He re-seated himself at the table and took up his pen. The first hunting
season, for woodcock, opened next week. Two weeks later, squirrels,
cottontails and ruffed grouse became legal game and the season ran for a
month. During the last week of small game season, black bears could be
shot. Then everything else was closed and hunting wound up with the
three-week deer season.
Ted calculated carefully. There were six weeks of the small game season.
If he rented his camp throughout at forty-five dollars a week, it would
give him a net return of two hundred and seventy dollars. Three weeks of
deer season would add another hundred and eighty, or a total of four
hundred and fifty. Ted consulted his expense records.
Jud Hawley had sold them the land with the old building on it for a
hundred and fifty dollars and Al and Ted had torn down the old building
and rebuilt it. Just the same, expenses had mounted with incredible
speed. Al had all the tools, but it was necessary to buy nails. The
window casings Al had fashioned, but the glass that went into them cost
money. They'd had to buy a secondhand cooking range and a heating stove
and enough table and cooking ware to serve many people. Bedding had been
an expensive item, and composition shingles for both the roof and outer
walls had cost a great deal.
Economizing as much as possible and hiring no labor, the camp had still
cost six hundred and fifteen dollars. However, the old building had
been a huge place and there was enough lumber left over to build
another, smaller camp as soon as they acquired another building site.
Ted nibbled the end of his pen.
"We'll be in the clear on this one before next hunting season; then
everything it brings in will be pure gravy."
"How do you figger it?"
"There's six weeks of small game hunting and three of deer season. If
the camp is rented continuously, it will bring in four hundred and fifty
dollars. Then, when fishing opens--"
"If," Al broke in, "is a right fancy word. Might be a good idea to rent
your camp 'fore you spend the rent money."
"It might at that," Ted said meekly, "and I forgot to charge against it
the fifteen dollars the ad's costing."
"Charge it," Al advised, "and get this one thing straight. There's no
such thing as 'pure gravy.' What a body gets, he works for. What he
don't work for, he don't get. You started the ball rollin', but it will
stop if you don't keep it rollin'."
"What do you suggest I do?"
"Just what you are doin', but don't get cocky about it. You've made a
start, but it's a small start that stacks up against a big job. See how
things work out. If they come 'round like I think they will, this camp
will make money. But it won't be your money. It belongs to the job
you've set yourself. Build another camp--and another and another, until
you've got as many as you can handle. Go on from there."
"Go on?"
"You started out," Al reminded him, "to own a place like Crestwood."
"That will take years!"
"Did you expect to get it in a week?"
"Well--No."
"Good, on account you won't. You'll need years. Then, after you finally
get what you want, or somethin' close to it, all the people who set
'round on their hunkers while you worked will still be settin' 'round
tellin' each other how lucky you are."
Ted grinned, then yawned and stretched. "Gosh! All this heavy
philosophy's making me tired!"
"What do you think your bed's for?"
"You get the best ideas!"
"Oh, I'm the smart one!" Al smiled and filled his pipe. "Catch yourself
some shut-eye. There's work to be done come mornin'."
* * * * *
The next morning, with Al driving and Tammie on the floor in front of
Ted, they started back toward the camp they had built. The lazy sun,
reluctant to get out of bed, made a splash of gold only on the very tip
of Hawkbill. The rest of the wilderness was a deep-shadowed green, with
overtones of gray. A doe danced across the road in front of them and
stopped to look back over her shoulder at the passing pickup. They saw
two more does, then a buck--and Al stepped suddenly on the gas.
Spurting ahead, the old truck still missed by a wide margin a lean
coyote that was running a scant twenty feet behind the buck. Tammie rose
and bristled. Ted held him down. The collie was fast, but nothing except
a greyhound was fast enough to catch a coyote. Visible for only fleeting
seconds, this one disappeared in the forest. Failing to run the coyote
down, Al stopped his truck.
"Doggone! Of all times to be without a rifle!"
"It looked to me as though he was chasing that buck," Ted observed.
Al shook his head. "Just followin' it; one coyote couldn't kill a grown
buck. But he can and will do a lot of damage 'mongst the small game.
I'll have to nail that critter's scalp to the wall soon's I can. Let's
have a look."
They got out and examined the tracks in the dusty road. Al made careful
observations of his own. He went a little ways into the forest and came
back to the truck.
"Looks like he's been crossin' here quite a few times. I'll fetch the
rifle tomorrow mornin', on the chanst I'll nail him. If I don't, I'd
best string some traps. Can't have coyotes in the Mahela."
"We sure can't."
Without completely understanding his father's bitter lesson--seeing his
beloved wilderness all but denuded of game by thoughtless or greedy
hunters and built back through sound conversation--Ted knew only that Al
had an almost ferocious hatred for destructive elements wherever they
were found. Therefore, the coyote could not be tolerated. Ted's eyes
roved up Hawkbill, and the cool wind felt good on his face. When they
mounted a hill, he strove for and caught a glimpse of the burned
mountain behind Hawkbill. Al saw and interpreted his look.
"They're there all right, and it's my bet they'll be there after deer
season ends."
"Not both of 'em," Ted asserted. "I'm going to nail one or the other."
"Which one you aim to get? Damon? Or Pythias?"
"Either will satisfy. How do you tell 'em apart?"
"I imagine there'd be some small differences if a man was close. But on
a far look, I can't tell which is which. They're alike as two peas in a
pod. All I'm sure of is that I never saw bigger bucks."
Ted said smugly, "Either should be as much advertising for the
Harknesses as it could be for Crestwood."
"Hadn't you ought to get it first?" Al asked wryly. "Well, here we are
again."
To the vast delight and relief of a colony of chipmunks that were snugly
at home beneath it, the Harknesses had built their new camp on the site
of the old. However, they had done so to save hauling lumber and because
the old foundation was so solid; any benefits accruing to the chipmunks
were merely incidental. The new camp was a one-story structure,
twenty-six feet long by eighteen wide.
The exterior, if less than magnificent, did promise comfort. The windows
were small, consisting of four panes each, and set well back in their
casings. Two tin chimneys, one for each stove, protruded well above the
roof. The shingled walls and roof gave assurance that no cold winds
could creep in and there was a covered porch. Probably not so much as
one hunter would ever sit on it, but it did provide a place for storing
wood and keeping it dry. The surrounding goldenrod had been crushed and
scattered and the truck had made its own path in.
Al drew up in front of the door and Tammie leaped out to sniff at the
various cracks and crevices the chipmunks used in their comings and
goings. Al and Ted went inside.
In the center of the one room, not too close to the heating stove, was a
long wooden table, with benches on either side. Convenient to it was a
built-in cupboard, one end of which contained tableware and dishes.
Running along the wall, the other half of the cupboard held skillets,
pans and kettles. Nearby was the cooking stove, with cabinets for food
storage and a sturdy table for the cook's use. At the other end of the
building, as far as possible from both stoves, were the bunks. Scattered
along the walls were two secondhand davenports and five chairs that had
seen their best days but would still offer comfort to anyone who'd been
hiking the hills all day.