"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; I got enuf. Don't send Tammy agen til deer seson ends. I wish your sport luk. I saw one of the big buks on burned mountin today. Gess you'll find both. Your dad 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?"