Sprawled on his favorite bearskin in the Harkness living room, Tammie dreamed a dog's good dreams and his paws twitched with excitement as he lived again some old adventure. Al, sitting in front of the fireplace, studied the bed of glowing coals within it as though they were as fascinating as the first coals he had ever seen. Sitting at the table with a pen in his hand, a pile of fresh paper on one side and a pile of crumpled sheets on the other, Ted was busy writing.

He laid the pen down, picked up what he had just written and frowned over it. Making a motion to crumple this paper too, he thought better of it and called, "How's this, Dad? 'For Rent, furnished camp in the Mahela. Bunks for eight. Forty-five dollars a week in small game season, sixty in deer season. Available for season. Ted Harkness, R.D. 2, Lorton.'"

Al shrugged. "Says 'bout everythin' you got to say."

"I don't know." Ted's frown deepened. "'Bunks for eight,' it says. If a bunch of deer hunters take the place, they may bring twelve or sixteen. Do you think I should say, 'Bring extra cots for more than eight?'"

"Mighty important point," Al said gravely, "but do you figure you got to throw out that much sign?

"If I was readin' that and wanted to rent a camp and saw 'bunks for eight,' I'd calc'late that there wasn't bunks for ten or sixteen. I'd figger that, if I brought more than eight, I'd best bring somethin' for 'em to sleep on."

"If I say 'accommodations for eight,' and a bigger party wanted to take the camp, they might pass it up."

"'Bunks' is the word," Al pronounced. "Why it's pra'tically liter-choor. City people are always gettin' accommodations. Might help rent your camp if they knew they was goin' to sleep on bunks."

"That's a point," Ted agreed. He continued to frown thoughtfully. "Now this 'available for season,' do you think I should say at ten per cent discount?"

"Nope."

"But doesn't everybody do that?"

"Everybody 'cept horse traders, and you can always do your horse tradin' when and if you have to. But I don't think you're goin' to rent for the season."

"Why not?"

Al shrugged. "Figger it out by yourself. How many city people can take a whole season just to go huntin'? Most they get is a couple of weeks or so."

"That's right, too. Do you think I should say, 'deer and small game abundant'?"

"I wouldn't. Nobody'd come into the Mahela 'thout havin' some idea they could find game here and there's another point."

"What's that?"

"You're tryin' to build up a business, and the more repeat business you can get, the less it'll cost to get it. Promise too much and you might drive business away. Some people, readin' about over-plenty game, might expect a flock of grouse behind every tree and a ten-point buck in every swale and be mad if they didn't find it. Let 'em do their own lookin'."

"I was thinking of hiring out as a guide."

"Wouldn't put that in either. Some people want guides and some don't. Anybody who rents your camp and wants a guide will ask you where to find one. Then you can dicker."

"Do you think I'm asking too much money?"

"Nope. Chances are that you won't get less than six in any party. Split the cost amongst 'em and it won't break any one. Your prices are fair."

Ted lost himself in his literary effort. "It doesn't seem very forceful."

"Land o'goshen!" Al's eyes glinted with amusement. "You're tryin' to get information across, not writin' a speech! How many papers you crumpled so far?"

"Well," Ted looked at the pile of discarded papers beside him and grinned, "quite a few. You really think this is all right?"

"A masterpiece," Al answered solemnly. "Mail it afore you change your mind again."

Ted folded his paper, wrote a short letter to the effect that he wanted his ad to run in the classified section, wrote a check, put all three in an envelope and addressed it to a leading daily newspaper in a city from which the Mahela drew numerous hunters. Tammie trotted beside him as he ran down to the mailbox, put his letter in and raised the red flag to let Bill Parker, their rural carrier, know there was mail to pick up. He ran back to the house.

"Br-r! It's cold!"

"The jackets in the closet," Al observed drily, "are not there because they look pretty."

Ted said meekly, "Yes, Dad."

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.

Al surveyed the place critically. "Not much like Crestwood."

Ted teased, "It is kind of ramshackle."

"Ramshackle!" Al bristled. "Why you young whipper-snapper! This is as good-built a camp as—"

"There you are!" Ted grinned. "If you had a choice, would you stay here or at Crestwood?"

"Why here," Al grumbled. "I never did go for that fancy stuff."

"And neither do a lot of other hunters. When they go out, they'd as soon be in the woods. Besides, the prices here aren't much like Crestwood's, either. In deer season, Thornton's cheapest room is fifteen dollars a day. We could rent twenty camps like this if we had 'em."

"And we won't even rent this'n 'thout we finish it. Now let's do some figgerin'."

At the kitchen end of the camp, they had built a wooden stand and in it placed the tub from a large kitchen sink. There was an overflow pipe that led to a septic tank beneath the floor of the camp itself; thus it wouldn't freeze. Al scratched his head.

"My figgerin's all done."

"It is?"

"Yup, and it figgers out the same's it always does. If we want water in here, we'll have to work to put it in. Get your boots on."

"Yes, boss."

Ted donned rubber boots and they went out. Tammie, who had been having an exciting time trying to catch a chipmunk that insisted on poking its nose out of a crevice, wagged his tail and ran to join them. A doe that had come to the apple trees stamped an apprehensive foot and drifted slowly into the forest. The two workers took a pick and shovel from the truck, and Al led the way to a little knoll.

On the very top of the knoll was a seepage of water that sent a tricklet into Tumbling Run. Green grass, rather than goldenrod, lined its length and at no place was the runlet more than four inches wide or two deep. Never in Al's memory had it been more or less; the spring provided a constant flow. Even in coldest weather, the runlet never froze, and its banks were always free of snow. It was a favorite drinking place for deer that found other water icebound.

Al asked, "Can you think of any more excuses for deep thinkin'?"

"Not even one."

"Me neither," Al said mournfully, "so I guess we can start the workin' part. Do you want the pick or the shovel?"

"Is there a choice?"

"Could be, but here's the shovel and you might as well dig."

Ted sunk his shovel point deep into the wet earth and scooped out a chunk of soggy earth. Ice-cold, muddy water at once filled the hole and Ted scooped again. He made a wry face.

"This is like shoveling glue!"

"Case you ever get a job in a glue factory, you'll know how to shovel it," Al soothed. "We got to get down anyway three feet."

"I'll persevere, but I know now why you wanted the pick.

"Who's the brains of this outfit?"

"Obviously you are."

"There ain't any real need for a pick." Al grinned. "Wet ground don't have to be loosened. I'll go snake in some wood."

Al left and Tammie frisked beside him. Both got into the truck, and Al drove across the clearing into the woods. Then there came the sound of his ax ringing on dead wood.... An hour later he was back. The pickup's box was filled with wood and Al dragged a log that he had chained to the truck. He left the wood beside the camp and, with Tammie sitting proudly in Ted's accustomed place, drove back for another load.

Ted continued to deepen the spring. It was cold, dirty work, but it was a good idea and certainly it would make the camp more comfortable. The spring must be made deep enough to form a pool. Then its present overflow would be plugged, diverted into some secondhand pipe they'd already bought and led into the kitchen sink. Al thought there was sufficient fall so no pump would be necessary and the water would force itself through the pipe. Thus the cabin would be assured of a continuous flow of fresh, pure water. In winter, when the camp would have no occupants, it would be necessary only to pull the pipe or plug it and so send the overflow back into its original course.

Al returned with a second load of wood, dumped it and came up to see how Ted was doing. Tammie sniffed at the muddy pool, then promptly jumped into it. He climbed out, shook himself and sent a roily spray flying in all directions.

Ted ducked and sputtered, "For Pete's sake, dog!"

Al grinned. "He thinks you need a bath."

Ted glanced down at his mud-spattered boots and clothing. "Maybe I do. Is this deep enough?"

"Let's have the shovel."

Ted stood aside while Al took the implement. An old hand at this sort of thing, he probed expertly into corners that Ted had missed and lifted out shovelfuls of mud without splashing his clothes at all. Ten minutes later he leaned on the shovel and inspected the spring, which in its present stage of construction was a muddy pool, four feet square by a little more than three deep, with the overflow still going down its natural channel.

"That'll do," Al decided. "Now for the plumbin'."

He caught up a length of pipe, walked to the apple trees, inserted his pipe in a crotch and bent it into an 'L.' He bent it again, so that one end formed a gooseneck, and carried his pipe into the cabin. Al maneuvered one end through an already drilled hole in the floor, hung the gooseneck over the sink and used a metal clamp to fasten his pipe to the wall.

Ted marveled. His father had measured nothing, but the bent pipe fitted perfectly and the straight half of the 'L' lay flat on the ground beneath the cabin.

Ted asked,

"What now?"

"Let's eat."

"Most sensible idea I've heard all day."

They ate the sandwiches and drank the coffee they'd brought along while Tammie, sitting hopefully near, expertly caught and gobbled the crusts they tossed him. Then the two went back to work.

Taking a bit of soap from his pocket, Al soaped the threads on another length of pipe; filling the threads, the soap would prevent leaks. The two "plumbers" then fitted this section into the pipe that protruded beneath the cabin and continued with additional lengths until they were within five feet of the spring.

Al cut that five-foot length off with a hack saw. He plugged the cut end with a piece of wood, started at a point about a foot below the top of the knoll and used the flat of his ax to drive the plugged section of pipe through so that it emerged a foot below the surface of the spring. He screwed the short length into the already laid pipe and straightened.

"Now we're diggin' where there's taters!" he said cheerfully.

Catching up the shovel, he closed the spring's outlet with dirt and mud. Then he rolled up his right sleeve, reached into the water and pulled the wooden plug out. A second time he straightened, grinning. "If it don't work, it's a sign we did it wrong. Let's go see."

They re-entered the cabin and stood expectantly near the sink. For a moment nothing happened. Then a series of choking gurgles and a rush of air came through the gooseneck. This was followed by a muddy trickle that subsided to a few drops. Then there was a violent surge of water that leveled off to a steady flow. Al and Ted looked triumphantly at each other.

"It works!" Al said.

"Running water yet!" Ted exulted, "Even if it is muddy!"

"It'll clear itself in a few hours."

"Don't you think we should have a faucet on this gooseneck?"

Al shook his head. "Not in cold weather. It don't freeze 'cause it runs fast. Come spring, we may tie a faucet onto it."

"What do we do now?"

"Go home. It's quittin' time."

Ted was surprised to find that long evening shadows were slanting across the valleys. They had worked hard, and perhaps that had made the day seem so short. Only when they climbed back into the pickup for the ride home did he realize that he was very tired. He tickled Tammie's silken ears.

"Tomorrow's another day," he murmured.

"Yep," Al agreed somberly, "and another day brings more work. Reckon I'll take after that coyote. He's got to be caught. You want to saw wood?"

"Sure thing."

Early the next morning, Al let Ted and Tammie off at the camp and turned back, with traps and rifle, to get on the trail of the marauding coyote. While the collie renewed his acquaintance with the chipmunks, Ted laid a chunk of wood in the sawbuck and sawed off a twelve-inch length. He sawed another ... and worked until noon. After lunch, he started splitting the wood he had sawed. It was the right way to do things. If hunters cut their own wood, they might injure valuable trees.

Evening shadows were long again when Al came to pick him up. "Get your coyote?" Ted greeted his father.

"No, but I will. I found where he's runnin' and I put traps in the right places. See you got a sizable pile of wood."

"I haven't been loafing."

"Not much anyhow."

Ted said tiredly, "What a refreshing sense of humor my old pappy's got."

They turned into the driveway of their own house, to see Loring Blade's pickup truck already there and the game warden waiting. With him was Jack Callahan, Sheriff of Mahela County.

Al's voice was weighted with surprise as he welcomed them. "Hi, Lorin'. 'Lo, Jack. Been waitin' long?"

"Not very long," Loring Blade said. "We figured you'd be in about now. We have to ask you some questions, Al."

"Well, come in and ask."

They entered the house and Ted snapped on the lights in the living room. He started into the kitchen to prepare supper. Al swung to face their guests.

"Ask away," he invited them.

"We came to find out," said Jack Callahan, "what you can tell us about the shooting of Smoky Delbert."