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.