Sanders drove on and then braked at a tiny clearing. His leather hunting boots creaked as the heels thudded into the earth. His boots meant business, and he walked in a way that inferred complete authority. Many an animal’s last breath was spent under those boots. He’d crush furbearers like pine marten and fisher under the thick vibram soles. This was an approved kill method by the state. Approach the trapped animal, jab your boot in its face, and the animal will roll onto its back while biting the boot. This is a fatal mistake for the critter. All he needed to do then was let gravity take over, squeezing the life out of the animal, crushing ribs, lungs, and heart with his weight. Sanders enjoyed that moment the most—when the eyes, full of life, faded to a dull gray. No-one-home-time. Sanders controlled their fate, and then he controlled their body afterwards, either taxidermy or food for the crows. As if giving thanks, a crow passed overhead and cawed at his presence. He never shot the crows. Ever.

Bad luck, he thought. Just plain bad luck.

The crow flew north towards the orchard, the same direction he was headed. Sanders watched it cross the sky.

Sanders bent down in a small grassy clearing next to a twisted choke-cherry. His camo shirt hung over his waist, flapping in the breeze. Sanders flipped up his field glasses and examined his trap. Empty. All empty traps were taken back to the cottage and rubbed out, removing all potential scent. Sanders did this by soaking them in the Silver River, staked down on the river bed. He never could’ve done that with the old traps, but with these four-hundred-grade stainless steel wonders he sure could.

Sanders took a hammer from the plastic ATV toolbox. Below the toolbox was a yellow bumper sticker spelling out: COYOTES . . . SMOKE A PACK A DAY!