Imagination

by John M. Floyd

"Did you hear that?" Tom said.

On the other side of the tent, Ben Rollins's blanketed shape stirred and groaned. "Hear what?"

"Something big. A bear, maybe." Tom Finkley pulled a coat on over his undershirt and sat still, listening. The moonlight through the tent flap painted a green stripe on the ground between him and Ben. In a back corner of the tent lay two canteens, a pair of boots, and a rumpled vest with a sheriff's star pinned to the pocket. Somewhere far away, an owl hooted.

Ben raised up on one elbow and rubbed his eyes, his hand a ghostly movement in the gloom. "I saw bear tracks this side of the river," he agreed. "You got the guns?"

"I got mine. Yours is probably still outside, on your saddle."

"That's too bad," Ben said. "I've seen the way you shoot."

He crawled from under his covers and began pulling his boots on. "What about the horses?"

"What about them?"

"If it's a bear, the horses'd know it."

"Maybe not." Tom frowned, thinking. "They're west of us, and there's an east wind. Maybe he's between us and them."

The two sat together in the darkness a moment, watching the front of the tent. That was their only way out.

"Before this is over," Ben said, "we might wish it was a bear."

"What?"

"Goodson and Adams had two pack mules stolen last week. Supplies, guns, tools, everything."

Tom blinked. "Indians, you mean?" He shook his head. "Not around here. Besides, Indians don't make noise."

"Bears don't steal pack mules, either," Ben said. He had taken his knife out and was playing with it as he spoke, letting the blade catch the band of light from the tent flap.

Tom gave that some thought. "Indians might not bother us, if the moon stays out."

Ben looked up. "Why's that?"

"When they get a look at this tent of yours, they'll die laughing," Tom said. "In my experience, law officers and their deputies sleep outside, in their bedrolls." Shivering, he added, "Beside a fire."

"Well, if you're cold, just tuck yourself in, Tommy Boy." Ben held his knife blade up again. It flashed in the moonlight. "I'll protect you if any more noises--"

He stopped. Outside, something was crashing through the bushes, heading straight for them. The two friends turned to look at each other, their eyes wide as silver dollars, and a second later the monster thrust its head through the tent flap.

It was huge and shaggy, with a long snout and beady eyes. Its hot breath whooshed like a steam engine; pointed teeth gleamed in the shaft of moonlight.

Then another head appeared beside it, this one blond and cold-creamed, with thick glasses and pink plastic hair-rollers.

"Bad dog, Buster," Tom's mother scolded. "I told you to stay in the house, with me, so these boys can enjoy their campout."

Then, turning away from the big collie, Mrs. Finkley made a surprising discovery: The tent was empty.

"That's odd," she said to herself, as she looked at the long, gaping slit in the back side of the tent. "I thought the only flap was in the front . . ."