Half a mile from the road he turned and entered the swamp where he had found Roy the day before. He started walking swiftly. He was weaponless, having left the rifle in his car. Two hours passed and he had penetrated deeply into the swamp.
He was cold. He had seen no fresh trails. A black squirrel chattered at him, and hid itself on the far side of a cedar tree. A fox hurried across his trail, a red blurr against the snow.
Far away, he heard the sudden dry "snap" of a twig. He found a stump and seated himself. He was very quiet. Suddenly an icy coldness penetrated his entire body. It wasn't the wind or the natural cold that troubled him now. It was the feeling of death—sudden death—poised only seconds away.
Death—behind him, and he dared not look around.
He waited perhaps sixty seconds, and they seemed like hours. He stood up very slowly and started to move his arms rhythmatically in a back and forth motion as though to restore circulation. At the same time, he made it evident to anyone—anything, looking at him, that he carried no weapon.
Then, without betraying fear, he turned.
Not ten feet away, poised with every splendid muscle tense and alert, was the biggest buck he had ever seen. The great animal stared at him without fear. Its antlers were held high.
The eyes frightened Robinson. They weren't soft, brown deer eyes. They were, instead, black and beady, like twin windows to Hell.
