Ernest Thompson Seton's
Lobo the King of Currumpaw
Ernest Thompson Seton's tale about an encounter with a wolf, that led to the establishment of the National Park
system and the Boy Scout movement in America.
This is the story of Seton's own account of how he hunted an infamous cattle-killing wolf that became a pivotal part of American history, helping
to change the way people see wolves and the wilderness. In his efforts to find, capture, and kill Lobo, Seton came to understand the animal's
intelligence, loyalty and warmth. Although he finally succeeded in his task, Seton learned new wisdom and he never killed a wolf again.
A combination of wildlife and history, this film is based on the personal diaries of Ernest Thompson Seton himself.
Seton was to later write, "Ever since Lobo, my sincerest wish has been to impress upon people that each of our native wild
creatures is in itself a precious heritage that we have no right to destroy or put beyond the reach of our children."
The Wolf That Changed America - Video: Full Episode. Nature | PBS
See the Video: www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/episodes/the-wolf-that-changed-america/video-full-episode/4414/
From the PBS web-site:
In 1893, a bounty hunter named Ernest Thompson Seton journeyed to the untamed canyons of New Mexico on a mission to kill a
dangerous outlaw. Feared by ranchers throughout the region, the outlaw wasn’t a pistol-packing cowboy or train-robbing bandit.
The outlaw was a wolf. Lobo, as locals simply called him, was the legendary leader of a band of cattle-killing wolves that had been
terrorizing cattle ranchers and their livestock. It was up to Seton to exterminate this “super-wolf.” The ensuing battle of wits between
wolf and man would spark a real-life wilderness drama, the outcome of which would leave a lasting effect on a new and growing
movement in America: Wilderness Preservation.
The 50 minute video was divided into 5 short segments:
(1.) Ground work set for an epic duel: Seton arrives in New Mexico with a plan.
(2.) Seton underestimates Lobo's astuteness: After many failed attempts at trapping him, Seton starts to realize how really clever Lobo is.
(3.) The Seton paradox: avid naturalist vs. unsentimental hunter: Seton has a break-through, which could lead him to Lobo.
(4.) Lobo throws caution to the wind, while Seton starts to question. The conflict within Seton, between hunter and naturalist, is finally
(5.) Seton's renewed view of the value of the wild helps turn the tide. Seton founds the Woodcraft Indians, and the Boy Scouts of America.
See also on PBS website:
Video: Wolf Expert Doug Smith on the Yellowstone Wolf Project
What’s Your Connection to Nature? (Another User Comment Page)
The Photographs and Artwork of Ernest Thompson Seton
Wolf Wars: America’s Campaign to Eradicate the Wolf (Wolf History in America)
Interview: Wolf Trainer Sausha Seus, on Filming Live Wolves (For the PBS Program)
NATURE Comic Book - “Lobo: King of the Currumpaw” (.pdf file) (just 6 pages, perfect for kids!)
See also: lots of user comments on each page, about the program, some with other links.
Seton's original story from: "Wild Animals In have Known", Scribners (1898)
LOBO THE KING OF CURRUMPAW in MS Word .doc or as a .pdf file with original Seton photos and drawings. Printer ready file!
For further reading:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lobo_the_King_of_Currumpaw#References (with many other links)
www.whisperoftheself.com/animal.html (see half way down the page)
www.etsetoninstitute.org/digitized-works-by-seton/ (actual entire Seton books as PDF files)
blueskiestoday.blogspot.com/ (Website devoted to Seton, see: Similar video in entirety from BBC Natural World,
. video with commentary by David Attenborough)
. Requires install of Veoh Player to view past 6 minutes
IWGBTP! 87714 IWGBTP! 87714 IWGBTP! 87714 IWGBTP! 87714 IWGBTP! 87714 IWGBTP! 87714 IWGBTP!
CURRUMPAW is a vast cattle range in northern New Mexico. It is a land of rich pastures and teeming flocks and herds, a land of rolling
whose despotic power was felt over its entire extent was an old gray wolf.
Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called him, was the gigantic leader of a remarkable pack of gray wolves, that had ravaged the
Currumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and, wherever he appeared with his trusty
band, terror reigned supreme among the cattle, and wrath and despair among their owners. Old Lobo was a giant among wolves, and
was cunning and strong in proportion to his size. His voice at night was well-known and easily distinguished from that of any of his fellows.
An ordinary wolf might howl half the night about the herdsman’s bivouac without attracting more than a passing notice, but when the deep
roar of the old king came booming down the cañon, the watcher bestirred himself and prepared to learn in the morning that fresh and
serious inroads had been made among the herds.
Old Lobo’s band was but a small one. This I never quite understood, for usually, when a wolf rises to the position and power that he had,
he attracts a numerous following. It may be that he had as many as he desired, or perhaps his ferocious temper prevented the increase
of his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only five followers during the latter part of his reign. Each of these, however, was a wolf of renown,
most of them were above the ordinary size, one in particular, the second in command, was a veritable giant, but even he was far below
the leader in size and prowess. Several of the band, besides the two leaders, were especially noted. One of those was a beautiful white
wolf, that the Mexicans called Blanca; this was supposed to be a female, possibly Lobo’s mate. Another was a yellow wolf of remarkable
swiftness, which, according to current stories had, on several occasions, captured an antelope for the pack.
It will be seen, then, that these wolves were thoroughly well-known to the cowboys and shepherds. They were frequently seen and
oftener heard, and their lives were intimately associated with those of the cattlemen, who would so gladly have destroyed them. There
was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who would not readily have given the value of many steers for the scalp of any one of Lobo’s
band, but they seemed to possess charmed lives, and defied all manner of devices to kill them. They scorned all hunters, derided all
poisons, and continued, for at least five years, to exact their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to the extent, many said, of a cow each
day. According to this estimate, therefore, the band had killed more than two thousand of the finest stock, for, as was only too well-
known, they selected the best in every instance.
The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a starving state, and therefore ready to eat anything, was as far as possible from the truth in
this case, for these freebooters were always sleek and well-conditioned, and were in fact most fastidious about what they ate. Any animal
that had died from natural causes, or that was diseased or tainted, they would not touch, and they even rejected anything that had been
killed by the stockmen. Their choice and daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly killed yearling heifer. An old bull or cow they
disdained, and though they occasionally took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear that veal or horseflesh was not their favorite diet.
It was also known that they were not fond of mutton, although they often amused themselves by killing sheep. One night in November,
1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently for the fun of it, and did not eat an ounce of their flesh.
These are examples of many stories which I might repeat, to show the ravages of this destructive band. Many new devices for their
extinction were tried each year, but still they lived and throve in spite of all the efforts of their foes. A great price was set on Lobo’s head,
and in consequence poison in a score of subtle forms was put out for him, but he never failed to detect and avoid it. One thing only he
feared—that was firearms, and knowing full well that all men in this region carried them, he never was known to attack or face a human
being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was to take refuge in flight whenever, in the daytime, a man was descried, no matter at what
distance. Lobo’s habit of permitting the pack to eat only that which they themselves had killed, was in numerous cases their salvation,
and the keenness of his scent to detect the taint of human hands or the poison itself, completed their immunity.
On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard the too familiar rallying-cry of Old Lobo, and stealthily approaching, he found the
Currumpaw pack in a hollow, where they had ‘rounded up’ a small herd of cattle. Lobo sat apart on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest was
endeavoring to ‘cut out’ a young cow, which they had selected; but the cattle were standing in a compact mass with their heads outward,
and presented to the foe a line of horns, unbroken save when some cow, frightened by a fresh onset of the wolves, tried to retreat into
the middle of the herd. It was only by taking advantage of these breaks that the wolves had succeeded at all in wounding the selected
cow, but she was far from being disabled, and it seemed that Lobo at length lost patience with his followers, for he left his position on the
hill, and, uttering a deep roar, dashed toward the herd. The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he sprang in among them. Then the
cattle scattered like the pieces of a bursting bomb. Away went the chosen victim, but ere she had gone twenty-five yards Lobo was upon
her. Seizing her by the neck he suddenly held back with all his force and so threw her heavily to the ground. The shock must have been
tremendous, for the heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also turned a somersault, but immediately recovered himself, and his
followers falling on the poor cow, killed her in a few seconds. Lobo took no part in the killing—after having thrown the victim, he seemed
to say, “Now, why could not some of you have done that at once without wasting so much time?”
(Drawing) Lobo Showing the Pack how to Kill Beef
The man now rode up shouting, the wolves as usual retired, and he, having a bottle of strychnine, quickly poisoned the carcass in three
places, then went away, knowing they would return to feed, as they had killed the animal themselves. But next morning, on going to look
for his expected victims, he found that, although the wolves had eaten the heifer, they had carefully cut out and thrown aside all those
parts that had been poisoned.
The dread of this great wolf spread yearly among the ranchmen, and each year a larger price was set on his head, until at last it reached
$1,000, an unparalleled wolf-bounty, surely; many a good man has been hunted down for less. Tempted by the promised reward, a
Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day galloping up the cañon of the Currumpaw. He had a superb outfit for wolf-hunting—the
best of guns and horses, and a pack of enormous wolf-hounds. Far out on the plains of the Pan-handle, he and his dogs had killed many
a wolf, and now he never doubted that, within a few days, old Lobo’s scalp would dangle at his saddle-bow.
Away they went bravely on their hunt in the gray dawn of a summer morning, and soon the great dogs gave joyous tongue to say that
they were already on the track of their quarry. Within two miles, the grizzly band of Currumpaw leaped into view, and the chase grew fast
and furious. The part of the wolf-hounds was merely to hold the wolves at bay till the hunter could ride up and shoot them, and this
usually was easy on the open plains of Texas; but here a new feature of the country came into play, and showed how well Lobo had
chosen his range; for the rocky cañons of the Currumpaw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in every direction. The old wolf at once
made for the nearest of these and by crossing it got rid of the horsemen. His band then scattered and thereby scattered the dogs, and
when they reunited at a distant point of course all of the dogs did not turn up, and the wolves no longer outnumbered, turned on their
pursuers and killed or desperately wounded them all. That night when Tannerey mustered his dogs, only six of them returned, and of
these, two were terribly lacerated. This hunter made two other attempts to capture the royal scalp, but neither of them was more
successful than the first, and on the last occasion his best horse met its death by a fall; so he gave up the chase in disgust and went
back to Texas, leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the region.
(Drawing) Tannery, with his Dogs, came Galloping up the Canyon
Next year, two other hunters appeared, determined to win the promised bounty. Each believed he could destroy this noted wolf, the first
by means of a newly devised poison, which was to be laid out in an entirely new manner; the other a French Canadian, by poison
assisted with certain spells and charms, for he firmly believed that Lobo was a veritable ‘loup-garou,’ and could not be killed by ordinary
means. But cunningly compounded poisons, charms, and incantations were all of no avail against this grizzly devastator. He made his
weekly rounds and daily banquets as aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, Calone and Laloche gave up in despair and went
elsewhere to hunt.
In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful attempt to capture Lobo, Joe Calone had a humiliating experience, which seems to show that
the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had absolute confidence in himself. Calone’s farm was on a small tributary of the
Currumpaw, in a picturesque cañon, and among the rocks of this cañon, within a thousand yards of the house, old Lobo and his mate
selected their den and raised their family that season. There they lived all summer, and killed Joe’s cattle, sheep, and dogs, but laughed
at all his poisons and traps, and rested securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe vainly racked his brain for some
method of smoking them out, or of reaching them with dynamite. But they escaped entirely unscathed, and continued their ravages as
before. “There’s where he lived all last summer,” said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff, “and I couldn’t do a thing with him. I was like a
fool to him.”
This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to believe until in the fall of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the wily
marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly than anyone else. Some years before, in the Bingo days, I had been a wolf-
hunter, but my occupations since then had been of another sort, chaining me to stool and desk. I was much in need of a change, and
when a friend, who was also ranch-owner on the Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could do anything with this
predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and, eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as possible among the mesas of
that region. I spent some time riding about to learn the country, and at intervals, my guide would point to the skeleton of a cow to which
the hide still adhered, and remark, “That’s some of his work.”
It became quite clear to me that, in this rough country, it was useless to think of pursuing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that poison or
traps were the only available expedients. At present we had no traps large enough, so I set to work with poison.
I need not enter into the details of a hundred devices that I employed to circumvent this ‘loup-garou’; there was no combination of
strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid, that I did not essay; there was no manner of flesh that I did not try as bait; but morning after
morning, as I rode forth to learn the result, I found that all my efforts had been useless. The old king was too cunning for me. A single
instance will show his wonderful sagacity. Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted some cheese together with the kidney fat of a
freshly killed heifer, stewing it in a china dish, and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid the taint of metal. When the mixture was cool, I cut it
into lumps, and making a hole in one side of each lump, I inserted a large dose of strychnine and cyanide, contained in a capsule that
was impermeable by any odor; finally I sealed the holes up with pieces of the cheese itself. During the whole process, I wore a pair of
gloves steeped in the hot blood of the heifer, and even avoided breathing on the baits. When all was ready, I put them in a raw-hide bag
rubbed all over with blood, and rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of the beef at the end of a rope. With this I made a ten-mile
circuit, dropping a bait at each quarter of a mile, taking the utmost care, always, not to touch any with my hands.
Lobo, generally, came into this part of the range in the early part of each week, and passed the latter part, it was supposed, round the
base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday, and that same evening, as we were about to retire, I heard the deep bass howl of his majesty.
On hearing it one of the boys briefly remarked, “There he is, we’ll see.”
The next morning I went forth, eager to know the result. I soon came on the fresh trail of the robbers, with Lobo in the lead—his track was
always easily distinguished. An ordinary wolf’s forefoot is 4 1/2 inches long, that of a large wolf 4 3/4 inches, but Lobo’s, as measured a
number of times, was 5 1/2 inches from claw to heel; I afterward found that his other proportions were commensurate, for he stood three
feet high at the shoulder, and weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore, though obscured by those of his followers, was never difficult to
trace. The pack had soon found the track of my drag, and as usual followed it. I could see that Lobo had come to the first bait, sniffed
about it, and finally had picked it up.
Then I could not conceal my delight. “I’ve got him at last,” I exclaimed; “I shall find him stark within a mile,” and I galloped on with eager
eyes fixed on the great broad track in the dust. It led me to the second bait and that also was gone. How I exulted—I surely have him now
and perhaps several of his band. But there was the broad paw-mark still on the drag; and though I stood in the stirrup and scanned the
plain I saw nothing that looked like a dead wolf. Again I followed—to find now that the third bait was gone—and the king-wolf’s track led on
to the fourth, there to learn that he had not really taken a bait at all, but had merely carried them in his mouth. Then having piled the
three on the fourth, he scattered filth over them to express his utter contempt for my devices. After this he left my drag and went about
his business with the pack he guarded so effectively.
This is only one of many similar experiences which convinced me that poison would never avail to destroy this robber, and though I
continued to use it while awaiting the arrival of the traps, it was only because it was meanwhile a sure means of killing many prairie wolves
and other destructive vermin.
About this time there came under my observation an incident that will illustrate Lobo’s diabolic cunning. These wolves had at least one
pursuit which was merely an amusement, it was stampeding and killing sheep, though they rarely ate them. The sheep are usually kept in
flocks of from one thousand to three thousand under one or more shepherds. At night they are gathered in the most sheltered place
available, and a herdsman sleeps on each side of the flock to give additional protection. Sheep are such senseless creatures that they
are liable to be stampeded by the veriest trifle, but they have deeply ingrained in their nature one, and perhaps only one, strong
weakness, namely, to follow their leader. And this the shepherds turn to good account by putting half a dozen goats in the flock of sheep.
The latter recognize the superior intelligence of their bearded cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they crowd around them, and
usually are thus saved from a stampede and are easily protected. But it was not always so.
One night late in last November, two Perico shepherds were aroused by an onset of wolves. Their flocks huddled around the goats, which
being neither fools nor cowards, stood their ground and were bravely defiant; but alas for them, no common wolf was heading this attack.
Old Lobo, the weir-wolf, knew as well as the shepherds that the goats were the moral force of the flock, so hastily running over the backs
of the densely packed sheep, he fell on these leaders, slew them all in a few minutes, and soon had the luckless sheep stampeding in a
thousand different directions. For weeks afterward I was almost daily accosted by some anxious shepherd, who asked, “Have you seen
any stray OTO sheep lately?” and usually I was obliged to say I had; one day it was, “Yes, I came on some five or six carcasses by
Diamond Springs;” or another, it was to the effect that I had seen a small ‘bunch’ running on the Malpai Mesa; or again, “No, but Juan
Meira saw about twenty, freshly killed, on the Cedra Monte two days ago.”
At length the wolf traps arrived, and with two men I worked a whole week to get them properly set out. We spared no labor or pains, I
adopted every device I could think of that might help to insure success. The second day after the traps arrived, I rode around to inspect,
and soon came upon Lobo’s trail running from trap to trap. In the dust I could read the whole story of his doings that night. He had trotted
along in the darkness, and although the traps were so carefully concealed, he had instantly detected the first one. Stopping the onward
march of the pack, he had cautiously scratched around it until he had disclosed the trap, the chain, and the log, then left them wholly
exposed to view with the trap still unsprung, and passing on he treated over a dozen traps in the same fashion. Very soon I noticed that
he stopped and turned aside as soon as he detected suspicious signs on the trail and a new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself.
I set the traps in the form of an H; that is, with a row of traps on each side of the trail, and one on the trail for the cross-bar of the H.
Before long, I had an opportunity to count another failure. Lobo came trotting along the trail, and was fairly between the parallel lines
before he detected the single trap in the trail, but he stopped in time, and why or how he knew enough I cannot tell, the Angel of the wild
things must have been with him, but without turning an inch to the right or left, he slowly and cautiously backed on his own tracks, putting
each paw exactly in its old track until he was off the dangerous ground. Then returning at one side he scratched clods and stones with
his hind feet till he had sprung every trap. This he did on many other occasions, and although I varied my methods and redoubled my
precautions, he was never deceived, his sagacity seemed never at fault, and he might have been pursuing his career of rapine to-day,
but for an unfortunate alliance that proved his ruin and added his name to the long list of heroes who, unassailable when alone, have
fallen through the indiscretion of a trusted ally.
(Drawing) Lobo Exposing the Traps
Once or twice, I had found indications that everything was not quite right in the Currumpaw pack. There were signs of irregularity, I
thought; for instance there was clearly the trail of a smaller wolf running ahead of the leader, at times, and this I could not understand
until a cowboy made a remark which explained the matter.
“I saw them to-day,” he said, “and the wild one that breaks away is Blanca.” Then the truth dawned upon me, and I added, “Now, I know
that Blanca is a she-wolf, because were a he-wolf to act thus, Lobo would kill him at once.”
(Drawing) Lobo and Blanca
This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer, and set one or two rather obvious traps about the carcass. Then cutting off the head, which
is considered useless offal, and quite beneath the notice of a wolf, I set it a little apart and around it placed six powerful steel traps
properly deodorized and concealed with the utmost care. During my operations I kept my hands, boots, and implements smeared with
fresh blood, and afterward sprinkled the ground with the same, as though it had flowed from the head; and when the traps were buried in
the dust I brushed the place over with the skin of a coyote, and with a foot of the same animal made a number of tracks over the traps.
The head was so placed that there was a narrow passage between it and some tussocks, and in this passage I buried two of my best
traps, fastening them to the head itself.
Wolves have a habit of approaching every carcass they get the wind of, in order to examine it, even when they have no intention of
eating of it, and I hoped that this habit would bring the Currumpaw pack within reach of my latest stratagem. I did not doubt that Lobo
would detect my handiwork about the meat, and prevent the pack approaching it, but I did build some hopes on the head, for it looked as
though it had been thrown aside as useless.
Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there, oh, joy! were the tracks of the pack, and the place where the beef-head and
its traps had been was empty. A hasty study of the trail showed that Lobo had kept the pack from approaching the meat, but one, a small
wolf, had evidently gone on to examine the head as it lay apart and had walked right into one of the traps.
We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the hapless wolf was Blanca. Away she went, however, at a gallop, and although
encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over fifty pounds, she speedily distanced my companion who was on foot. But we overtook
her when she reached the rocks, for the horns of the cow’s head became caught and held her fast. She was the handsomest wolf I had
ever seen. Her coat was in perfect condition and nearly white.
She turned to fight, and raising her voice in the rallying cry of her race, sent a long howl rolling over the cañon. From far away upon the
mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her last call, for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and breath
were devoted to combat.
Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank from afterward more than at the time. We each threw a lasso over the
neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite directions until the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her limbs
stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode, carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first death-blow we had been able
to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.
At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the distant
mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had never really deserted her, but knowing that he could not save her, his deep-
rooted dread of firearms had been too much for him when he saw us approaching. All that day we heard him wailing as he roamed in his
quest, and I remarked at length to one of the boys, “Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was his mate.”
As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home cañon for his voice sounded continually nearer. There was an unmistakable
note of sorrow in it now. It was no longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail; “Blanca! Blanca!” he seemed to call. And as
night came down, I noticed that he was not far from the place where we had overtaken her. At length he seemed to find the trail, and
when he came to the spot where we had killed her, his heart-broken wailing was piteous to hear. It was sadder than I could possibly have
believed. Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had “never heard a wolf carry on like that before.” He seemed to know exactly
what had taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.
Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the ranch-house. Whether in hopes of finding her there, or in quest of revenge,
I know not, but the latter was what he found, for he surprised our unfortunate watchdog outside and tore him to little bits within fifty yards
of the door. He evidently came alone this time, for I found but one trail next morning, and he had galloped about in a reckless manner
that was very unusual with him. I had half expected this, and had set a number of additional traps about the pasture. Afterward I found
that he had indeed fallen into one of these, but such was his strength, he had torn himself loose and cast it aside.
I believed that he would continue in the neighborhood until he found her body at least, so I concentrated all my energies on this one
enterprise of catching him before he left the region, and while yet in this reckless mood. Then I realized what a mistake I had made in
killing Blanca, for by using her as a decoy I might have secured him the next night.
I gathered in all the traps I could command, one hundred and thirty strong steel wolf-traps, and set them in fours in every trail that led into
the cañon; each trap was separately fastened to a log, and each log was separately buried. In burying them, I carefully removed the sod
and every particle of earth that was lifted we put in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced and all was finished the eye could detect
no trace of human handiwork. When the traps were concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca over each place, and made of it a drag
that circled all about the ranch, and finally I took off one of her paws and made with it a line of tracks over each trap. Every precaution
and device known to me I used, and retired at a late hour to await the result.
Once during the night I thought I heard Old Lobo, but was not sure of it. Next day I rode around, but darkness came on before I
completed the circuit of the north cañon, and I had nothing to report. At supper one of the cowboys said, “There was a great row among
the cattle in the north cañon this morning, maybe there is something in the traps there.” It was afternoon of the next day before I got to
the place referred to, and as I drew near a great grizzly form arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to escape, and there revealed
before me stood Lobo, King of the Currumpaw, firmly held in the traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to search for his darling, and
when he found the trail her body had made he followed it recklessly, and so fell into the snare prepared for him. There he lay in the iron
grasp of all four traps, perfectly helpless, and all around him were numerous tracks showing how the cattle had gathered about him to
insult the fallen despot, without daring to approach within his reach. For two days and two nights he had lain there, and now was worn out
with struggling. Yet, when I went near him, he rose up with bristling mane and raised his voice, and for the last time made the cañon
reverberate with his deep bass roar, a call for help, the muster call of his band. But there was none to answer him, and, left alone in his
extremity, he whirled about with all his strength and made a desperate effort to get at me. All in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over
three hundred pounds, and in their relentless fourfold grasp, with great steel jaws on every foot, and the heavy logs and chains all
entangled together, he was absolutely powerless. How his huge ivory tusks did grind on those cruel chains, and when I ventured to touch
him with my rifle-barrel he left grooves on it which are there to this day. His eyes glared green with hate and fury, and his jaws snapped
with a hollow ‘chop,’ as he vainly endeavored to reach me and my trembling horse. But he was worn out with hunger and struggling and
loss of blood, and he soon sank exhausted to the ground.
Something like compunction came over me, as I prepared to deal out to him that which so many had suffered at his hands.
“Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand lawless raids, in a few minutes you will be but a great load of carrion. It cannot be otherwise.” Then
I swung my lasso and sent it whistling over his head. But not so fast; he was yet far from being subdued, and, before the supple coils had
fallen on his neck he seized the noose and, with one fierce chop, cut through its hard thick strands, and dropped it in two pieces at his
Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but I did not wish to spoil his royal hide, so I galloped back to the camp and returned with a
cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our victim a stick of wood which he seized in his teeth, and before he could relinquish it our
lassoes whistled through the air and tightened on his neck.
Yet before the light had died from his fierce eyes, I cried, “Stay, we will not kill him; let us take him alive to the camp.” He was so
completely powerless now that it was easy to put a stout stick through his mouth, behind his tusks, and then lash his jaws with a heavy
cord which was also fastened to the stick. The stick kept the cord in, and the cord kept the stick in so he was harmless. As soon as he felt
his jaws were tied he made no further resistance, and uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us and seemed to say, “Well, you have got
me at last, do as you please with me.” And from that time he took no more notice of us.
We tied his feet securely, but he never groaned, nor growled, nor turned his head. Then with our united strength were just able to put
him on my horse. His breath came evenly as though sleeping, and his eyes were bright and clear again, but did not rest on us. Afar on
the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his passing kingdom, where his famous band was now scattered. And he gazed till the pony
descended the pathway into the cañon, and the rocks cut off the view.
By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in safety, and after securing him with a collar and a strong chain, we staked him out in the
pasture and removed the cords. Then for the first time I could examine him closely, and proved how unreliable is vulgar report when a
living hero or tyrant is concerned. He had not a collar of gold about his neck, nor was there on his shoulders an inverted cross to denote
that he had leagued himself with Satan. But I did find on one haunch a great broad scar, that tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno,
the leader of Tannerey’s wolf-hounds—a mark which she gave him the moment before he stretched her lifeless on the sand of the cañon.
I set meat and water beside him, but he paid no heed. He lay calmly on his breast, and gazed with those steadfast yellow eyes away past
me down through the gateway of the cañon, over the open plains—his plains—nor moved a muscle when I touched him. When the sun
went down he was still gazing fixedly across the prairie. I expected he would call up his band when night came, and prepared for them, but
he had called once in his extremity, and none had come; he would never call again.
A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and who will
aver that this grim bandit could bear the three-fold brunt, heart-whole? This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he was lying
there still in his position of calm repose, but his spirit was gone—the old king-wolf was dead.
I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy helped me to carry him to the shed where lay the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him beside
her, the cattle-man exclaimed: “There, you would come to her, now you are together again.”
|From: "Wild Animals I Have Known" by Ernest Thompson-Seton
The KING of CURRUMPAW
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|Click on the thumbnails to see full size pictures.
Blanca, Lobo’s Mate
“Within a mile or so, we came up, and found
that the little wolf in the trap was Blanca safe
and sure. Lobo was with her running alongside.
men coming with guns, he knew he was
powerless. He called her to follow, and led up
the side of the hill to the mesa. She did follow
for a time, until the horns of the big beef head
caught in the rocks and held her. Then she had
to turn and face us.
“Just then, up came the sun, and shone full on
her. I saw now what a beautiful creature she was
– pure white. I used my camera, and made the
lasting record given.” (Trail of an Artist-Naturalist
– the autobiography of Ernest Thompson Seton;
pg 336, Charles Scribner’s Sons, NY 1941).
The two photographs of Lobo and Blanca were
later used by Seton to symbolize the
extermination of wolves from the southern
plains. It was this event in which Seton began to
realize he had killed “his kindred” in cold blood.
“The Black Wolf of the Currumpaw”
Oil painting (1894). One of the most detailed and
captivating oil paintings produced by Seton
shortly after Lobo was trapped on January 31,
1894. The detail Seton put into this painting
exemplifies Seton’s interest in Lobo. This image
would appear on the cover of The World of Ernest
Thompson Seton, edited by John G. Samson and
published by Alfred A. Knopf in New York, 1976.
Lobo After His Capture
Cross F Ranch which belonged to Louis
Fitz-Rudolph. The photograph details the stark
landscape in which the wolf met his demise, as
well as the ensnared wolf cowering away from the
Seton as he shot the photograph. This is the event.
|Click on the thumbnails
to see full size pictures.
|NOTE: Corrumpa is the current spelling of the name, it's in Union County, NM.
Some interesting self guided historical and scenic tours around the Cimarron area.
Glimpse the pioneer experience of nineteenth century America along this national and historic byway.
|Updates: Added better photos of Lobo and Blanca and the “The Black Wolf of the Currumpaw”
Added links to some interesting self guided historical and scenic tours around the Cimarron area.