Puncher slept in later than he had slept in all winter. He had got into Doc’s applejack the night before. It had been just him and George, as usual. They stayed up to watch the moon, a full moon, until 3am. Puncher never missed a full moon.
George did this thing where he would wag his tail in slow-motion and yip like a coyote when he got hungry. He had yipped last night and to his and Puncher’s shared surprise, a male coyote responded. The coyote let out a howl that could be heard clear across the state line and into Colorado.
A coyote call, thought Puncher, a sound of the West. A sound that has echoed across this landscape for millions of years, long before man had ears to hear the sound. George nestled up to him and shook for the rest of the night. Puncher drank Doc’s applejack and the coyotes howled at the moon.