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So far this fall, I’ve got my traps dyed and waxed.  My bow is tuned, broadheads sharpened, and plans made for my spearhouse. I’ve got my goose tags, pheasant stamps, archery license, trapping license, and a multitude of others that I’ve been using through the year. What I haven’t done, is sight in my .22/250, or even take it out of the gun cabinet for that matter, check the spotlights for dead batteries, pattern the shotgun for some killer coyote loads, or in general, organize my predator huntin’ stuff.  I got lots of time before the snow flies.  Or so I thought until earlier today.

No the snow didn’t fly here today, its mid-September and 80 degrees. I stopped at a rural based body shop to do a little business with them, and to chew the fat a little.  Them good ‘ol boys there are some pretty good friends of mine, and we tell a lot of lies to each other.  I asked if they had seen any geese in the area and if I could swat a couple of early season honkers to make wild rice and goose sausage with.  They told me the oats field right behind the buildings had a flock of them every night for the last 3 nights.  So I head out in the truck to do a little scouting and notice a small deer at 2 o’clock in the afternoon about 150 yards out in the field.  Upon closer inspection with a pair of 7x50’s it’s a coyote just standing there looking around.

CoyoteThere’s been plenty of problems with the ‘yotes in the area killing pen pheasants and even a few calves. I looked in my back seat, and…..remember I said my .22/250 was still in the gun cabinet?  Why can’t stuff like this happen to me in January when the pelts are prime and I normally have my rifle?  I figured my 870 with dove loads wasn’t gonna do it, so I haul back to the body shop, looking back more than forward, and that dog is still standing there looking around.  The guys at the shop didn’t have a rifle there either.  One of the guys working there said he had a .22 pistol in the truck.  Hmmm…I’m a pretty good pistol shot, and I’ve got a mouse squeaker left in the truck from last winter.  Bring it on.  So I throw on my lightweight cattail patterned raincoat over my bright red t-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers, grab the squeaker ‘tween my fingers, and packing a borrowed .22 pistol.  What could possibly go wrong?

I jump over the hog fence (I said this was rural) weave my way around a bunch of Hamphire/Duroc crosses and get to the apparently empty horse pasture.  I can see the coyote about 80 yards from the edge of the pasture, in the oats stubble. I belly crawl toward the field edge and am about 100 yards from the coyote, when I feel the ground shaking like an earthquake, and the sound of pounding hooves.  Eleven horses and one donkey spotted me and were on their way to check this thing out that’s all stretched out on the ground.  There’s twelve of them and I only have 3 rounds in the gun.  I’m outnumbered.

I jump up to vertical to make peace with the horses and low and behold, they start picking at my pockets for something good.  Right about now, I had this funny thought about the settlers circling the wagons, but I got over that thought right quick. I got nothing, and they ain’t buying it.  They coyote meanwhile has bedded down, and could care less about them horses stampeding around, and with all that horse ruckus, he had no clue I even existed.

I finally shoo the horses off, and make a bee line for the field edge, and all I can see about 75-80 yards out, is a coyote head, and about 1 inch of his back above the stubble. I tried the squeaker, but he never looked.  Must have had a full belly.   Well, I did say I was a pretty good pistol shot.  Let’s see how good I ain’t. I poke that ol’ Browning Buckmark through the brush and with a two hand standing hold, I settled the front sight on the center of where the ribcage would be and squeezed ever so slowly and smoothly.  The only thing I saw when the gun went off was a six foot long cloud of dust that started about two inches above that coyotes back, dead center over the ribs. He ran off pretty quick, and I barked at him to stop him, which he did, at about 200 yards with just the top of his head over the crest of the hill.

He stood there for little while and slinkered into the willows.   sure wish I had my rifle, but at least I have my traps ready to go.

I’ll be seeing him again.

Greg


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