TUCKED BEHIND A SCRAGGLY BUSH, ATOP A SMALL RISE, WYMAN MEINZER SURVEYS THE DESOLATE LANDSCAPE SURROUNDING HIM. SCATTERED GNARLED TREES FOREVER LOCKED IN A CONTINUAL BATTLE WITH THE UNPREDICTABLE WINDS AND WEATHER RISE SKYWARD, SURROUNDED BY DENSE PATCHES OF SCRUB BRUSH. THE DUSTY MOUNDS OF SOIL THAT MAKE UP THE NORTH TEXAS PLAINS REGION STRETCH INTO THE DISTANCE. NEARBY HIS RIFLE LEANS ON A ROCK, NEXT TO A SMALL PACK FILLED WITH EQUIPMENT.
Far from Wyman’s location, about half-a-mile distant, he sees his prey, a small collection of coyotes. He checks to see that the sun is behind him and the predators are upwind from his position. The conditions are perfect. He digs into his bag and pulls out a homemade animal call crafted from a deer antler he found near his home not far from where he is hunkered down right now. He blows into it and the coyotes instantly pivot towards his location, their interest piqued by the possibility of a meal.
"He lines up for the shot, this one will be perfect he thinks, and waits."
He blows it again and ducks lower behind the mesquite shrub, careful not to be seen. The animals begin to lope towards his position, the distinct call of rabbits that he has made pulling them in. As they get closer Meinzer drops deeper into the shadows, sets his call off to the side, and begins to make a squeaking sound from his lips that mimics mice. He lines up for the shot, this one will be perfect he thinks, and waits. Soon enough four coyotes are less than fifteen yards away from him, working the landscape, trying to ferret out the source of the mysterious sounds they heard.