There was another brief silence before John Wilson said quietly, "Don't do it, Ted." "You mean let him get away with it?" "Under any other circumstances," John Wilson said, "I'd say drive into Lorton and report him to the game warden. As things are with you now, if you do, you'll hate yourself. How are you going to decide exactly whether you turned him in to settle a grudge or because you're a believer in conservation? I agree that he should be arrested and fined. But arresting him won't return the buck to Burned Mountain. It won't do anything at all except bring Thornton a hundred-dollar fine, and he can spare the money. Yes, I'd say let him go and good riddance." "But--" "You asked my advice and you got it. If you turn him in, you'll hurt yourself more than you will him. By all means report law violators, but never let even a suspicion of personal prejudice influence your report. It won't work." "I guess you're right." "I hope I am." That night the temperature fell to zero, and every buck on every game rack in the Mahela froze solid. There was no longer any evidence whatever to prove that Damon, as Ted thought of the great buck on Crestwood's game rack, had been taken by other than legal means. Even if Ted wanted to do something now, his chance was gone. * * * * * For twenty days, always leaving the Harkness house before dawn and never getting back until after dark, Ted and his guest had hunted Pythias. They had seen deer, dozens of them, and Ted had dropped a nice eight-point so close to his house that they had needed only fifteen minutes to dress it out, slide it in over the six inches of crisp snow that now lay in the Mahela and hang it on the game rack. John Wilson had had his choice of several bucks, and at least four of them had been fine trophies. But he had come to hunt the big buck that still lurked on Burned Mountain and he was determined to get that one or none. It looked as though it would be none, Ted reflected as he sat in front of the blazing fire, tearing a bolt of red cloth into strips. Pythias, who had sucked in his woodcraft with his mother's milk, had only contempt for any mere human who coveted his royal rack of antlers. The second day of the season, giving John Wilson ample time to post himself in the white birches, Ted had gone to the bed in which they'd seen Pythias on the first day. A small buck and two does had gone through, but Pythias had not. Most deer have favorite runways, or paths, that are as familiar to them as sidewalks are to humans. Pythias seldom used one, and he never took the same route twice in succession.