into a bag, then carried a quarter of a mile away and dumped out. At the
same time the Greyhounds were slipped and chivvied on. Away they went
bounding at their matchless pace, that nothing else on four legs could
equal, and away went the Coyote, frightened by the noise of the men,
frightened even to find herself free. Her quarter-mile start quickly
shrank to one hundred yards, the one hundred to fifty, and on sped the
flying Dogs. Clearly there was no chance for her. On and nearer they
came. In another minute she would have been stretched out--not a doubt
of it. But on a sudden she stopped, turned, and walked toward the Dogs
with her tail serenely waving in the air and a friendly cock to her
ears. Greyhounds are peculiar Dogs. Anything that runs away, they are
going to catch and kill if they can. Anything that is calmly facing them
becomes at once a non-combatant. They bounded over and past the Coyote
before they could curb their own impetuosity, and returned completely
nonplussed. Possibly they recognized the Coyote of the house-yard as
she stood there wagging her tail. The ranchmen were nonplussed too.
Every one was utterly taken aback, had a sense of failure, and the real
victor in the situation was felt to be the audacious little Coyote.

The Greyhounds refused to attack an animal that wagged its tail and
would not run; and the men, on seeing that the Coyote could _walk_ far
enough away to avoid being caught by hand, took their ropes (lassoes),
and soon made her a prisoner once more. The next day they decided to try
again, but this time they added the white Bull-terrier to the chasers.
The Coyote did as before. The Greyhounds declined to be party to any
attack on such a mild and friendly acquaintance. But the Bull-terrier,
who came puffing and panting on the scene three minutes later, had no
such scruples. He was not so tall, but he was heavier than the Coyote,
and, seizing her by her wool-protected neck, he shook her till, in a
surprisingly short time, she lay limp and lifeless, at which all the