Every day there'd been snow—and John Wilson and Ted had had tracking snow for seventeen of the twenty days—they'd found Pythias' bed and his fresh tracks. His hoofmarks were big and round, and they indicated him as surely as a robe of ermine or a scepter marks a king. But except for the first day, when he'd been hopelessly out of range, the two hunters hadn't seen him even once. Pythias could never conceal the fact that he had walked in the snow. But he could hide himself.
Methodically, Ted continued to tear strips from his bolt of red cloth and lay them on the table. Tammie, grown fat and lazy during the three weeks he'd been confined to the house—even though Ted had let him out for a run every night—raised his head and blinked solemnly at the fireplace. Bone tired, John Wilson turned in his chair and grinned.
"You have enough of those red ribbons so you could fasten one on half the deer in the Mahela. Think they'll work?"
"I don't know of anything else. We've tried everything."
"It's been a good hunt," John Wilson said contentedly, "and a most instructive one. I don't have to have a buck."
"But you'd like one?"
"Not unless it's Pythias."
"We have one more day and I have plans. Here, let me show you."
Ted tore the last of his red cloth into strips, pulled his chair up to the table, took a sheet of paper and a pencil and drew a map. John Wilson leaned over his shoulder.