Free Bearwalker by Joseph Bruchac

Except he didn’t—so who did? He seems to have forgotten about that mystery. And what about the road being closed by that supposedly accidental dynamite blast that also cut the phone lines? I’ve been asking myself those questions nonstop for the last few hours and gradually it has all come together, like the pieces of a puzzle. Can’t Mr. Wilbur put two and two together? It all makes sense to me—too much sense.
    I look at my journal, where I’ve written it all down. It adds up to even more than four. It adds up to the fact that we are all in terrible danger and that we are trapped.
    I’ve been trying to get Mr. Wilbur alone to talk to him since before the Philos arrived. I stare hard at him, trying to get his attention. Itdoesn’t work. He’s sitting up front, his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Philo, a little smile on his lips. Totally engrossed in their stories. So is Mrs. Smiler and the three parent chaperones who’ve seated themselves around the back of the room to keep an eye on any potentially restless students.
    But the only restless student is me. Where is he? What is he planning to do?
    â€œWhere’s who?” Tara whispers to me and I realize that I’ve been talking out loud to myself. Fortunately in a mumble, but loud enough for her to hear. She’s trying to look again at what I’ve been writing in my secret journal.
    â€œNobody,” I whisper back. A little too loudly. A few heads turn in our direction, but then are drawn just as quickly back to the front where Mr. Philo is talking about the really cold winter they once had here at Camp Chuckamuck.
    â€œIt was so cold,” he says with a straight face, “that when we tried to talk while we were outside, our words froze in a cloud around our mouths. We had to pry those frozen words off, lug them back in, and thaw them out on the stove.”
    â€œThat was the only way,” Mrs. Philo chirps,right on cue, “that we could carry on a conversation.”
    People start laughing, but Tara isn’t giving up. “Who are you talking about?” she insists, poking me in my shoulder again. A part of me notices that she is doing that in just about the same way Mrs. Philo is now jabbing her finger at her husband up front. “Tell me or you are in big trouble, buster,” Tara says, shaking a fist in front of my face in a mock threat.
    I close my journal and slip it into the deep front pocket of my shirt. I shouldn’t answer her. But her good-natured teasing unnerves me. I’m not used to a girl paying attention to me, especially one I have always secretly liked. The next thing I know, I hear myself answering her question.
    â€œThe one they called Walker White Bear,” I say quietly.
    â€œOh,” Tara whispers back. “Him. Didn’t you hear them say that since Mr. Osgood was gone, Mr. White Bear was the one in charge of splitting the wood and then keeping the big campfire going back in the woods till it’s time for us to gather there? That’s where he is now. He’s probably sitting out there in the woods by the fire now, waiting for us to finish in here andthen come outside.”
    I should have figured it out. Despite the road being closed and the phones being out, we are going to go right back to our original schedule. Which includes a walk through the dark woods to the primitive gathering area and storytelling around the campfire.
    Tara hugs herself and rocks back a little. “This is all so exciting, isn’t it, Baron?”
    I don’t answer her this time. I feel as if there is a big cold stone in my stomach.
    He’s waiting outside for us. And like foolish rabbits hopping into a mountain lion’s den, we are all about to go out there to him.

11
Lights
    â€œY ou can never have enough flashlights.” That is what Grama Kateri said as she helped me get my things together for the trip to Chuckamuck. Was it just last night when she said