"Come on in, Ted."
The boy stepped into the spacious office. The floor was covered with a thick carpet. At one side was a mahogany desk upon which stood a typewriter. Over it were hung bookshelves. There were four cushioned chairs and a satiny davenport upon which the owner usually slept. In a wall rack were Thornton's high-powered rifle and a belt full of his distinctive, brass-jacketed, hand-loaded shells. Ted turned to face his employer.
In his late thirties, Thornton was not slightly built. But there was about him an air of slightness that was accentuated by his quick movements. Thinning blond hair was artfully combed to hide a bald spot. His eyes were pale blue, almost icy blue, behind gold-rimmed glasses. The ghost of a smile haunted his lips. He had a flair for conversation that always made it appear as though nothing anyone else could say was nearly as important as what he had to offer.
"I've been watching your work, Ted, and I like it."
"Thanks, Mr. Thornton."
"There'll be a better job pretty soon; Crestwood's going to expand."
Ted's heart leaped. This was what he'd always wanted. "Thank you."
"A good man," Thornton said, "is not easily come by and I've learned the value of one. That's why I'm putting you on a special job right now."
"You are?" Ted's voice quivered eagerly.
"Yes. You're a pretty good deer hunter, aren't you?"