  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. He asked, "Are you Ted Harkness?" "That's right." The man put his suitcase down and thrust out his right hand. "I'm John Wilson." Ted shook the proffered hand. "I—I thought you'd be different." "Don't let my grotesque appearance frighten you. I'm harmless." Ted blurted out, "You said in your letter that you're a doddering old man." "Ten years older than Methuselah." John Wilson laughed and the sound was good to hear. "I'm glad to know you, Ted." "And I you. Shall we get out to the house?" "If you don't mind, I'd like to grab a bite to eat. The dining car on the Limited was crowded and I couldn't get in." "The cafes will be crowded and we'll have to wait. I'll fix you something, if you want to come along now." "Fine!" Ted picked up the suitcase, escorted John Wilson to the pickup and put the luggage in the rear. About to open the door for his guest, he was forestalled when John Wilson opened it himself and climbed in. Ted settled in the driver's seat. "Mind if I smoke?" John Wilson asked. "Not at all." He lighted a pipe and sat puffing on it while Ted steered expertly through Lorton's hunting season traffic. A happy warmth enveloped him. He liked most people, but very few times in his life had he been drawn so close to one on such short acquaintance. John Wilson was probably ten years older than Al, but far from doddering. He was that rare person whom age has made mellow rather than caustic. Then they were on the Lorton Road and started into the Mahela. John Wilson spoke for the first time since leaving the station. "They crowd in." "For deer season they do," Ted agreed. "The day after it ends, you could shoot a cannon down Main Street and never hit a person." They passed a tent set up beside the road, and a gasoline lantern burning inside gave its walls a ghostly translucence. There was a neat pile of wood beside it and wood smoke drifted from a tin pipe that curled through the wall. The car in which the campers had come was backed off the road. It was a good camp and as they passed Ted was aware that John Wilson knew it was good. But he said nothing, and Ted had the impression that he did not talk unless he had something worthwhile to say. A quarter mile beyond the camp, the truck's probing lights reflected from the startlingly bright eyes of a deer. Ted slowed. Deer were always running back and forth across the road and, since bright lights dazzled them, they would not always get out of the way. They came closer and the lights revealed very clearly a magnificent buck. So alert that every muscle was tense, he stood broadside. One rear leg was a bit ahead of the other, the animal was poised for instant flight. His antlers were big and branching, and in the car lights they looked perfectly symmetrical. It was a splendid creature, one that would command attention anywhere. After ten seconds, it leaped into the forest and disappeared. John Wilson said, "A nice head." He spoke as though the buck had delighted and warmed him, but there was in his voice none of the babbling enthusiasm which some hunters, upon seeing such a buck, might express. Obviously, he had seen big bucks before. Ted commented, "He was a darn' big buck." "As big," and a smile lurked in John Wilson's voice, "as your Damon and Pythias?" Ted answered firmly, "No sir. He was not." "Then I am in the right place?" "I hope so, Mr. Wilson." "It'd be just as simple to call me John." Ted grinned. "All right, John." They passed more tents and trailers, swerved to miss a wild-eyed doe that almost jumped into the truck. Finally, Ted drove thankfully up the Harkness driveway. The house was stocked with everything they needed, and as far as he was concerned, he was willing to stay there until deer season ended. At any rate, he hoped he'd have to do no more night driving. He escorted his guest in, snapped the light on and waited for what he thought was coming next. It came. John Wilson glanced about and he needed no more than a glance. It was enough to tell him what was here and his voice said he liked it. "You do all right for yourself." "Glad you like it. If you'll make yourself at home, I'll have something to eat rustled up in a little while." "Let me help you." "It's a one-man job." John Wilson reclined in an easy chair while Ted went into the kitchen. He put a great slab of butter in a skillet, let it brown, seasoned the brace of woodcock, put them into the pan, covered it and turned the flame lower. He prepared a fresh pot of coffee, biscuits, potatoes and a vegetable. All the while, he waited nervously for Tammie to whine at the door. There'd have to be some nice timing when the collie returned. Ted must slip out, strip the harness off and let the dog in without letting John Wilson know he'd worn a harness. When the meal was ready and Tammie still had not come, Ted's nervousness mounted. The dog was a half hour late already. What could have happened out in the Mahela? Ted put the dinner on the table and tried to sound casual as he announced, "Chow's ready." "This is 'chow'?" John Wilson chided him. "Butter-browned woodcock is deserving of a better name. Let me at it!" He cut a slice of the dark breast and began to eat it. "Mm-m! That's good! Something wrong, Ted?" "Yes—uh—That is, no." "You're nervous as a wet cat." "My dog's out and I'm a little worried about—There he is now! Go right ahead and eat." Tammie's whine sounded again and Ted slipped out the back door. Hastily he knelt to strip the harness off and take Al's note from the pocket. Then he threw the harness aside—he'd get it in the early morning—tucked the note in his pocket and, with Tammie beside him, went into the house. John Wilson stopped eating to admire. "That's a beautiful collie. What's his name?" "Tammie, and he's just as good as he looks." Tammie sniffed delicately at their guest, received a pat on the head and went to stretch out on his bearskin. John Wilson glanced at him again. "Aren't you afraid to let him run?" "After tomorrow, poor Tammie will be confined to quarters until deer season ends." John Wilson nodded. "That's wise, some hunters will shoot at anything. What time do you plan to get out in the morning?" "Whenever you care to leave." "Isn't it traditional for hunters to be in the woods at dawn?" "That's right." "Then let's not violate revered custom. Where do these two big bucks hang out?" "They've been on Burned Mountain for a long while. Hunters may put them off there and then again they may not." "Where do they lurk during deer season?" "Nobody knows exactly," Ted admitted. "They've been seen in a dozen parts of the Mahela. Sometimes they've been 'seen' in a dozen different places at the same hour on the same day. We'll just have to plan as we go along." "That suits me. I'll help with the dishes." "I'll do them." "You'll spoil me!" "Take it easy while you can. You're in for some rough days." John Wilson resumed sitting in the easy chair. Before Ted washed the dishes, he stole a glance at Al's note.
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. John Wilson said, "He should have had that one with a slingshot." "Wonder if he could tell whether it was a buck or doe. I—There he is!" "There who is?" "One of those big bucks! See him?" "No." "A quarter of the way below the summit. Look a hundred yards to the right of that light-colored patch of ground and thirty yards down slope." "I still don't—Oh, my gosh!" He uncased his binoculars, put them to his eyes, focused and stared for a full three minutes. When he took the glasses down, there was a gleam of purest ecstasy in his eyes and at the same time a little awe. "There isn't a buck that big!" he murmured breathlessly. "Look again," Ted invited. "Wonder where the dickens the other one is." He searched the briers, a little puzzled. Damon and Pythias were known as such because, except during the rutting season, they were never far apart. But definitely only one of the two huge deer was on Burned Mountain now. It was very unusual. Ted shrugged. There was no unchangeable rule that said the two big bucks must always be together. Maybe the sound of shooting or the hunters going into the woods had caused them to separate, or perhaps they had parted for reasons of their own. The shooting continued spasmodically, and not too far away came the outlandish cacophony of shrieks and shouts that meant a hunting party was staging a deer drive. A thin voice screamed, "He's coming your way, Harvey!" As Ted continued to watch the big buck, John Wilson became restless. "Let's go after him." "Wait a bit," Ted advised. "It isn't going to be that easy." The climbing hunters, about a hundred and fifty yards apart, broke out of the forest and into the briers. Two of them were so placed that, unless he moved, they would pass the big buck at almost equal distances. But the buck let them pass without so much as flicking an ear. He knew very well exactly where both hunters were, but he was no fawn to panic because men were in the woods. The buck had a good hiding place, knew it, and he had eluded hunters this time merely by doing nothing. "He's smart, all right." John Wilson had appreciated the strategy, too. "What do you suggest, Ted?" "I'm going over to flush him out. You stay here and let me know what he does." "But—What good will that do?" "Deer are pretty much creatures of habit. He's in that bed now because he likes it. If he doesn't become too frightened today, the chances are good, both that he'll go into the same bed tonight and that he'll do the same thing when he's flushed out of it tomorrow. Only you'll be waiting for him." John Wilson nodded. "That listens all right." "Wave your red hat when he goes," Ted directed. "I'll see that and wait for you, and we can figure our next move afterwards." Unencumbered by an older companion, Ted half-ran down the opposite slope of Hawkbill and started swiftly up Burned Mountain. He had no hope of seeing the buck, but just going to the bed where it had been lying was within itself no easy task. Viewed from the summit of Hawkbill, various parts of Burned Mountain had various distinguishing characteristics. But once on the mountain itself, everything looked alike. Ted emerged from the forest into the briers, crashed a way through them, and when he thought he was very near the place where the buck had bedded, he turned to see John Wilson waving his hat. Ted sat down for what he was sure would be a long wait. He had climbed to this place in twenty-five minutes, but he was eighteen years old. An hour later, he heard John Wilson's, "Hall-oo!" "Here!" Ted yelled. Carrying his hat, streaming perspiration, but entirely happy, John Wilson panted up to join him. "He went out," he said cheerfully, "and I'll swear he flushed no more than twenty yards ahead of you! Thought sure you'd see him." "Where'd he go?" "Quartered up the mountain and crossed the summit just a little to the right of some white birches." Ted nodded. The course described by John Wilson had kept the big buck in thick cover all the way. It was the route he might have been expected to take, except that there were a dozen others with brush just as thick. However, there was every chance that he would go the same way a second time and tomorrow morning John Wilson would be posted in the birches while Ted tried to drive the buck through. "What's it like on top?" John Wilson asked. "Patches of laurel and rhododendron. We'll go see what we can do." That night, tired and hungry, the pair made their way down Burned Mountain. They hadn't seen the monster buck again, but were in no wise disheartened. There were twenty days of the season left and John Wilson had had, and failed to take, a chance at a very good eight-point buck. Obviously, he'd meant it when he said he wanted only the biggest. Ted prepared supper and washed the dishes afterwards.... The two hunters were sprawled in the living room when Tammie whined to announce that someone was coming. A minute later there was a knock at the door and Ted opened it to confront George Stacey. "Come on in, George." "Cain't. Gotta git home. Thought I'd stop an' tell ya that Thornton, down to Crestwood, fetched in one of them big bucks today." "He did?" "Sure did, an' hit's big enough for ary two bucks. Go see hit. Hit's a'hangin' on the game pole." "Thanks, George." "Yer welcome. Go see hit." "Want to go?" Ted asked his guest. "Sure thing!" The night air had a distinct bite, and a definite promise of freezing cold to be. Ted turned the heater on, and after they'd gone a mile or so, the pickup's cab filled with welcome warmth. As soon as they came in sight of Crestwood it was evident that something unusual had occurred at that resort. Carl Thornton provided parking space for his guests. Now all the available area was filled and parked cars lined both sides of the driveway. Ted backed into one of the few empty spaces. He and John Wilson got out to join the crowd at the game rack. Crestwood's hunters had brought in seven other bucks this opening day and three of them were big deer. But the biggest seemed puny beside the monster that the crowd was eyeing. Its antlers were laced close to the game pole, but its outstretched hoofs nearly touched the ground. If this buck did not set a new record, it would come very close to so doing. John Wilson murmured, "Gad, what a buck! Is the other as big?" "They're twins." Ted went up for a closer look. He put his hand on the hanging buck and set it to swinging gently. He gasped. As unobtrusively as possible, hoping none had noticed his outburst, he drew back into the crowd. But several matters that had been very cloudy had become very clear. |
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