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.