When I still had my cowdog, I hunted them with him quite a bit. He was very good at tracking the little critters and then keeping track of where they were in the tree. I still lived on the ranch at that time, and went out after them nearly every night until the batteries on my spotlight went dead (about 45 minutes). Most nights I got two to three, then occasionally I'd get a dozen or so. I also had some oak trees I would hit with the spotlight every night down by a stock tank, and if I was more than 150 or so yards away, the coons would still be looking at me and I could see their eyes. With the .223, I could knock two or three out before they would realize something was up and head for better cover.
I showed steers in high school, so we always had some feed out at the barns. Coons would come out every night to feed. I had the .22 one night down there, and killed about a dozen coons just as fast as I could spot one, shoot, then lock on to the next one. They would climb whatever they could get to the fastest to get away from the dog and the cat (I had a big tom cat that would go down to the barn with me, and he was actually better at thrashing coons than the dog). This night, the coons all ran up on the metal barns, and I could hear them running across the roof. It made them a lot easier to locate. The last coon I shot made it to the top of the barn, and stood up and looked at me when the light hit him. I shot him in the chest, and he grabbed his chest with both hands, let out a little squall, then rolled off the roof. Just like a cowboy in one of those old westerns.
It's a wonder on a couple of trips I didn't shoot myself. Probably came the closest when I was opening a large sliding shop door and a snake fell on me. Sparrows were nesting in top of the door, and had just finished hatching their little ones. The snake had found a way up the door and had pretty much cleaned house on the sparrows that night, and was probably just laying on top of the door digesting when some idiot shook him loose opening the door.