“Sssshhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Andy Higgins had his finger raised to his lips as Travis and Lars came back from the afternoon swim. He met them at the door, carefully holding the screen so it wouldn’t slam behind them.

“What’s up?” Lars demanded.

“Just don’t say a word. Come on in.”

The three boys entered the cabin silently, Andy carefully setting the screen door so it closed soundlessly.

Nish was lying on his bunk, flat on his back with his eyes wide open. His eyes were rolling around and didn’t seem to be focusing on anything. Was something wrong?

“Shhhhhh,” Andy hissed very quietly.

Travis drew closer to Nish’s bunk. His eyes were still rolling; he seemed to be searching for something. In his right hand he clutched the microphone from Data’s boom box. Data had brought along the tape recorder and the microphone so he and the others could make up a camp song about the Screech Owls, but so far no one else had shown much interest in it.

What was Nish doing?

Andy signalled for Lars and Travis to freeze. Nish had raised the microphone and was holding it next to his face. Travis could hear a very quiet buzzing whine, and then realized that Nish’s rolling eyes were following a mosquito circling around his head.

Nish hated mosquitoes. What on earth was he up to? Nish let the intruder land on the side of his neck, and, instead of raising a hand to crush the dreaded insect, he slowly moved the microphone closer. The mosquito rose, circled, whined, and landed a second time. Nish moved the microphone near again, causing the mosquito to take off once more. This time, when it landed, Nish’s other hand came down like a hammer.

“BINGO!” Nish yelled, and rolled out of the bunk bed looking delighted.

“Did you get it?” Andy asked.

“I don’t know,” Nish answered. “I’m not sure.”

“It’s right on your hand,” Travis pointed out. “You squashed it–look at the blood!”

Nish and Andy looked at Travis as if he came from another planet.

“Not the mosquito, dummy,” Nish said, “the sound.”

Andy and Nish settled over Data’s boom box to rewind the tape. Then Nish pushed the play button and cranked up the volume.

Travis and Lars couldn’t believe the effect. It seemed as if the cabin was filled with mosquitoes. The squeal of the insect was unbelievable. They could hear it circling, landing, circling again, landing, circling a third time and–slap!

“That’s gotta go!” Nish said. Andy nodded.

“What’s gotta go?” asked Travis, confused.

Nish looked at Travis, unimpressed. “The slap, of course.”

“Why?” Lars wanted to know.

“You’ll see, my friend. You’ll see.”

C-RACKKKKK!

Nish was first to jump up: “What the…?”

“What was that?” Travis asked, running to the screen door. His first thought was that it was another round of thunder–or maybe another tree coming down–but the sky was clear and blue.

C-RACKKKKK!

“It’s coming from over there!” Andy shouted, pointing in the direction of the shed where the lawnmowers and chainsaws were stored.

The boys began running toward the shed. They were joined by others heading in the same direction; the gang from “Loon” Dmitri Yakushev from “Raven” cabin; Jeremy Weathers and Derek Dillinger from “Kingfisher.”

Nish stopped in his tracks, his mouth falling open in shock.

There, behind the shed, Buddy O’Reilly was wrestling with a man holding a rifle! Buddy seemed to have jumped him from behind. The man, in greasy green coveralls, was trying to twist away. Travis thought he recognized the man, but couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen him.

Others were running up now: Morley Clifford from the island camp, the lines in his face dark with concern; Muck from the cabins.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Muck demanded in a low, cool, commanding voice.

Buddy now had the rifle free. He turned, triumphant, holding the gun away from the man, who scowled. Buddy held up the gun as if it were a trophy he’d just been awarded.

Muck moved faster than the Screech Owls had ever seen him move before. He ripped the rifle out of Buddy’s hands, and worked the bolt back and forth to empty out the rest of the bullets–one, two, three, four, five, the bullets flew, spinning and glittering in the sunlight–and then he stomped them into the ground. Travis couldn’t believe how smoothly Muck handled a gun.

“Explain,” commanded Muck.

“Just keep your nose out of it, okay?” said Buddy. He seemed very angry.

“You fire a rifle around my kids, you answer to me,” Muck said. “What’s the meaning of this?”

The man who had been shooting spoke. He had bad teeth. “You wouldn’t want a rabid fox around your kids, either, would you, mister?”

Buddy winced, and gave the man a look that said, Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? Suddenly his manner changed, from nasty to nice.

“Roger here thinks we might have a small wildlife problem…”

Travis remembered where he’d heard the name. Roger–of course, the caretaker Buddy had called to clean up the fallen tree.

“Whatdya mean ‘thinks’?” Roger snarled. “You know as well as me there’s rabies around.”

“That true?” Muck asked, staring directly at Buddy.

Buddy smiled, but the smile seemed forced. “There was, but way back in the spring.”

“A fox don’t walk in here in plain daylight lest he’s sick,” Roger argued. “No matter what the season.”

“Is that what you were shooting at?” Muck asked him. “A fox?”

“And I’d’a got him, too, if this lunkhead hadn’t grabbed me.”

“Easy now, Roger,” Morley Clifford said soothingly. Roger seemed to respect Mr. Clifford, and nodded quickly, as if to say he knew he’d better cool down before he really upset Buddy.

But Buddy was acting sheepish, almost sweet. “C’mon, Roger. We can’t have guns going off at a summer camp when there’s kids all over the place, now, can we? Lucky for you they were having rest time in the cabins.”

Roger spat. Travis could hear Nish beside him: “Yuk!” Roger obviously chewed tobacco.

“I think I know the difference between a rabid fox and a damn kid,” Roger said.

“And I know the difference between a properly run camp and a joke,” Muck said to Buddy O’Reilly. “You didn’t think we needed to know there was rabies about?”

Buddy smiled, trying to win someone onto his side. “The Ministry said it was all cleared up.”

“Not that I heard,” said Roger.

Travis knew instantly that Roger was telling the truth and that Buddy was lying. There was something about Buddy’s overly sincere look that told you not one word this man said could ever be believed.

“And you didn’t think there was anything wrong with firing a gun with kids around?” Muck asked Roger.

Buddy gasped, shaking his head in disbelief. “You forget–I’m the one who tried to stop him from shooting!”

“It would all be over now if you’d just let me alone,” muttered Roger.

Muck had heard enough: “Well, gentlemen–it is over now. I want the rest of those bullets.”

Muck held out his hand. There was no mistaking the order. Roger looked at Morley Clifford–not at Buddy–and Mr. Clifford closed his eyes and nodded once. Roger seemed about to argue, but instead dug into the pocket of his filthy coveralls and pulled out a small box, which he slapped into Muck’s open palm.

Muck pocketed the bullets.

“And I want a Ministry official out here to talk to the kids about rabies,” Muck added in a firm voice. “Understand?”

“No problem,” Buddy answered. He was smiling, but he didn’t look pleased.

Muck looked at the rifle, now cradled in his elbow and disarmed. “I’ll be hanging on to this until the end of our stay.”