, all would be well; that, instead of a tragedy taking place, the male would be delighted with a female companion, and that the pair would breed. As convincing proof of the sincerity of his views, Mr. Hagenbeck offered to lose half the purchase price of the female bear in the event that my worst fears were realized.

I asked the opinion of our head keeper of bears, and after due reflection he said:

"Why, no; I don't believe he'd kill her. He's not a _bad_ bear at all. I think we could work it so that there would be no great trouble."

Mr. Hagenbeck's son also felt sure there would be no tragedy.

Quite against my own judgment of polar-bear character, but in deference to the expert opinion arrayed against mine, I finally yielded. The female bear was purchased, and on her arrival she was placed for three weeks in the large shifting-cage which connects with the eastern side of the great polar bears' den.

The two animals seemed glad to see each other. At once they fraternized through the bars, licked each other's noses, and ate their meals side by side. At night the male always slept as near as possible to his new companion. There was not a sign of ill temper; but, for all that, my doubts were ever present.

At last, after three full weeks of close acquaintance, it was agreed that there was nothing to be gained by longer delay in admitting the female to the large den. But we made preparations for trouble. The door of the sleeping-den was oiled and overhauled and put in thorough working order, so that if the female should dash into it for safety, a keeper could instantly slide the barrier and shut her in. We provided pike-poles, long iron bars, lariats, meat, and long planks a foot wide. Heartily wishing myself a hundred miles away, I summoned all my courage and gave the order:

"Open her door, a foot only, and let her put her head out. Keep him away."

The female bear had not the slightest fear or premonition of danger. Thrusting her head through the narrow opening, she looked upon the world and the open sky above, and found that it was good. She struggled to force the door open wider; and the male stood back, waiting.

"Let her go!" Forcing the door back with her own eager strength, she fearlessly dropped the intervening eighteen inches to the floor of the den, and was free. The very _next second_ the male flung his great bulk upon her, and the tragedy was on.

I would not for five thousand dollars see such a thing again. A hundred times in the twenty minutes that followed I bitterly regretted my folly in acting contrary to my own carefully formed conclusions regarding the temper, the strength, and the mental processes of that male bear.

He never left her alone for ten seconds, save when, at five or six different times, we beat him off by literally ramming him away. When she first fell, the slope of the floor brought her near the cage bars, which gave us a chance to fight for her. We beat him over the head; we drove big steel spikes into him; and we rammed him with planks, not caring how many bones we might break. But each time that we beat him off, and the poor harried female rose to her feet, he flung himself upon her anew, crushed her down upon the snow, and fought to reach her throat!

Gallantly the female fought for her life, with six wild men to help her. After a long battle,--it seemed like hours, but I suppose it was between twenty and thirty minutes, the male bear recognized the fact that so long as the female lay near the bars his own punishment would continue and the end would be postponed. Forthwith he seized his victim and dragged her inward and down to the ice that covered the swimming-pool in the centre of the den, beyond our reach. The floor of the den was so slippery from ice and snow that it was utterly unsafe for any of our men to enter and try to approach the now furious animal within striking distance.

Very quickly some choice pieces of fresh meat were thrown within six feet of the bears, in the hope that the male would be tempted away from his victim. In vain! Then, with all possible haste, Keeper Mulvehill coiled a lasso, bravely entered the den, and with the first throw landed the noose neatly around the neck of the male bear. In a second it was jerked taut, the end passed through the bars, and ten eager arms dragged the big bear away from his victim and close up to the bars. Another lariat was put on him to guard against breakages, and no bear ever missed being choked to death by a narrower margin than did that one. That morsel of revenge was sweet. While he was held thus, two men went in and attached a rope to the now dying female, and she was quickly dragged into the shifting-cage.

But the rescue came too late. At the last moment on the ice, the canine teeth of the big bear had severed the jugular vein of the female, and in two minutes after her rescue she was dead. It is my belief that at first the male did not intend to murder the female. I think his first impulse was to play with her, as he had always done with the male comrade of his own size. But the _joy of combat_ seized him, and after that his only purpose was to kill. My verdict was, not premeditated murder, but murder in the second degree.

In the order of carnivorous animals, I think the worst criminals are found in the Marten Family (_Mustelidae_); and if there is a more murderous villain than the mink, I have yet to find him out. The mink is a midnight assassin, who loves slaughter for the joy of murder. The wolverine, the marten, mink and weasel are all courageous, savage and merciless. To the wolverine Western trappers accord the evil distinction of being a veritable imp of darkness on four legs. To them he is the arch-fiend, beyond which animal cunning and depravity cannot go. Excepting the profane history of the pickings and stealings of this "mountain devil" as recorded by suffering trappers, I know little of it; but if its instincts are not supremely murderous, its reputation is no index of its character.

The mink, however, is a creature that we know and fear. Along the rocky shores of the Bronx River, even in the Zoological Park, it perversely persisted long after our park-building began. In spite of traps, guns, and poison, and the killing of from three to five annually in our Park, _Putorius vison_ would not give up. With us, the only creatures that practiced wholesale and unnecessary murder were minks and dogs. The former killed our birds, and during one awful period when a certain fence was being rebuilt, the latter destroyed several deer. A mink once visited an open-air yard containing twenty-two pinioned laughing gulls, and during that _noche triste_ killed all of those ill-fated birds. It did not devour even one, and it sucked the blood of only two or three.

On another tragic occasion a mink slaughtered an entire flock of fifteen gulls; but its joy of killing was short-lived, for it was quickly caught and clubbed to death. A miserable little weasel killed three fine brant geese, purely for the love of murder; and then he departed this life by the powder-and-lead route.

All the year round captive buffalo bulls are given to fighting, and for one bull to injure or kill another is an occurrence all too common. Even in the great twenty-seven thousand acre reserve of the Corbin Blue Mountain Forest Association, fatal fights sometimes occur. It was left to a large bull named Black Beauty, in our Zoological Park herd, to reveal the disagreeable fact that under certain circumstances a buffalo may become a cunning and deliberate assassin.

In the spring of 1904, a new buffalo bull, named Apache, was added to the portion of our herd which up to that time had been dominated by Black Beauty. We expected the usual head-to-head battle for supremacy, succeeded by a period of peace and quiet. It is the law of the herd that after every contest for supremacy the vanquished bull shall accept the situation philosophically, and thereafter keep his place.

At the end of a half-hour of fierce struggle, head-to-head, Black Beauty was overpowered by Apache, and fled from him into the open range. To emphasize his victory, Apache followed him around and around at a quiet walk, for several hours; but the beaten bull always kept a factor of safety of about two hundred feet between himself and the master of the herd. Convinced that Black Beauty would no longer dispute his supremacy, Apache at last pronounced for peace and thought no more about the late unpleasantness. His rival seemed to accept the situation, and rejoined the herd on the subdued status of an ex-president.

For several days nothing occurred; but all the while Black Beauty was biding his time and watching for an opportunity. At last it came. As Apache lay dozing and ruminating on a sunny hill-side, his beaten rival quietly drifted around his resting-place, stealthily secured a good position, and, without a second's warning plunged his sharp horns deep into the lungs of the reclining bull. With the mad energy of pent-up and superheated fury, the assassin delivered stab after stab into the unprotected side of the helpless victim, and before Apache could gain his feet he had been gored many times. He lived only a few minutes.

It was foul murder, fully premeditated; and had Black Beauty been my personal property, he would have been executed for the crime, without any objections, or motions, or appeals, or far-fetched certificates of unreasonable doubt.

During the past twenty years a number of persons have been treacherously murdered by animals they had fed and protected. One of the most deplorable of these tragedies occurred late in 1906, near Montclair, New Jersey. Mr. Herbert Bradley was the victim. While walking through his deer park, he was wantonly attacked by a white-tailed buck and murdered on the spot. At Helena, Montana, a strong man armed with a pitchfork was killed by a bull elk. There have been several other fatalities from elk.

The greater number of such crimes as the above have been committed by members of the Deer Family (deer, elk, moose and caribou). The hollow-horned ruminants seem to be different. I believe that toward their keepers the bison, buffaloes and wild cattle entertain a certain measure of respect that in members of the Deer Family often is totally absent. But there are exceptions; and a very sad and notable case was the murder of Richard W. Rock, of Henry's Lake, Idaho, in 1903.

Dick Rock was a stalwart ranchman in the prime of life, who possessed a great fondness for big-game animals. He lived not far from the western boundry of the Yellowstone Park. He liked to rope elk and moose in winter, and haul them on sleds to his ranch; to catch mountain goats or mule deer for exhibition; and to breed buffaloes. His finest bull buffalo, named Indian, was one of his favorites, and was broken _to ride!_ Scores of times Rock rode him around the corral, barebacked and without bridle or halter. Rock felt that he could confidently trust the animal, and he never dreamed of guarding himself against a possible evil day.