The dog started up-slope toward the brush and Ted followed. He ducked
into the thicket, so dense that, once within it, visibility was limited
to twenty feet or less and there were places where he had to crawl. In
the center of the thicket, Tammie halted to look down and Ted came up
beside him.
In the center of the beech brush was a well-marked trail used by deer
that knew perfectly well the advantages of staying in a thicket. Tammie
was looking down at a splash of drying blood, obviously a deer had been
badly wounded here and had fallen. Ted heaped lavish praise on his dog.
"Good boy! Good boy, Tammie!"
He set his jaw and his eyes glinted. Unless a hunter were within twenty
feet of the trail, in which case it was highly improbable that any deer
would have come down it, nobody within the beech brush could have
wounded the deer. But how about the opposite slope?
Ted retraced his steps and climbed to the top of Glory Rock. From that
vantage point, where he could look across at it instead of trying to
look through it, the beech thicket became more open. He couldn't see
everything, but he could see very plainly the place where the deer had
fallen. Moving to one side, Ted had the same view. The deer could have
been shot from any of a dozen places on this slope.... What had taken
place assumed definite shape in Ted's mind.
Smoky Delbert, always the poacher, had known of the beech thicket and
the trail through it. He had waited for a deer and shot one when it
appeared. Somebody else, somebody who knew and took violent exception to
Smoky and his antics--and there were at least thirty men who did--had
either happened along or had witnessed the whole thing. Probably there
had been an argument, followed by the shooting.
No nearer a solution than he had been before, Ted nibbled his lip in
frustration. He knew now why Smoky had been shot, but he still hadn't
the faintest idea as to who had shot him. All he had were widely
scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, with too many pieces missing.
However, first things came first and he'd better get the hurt deer, for
it was both practical and merciful to do so. Badly wounded, it couldn't
possibly travel far. If he found it still alive, the least he could do
was put it out of its misery. If it was dead, he should save what could
be salvaged of the venison. Al would have done the same had he been
here.