The Coyote and the Old Timer - February 25, 2011

The old man stepped out from his warm cabin into the cold morning air; he reckoned it to be about 15 degrees above zero.  His dog’s were jumping and barking on their chains.  He spoke to his dogs as if they were his children.  Sorry girls and boys, not  today, this is my hunt alone. Fresh snow of two to three inches had fallen during the night, making it a perfect day for tracking  animals.  As he looked around at the neighboring hills and mountains, he talked to himself; a habit acquired from living alone with his dogs and horses. 
Well, maybe today would be his lucky day.  That old Don Kyotee, who had been outsmarting him for more years that he hated to admit, has got to slip up one of these days and it might just be today.  Anyway, it was a hellava nice day to be out side and alive.  The coyote and him had a feud going on that had been going on for years.  He couldn't really remember how long, but it was quite awhile. The coyote was a four legged terror when it came to stealing chickens, cats, and young pups that had strayed a tad too far from the safety of their home.  The old man had come close to taking the whole ball of wax a few times.... Was sure he'd got him once when he'd knocked him rolling with a quick offhand shot, but the coyote had jumped up and made it to the timber and safety.  He'd seen him a month or so later and he'd seemed none the worse for it.  So it was back to the battle of wits and the old coyote had an exasperating number of wins in that department.  The old man was no greenhorn to the hunt and he knew every nook and cranny in the mountains for miles around, but so did Don Kyotee!  And he seemed to live a charmed life however determined the old man was to take it.  "Today's the day"  he once again said to himself, then laughed out loud and thought how many times have I made THAT prediction, only to have Don Kyotee disappear like smoke in the wind.  "Couldn't count 'em on both hands plus my toes” he grumbled.  But he always got something out of it.  Being out in nature itself was aplenty, even when coming home so tired your ass dragged your tracks out and no meat to show for it. 
He topped a flat topped hill and stood for a moment, taking in the glitter of the snow as the morning sun glanced off it.  His eyes caught a movement, just a shadow-like shape, moving into his line of vision.  He stood still.  Stark still. He could not believe his eyes.  A coyote slowly walked into view.  "Yes, my lucky day" he thought, with pulse pumping and mind racing.  And not more than forty, fifty yards away, easy money as some folks are want to say.  The gun came up in one fluid motion, stock snug to shoulder and cheek, the scope lining up with his eye.  Just as natural as bringing your hanky up to wipe your nose.  The cross-hairs centered just behind the shoulder of the coyote.  This one would never know what hit him, he thought to himself.  His finger began the final squeeze.  Then it happened.  The coyote turned to face him and casually sat down with his head cocked to one side, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.  The squeeze on the trigger stopped.  The old man squinted through his scope studying the coyote.  Thoughts ran through his mind like a wildfire.  "What's wrong with this picture?  Coyotes don't act like this"  he thought.  That coyote should have dropped that tail and took off like a shot!  He couldn't have missed seeing me, yet there he sits grinning at me, a rather sardonic, mocking grin to say the least.  Then he saw the patch of white high up on his shoulder ruffling slightly in the breeze.  "Damn", he said to himself, "it's old Don Kyotee.  I put that scar on him myself a few years back with this very same gun."  But it couldn't be, no-way!  The old coyote would never be caught like this.  He'd been too smart all these years.  Traps, poison and guns had never been able to put his hide on the wall.  Wisdom had come at a price of a few traps with toes left in them, and a scar or two from the Hail Mary,
let 'er rip shots of hunters.  And of course the one the old man had put along his shoulder. 
But at least the coyote had gotten a chicken in trade for that one.  No matter if this was a trick.  It will be his last one, he thought.  As he took up the slack in the trigger, still the old coyote sat patiently head cocked, tongue out, as if waiting for something. His eyes never leaving  the old man, with no effort to get away, abruptly, he laid down, his head on his paws, still facing and staring at the old man.  The old man lowered his gun, and thought, nobody will ever believe this story.  It just doesn't happen this way.  Then he heard the old coyote speak, "But it is happening Old Man" with more than a trace of a condescending sneer in it.  "This is what you have dreamed and wanted since our first run in years ago.  I am here.  Go ahead, fulfill your dreams.  Pull that trigger."  The old man thought, "this isn't sport now, it's like shooting fish in a barrel."  The old coyote seemed to sneer.  "Sport, you call it.  Sport to you is survival to me and my kind.  How many years has your species tried to exterminate mine?  And by foul means, trapping, poison, even by air.  Our lot is to live in and with nature.  Yours is to conquer nature, shape it to your will.  So therefore, we are at killing odds, my old friend.  We kill to survive, you kill for sport.  It has been fun matching wits with you and others in my lifetime.  You especially.  You were so dedicated, and donated the fattest fowl I ever stole.  A droll smile passed over the coyote's lips.  Now Old Man, pull the trigger.  It's your day."  He sat up facing the old man.  A barrage of thoughts streamed through the old mans conscience.  This is crazy, this isn't sporting.  At this the old coyote seemed to snicker.  "Sporting, there's that word again.  It's not in our language.  Ours is called survival of the fittest."  The old man replied "You don't understand.  We hunters have a code we go by and this situation doesn't fit>"  "Well, Old Man",  said the coyote, "I'm afraid, if you want my hide for your wall, you'll have to loosen your code some what, as I won't be here for you next winter.  Take a close look at me Old Man." the coyote demanded.  The old man held the coyote steady in his scope.  "Look at my teeth, Old Man."  The coyote opened his mouth wide in a yawn.  The old man could see but a few teeth, and they were well worn and some broken off.  "Look good at my body" again the coyote demanded.  The old man examined the coyote through his scope.  "Christ, it looks like he's had the mange" he muttered to himself.  Patches of fur were gone and his skin showed through.  The old coyote spoke again.  "It's the end of the trail for me.  I'll never make it through another winter.  Age catches up with all of us.  And what better way to end than both of us getting what we wish.  Me, a quick death.  And you, your moment of glory, so to speak.  I would give you a sporting running shot, but my legs won't cooperate as they used to.  This is the best I can do."  Again, the sly sardonic grin passed over the old coyote's face. 
The shot was deafening in the cold quiet morning.  The old coyote lay flat, unmoving, as the snow slowly reddened about him and the breeze ruffled his fur.  He couldn't see old Don Kyotee, as his eyes were filled with tears; a cold wind will do that as any hunter knows.  The old man lowered his rifle and turned towards home.

-Fox Pine