P.S. I got the kyote.
Ted heaved a mighty sigh of thanksgiving. Al had the pack's contents and
there were three blankets missing from the camp. For the first time, the
dark clouds that surged around the boy revealed their silver lining. Al
was still a fugitive, but he had enough to eat and he was sleeping under
blankets. It seemed a great deal.
Ted read the note again and smiled over it. A hunted outlaw, Al was
still abiding by the principles in which he believed. He might have been
justified in killing game for food, but the reference to woodcock season
indicated that he had done no such thing. Possibly--Ted remembered that
he had his coyote traps--he had caught a bobcat or so. The season was
never closed on bobcats and, if one could overcome natural
squeamishness, they were really delicious eating. Ted lifted the stove
lid, put the note within, applied a lighted match, waited until the
paper burned to ashes, then used the lid lifter to pound the ashes to
dust.
He looked fondly at Tammie, who had been nowise derelict. Ordered to go
to Al, he had done exactly that and it was none of Tammie's doing if Al
had been within a "sniff" of his own back door.
Ted said cheerfully, "Guess we'll go home, Tammie. But we'll come back
for the pack tonight, Mr. Callahan, or some of his friends, probably
will be patroling here and there."
That night there were three more letters, two from deer hunters who
wanted the camp the usual first two weeks of the season and one from a
grouse hunter who wanted the first week. Ted advised them of the camp's
present status, put his letters in the mailbox and lifted the red flag
to let the carrier know there was mail to pick up. The next night there
were five letters, two of which had been sent airmail. Ted opened the
first.
Dear Mr. Harkness: Your letter intrigued us no end. We haven't seen
a good flight of woodcock for ten years and didn't think there was
any such thing any more. Should they come in, by all means call me
and reverse the charges. My business phone is TR 5-4397; my home is
LA 2-0489. Call either place and we'll start an hour afterwards.
There'll be seven of us, and I enclose a ten-dollar check as
deposit.
Cordially,
George Beaulieu
The second airmail letter read:
Bless you, Ted! You've started me dreaming of Damon and/or Pythias.
One or the other will do, but nothing else, please! By your own
invitation, you're stuck with me for the full twenty-one days.
I'll see you the day before the season opens.
Gratefully,
John L. Wilson
There was a check for a hundred dollars enclosed and almost grimly Ted
folded both checks in his wallet. He'd have to spend some money for
food, but not a great deal. The freezer was almost full and much of the
garden remained to be harvested. He stared at the far wall.
He had not planned it this way. He had looked forward to a happy
venture, to enjoying and helping his guests, and if he made money in so
doing, that would be fine. Had things turned out as he'd planned, there
was already enough money in sight to build and equip another camp. But
that was not to be. Al had to come out of the Mahela some time. When he
did, they were in for a fight, and money would be a powerful weapon in
that all-out battle. They must win, and anything else must be secondary.
The other three letters were from deer hunters who wanted the camp the
first two weeks of the season.
Ted devoted the next fortnight to harvesting the garden. He dug the
potatoes, emptied them in the cellar bin and stacked squash and pumpkins
beside them. Bunches of carrots and turnips were stored in another bin,
and shelled beans were put in sacks.
Almost every mail brought more letters, and two out of three were from
deer hunters. Ted rented his camp for the season's third week. Maybe
nobody could make a living from deer hunters alone, but anybody who had
enough camps, perhaps ten or twelve, could certainly earn a decent sum
of money from just deer hunters.
The Mahela changed its green summer dress for autumn's gaudy raiment and
the frosts came. Woodcock continued to drift in, and two days before the
season opened, they arrived in force. Where there had been one, there
were thirty, and still they came. Ted drove into Lorton and called from
the drugstore.
"Mr. Beaulieu?"
"Yes?"
"This is Ted Harkness, Mr. Beaulieu. The woodcock are in."
"A big flight?"
"The biggest in years."
"We'll be there tomorrow," George Beaulieu said happily. "Hold the camp
for us!"
"I'll do that, and anybody in Lorton can tell you where to find me."
"Thanks for calling. We'll be seeing you."
8