some high place whence they could watch the enemy; but Tito did no such
foolish thing. Had she run, her moving form would have caught the eyes
of the Dogs, and then nothing could have saved her. She dropped where
she was, and lay flat until the danger had passed. Thus her ranch
training to lay low began to stand her in good stead, and so it came
about that her weakness was her strength. The Coyote kind had so long
been famous for their speed, had so long learned to trust in their legs,
that they never dreamed of a creature that could run them down. They
were accustomed to play with their pursuers, and so rarely bestirred
themselves to run from Greyhounds, till it was too late. But Tito,
brought up at the end of a chain, was a poor runner. She had no reason
to trust her legs. She rather trusted her wits, and so lived.

During that summer she stayed about the Little Missouri, learning the
tricks of small-game hunting that she should have learned before she
shed her milk-teeth, and gaining in strength and speed. She kept far
away from all the ranches, and always hid on seeing a man or a strange
beast, and so passed the summer alone. During the daytime she was not
lonely, but when the sun went down she would feel the impulse to sing
that wild song of the West which means so much to the Coyotes. It is not
the invention of an individual nor of the present, but was slowly built
out of the feelings of all Coyotes in all ages. It expresses their
nature and the Plains that made their nature. When one begins it, it
takes hold of the rest, as the fife and drum do with soldiers, or the
ki-yi war-song with Indian braves. They respond to it as a bell-glass
does to a certain note the moment that note is struck, ignoring other
sounds. So the Coyote, no matter how brought up, must vibrate at the
night song of the Plains, for it touches something in himself.

[Illustration]