Roy Starr's voice welled out of him, filled with stark horror. Robinson saw the weird, shadowy form on the road just in time. He pressed hard on the brake and the car jerked into the ditch, and stopped with a sickening jolt. The girl in the rear seat clawed her way forward, clutching Starr's shoulder. "A man on the road," she cried. "Earl, you hit him." She started sobbing as though her heart were breaking. "Shut up," Robinson snapped. His nerves had reached the breaking point. Then, in a gentler voice. "There's a man there all right, Marge. I didn't hit him. Get hold of yourself. Glenn, Glenn, take care of her, will you?" * * * * * All three people in the rear seat were wide awake now. Glenn Starr, dark, serious, in full control of his wits, drew the sobbing girl back beside him. "Take it easy, kid," he said. "Earl will take care of everything. We haven't done anything wrong." The other man, sitting on the far side of the car, pushed the door open and climbed out. "Man, this is a storm, and I don't mean perhaps. Nice little ditch we got ourselves into." Robinson and Roy Starr got out. Roy pulled his collar up tightly around his neck. He walked back a few paces and kneeled beside the snow buried corpse. Earl Robinson, tall, solid, stood over him as he pushed away the snow. "Nobody I know," Roy said, and turned away so he wouldn't have to stare at the dead, frozen face. Robinson bent over and pushed more snow away. "I'll be damned." The chest was badly crushed. Blood had frozen in the snow next to the wound. "Hit sometime before the snow came," Robinson said. Roy Starr was brushing snow away from the corpse. "Maybe," he said softly. "A car never hit him, though. There aren't any blood tracks. The hole is in the direct center of his chest. The ribs aren't crushed on either side." Robinson's voice was a little hushed. "That's what I was thinking. Looks like a bear might have mauled him." Roy Starr came slowly to his feet. "Look," he said, "we aren't kidding ourselves. Something hit him, hard, in the chest. It wasn't a car because it didn't break in the whole bone structure. It wasn't a bear, because a bear would have done a more thorough job of it. Shooting is out. That isn't a bullet wound." Robinson shrugged. "What's left?" "The same thing that's been killing hunters for the past five years," Starr said grimly. "For lack of a better name, the phantom buck." Robinson turned away, looking toward the car. "You're crazy," he said. "Let's say we're both crazy. Our imaginations are running riot. I think the rest of the party ought to know about the _automobile accident_. We can't do any good here. We'll go on to Rosewood if we can get the buggy out of the ditch. We can call the sheriff from there. This is the sheriff's job, not ours." The three people who had ridden in the rear seat were in the ditch, pushing snow away from the wheels. Glenn Starr was saying quietly: