I had called myself hoarse, blowing rabbit-in-distress and fawn bleats into every coulee and creek valley in the township. In some of my coyote sets, I had my electronic caller shrieking magpie calls and serenading the prairie with whimpers and yips.
But in a half-day of calling, I had seen only two coyotes. One was running flat-out and straight away. The other was hung up on a ridge a half-mile out, looking my way with that twitchy, suspicious posture that coyotes have perfected over a thousand years of persecution. The coyote dropped out of sight, and I moved on.
But I didn’t move out. Instead, I traded my heavy coat for a lighter jacket, tucked water and a snack in my fanny pack and cinched my boot laces. I took my mouth calls, binocular and shooting stick, and within an hour I had two coyotes on the ground. I didn’t call to either one. Instead, I killed them the same way I kill open-country mule deer and pronghorns—by spotting
