"We ought to get him out of the road." Robinson went to work with the shovel, digging the right rear wheel out of the snow and the thick, half-frozen mud. "Forget all about it," he said. "No one will be driving through here tonight. We'll call the sheriff from Rosewood. Outside of that, it's none of our business. Automobile accident. Wasn't our fault. We've done all we can." They worked hard, all of them trying to forget the body on the road and concentrate on the task of freeing the car from the ditch. In twenty minutes they were on their way, crawling slowly down the opposite side of the hill into the cup-like valley where a country store, church and schoolhouse had been flatteringly named "Village of Rosewood!" Marjorie Wrenn was still crying softly. Glenn tried to comfort her, but the girl was exhausted mentally and physically. The snow still blotted out everything but a few yards of the road. Once in the valley, Robinson released his grip on the wheel and relaxed. "Roy," he said softly. "Yea?" "About that phantom buck story. I wouldn't talk too much. On the square, though I'm inclined to wonder." Roy Starr's voice sank to a whisper. "You think--maybe...?" "Yea," Robinson answered, "I think--maybe...." * * * * * The electric light flashed on, making the world of swirling snow friendly once more. The car was parked beside the house, close to the barn. The place was a huge country store with the living quarters attached like a toad-stool to the side of it. There was a wood-pile in the yard, hidden under a foot of snow, looking like a crouching, white monster. A single pole had been buried in the ground, and from it hung a six-point buck. The deer had been gutted, and blood made little red blobs on the snow. Glenn Starr climbed out and helped Marjorie Wrenn to the ground. He saw the overcoated figure emerging from the woodshed. "Norm, you old horse. Got any snake bite medicine?" Norm Boody, a well fed duplicate of Slim Summerville, was clad in a heavy overcoat drawn over a flannel night-shirt. His feet were hidden in vast, felt slippers. "Thought you people weren't gonna get here. It's almost three in the morning. About those snake bites. What's the matter? Snow snakes biting tonight?" The others were getting stiffly out of the car. Earl Robinson said solemnly: "Those snow snakes bite before you can go ten feet. We had a little trouble, Norm." Boody found a half filled bottle in his coat and passed it around. "Bad country to drive in a storm," he said. "Worse than usual," Robinson said. "There is a dead man laying down the road a mile or two." Norm Boody gulped from the bottle, choked and spewed the whiskey on the snow. "It--wasn't Bill, was it?" Robinson shook his head. "No one I know. Dressed in hunter's outfit. Didn't find his gun. Probably buried under the snow." Boody sighed. He looked uncertain. "Bill went into Indian River for some stuff. He didn't come back."