"Just to the right of that big boulder!"
"I see him!"
Paul Jackson knelt, rested his right elbow on his right knee, raised his rifle—and Ted groaned silently. The youngster's stance was perfect, but so was his buck fever. The rifle shook like an aspen leaf in a high wind. It blasted, and Ted saw the bullet kick up leaves twenty feet to one side of the sleeping bear.
The bear sprang up as though launched from a catapult and kept on springing. Straight up the slope he went, and across the nearly treeless summit.
Ted shouted, "Shoot!"
"Did you say shoot?"
Paul Jackson was still in a daze, bewildered by this thing that could not be but was. The bear was four hundred yards away when he raised his rifle a second time, shot and succeeded only in speeding the running beast on its way. He lowered his rifle and muttered, "I guess I'm not a very good hunter."
"Nobody connects every time."
The bear was running full speed toward the old mine tunnel. Surprised, its first thought had been to put distance between the hunter and itself, but now it was planning very well. The old tunnel had one outlet that led into a dense thicket of laurel. Certainly the bear knew all about this and he would go into the thicket. Definitely, he was lost to the young hunter.
Then, within the mouth of the old tunnel itself, another rifle cracked spitefully. The running bear swapped ends, rolled over and lay still. Alex Jackson emerged from the tunnel.
Twenty minutes later, when Paul and Ted reached him, he was sitting quietly beside his trophy and looking at it with unbelieving eyes. But they were wonderfully happy eyes. Long ago he had dreamed his dream. Now—and probably it never had been before and never would be again in hunting annals—he had seen it come true. He looked dreamily up at Ted and Paul and his voice was proof that, whether it's bringing down a bear, shooting a hole-in-one, or playing a perfect game of chess, any dream can be as bright as the dreamer makes it.
"It charged," he said.
In the parking lot beside Lorton's little railway station, Ted sprawled wearily in his pickup truck.
It had taken much of the day to bring Alex Jackson's bear out of Carter Valley. The animal might have been skinned where it fell, cut up and brought out piece by piece, but not one of the young hunters would hear of such a thing. They had come a long way and worked hard for this trophy; they would take it with them intact. It had been necessary to do things the hard way.
Dragging it would have injured the fine pelt, so Ted had lashed its feet to a long pole and put a man on each end. The start had been easy, but game carried in such a fashion has an astonishing way of adding weight. By the time they'd traveled a quarter of a mile, instead of a mere 250, the bear weighed at least 2500 pounds, and the panting carriers were relieving each other every fifty paces.
Finally, they'd reached an old tote road up which Ted could drive with his pickup and the rest had been easy. They'd lashed the bear on Alex Jackson's car and six exhausted but happy youngsters had piled in to begin their long journey homewards.
Ted grinned to himself. He'd spent a week with the Jackson party solely because he'd thought they would get into trouble if he did not. No guide's fee had been expected or asked, but, just the same, it might have been good business. The fathers of three of the youngsters were ardent hunters themselves. Ted had been assured over and over again that they'd hear about the Mahela and be directed to Ted, far and away the world's best guide. The youngsters were certainly coming back for fishing season and to spend part of their summer in the Mahela and they'd want the cabin.
Ted's grin faded. Next year there might not be any cabin to rent. He stretched wearily in the darkness and yawned.
He'd reached home just in time to pack Tammie and send him on what must be his last visit to Al until deer season ended. Sending him so early might have been taking a chance, but when Ted next returned home he'd have a guest with him, and letting anyone else see the packed Tammie would surely be taking more of a chance. Ted had fixed a meal for himself, taken two woodcock from the freezer and put them in cold water to thaw. Then he had driven in to meet John Wilson.
The little station's windows looked as though they hadn't been washed for the past nine months and probably they hadn't. Lights glowed dully behind them, and the clicking of the telegrapher's key sounded intermittently. Ted looked about.
The parking lot was full, and the night before deer season opened was the only time throughout the whole year when it ever was. Though by far most of the deer hunters came by car, some traveled by train from wherever they lived to the city of Dartsburg, sixty miles away. Then they came to Lorton on what some of the local wags described as the "tri-weekly"—it went down one week and tried to come back the next. Actually, it was a daily train, and in spite of a superfluity of jokes and near-jokes about it, it kept a tight schedule.
When Ted's watch read ten past seven, he left the pickup and went to stand in the shadows on the waiting platform. The drivers of other cars joined him, and here and there a little group of men engaged in conversation. Then the train's whistle announced its approach and every eye turned down the tracks.
Ordinarily, the train pulled a combined baggage and mail car and one coach, but on this eventful night a second coach had been resurrected from somewhere and every window gleamed. The train hissed to a halt and hunters started piling off. Without exception, they were dressed in hunting gear; red coats, red caps and whatever they fancied in the way of trousers and footwear. They lugged everything from suitcases to rucksacks and, invariably, either strapped to the luggage or carried in a free hand, rifles were in evidence.
The men waiting on the platform went forward to greet hunters they knew and bundled them off to cars. Jimmy Deeks, Lorton's only taxi driver, called his "Taxi!" just once and was stampeded by a dozen hunters who wanted to go to a hotel or motel. There was some little argument and, after promising to return for the rest, Jimmy went off with as many hunters as his cab would hold.
The arriving crowd thinned rapidly and Ted looked with some bewilderment on those who were left. He'd never seen John Wilson and hadn't the faintest idea as to the sort of man he must look for. Certainly he'd be alone, and the only hunters left were in groups of three or more. Then Dan Taylor, the station agent, passed and saw Ted.
"Hi, Ted."
"Hi, Dan."
"Waitin' for somebody?"
"Yup."
"Well if he ain't on this train, he's sure walkin'!"
The station agent guffawed at his own not very subtle humor and moved on. A second later, a man detached himself from one of the groups and approached Ted. He was not tall, even in hunting boots he lacked five and a half inches of Ted's six feet. He wore a red-plaid jacket, a red-checked cap and black wool trousers that tucked into his boots. In his right hand was a leather suitcase and in his left he carried a cased rifle. Despite the gray hair that escaped from beneath his cap, he walked with a light and firm tread and humor glinted in his eyes.
He asked, "Are you Ted Harkness?"
"That's right."
The man put his suitcase down and thrust out his right hand. "I'm John Wilson."
Ted shook the proffered hand. "I—I thought you'd be different."
"Don't let my grotesque appearance frighten you. I'm harmless."
Ted blurted out, "You said in your letter that you're a dodderingoldman."
"Ten years older than Methuselah." John Wilson laughed and the sound was good to hear. "I'm glad to know you, Ted."
"And I you. Shall we get out to the house?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to grab a bite to eat. The dining car on the Limited was crowded and I couldn't get in."
"The cafes will be crowded and we'll have to wait. I'll fix you something, if you want to come along now."
"Fine!"
Ted picked up the suitcase, escorted John Wilson to the pickup and put the luggage in the rear. About to open the door for his guest, he was forestalled when John Wilson opened it himself and climbed in. Ted settled in the driver's seat.
"Mind if I smoke?" John Wilson asked.
"Not at all."
He lighted a pipe and sat puffing on it while Ted steered expertly through Lorton's hunting season traffic. A happy warmth enveloped him. He liked most people, but very few times in his life had he been drawn so close to one on such short acquaintance. John Wilson was probably ten years older than Al, but far from doddering. He was that rare person whom age has made mellow rather than caustic.
Then they were on the Lorton Road and started into the Mahela. John Wilson spoke for the first time since leaving the station.
"They crowd in."
"For deer season they do," Ted agreed. "The day after it ends, you could shoot a cannon down Main Street and never hit a person."
They passed a tent set up beside the road, and a gasoline lantern burning inside gave its walls a ghostly translucence. There was a neat pile of wood beside it and wood smoke drifted from a tin pipe that curled through the wall. The car in which the campers had come was backed off the road. It was a good camp and as they passed Ted was aware that John Wilson knew it was good. But he said nothing, and Ted had the impression that he did not talk unless he had something worthwhile to say.
A quarter mile beyond the camp, the truck's probing lights reflected from the startlingly bright eyes of a deer. Ted slowed. Deer were always running back and forth across the road and, since bright lights dazzled them, they would not always get out of the way. They came closer and the lights revealed very clearly a magnificent buck.
So alert that every muscle was tense, he stood broadside. One rear leg was a bit ahead of the other, the animal was poised for instant flight. His antlers were big and branching, and in the car lights they looked perfectly symmetrical. It was a splendid creature, one that would command attention anywhere. After ten seconds, it leaped into the forest and disappeared.
John Wilson said, "A nice head."
He spoke as though the buck had delighted and warmed him, but there was in his voice none of the babbling enthusiasm which some hunters, upon seeing such a buck, might express. Obviously, he had seen big bucks before.
Ted commented, "He was a darn' big buck."
"As big," and a smile lurked in John Wilson's voice, "as your Damon and Pythias?"
Ted answered firmly, "No sir. He was not."
"Then I am in the right place?"
"I hope so, Mr. Wilson."
"It'd be just as simple to call me John."
Ted grinned. "All right, John."
They passed more tents and trailers, swerved to miss a wild-eyed doe that almost jumped into the truck. Finally, Ted drove thankfully up the Harkness driveway. The house was stocked with everything they needed, and as far as he was concerned, he was willing to stay there until deer season ended. At any rate, he hoped he'd have to do no more night driving.
He escorted his guest in, snapped the light on and waited for what he thought was coming next. It came. John Wilson glanced about and he needed no more than a glance. It was enough to tell him what was here and his voice said he liked it.
"You do all right for yourself."
"Glad you like it. If you'll make yourself at home, I'll have something to eat rustled up in a little while."
"Let me help you."
"It's a one-man job."
John Wilson reclined in an easy chair while Ted went into the kitchen. He put a great slab of butter in a skillet, let it brown, seasoned the brace of woodcock, put them into the pan, covered it and turned the flame lower. He prepared a fresh pot of coffee, biscuits, potatoes and a vegetable. All the while, he waited nervously for Tammie to whine at the door. There'd have to be some nice timing when the collie returned. Ted must slip out, strip the harness off and let the dog in without letting John Wilson know he'd worn a harness.
When the meal was ready and Tammie still had not come, Ted's nervousness mounted. The dog was a half hour late already. What could have happened out in the Mahela? Ted put the dinner on the table and tried to sound casual as he announced, "Chow's ready."
"This is 'chow'?" John Wilson chided him. "Butter-browned woodcock is deserving of a better name. Let me at it!"
He cut a slice of the dark breast and began to eat it. "Mm-m!That's good! Something wrong, Ted?"
"Yes—uh—That is, no."
"You're nervous as a wet cat."
"My dog's out and I'm a little worried about—There he is now! Go right ahead and eat."
Tammie's whine sounded again and Ted slipped out the back door. Hastily he knelt to strip the harness off and take Al's note from the pocket. Then he threw the harness aside—he'd get it in the early morning—tucked the note in his pocket and, with Tammie beside him, went into the house. John Wilson stopped eating to admire.
"That's a beautiful collie. What's his name?"
"Tammie, and he's just as good as he looks."
Tammie sniffed delicately at their guest, received a pat on the head and went to stretch out on his bearskin. John Wilson glanced at him again.
"Aren't you afraid to let him run?"
"After tomorrow, poor Tammie will be confined to quarters until deer season ends."
John Wilson nodded. "That's wise, some hunters will shoot at anything. What time do you plan to get out in the morning?"
"Whenever you care to leave."
"Isn't it traditional for hunters to be in the woods at dawn?"
"That's right."
"Then let's not violate revered custom. Where do these two big bucks hang out?"
"They've been on Burned Mountain for a long while. Hunters may put them off there and then again they may not."
"Where do they lurk during deer season?"
"Nobody knows exactly," Ted admitted. "They've been seen in a dozen parts of the Mahela. Sometimes they've been 'seen' in a dozen different places at the same hour on the same day. We'll just have to plan as we go along."
"That suits me. I'll help with the dishes."
"I'll do them."
"You'll spoil me!"
"Take it easy while you can. You're in for some rough days."
John Wilson resumed sitting in the easy chair. Before Ted washed the dishes, he stole a glance at Al's note.
Ted; I got enuf. Don't send Tammy agen til deer seson ends. I wish your sport luk. I saw one of the big buks on burned mountin today. Gess you'll find both.Your dad
Ted; I got enuf. Don't send Tammy agen til deer seson ends. I wish your sport luk. I saw one of the big buks on burned mountin today. Gess you'll find both.
Your dad
Ted nodded, satisfied. If Damon and Pythias were still on Burned Mountain, he knew exactly where to go. He touched the note to the flame, waited until it burned to ashes, swept them into a wastebasket and joined his guest.
John Wilson, looking at the dying embers in the fireplace, asked quietly, "Got your campaign mapped, General?"
"Only the first skirmish. I know—That is, I'm pretty sure that Damon and Pythias are still on Burned Mountain."
"Then at least we'll know where to find them."
"I believe so. Do you mind if I carry a rifle?"
"Why, I hope you do."
"I won't shoot either Damon or Pythias, even if I should get a shot," Ted promised. "But I would like to get a buck. It helps a lot on the meat bills."
"By all means get one. Pretty warm for this time of year, isn't it?"
"Too warm. Some snow would be a great help."
They exchanged more hunting talk, then went to bed.
An hour before dawn the next morning, after ordering Tammie to stay in the house, Ted closed the back door behind him and started up Hawkbill with his guest. He walked slowly, for Hawkbill was a hard climb for a young man, even in daylight. Though John Wilson was by no means doddering, neither was he young. Ted stopped to rest at judicious intervals.
The darkness lifted slowly, but it was still a thick curtain of gray when, in the distance, a fusillade of shots rang out. Ted grimaced. Some fool, who couldn't possibly see what he was shooting at, had shot anyhow. That was one way hunters managed to kill each other instead of game.
As daylight became stronger, shots were more frequent. Some quite near and some far-off, the sounds were a ragged discord, with now four or five hunters shooting at the same time, then a single shot or succession of shots, then a lull with no shooting. Hunters were seeing deer and shooting, but definitely not all of them were connecting. As Ted knew, many a deer, many a herd of deer, had emerged unhurt after a hundred or more shots were fired at them.
Ted mounted the crest of Hawkbill and turned to offer a hand to his panting guest. John Wilson wiped his moist brow.
"Whew! Why didn't you tell me we were going to climb the Matterhorn?"
Ted grinned sympathetically. "You're up it now, and we can see what there is to be seen."
Ted buttoned his jacket. The weather was unseasonably warm, but here on Hawkbill's summit, little fingers of cold that probed at his exposed nose and throat told of chillier things to come. While the temperature made no difference, snow would increase their chances a hundred per cent. He studied Burned Mountain.
Spread out in a thin skirmish line, a party of red-clad hunters were about halfway up it. A deer fled before one of them and the man stopped to raise his rifle. There sounded the weapon's sharp bark, but the deer ran on and disappeared in some brush.
John Wilson said, "He should have had that one with a slingshot."
"Wonder if he could tell whether it was a buck or doe. I—There he is!"
"There who is?"
"One of those big bucks! See him?"
"No."
"A quarter of the way below the summit. Look a hundred yards to the right of that light-colored patch of ground and thirty yards down slope."
"I still don't—Oh, my gosh!"
He uncased his binoculars, put them to his eyes, focused and stared for a full three minutes. When he took the glasses down, there was a gleam of purest ecstasy in his eyes and at the same time a little awe.
"There isn't a buck that big!" he murmured breathlessly.
"Look again," Ted invited. "Wonder where the dickens the other one is."
He searched the briers, a little puzzled. Damon and Pythias were known as such because, except during the rutting season, they were never far apart. But definitely only one of the two huge deer was on Burned Mountain now. It was very unusual.
Ted shrugged. There was no unchangeable rule that said the two big bucks must always be together. Maybe the sound of shooting or the hunters going into the woods had caused them to separate, or perhaps they had parted for reasons of their own.
The shooting continued spasmodically, and not too far away came the outlandish cacophony of shrieks and shouts that meant a hunting party was staging a deer drive. A thin voice screamed, "He's coming your way, Harvey!"
As Ted continued to watch the big buck, John Wilson became restless.
"Let's go after him."
"Wait a bit," Ted advised. "It isn't going to be that easy."
The climbing hunters, about a hundred and fifty yards apart, broke out of the forest and into the briers. Two of them were so placed that, unless he moved, they would pass the big buck at almost equal distances. But the buck let them pass without so much as flicking an ear. He knew very well exactly where both hunters were, but he was no fawn to panic because men were in the woods. The buck had a good hiding place, knew it, and he had eluded hunters this time merely by doing nothing.
"He's smart, all right." John Wilson had appreciated the strategy, too. "What do you suggest, Ted?"
"I'm going over to flush him out. You stay here and let me know what he does."
"But—What good will that do?"
"Deer are pretty much creatures of habit. He's in that bed now because he likes it. If he doesn't become too frightened today, the chances are good, both that he'll go into the same bed tonight and that he'll do the same thing when he's flushed out of it tomorrow. Only you'll be waiting for him."
John Wilson nodded. "That listens all right."
"Wave your red hat when he goes," Ted directed. "I'll see that and wait for you, and we can figure our next move afterwards."
Unencumbered by an older companion, Ted half-ran down the opposite slope of Hawkbill and started swiftly up Burned Mountain. He had no hope of seeing the buck, but just going to the bed where it had been lying was within itself no easy task. Viewed from the summit of Hawkbill, various parts of Burned Mountain had various distinguishing characteristics. But once on the mountain itself, everything looked alike. Ted emerged from the forest into the briers, crashed a way through them, and when he thought he was very near the place where the buck had bedded, he turned to see John Wilson waving his hat.
Ted sat down for what he was sure would be a long wait. He had climbed to this place in twenty-five minutes, but he was eighteen years old.
An hour later, he heard John Wilson's, "Hall-oo!"
"Here!" Ted yelled.
Carrying his hat, streaming perspiration, but entirely happy, John Wilson panted up to join him.
"He went out," he said cheerfully, "and I'll swear he flushed no more than twenty yards ahead of you! Thought sure you'd see him."
"Where'd he go?"
"Quartered up the mountain and crossed the summit just a little to the right of some white birches."
Ted nodded. The course described by John Wilson had kept the big buck in thick cover all the way. It was the route he might have been expected to take, except that there were a dozen others with brush just as thick. However, there was every chance that he would go the same way a second time and tomorrow morning John Wilson would be posted in the birches while Ted tried to drive the buck through.
"What's it like on top?" John Wilson asked.
"Patches of laurel and rhododendron. We'll go see what we can do."
That night, tired and hungry, the pair made their way down Burned Mountain. They hadn't seen the monster buck again, but were in no wise disheartened. There were twenty days of the season left and John Wilson had had, and failed to take, a chance at a very good eight-point buck. Obviously, he'd meant it when he said he wanted only the biggest.
Ted prepared supper and washed the dishes afterwards.... The two hunters were sprawled in the living room when Tammie whined to announce that someone was coming. A minute later there was a knock at the door and Ted opened it to confront George Stacey.
"Come on in, George."
"Cain't. Gotta git home. Thought I'd stop an' tell ya that Thornton, down to Crestwood, fetched in one of them big bucks today."
"He did?"
"Sure did, an' hit's big enough for ary two bucks. Go see hit. Hit's a'hangin' on the game pole."
"Thanks, George."
"Yer welcome. Go see hit."
"Want to go?" Ted asked his guest.
"Sure thing!"
The night air had a distinct bite, and a definite promise of freezing cold to be. Ted turned the heater on, and after they'd gone a mile or so, the pickup's cab filled with welcome warmth.
As soon as they came in sight of Crestwood it was evident that something unusual had occurred at that resort. Carl Thornton provided parking space for his guests. Now all the available area was filled and parked cars lined both sides of the driveway. Ted backed into one of the few empty spaces. He and John Wilson got out to join the crowd at the game rack.
Crestwood's hunters had brought in seven other bucks this opening day and three of them were big deer. But the biggest seemed puny beside the monster that the crowd was eyeing. Its antlers were laced close to the game pole, but its outstretched hoofs nearly touched the ground. If this buck did not set a new record, it would come very close to so doing.
John Wilson murmured, "Gad, what a buck! Is the other as big?"
"They're twins."
Ted went up for a closer look. He put his hand on the hanging buck and set it to swinging gently. He gasped. As unobtrusively as possible, hoping none had noticed his outburst, he drew back into the crowd.
But several matters that had been very cloudy had become very clear.
Ted lingered on the fringes of the crowd, and in his mind's eye he conjured up an image of Nels Anderson. Nels always earned his pay plus a little bit more, and Ted wondered why Carl Thornton had fired him. But he wondered no more.
The great buck hung on Crestwood's game rack and bore Carl Thornton's deer tag, but it had never been killed today. The weather, though colder, still had not dipped to the freezing point and the big buck was frozen solidly. The others hung limp and pliable.
Failing to persuade Ted to hunt the big bucks for him, obviously Thornton had hired someone else and Ted's thoughts swung naturally to Smoky Delbert. Smoky would do anything for money and he knew how to bargain. If he'd hired Smoky, Thornton must have paid a stiff price and the rest was simple.
Crestwood's walk-in refrigerator had a freezing compartment that would accommodate a side of beef. It had been necessary only to bring the buck to Crestwood—no impossible or even difficult feat—hang it in the freezer, and on this, the first day of the season, bring it out again. Nels, of course, had been fired solely to keep him from discovering what was in the freezer. It would hurt both Thornton and Crestwood if it were known that Thornton had bought his buck. The favorable publicity for which he'd hoped, and which he'd certainly get unless Ted exposed him, would turn to scathing condemnation.
Alan Russell, Crestwood's part-time bookkeeper, broke from the crowd and came to Ted's side.
"Hello, Ted."
"Hi, Alan."
"Some buck, eh?"
"Sure is," Ted said wryly. "I can imagine Thornton telling his adoring guests just what a Daniel Boone he had to be to get it."
"After this season he won't be telling 'em at Crestwood."
"Why not?"
"Thornton's sold out."
"Sold out!"
"That's right."
"When did all this happen?"
"It's been hanging fire for a couple of months, but the prospective buyers met Thornton's price only three days ago. It was a stiff price."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm handling the book work."
Ted said happily, "Alan, I love you!"
The other looked suspiciously at him. "Do you feel all right?"
"I never felt better!"
Ted's heart sang. Game laws were game laws, and they applied to Carl Thornton as well as to everyone else. But Crestwood was important to the economy of the Mahela. One did not jeopardize the livelihood of those who worked there, or the sorely needed money Crestwood's guests spent in the Mahela, because of a single illegally killed buck or half a dozen of them. But now Ted was free to act. He sought and found John Wilson.
"Shall we go?"
"Guess we might as well. Looking holes right through this buck won't bring the other one in range. Wonder how the lucky cuss got it?"
"I have an idea."
"I expect you have.Br-r!It's getting cold."
"It will be colder. We have to hurry."
John Wilson looked at him curiously. "What's up?"
"I'll tell you in a minute."
They got into the pickup. Ted started the motor that had not yet had time to cool completely, and a trickle of warmth came from the heater. John Wilson looked sharply at Ted.
"All right. Give."
"Did you notice anything unusual about that buck?"
"Only that it's the biggest I ever saw."
"It's also frozen solid."
"I—I don't understand."
"The weather hasn't been cold enough to freeze deer. Thornton never killed that buck today."
"Then he—?"
"That's it exactly."
There was a short silence. John Wilson broke it with a quiet, "Is there a story behind it?"
"There is."
"Want to tell me?"
Ted told of his love for the Mahela, and of a heart-rooted desire to dedicate his life to helping people enjoy it. He spoke of his work at Crestwood, and of his great dream to have a similar place, one day. He related as much as he knew, which was as much as anyone knew, of the story of Damon and Pythias. He told of Carl Thornton's commissioning him to get both bucks before the season opened, of his refusal to do so and the consequent loss of his job.
He described the camp, and how and why it was built. Then the bombshell; Smoky Delbert's shooting and Al a fugitive in the Mahela. He spoke of his father's near-passionate interest in true conservation, and of his near-hatred for those who violated the sportsman's code. However, aware of Crestwood's importance to the Mahela, knowing that this violation would hurt and perhaps ruin Thornton, Al himself would not have reported it. But now that Thornton was leaving, was there any reason why he should be shielded?
There was another brief silence before John Wilson said quietly, "Don't do it, Ted."
"You mean let him get away with it?"
"Under any other circumstances," John Wilson said, "I'd say drive into Lorton and report him to the game warden. As things are with you now, if you do, you'll hate yourself. How are you going to decide exactly whether you turned him in to settle a grudge or because you're a believer in conservation? I agree that he should be arrested and fined. But arresting him won't return the buck to Burned Mountain. It won't do anything at all except bring Thornton a hundred-dollar fine, and he can spare the money. Yes, I'd say let him go and good riddance."
"But—"
"You asked my advice and you got it. If you turn him in, you'll hurt yourself more than you will him. By all means report law violators, but never let even a suspicion of personal prejudice influence your report. It won't work."
"I guess you're right."
"I hope I am."
That night the temperature fell to zero, and every buck on every game rack in the Mahela froze solid. There was no longer any evidence whatever to prove that Damon, as Ted thought of the great buck on Crestwood's game rack, had been taken by other than legal means.
Even if Ted wanted to do something now, his chance was gone.
For twenty days, always leaving the Harkness house before dawn and never getting back until after dark, Ted and his guest had hunted Pythias.
They had seen deer, dozens of them, and Ted had dropped a nice eight-point so close to his house that they had needed only fifteen minutes to dress it out, slide it in over the six inches of crisp snow that now lay in the Mahela and hang it on the game rack. John Wilson had had his choice of several bucks, and at least four of them had been fine trophies. But he had come to hunt the big buck that still lurked on Burned Mountain and he was determined to get that one or none.
It looked as though it would be none, Ted reflected as he sat in front of the blazing fire, tearing a bolt of red cloth into strips. Pythias, who had sucked in his woodcraft with his mother's milk, had only contempt for any mere human who coveted his royal rack of antlers.
The second day of the season, giving John Wilson ample time to post himself in the white birches, Ted had gone to the bed in which they'd seen Pythias on the first day. A small buck and two does had gone through, but Pythias had not. Most deer have favorite runways, or paths, that are as familiar to them as sidewalks are to humans. Pythias seldom used one, and he never took the same route twice in succession.
Hunted hard every day, he hadn't let himself be chased from the top of Burned Mountain. Staying there, he knew what he was doing. Sparsely forested, the top of the mountain was given over to a devil's tangle of twining laurel and snarled rhododendron. Some of the stems from which the latter evergreen grew were thick as tree trunks, and some of the winding, snaking branches were thirty feet long. It was heartbreaking work just to go through one, and impossible for a man to do so without making as much noise as a running horse. Once within the laurel or rhododendron, and some thickets were a combination of both, it was seldom possible to see seven yards in any direction. Often, visibility was restricted to seven feet.
Pythias haunted those thickets that varied from an eighth of an acre to perhaps eighty acres. Chased out of one, he entered another, flitting like a gray ghost through the scrub aspen that separated them. Then he lingered until the hunters came and entered another thicket. Only when going through the aspens, where he knew very well he could be seen, did he run. In the thickets he walked or slunk, and he never made a foolish move.
Every day there'd been snow—and John Wilson and Ted had had tracking snow for seventeen of the twenty days—they'd found Pythias' bed and his fresh tracks. His hoofmarks were big and round, and they indicated him as surely as a robe of ermine or a scepter marks a king. But except for the first day, when he'd been hopelessly out of range, the two hunters hadn't seen him even once. Pythias could never conceal the fact that he had walked in the snow. But he could hide himself.
Methodically, Ted continued to tear strips from his bolt of red cloth and lay them on the table. Tammie, grown fat and lazy during the three weeks he'd been confined to the house—even though Ted had let him out for a run every night—raised his head and blinked solemnly at the fireplace. Bone tired, John Wilson turned in his chair and grinned.
"You have enough of those red ribbons so you could fasten one on half the deer in the Mahela. Think they'll work?"
"I don't know of anything else. We've tried everything."
"It's been a good hunt," John Wilson said contentedly, "and a most instructive one. I don't have to have a buck."
"But you'd like one?"
"Not unless it's Pythias."
"We have one more day and I have plans. Here, let me show you."
Ted tore the last of his red cloth into strips, pulled his chair up to the table, took a sheet of paper and a pencil and drew a map. John Wilson leaned over his shoulder.
"This is the Fordham Road," Ted explained, "the first left-hand fork leading from the Lorton Road. Climb over the mountain and drop down the other side. The first valley you'll see, it's right here, is Coon Valley. You can't miss it, there's a turnout and hunters have been using it. Park the truck and walk up Coon Valley. In about half a mile, or right here, you'll come to three sycamores near a big boulder. On this slope," Ted indicated it with his pencil, "there's a thicket of beech scrub. You can see everything in it from the top of the boulder, Glory Rock. Climb it and wait."
"That's all? Just wait?"
"That's all. If I can put him out of the laurel, there's at least an even chance he'll cross the ridge and try to get back into the thickets at the head of Coon Valley. If he does, he'll come through the beech scrub."
"And if you can't?"
"He won't."
"What time do you want me there, Ted?"
"There's no great hurry. He isn't going to leave his thickets easily. It will take you about an hour to reach the mouth of Coon Valley and maybe another half hour or forty-five minutes to get set on Glory Rock. If you leave the house by half-past six, you should be there soon after eight. That's time enough."
"How long should I wait?"
"Until I pick you up, and I will pick you up there. I may not come before dark. If I can put him past you, I will."
"As you say, General."
The tinny clatter of Ted's alarm clock awakened him at half-past three the next morning. He reached down to shut it off, reset it for half-past five and stole in to put it near the still sleeping John Wilson. Ted breakfasted, gave Tammie his food and a pat, donned his hunting jacket, put the strips of red cloth into the game pocket and stepped into the black morning.
He bent his head against the north wind and started climbing Burned Mountain. He knew as he climbed that he was pitting himself against a force as old as time.
The woodcraft of Pythias, or any deer, shamed that of the keenest human. Deer could identify every tiny sound, every wind that blew and the many scents those winds carried. They knew everything there was to know about their wilderness and they were all masters of it. No human could hope to equal their senses.
But Pythias, the greatest and most cunning of all, was still a beast. He knew and could interpret the wilderness, but he couldn't possibly apply reason to that which was not of the wilderness. If his confidence could be shaken....
It was still black night when Ted reached the summit of Burned Mountain, but he had crossed and re-crossed it so many times in the past twenty days that he could do so in the darkness. Pythias was there, and possibly he already knew that Ted was back on the mountain. But he'd feel secure in the thicket where he was bedded and he would not go out until he was flushed.
Ted sought the aspen grown aisles between the thickets. He hung a strip of red cloth on a wind whipped branch, walked fifty yards and hung another. The night lifted and daylight came, and an hour later Ted tied his last strip of cloth to a twig. Carrying no rifle—but Pythias couldn't possibly know that—he put his hands in his pockets to warm them. Now he had to flush the big buck.
He and his guest had left the great animal in one of the larger thickets last night, but it was almost certain that he hadn't passed the whole night there. Ted circled the thicket, found Pythias' unmistakable tracks and followed to where the big buck had nibbled tender young aspen shoots and pawed the snow to get at the dried grass beneath it. Thereafter Pythias had done considerable wandering. Ted worked out the trail and discovered where his quarry had gone to rest in another thicket.
He tracked him in, and he'd done this so many times that he knew almost exactly what to expect. The big buck would wait until he was sure someone was again on his trail, then he'd get up and sneak away. There would be nothing except tracks in the snow to mark his going. A man could not travel silently through the thickets, but a deer could.
Deep within the thicket, Ted found the bed, a depression melted in the snow, to which Pythias had retired when his wandering was done. The tracks leading away were fresh and sharp, no more than a couple of minutes old, but they were not the widely spaced ones of a running buck. Knowing very well what he was doing, aware of the fact that he could not be seen while there, Pythias always walked in the thickets.
However, when he decided to leave this thicket, he had leaped through the scrub aspen separating it from the next one. It could have taken him no more than a second or so. If a hunter had been watching, he would have had just a fleeting shot and only a lucky marksman would have connected. Ted followed fast. There were no cloth strips in these aspens.
But when he came to where Pythias had intended to leave the next thicket, he discovered where the big buck had set himself for the first leap then wheeled to slip back into the laurel. Ten feet to one side, the strip of cloth that had turned him still whipped in the wind. Pythias had tried again to leave the thicket, been turned a second time by another fluttering cloth and leaped wildly out at a place where Ted had hung no ribbons.
The buck's pattern changed completely. He was safe in the thickets, knew it, and had never deigned to run while sheltered by friendly brush. Now he was running, either in great leaps that placed his bunched feet six yards apart or at a nervous trot. Ted began to have hopes.
Pythias had the acute senses of a wild thing plus the cunning of a wise creature that had eluded every danger for years. But the wilderness he knew changed only with the changing seasons. What did the fluttering cloths mean? Where had they come from? What peril did they indicate? Pythias' tracks showed that he was becoming more nervous.
Ted pushed him hard. The buck could not reason, but if he passed enough of them safely and discovered for himself that there was no danger in the red ribbons, he would pay no more attention to them. An hour and a half after taking the track Ted knew that, at least in part, he had succeeded.
Unable to decide for himself what the fluttering cloths meant, Pythias swung away from the thickets into beech forest. Now he ran continuously. In the thickets, knowing very well that he could not be seen, he had walked until the fluttering cloths introduced an unknown and possibly dangerous element. This was beech forest, with visibility of anywhere from fifty up to as much as two hundred and fifty yards. A hunter might be anywhere and well the buck knew it. He was going to offer no one a standing shot.
Ted followed swiftly, for now the hunt had a definite pattern. A young buck, chased out of the thickets on Burned Mountain, might linger in the beeches. A wise old one would hurry as fast as possible into the thickets at the head of Coon Valley, and the nearest route lay through the scrub beech at Glory Rock. Ted was still a quarter of a mile away when he heard the single, sharp crack of a rifle.
He left the trail and cut directly toward Glory Rock. A volley was very picturesque and sounded inspiring, but whoever ripped off half a dozen shots in quick succession was merely shooting, without much regard to aiming. Ted murmured an old hunter's adage as he ran, "One shot, one deer. Two shots, maybe one deer. Three shots, no deer."
He ran down the slope into Coon Valley and found John Wilson standing over Pythias. The hunter's delighted eyes met Ted's, but mingled with his delight was a little sadness, too.
"I now," John Wilson said, "have lived."
"You got him!"
"I got him, poor fellow!"
"He'll never be a better trophy than he is right now."
It was true. At the height of his powers, Pythias faced a certain decline. Soon he would be old, and the wilderness is not kind to the old and infirm that dwell within it.
John Wilson laughed. "I know it. Look at him! Just look at him! I'll bet his base tine is thirteen inches long!"
Ted said, "Ten inches."
"Are you trying to beat yourself out of seventy-five dollars? I did promise you twenty-five dollars for every inch in its longest tine, if I got a head that satisfied me! This is surely the one!"
Ted grinned. "I'll dress it for you," he offered.
He turned the buck over, made a slit with his hunting knife and pulled the viscera out. At once it became evident that John Wilson was the second hunter of whom Pythias had run afoul, for he had been wounded before. Ted probed interestedly. Entering the flank, the bullet had missed the spine by two inches and any vital organs by a half inch. It had lodged in the thick loin, and nature had built a healing scab of tissue around it.
Ted probed it out with his knife and almost dropped the missile. In his hand lay one of Carl Thornton's distinctive, unmistakable, hand-loaded bullets.
John Wilson asked, "He's been wounded before, eh?"
"Yes!"
"Ted, I swear that you're more excited than I am!"
Ted scarcely heard. He was here, beside Glory Rock, the day after Smoky Delbert was shot. Damon and Pythias, always together, and a deer so badly wounded that it couldn't possibly go on. Damon hadn't gone on. Only Pythias had. Hurt but not mortally, he had left enough blood on the leaves to convince Ted that there'd been only one deer.
"When do you suppose he picked that one up?" John Wilson asked.
"I don't know."
Carl Thornton, who got what he wanted, had decided to get Damon and Pythias himself.
"He's darn' near as big as a horse," Wilson said.
"Sure is."
A horse, a friendly, easily caught horse, that had gone down Coon Valley that night with Damon on its back, then been released to go back up it.
"You certainly know how to field-dress a buck."
"I've done it before."
Smoky Delbert, happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thornton couldn't afford to be found out. Smoky would blackmail him.
Thornton paying Delbert's hospital bills.
"Did I hit him square?"
"A good neck shot."
Factory-loaded ammunition that almost never failed to mushroom. Hand-loaded cartridges that might fail.
John Wilson fumbled in his pocket. "Doggone, I seem to have lost my pipe."
Al, forever losing his tobacco pouch, had gone to see Carl Thornton the day Thornton fired Ted.
Ted wiped his knife blade on the snow, stood up and sheathed his knife. He looped a length of rope around the great buck's antlers.
"He'll be easy to get out of here," he said.
Deer season was ended and the village of Lorton brooded moodily between the snowclad hills that flanked it. From now until arriving fishermen brought new excitement, Lorton would know only that which arose from within itself. Ted, who had put John Wilson and his great buck on yesterday's outgoing train, steered his pickup down the street with its plow-thrown heaps of snow on either side and drew up in front of Loring Blade's house. He said, "Stay here, Tammie."
The collie settled back into the seat. Ted walked to the front door, knocked and was admitted by the game warden's attractive wife.
"Hello, Ted."
"Hello, Helen. Is Loring home?"
"Yes, he is. Come on in."
She escorted the boy into the living room, where, pajama-clad and with a pile of magazines beside him, Loring Blade lay on a davenport and sipped lazily from a cup of coffee. He looked up and grimaced.
"Whatever you want, I'm ag'in' it. I aim to stay here for the next nineteen years."
Ted grinned. "Have they been pushing you pretty hard, Loring?"
"I've been on the go forty-seven hours a day and, at a conservative estimate, I've walked nine million miles since deer season opened."
"Was it bad?"
"No worse than usual. Most of the hunters who came in were a pretty decent lot. But there always is—and I suppose always will be—the wise guy who thinks he can get away with anything. I caught one joker with nine deer."
"Wow!"
"He was fined," Loring said happily, "a hundred dollars for each one and suspension of hunting privileges for five years."
"Smoky Delbert give you any trouble?"
"You know better than that. Smoky can't walk a hundred yards from his house and won't be able to for a long while to come."
"I feel kind of sorry for the poor cuss," Ted murmured.
Loring Blade looked at him sharply. "You didn't come here to ask me about Smoky."
"Oh, yes I did. Who talked with him after he was shot?"
"I did, for one. Why?"
"What did he tell you?"
The warden shrugged. "You know that as well as I do. Smoky was walking up Coon Valley when your dad rose from behind Glory Rock and shot him."
"Can you tell me the exact story?"
Loring Blade looked puzzled. "What do you want to know, Ted?"
"Did Smoky hear any shooting?"
"Come to think of it, a half minute or so before he got to Glory Rock he heard two shots."
Ted's heart pounded excitedly. The two shots had been for Damon and Pythias. Smoky wouldn't have heard the one that got him. Ted continued his questioning.
"Did Smoky have any idea as to who was shooting at what?"
"He thought your dad was banging away at a varmint."
"Then he did know Dad had gone up Coon Valley ahead of him?"
"Why yes, he saw his boot track in the mud. But you knew that."
"Was Smoky afraid to go on?"
"Why should he have been afraid? Who expects to get shot?"
"Tell me exactly how he said he saw Dad shoot him."
"Smoky was near the three sycamores when he thought he saw something move. A second later, your dad rose from behind Glory Rock and shot him."
"Smoky's very sure of that? It was Dad that rose from behind the rock?"
"He told the same story at least a dozen times that I know of. It never varied."
"Dad didn't step out from beside the rock, or anything like that?"
"No, he rose from behind it."
"Loring, has it occurred to anybody, except me, that the back of Glory Rock is a sheer drop? Anyone who could rise frombehindand shoot over it would have to be at least nine feet tall!"
"I—By gosh, you're right! I knew Al never bush-whacked him! He must have been standing in plain sight when Smoky came up the valley!"
"Smoky never saw who shot him."
"That's not the way he told it."
"Think!" Ted urged. "Think of the sort of man Smoky is. There was bad blood between him and Dad and had been for some time. You were there when Dad dressed him down for setting traps before fur was prime. There was, as you'll remember, talk of shooting even then. Smoky knew Dad had gone up Coon Valley ahead of him; probably he eventhinksDad shot him. He said he saw him because he wanted to be sure of revenge. Smoky would do that."
"Yes, he would. But it seems to me that you're doing a lot of guessing."
"Maybe. You brought Smoky's rifle out?"
"Yes."
"Had it been fired?"
"No, the bore was mirror slick."
"What would you do if you ran across Dad?"
"I'd bring him in, if I had to do it at gun point."
"Loring, I am going to do something that neither you nor I thought I would ever do. I am going to betray my dad into your hands."
"Then you do know where he is?"
"No, I haven't seen him since the night he left."
"Cut it out, Ted. We all know you've been taking him supplies and we've tried a dozen times to catch you at it. You do know where he is?"
"I don't, but Tammie does."
"So!" the warden exploded. "Callahan was right! He thought he saw Tammie leave your house that night with a pack on his back. But when you whistled him in, and he didn't have any pack, Callahan figured he'd made a mistake. How'd you manage that?"
"Dad was coming to see me and he saw Callahan, too. He met Tammie within yards of the house and took his pack off. Loring, if this is to be done, it's to be done my way."
"What's your way?"
"You do exactly as I say."
"I'm listening."
"Meet me at my house two hours after midnight. We'll cross the hills to Glory Rock; we won't be able to walk up Coon Valley. Then you're to hide behind or beside the rock, any place you can listen without being seen, until I say you can come out."
"Now look here, Ted, I like you and I like your dad, but I'm not sticking my neck out for anybody."
"I promise you won't, and I also promise that you will get a chance to bring Dad in."
The game warden pondered. Finally he agreed, "All right, Ted, it'll be your way. But if there are any tricks, somebody's going to get hurt."
"O.K. Meet me at two?"
"At two."
Ted drove happily to Nels Anderson's modest house and found his friend chopping wood. Nels greeted him with a broad smile.
"Hi, Ted! Come in an' have a cup of coffee?"
"I can't stay, Nels. How are you doing?"
"Goot, goot for now. Them deer hunters what stayed in your camp, they paid me nice an' I get another yob soon."
"Crestwood's changing hands and the new owners are taking over next week. You might go ask them for your old job back."
"Yah! I do that."
"If you don't get one there," Ted said recklessly, "I myself will be able to offer you something that'll tide you over until you get another job. I'm going to build more camps."
"Py golly, Ted, I yoost don't know how to thank you!"
"Will you do me a favor?"
"For you I do anything!"
"Then listen carefully. At seven o'clock tomorrow morning I want you to go to Crestwood and see Thornton; he'll be out of bed. Tell him that there's something near those three sycamores in Coon Valley that he'd better take care of."
Nels scratched his head and let the instructions sink in. "At seven tomorrow mornin' I see Thornton. I tell him, 'There's somethin' near them three sycamores in Coon Valley you better take care of.'"
"That's it."
"Yah, Ted, I do it yoost that way."
Ted's alarm awakened him at a quarter past one. He reached down in the darkness to shut it off, and as he lay there he knew a cold foreboding. Until now, the day to put his plan into execution, he had been very sure he was right. But suppose he was wrong? Al would be in Loring Blade's hands, delivered there by his own son! Ted got up and almost grimly clothed himself. His father couldn't stay in the Mahela much longer anyhow, and Ted knew he was right. When he was dressed, he sat down and wrote a note:
Dad; Meet me at the three sycamores near Glory Rock and bring Tammie with you. It's very important. When you get there, hide in the beech scrub until you think it's time to come out. You'll know what it's about after you arrive.Love,Ted
Dad; Meet me at the three sycamores near Glory Rock and bring Tammie with you. It's very important. When you get there, hide in the beech scrub until you think it's time to come out. You'll know what it's about after you arrive.
Love,
Ted
He put the note in a pliofilm bag and was just on the point of handing it to Tammie when he hesitated. Timing was very important, and certainly Al Harkness was never going to show himself at the three sycamores if he saw Loring Blade anywhere near them. Ted put his doubts behind him. His note said plainly that something was stirring and his father wasn't going to show himself anyway until he knew what it was.
Ted opened the back door, gave the pliofilm bag to Tammie and said, "Take it to Al. Go find Al."
Tammie streaked away in the darkness and Ted turned back to the kitchen. He set coffee to perking, laid strips of bacon in a skillet and arranged half a dozen eggs nearby. At seven o'clock—and because he was who he was it would be exactly seven o'clock—Nels would go to Carl Thornton and deliver Ted's message. If Thornton was innocent, he'd probably think Nels had gone crazy.
But if Ted was right and he was guilty, Thornton would come up Coon Valley as soon as possible, to find and destroy any incriminating evidence that lay there. He would get the message at seven. Give him ten minutes to get ready, forty minutes—Crestwood was nearer than the Harkness house—to reach the mouth of Coon Valley and another twenty minutes to reach the sycamores. If he was not there by nine o'clock, he would not come.
There was a knock on the door and Ted opened it to admit Loring Blade.
"Hi!"
"Hi!" the warden grumped. "I've made all arrangements."
"For taking Dad to jail?"
"For having my head examined!" the warden snapped. "Who in his right mind would let himself in for this sort of thing?"
"In about three minutes," Ted promised, "I'll have hot coffee and bacon and eggs. You'll feel better then."
They ate, the warden maintaining a sour silence and Ted again filled with doubt. All he really knew was that Carl Thornton had killed Damon and wounded Pythias before the season opened. The wounded deer in the beech scrub could have been shot by anyone at all and—
No, they couldn't. Al and Smoky Delbert, as far as anyone knew, had been the only two people in Coon Valley that day. Al wouldn't shoot an illegal deer and Ted had Loring Blade's word for it that Smoky's rifle had never been fired. There had been a third party, and after Ted chased him out of the thickets on Burned Mountain, Pythias had cut through the beech scrub. Obviously, he knew the route and he wouldn't have remembered that, a couple of months ago, he had almost come to disaster on it. A deer's memory isn't that long.
When the two had finished eating, Ted asked, "Shall we go?"
"I'm ready. But if we're going to Glory Rock, why can't we drive to the mouth of Coon Valley?"
"You promised to do this my way."
There must be nothing to warn Carl Thornton away—if he came—and fresh tracks leading up Coon Valley might do just that.
Loring Blade said, "I suppose I might as well be a complete jackass as a partial one. We'll walk."
They went out into the cold night, while the north wind fanned their cheeks and trees sighed around them. A deer snorted and bounded away, and there came an angry hiss from a weasel that, having all but cornered the rabbit it was hunting, expressed its hatred for humans before it fled from them.
Ted asked, "You tired?"
"Lead on."
The wan, gray light of an overcast morning fell sadly on the wilderness when the pair came again to the three sycamores and Glory Rock. Ted's watch read seven-thirty. Carl Thornton had his message and, if he was guilty, even now he was on his way.
Loring Blade asked, "What now?"
"You'd better hide."
"Oh, for pete's sake—"
"Dad isn't going to walk into your open arms."
The warden said grimly, "All right. But if he doesn't come, there'll be one Harkness hide tacked to the old barn door and it won't be your dad's."
He slipped in behind Glory Rock and it was as though he'd never been. Ted was left alone with the keening breeze, the murmuring trees and the Mahela. He looked across at the beech scrub where Al was supposed to hide, where he might even now be hiding, and saw nothing. He shivered slightly—and knew that he was lost if Thornton didn't come.
Then he was sure that Thornton was not coming ... but when he looked at his watch it was only five minutes to eight. There simply hadn't been time.... Mentally Ted ticked another hour off. However, his watch said that only seven minutes had passed and he stopped looking at it. Forty-eight hours later, which his faulty watch said was only forty-eight minutes, he looked down the valley and saw motion.
Ted stood very still in front of Glory Rock, and a prayer went up from his heart.... When the approaching man was very near he said, "Hello, Thornton."
Carl Thornton stopped, and for a moment shocked surprise ruled his face. But it was only for a moment. He replied coolly, "Hello, Harkness."
"I see," Ted observed, "that you got my message?"
"Message?"
"The one Nels Anderson gave you at seven o'clock this morning. The one that sent you up here."
"What are you talking about?"
"This—and I found it within six feet of where you're standing. Now do you think it could be the bullet that went through Smoky Delbert?"
Ted took from his pocket the bullet he had dug out of Pythias and held it up between thumb and forefinger. Again, but only for an almost imperceptible part of a second, Carl Thornton's composure deserted him. Then, once more, he was the master of Crestwood and as such he had no association with ordinary residents of the Mahela. He said scornfully, "Give me that bullet."
"Well now, I just don't think I will. The Sheriff, the State Police—and maybe others—will sure be interested as all get out. You'll have some explaining to do, Thornton, andcan you explain?"
"I want that bullet!"
"Why do you want it, Thornton?"
"Give me that bullet!"
"Not so fast. I mightsellit to you. What's it worth for you to have it?"
Carl Thornton's laugh carried an audible sneer. "You slob! You hill monkey! You're even lower than I thought! Sell the evidence that would clear your own father for money!"
"Then youdidshoot Smoky!"
"I want that bullet!"
"Come take it."
"I'll do just that."
Ted balanced on the balls of his feet, a grin of sheerest delight on his face. Thornton was bigger than he—and heavier—and he was moving like a trained boxer. But because his back was turned, he did not see Tammie burst from the scrub beech and race him down. Tammie went into the air. His flying body struck squarely and Carl Thornton took two involuntary forward steps. He fell face downwards and rolled over to shield his throat with his right arm. Tammie's bared fangs gleamed an inch away and Thornton's voice was muffled.
"Call him off! I'll give you a thousand dollars for the bullet!"
"No, thanks," Ted said evenly, "and I wouldn't move if I were you. Anyway, I wouldn't move too far or fast. Tammie might get nervous." He raised his voice. "All right, Loring, I think he'll tell you the rest now."
Ted scarcely noticed when Loring Blade came out from behind Glory Rock because his whole attention was centered on the man who emerged from the beech scrub. Al Harkness was lean as a wolf. His ragged hair had been hacked as short as possible with a hunting knife and his beard was bushy. His tattered clothing was held together with strips of deerskin, fox pelt, wildcat fur and fishing line. But his step was lithe and his eyes were clear and happy.
"Hi, Ted!"
"Hello, Dad!"
They came very close and looked at each other, saying with their eyes all that which, for the moment, they could find no words to express.... Then Al asked, "How you been, Son?"
"Fine! Had a swell season! As soon as you get squared around again—and used to living like a civilized man—we can start two more camps."
"Right glad to hear it. You'll have your lodge yet."
"Might at that. How have you been?"
"Not too bad." Al grinned his old grin. "Not too bad at all."
"Hey!" Loring Blade called plaintively. "Call your dog, will you? I've told him six times to get away so I can start taking this guy to jail and all he does is growl louder!"
Ted turned and snapped his fingers.
"Come on, Tammie. Come on up here and join your family."