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doom.”
    â€œWell, at least we’ve eaten,” I said, trying to humor Chester out of his gloomy thoughts.
    â€œOur last meal, perhaps,” Chester mumbled. And then he stopped dead in his tracks.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked.



“I’ve figured it out,” he said. “The Monroes, they—”
    â€œWhat?” I said, beginning to feel alarmed. Chester has a way of doing that to me at times.
    â€œDon’t you see, Harold? He’s leading us on a wild goose chase so that the Monroes will be alone with—”
    â€œBud and Spud,” I said, finishing the sentence for him.
    â€œHarold, the Monroes are in danger.”
    â€œYou could be right,” I said. “Bud suggested we take this hike. And Spud didn’t try to stop us when we took off after Dawg. But what can we do now? We don’t know our way back.”
    â€œWe’ll have to look for an opportunity to break away from Dawg,” Chester said. “Then you and Howie can put your tracking skills to good use.”
    I looked ahead. Howie was racing to keep up with Dawg, laughing as he went.
    â€œI think Howie has made a friend,” I remarked to Chester.
    â€œA calculated move on Dawg’s part,” he said.
    â€œHe’s won an ally. He knows we won’t leaveHowie behind. And now we’ll have a hard time convincing Howie of Dawg’s ill intentions. Oh, Harold, I believe we underestimated the moronic mutt. He’s no dummy, after all.”
    Dawg turned back. “You guys coming or are you going to flap yer yaps all night?” he yelled. The moonlight made the ribbon of drool hanging from his lower lip glisten. It reminded me of Spud’s knife shining in the light of the Monroes’ campfire.
    But then I noticed once again the vacant look in his eyes.
    â€œI don’t know, Chester,” I said. “It’s difficult to imagine Dawg as being capable of what you’re suggesting.”
    When we were still lost three hours later, it had gotten easier.

[ FIVE ]

Nighty-Nightmare
    M Y LEGS ACHED from walking. I’d never realized just how
big
the woods were on this side of Boggy Lake. Was Dawg trying to wear us down, so that when we finally stopped to sleep, there would be no fear of our waking until it was all over? I tried not to think such thoughts but couldn’t help myself. With each step we took, with each utterance Chester made about the spirit of evil being let loose at midnight, with each reflection of the moon I caught in Dawg’s eyes, I wondered . . . and I wondered . . . and I wondered.
    â€œWhat do you suppose is happening to the Monroes?” I asked at one point. Chester just shook his head darkly, and I didn’t ask again.

    After a time, he began telling stories of Saint George’s Day, not to frighten us, he assured me under his breath, but to check out Dawg’s reactions. There were none that were noticeable. Howie, seeing the lack of response in Dawg, reacted not out of fear but delight.
    â€œTell us more,” he’d say after Chester had finished each tale of twilight terror.
    And so Chester would regale us with another.
    And another.
    Until: “It is near,” he said. And he fell silent. I believe he was referring to the midnight hour. But Dawg interpreted his remark differently.
    â€œYep,” Dawg said. “We’re going in the right direction this time. I can feel it. Pretty soon, we’ll be there.”
    â€œI can’t wait,” Howie squealed enthusiastically, as if we’d been walking for three minutes rather than three hours.
    Dawg sniffed at the ground. “If we just follow the bed of this stream,” he said, “we’ll be there right quick.”
    We walked now on muddy ground, our paws sticking with each step. Covered with cockleburs and mud, I was beyond the point of caring, wanting only to stop and rest, stop and sleep for the night. . . even if it meant the