That struck him as odd. He stood for the longest time staring at the tracks.

Rather than meandering through the trees, stopping here and there, searching out any leafy shoots that might have become unburied by the retreating snow cover, this particular moose had headed in a singular direction, unwavering, as if drawn by an invisible line to some unseen point in the woods up ahead.

He squinted through the trees, trying to see where the moose had headed. What was going on in those woods? he wondered. But the tracks disappeared into a miasma of mut-ed browns, sullen grays, and dirty whites, giving him no clue. He knew the general direction, though.

The moose tracks were headed toward Blueberry Acres.

Candy and Doc Holliday’s place.

He looked behind, knowing he should turn back. Best not to get too curious or too involved. He had the kindling he needed; he should head home. But for some reason he would never be able to explain, he turned the other direction, leaving his sledge where it sat, and trudged off through the wet, heavy snow after the moose tracks.

He soon began to sense that he and the moose weren’t alone in the woods, and he felt a prickling on the back of his neck, in part because he started hearing things he couldn’t quite place—an odd, distant crackle that sounded suspiciously like the crunch of snow as a boot stepped down, or the snap of a broken branch as someone passed nearby, carried on the faint wind that wove through the woods.

And then there came a single, sharp thudding sound, like an ax entering a tree. It sounded as if it had been made by a human. He’d never heard an animal make a sound like that.

There was probably a simple explanation. A few hikers or homeowners out today, gathering firewood like he’d been doing. Or kids playing hooky from school, pulling a sled or two, cutting through the woods to meet up with friends.