"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."