Coughing discretely, the Warden continued. "What I meant was that after the complaints we got last year we decided to use a _really_ indelible paint so that not even a skilled surgeon could get it off." "Complaints?" asked Thurman. The warden gave a gigantic sigh. "That's right. It seems that some of the hunters--not people like you, mind--but some of them have been altering the color of the stripes after they've bagged their game." He smiled. "And we can't have that, you know. It just isn't sporting. When you display your trophies, you want all the glory that's coming to you. _But_ no more than you actually deserve." Putting his hands on the arms of the chair, the Warden made a valiant effort and managed, just barely, to remove his body from the comforting confines of the chair. "Well," he said, "I must be off. Have a lot of other hunters to see before the season opens." The two hunters rose and shook hands with him. "Now, let's synchronize our watches before I leave," the officer said. He peered closely at his timepiece. "It's now 7:23:05 by my official clock. I got word on my plane radio just as I was landing that the criminals were dropped in the center of the Preserve at 7:03 exactly." He looked up. "The season opens at ten sharp. I'll see you at the Gate before then, of course." He turned around and bounced towards the plane. Before shutting the door to the air-craft, he gave them a final wave of his hand. "Good hunting," he called. * * * * * A little past ten the three men were riding their horses across the gentle plain that led to the mountains in the center of the Preserve. They had passed through the gates with scores of other hunters the moment the season was officially opened. "Emmett," said Thurman, jogging along on his large horse. "Are you still going to insist on taking us down to that little pass first of all?" Emmett reined his horse in between the mounts ridden by the two hunters. "Well, I don't want to seem pig-headed about it, boys," he told them. "But that's where I think the hunting will be best this time of day." "Nonsense," Karsten told him. "I was talking to Morris Overman about it just last week. And he said he had his best luck over by that big waterfall--you know the one, Emmett. It has lots of trees around it." Emmett raised his eyebrows, as if in disdain, "Oh, I know the one, all right. And Mr. Overman is a pretty lucky hunter, too. But I think--" Thurman interrupted him. "If you want _my_ opinion," he said, "We'll do well to try it down in that little valley just the other side of the Leaning Stone." He waved a magazine at them. "There's an article on the criminal mind in the latest issue of _Hunter's Scientific Monthly_ by E. C. Stewart. He says that criminals always favor depressions, and that ought to mean valleys too."