Phantom of the Forest

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.