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probably feasting on it right now.”
    “You think you’re kidding,” Colby said. “That’s probably what you hear.”
    Matson frowned. “I hear things from the other direction.”
    “What about that kid who was killed here last week?” Larker asked. “Supposed to have been killed by some kind of lake creature.”
    “Lay off the bullshit,” Colby said. “The kid was probably mauled by an animal. These stump jumpers around here are superstitious.”
    “Pass me the bottle,” Matson said. “I don’t think I want any coffee.”
    “It’s not ready anyway.” Larker inserted a toothpick in his mouth, focused liquor-dulled gray eyes on Colby. “They say whatever killed the boy rose up out of the water.”
    Colby took another swig of bourbon and handed the bottle down to Matson. “They say!” he repeated disgustedly. “Half these yokels will say anything because they know the other half are dumb enough to believe them.”
    Matson raised his right hand for silence, like a traffic cop signaling stop, his moon face intent. “I hear something,” he whispered. “I know I do!”
    After awhile Colby said, “Coffee’s ready.”
    “Don’t turn the fire off!”
    “Easy, Les. We’ll light the lantern.”
    “There’s something comforting about fire, though,” Larker said. “Goes way back.” He realized he’d drunk just enough not to be afraid and was enjoying his advantage. “Either way’s okay with me.”
    “Fire then,” Colby said. “And the only lake creature out there is the bass that snapped my line this afternoon.”
    Matson glanced up, catching the hitch of anxiety in Colby’s voice. He licked his lips.
    “Christ!” Larker said. “Three grown men—”
    He stopped when he heard the loud snap of a branch behind him, from the direction of the lake. Every sound in the black woods ceased, even sounds the three men hadn’t realized they were hearing.
    “Squirrel, probably,” Colby said, quickly raising his pistol. “Give me the flashlight; maybe I can plink him.”
    “Leave it alone if it’s a squirrel,” Matson said hoarsely. “You had enough luck shooting them illegally from the boat today.”
    “I’d have paid your part of the fine.”
    There was another sound now, the rhythmic thrashing sound of something moving through the woods, something approaching.
    Matson’s round face twisted with fear, and Colby stood up from the cot.
    Larker suddenly pointed toward the darkness. Between themselves and the dull sheen of moonlight off the lake, something was moving toward them through the trees.
    Matson started to say something, but with a sudden dance of black shadows from the stove’s glow, the thing was upon them.
    “Shoot it!” Matson cried. As he stood his foot caught on the stove, tipping the pot of scalding coffee onto Colby’s ankles. “Shoot it, for Christ’s sake!”
    Colby yelled in pain. Larker bumped into him, backing away. The pistol cracked four times.
    From the woods came a wheezing, enraged screech.
    “Again!” Matson shouted. “Again!”
    Colby emptied the pistol in the direction of the screech, at the darkest of shadows near the base of a tree.
    In abrupt silence the three men stood still as the night, their breath hissing. Then Colby sat back down on the cot and clutched at his ankles.
    “Jesus, my legs!” he moaned. “My feet! It went down my shoes!”
    The other two men ignored him, their eyes unblinking and wide.
    “Let’s go,” Larker said, still chewing on his toothpick. “Let’s go see what it is.”
    “Maybe it’s not dead,” Matson said, following Larker toward the motionless shadowed form.
    As if to accommodate them the clouds shifted from the face of the moon, and in the faint yellow light filtering down through dark leaves they saw that it wasn’t dead. The one agonized eye that was visible rolled aimlessly, then lost expression and was still, as if fixed by moonlight.
    “What was he doing walking around out here in the woods at night!”