I'd seen the dogs interact with a coyote, and Ross told me how it could be when things really worked. There was the day when it was 77 degrees in the sage on an 8,000-foot-high flat, and he and the dogs kicked up coveys of sage grouse as they walked to the edge. Ross had located a den there the evening before, and he crawled the last several dozen yards to the rim to hide his outline. From that vantage point, he could see thick cover in the bottom where a creek braided silver through willows. Ross set up on the steep slope below the flat and made his rabbit call. Susie and Sam (who always work together, each protecting the other from getting outflanked) headed for the willows, while Whiskey waited with Ross, ready to run down for the coup de grace on a wounded coyote or to pitch into a fight if needed. In minutes a coyote ran out at about 200 yards to face off with the barking dogs, and Ross' wildcat rifle dropped it where it stood. A second one came almost at once, not heeding its dead pack mate nearby. Another shot, another coyote; and then a third appeared, seeing and hearing only the mountain curs.