He moved around Jules, jerked the office door open and closed it behind
him. Thornton was sitting at his desk, going over some papers. He looked
up. Al hesitated. Now that he was here, just what was he supposed to do?
It would be silly to threaten Carl Thornton, and how could he report him
to the game warden when he had broken no law? Al felt a little foolish
and Thornton's voice was as cold as his eyes when he spoke.
"What do you want?"
"You fired Ted?"
"That's right."
"What for?"
"Inefficiency."
"Ted told me different. He told me you fired him because he wouldn't
shoot those two big bucks for you."
"He's a liar."
Al stepped to the desk, twined his right hand in Thornton's lapel,
lifted him to his feet and used his left hand to slap both Thornton's
cheeks. Then he let the resort owner slump back into the chair and
turned on his heel.
"For callin' Ted a liar," he said.
He stalked out, knowing as he did so that he had made a deadly enemy but
not caring. Thornton owned Crestwood. But he was still a little man and
sooner or later little men stumbled over big problems. As Al climbed
back into the pickup, he almost forgot Thornton. He had something more
important to occupy his thoughts.
He had hoped mightily that, after he finished High School, Ted would go
on to college. It didn't matter what he studied there as long as it was
something; a Harkness would go out of the Mahela to become a man of
parts. But Ted had not only wanted to stay in the Mahela, but also to
start a resort there, and for almost the first time in his life Al faced
a problem to which he saw no solution.
An expert woodsman, he earned a comfortable income. Since his own wants
were simple, there would certainly be enough left over to pay Ted's
college expenses. But Al couldn't even imagine the vast sum of money
needed to start a resort. He had told the truth when he said Crestwood
cost Thornton more than he'd earned in his whole life.
Al fell back on an idea that he himself had been mulling over. Hunters
and fishermen were a varied breed, with varying tastes. Some preferred
the comforts of Crestwood, but every season numbers of them hauled
trailers into the Mahela or set up tents there and they did so because
they liked that way of hunting or fishing. Not all of them wanted the
same things and not all cared to be crowded.
Driving back into his own yard, Al got out of the pickup and faced his
son serenely. But seeing Ted's uncertain hand fall to Tammie's head, he
grinned inwardly. The boy turned to Tammie whenever he was worried or at
a loss.
"Did you see Thornton?" Ted's voice was too casual.
"I saw him."
"Did--?"
"No," Al told him gently. "I didn't. He's still alive and, as far as I'm
concerned, he can stay that way. Ted, let's go up to Beech Bottom."
"Swell!"
Ted and Tammie got into the pickup and Al drove. He did not speak
because he was thinking too busily to talk. A father, if he was worthy
of being a father, showed his children the right path. But it was always
better if he could guide them into doing their own thinking, instead of
leading them along the path--and sometimes that called for subtle
measures.
Two miles up the road, Al came to a clearing. A little less than an
acre, it was a jungle of yellow-topped golden rod. Here and there a
milkweed raised its spear-shaft stem and showed its silk-filled pods to
all who passed. In the center was an old building with all the windows
broken and part of the roof fallen in. Sun, wind, rain and snow had
exercised their own artistry on the unpainted boards and tinted them a
delicate shade which no brush could possibly achieve. There was a little
patch of summer apples and two small bucks, stretching their necks to
get the wormy fruit, moved reluctantly away when the truck stopped.
Al got out of the truck and Ted and Tammie alighted beside him. Al
looked at the tumble-down building.
"My gosh! It ain't possible!"
"What isn't?"