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."