I met the trapper quite by accident up on the side of a wooded hill. I was hiking when I spotted him and both of us stopped doing what we were doing and looked at each other a spell. The trapper spoke first. “I am Wild Coyote Bill who lives on the hill! How do you do!” “I’m well, thank you,” I replied. “My name is Mountain Goat Byron. Just call me Goat.” “Well, if that’s the way it’s gonna be, call me Wild, plain ol’ Wild,” the man said cheerfully as he reached his hand toward mine for a shake. I quickly stepped back. “Sorry about that, Goat! Forgot my hand was a bloody mess. I trap using blood. Fresh-smellin’, rabbit blood. Hey, got a minute? I wanna show ya somethin’ up at the cabin. Ain’t too far.” We walked sideways on the hill a distance, then up. There in a tiny meadow sat a dilapidated log cabin. Every outside wall of the small structure was blanketed with what appeared to be coyote pelts. The trapper seen me staring and said with a smile, “I like dogs.” “See this big ol’ log layin’ here?” Wild asked. “It’s a part of one of my coyote traps. Right here in my front yard. How about that?” I noticed a large stain on top of the log. A large red stain right near the middle. It look like dried blood. “Once ya got a big ol’ log like this one with the bark left on, ya need a razor blade. Ya put it in the log like this.” Deftly, the trapper inserted the razor blade into a fissure of the log’s bark, wedging it sharp edge up in the middle of the crimson patch. The man retrieved a clear bag from his coat pocket. “Fresh rabbit blood,” the trapper said as he poured the entire contents onto the razor blade. “The trap’s set! No more to do but get away a bit and watch. Don’t usually take long. Not long at all.” We walked over to a nice carpet of grass, fifty yards or so away, and sat down. And from there we watched. Sooner than an old guy has to pee at night, a healthy-looking coyote boldly walked up to the log and began licking the blood. Steady-like. Then rapid-like. Then ravenous-like. Licking and licking until he was licking his own blood. Because of the razor blade. Unexpectedly, the trapper stood up and took off running. In seconds Mr. Quicker-Than-the-Dickens Wild Coyote Bill was standing behind the coyote holding an axe handle. With one swing the trapper crushed the coyote’s skull. “Supper be ready soon. Coyote and grits. Ya stayin’?” the trapper asked. “Jeez, I’m sorry Mister," I said. "The wife’s fixing hot dogs and fries.” “Well, so be it young fella. Nice meetin’ ya!” I waved and went down the hill a changed man. Ever since that fella that day, the word coyote has me seeing red.
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