Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net PHANTOM OF THE FOREST By LEE FRANCIS [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories November 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: Every year men slaughter deer by the thousands; it seems only fitting that the tables be turned once in a while....] The automobile reached the crest of the hill, skidded and started toward the ditch. Earl Robinson twisted the wheel savagely, got the feel of the ice hidden under the snow, and deftly straightened the car. Roy Starr awakened at his side and sat up. His eyes were narrowed with sleep. "Lord," he groaned, "how much farther?" Robinson spoke through gritted teeth. "About three miles. Might as well be a million." The car was moving forward about twenty miles per hour. Three people slept in the rear seat. They were packed under pieces of equipment. There were half a dozen guns stacked across their feet. The snow came down thickly, endlessly. It drifted across the road. Almost eight inches had fallen since sundown. Tomorrow, there won't be any traffic moving, Robinson thought, not without a plow to break the trail. The valley will be a lost world. "Shangrila," he said softly. "Huh?" Roy Starr was almost asleep once more. Robinson said, "Skip it." He was thinking about the war, and the deep, lost valleys he flew into when he flew the "hump." He tried to concentrate on the road once more. They had come six miles from Indian River. The road was just a white line, leading up and down long rows of dark evergreens. The snow filled the air, tangling his thoughts, filling the world with stinging, blinding particles of white. The snow actually seemed to hurt his eyes. It seemed to be hitting his eyeballs. He shook his head angrily. _Sleep_ was stinging his eyes. He watched the trackless road with an intensity of a man hovering between life and death. Sleep--and death. Trying desperately to avoid both. One more long hill. Taking a long chance, he pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go. The motor roared, protested and the car leaped ahead like a monster alive. The speedometer said fifty--then fifty-five. Sixty. At sixty they hit the sharp incline. Roy Starr was wide awake now, holding tightly to the door-handle, as though it insured him against an accident. Someone stirred in the back seat. "Almost there?" It was a girl's voice, sleepy and disinterested. "Almost," Earl Robinson said, and twisted the wheel again. The car went crosswise with the road. It slid forward, up the hill, careened wildly and straightened its course once more. Robinson sighed. "Close," he said. "_Earl, for God's sake, stop!!_"