“Nick’s right,” he said. “You haven’t a leg to stand on. Why not just call it a day? Bad luck can happen to anyone. Season’s young yet. You’ve got two weeks.”

“Listen, we came up from New York. And we’re going back there tonight. This was our last chance. Get that through your thick heads,” Trigger said, and made as if to go toward the deer.

But Nick managed to get there first, so he was standing in front of the dead doe, facing them.

“Get going,” he said.

But while he and Trigger confronted each other, the two other hunters, in a sudden fury of impatience and rage, jumped at Pete, and Jack had him in a lockhold round his neck before Old Pete knew what had happened to him. He gave a throttled exclamation.

“I’ll break your windpipe,” Jack said. “Now shut up.”

“Go ahead,” he called out to the other two. “We don’t have to stand here and be bamboozled by a couple of loons.”

“I’ll bash you over the head.” Nick had the butt end of his gun ready, and his eyes were blazing. “You dirty thugs!”

“These are dangerous people,” Trigger said, trying to laugh it off.

“Never rile the natives,” Jack answered with a sneer. He had Old Pete in a firm grip, and Pete was not struggling.

There was a crackling kind of exasperation in the air, but so far only Nick was hard in his anger. The others just couldn’t take the thing seriously.

“We can’t stay here all night.” Al pushed the cap back on his head and scratched his ear. “Can’t we settle this thing some way? Tell you what, we’ll go back to wherever you guys live and cut the deer up, share it fifty-fifty. How about that?”

“Nobody gets the doe,” Nick said between his teeth.

“What good is it to the warden, for Christ’s sake?”

“That’s his business.”

“Are you in cahoots with him or what?”

“I’m not talking. Get going,” Nick said.

“All right, if that’s the way you choose to have it.”