didn’t it work?” He stood in the middle of the trap, near the jar of honey. Nothing happened. The sticks held.

So, he started bouncing up and down - gently.

The sticks held.

He jumped up and down more forcefully.

The sticks still held.

“I must have made it too good,” Weazel murmured, scratching his head.

Just then, a chipmunk scampered across the trap and sniffed at the jar of honey.

“Oh, it’s another one of you nut-eatin’, schedule-stealin’, buck-toothed rodents. I'm gonna get you.” With a crazed laugh, Weazel sprang towards the chipmunk.

The sticks splintered and with a mighty ‘crack’, Weazel did a belly-flop into the pit. “Aaaaaahhhhh!”

Thud.

“Ow...” Weazel moaned faintly.

The chipmunk, who had run when the ground moved beneath it, stood on the edge of the pit, its stubby tail wagging cheerfully. Far below was Weazel, covered with leaves and sticks. Honey oozed out of the jar that was upside-down on his head.

The chipmunk’s chattering sounded like mocking laughter.

Weazel shook his grimy fist at the chipmunk. Bitter tears mingled with the dirt and honey on his cheeks. “Stop laughing,” he sobbed. “What am I going to do now, Heimlich?”

End of part 6

A Map Made in Heaven
part 7

Wild Will Hiccups’ Wild West Town
Greene River, Youtah
Thursday
Day 6

Wild Will Hiccups’ Wild West Town was a mockup of an1860s frontier town located in the middle of the hot desert. It was an overpriced, overdone, overwhelming tourist trap designed specifically to rustle money from unsuspecting greenhorns.

Among those greenhorns was a family of five bears. The von Bruinwalds traversed the board sidewalk bustling with both tourists as well as actors in period costumes, walking past authentic reproductions of log buildings. They stopped in front of Buttons ‘n’ Bows gift shop at the corner of Nowhere Junction and Buckboard Road to get their bearings.

“Okay, what’s next? We’ve seen the marshall’s office, the jail, the bank, the barbershop, and we’ve ridden on the stagecoach,” Kit said, pulling a map of the town from his pocket. In keeping with the western theme, the map had been printed on yellowed paper at the town’s own newspaper office.

“Not to mention Ye Olde Gift Shop,” Baloo mumbled. He was holding a large sack containing souvenirs.

Rebecca shifted Cassie to her other hip. “Molly wants to see the livery stables.”

“Me and Cassie wanna take pony rides,” Molly added, peeking over Kit’s arm at the map.

“Boo!” Cassie chirped. “Boo!”

“What’s ‘boo’, baby?” Rebecca asked with a smile.

“Boo!”

“Do you know what she means, Baloo?”

Baloo shrugged. “Nope.” When Rebecca was distracted by Kit mentioning, “Here’s the livery stables, by the blacksmith shop at the end of Gold Strike Street,” the big bear whispered in Cassie’s ear, “We’ll play later, okay, Bugaboo?”

“Boo!”

“So, what do you want to do, Baloo?” Rebecca asked, catching her husband unawares; he was blowing a raspberry on Cassie’s round cheek.

“Uh, nuthin', honey,” he stammered, blushing furiously.

From the familiar guilty look on his face, Rebecca suspected that Baloo was hiding something from her, something that had to do with 'boo'. She quirked her eyebrows with amusement. “What do you want to see here, flyboy?”

Baloo cleared his throat and winked at Kit and Molly. In a thick southern accent, he drawled, “Waaaaaallll, how’s about me an’ Kit’ll moseyin’ on over to the saloon an’ wettin’ our whistles while you women-folk frolic with the horseys.”

“Okay,” Rebecca said, taking hold of Molly’s hand. “Meet you in front of the Trading Post General Store in a half hour?”

“We’ll be there with spurns on, ma’am.” Baloo tipped his hat politely as Rebecca and the girls headed down the street.

“That’sspurs, Papa Bear,” Kit corrected with a laugh.

“C’mon, pardner,” Baloo drawled, clapping Kit on the shoulder. “Let’s go belly up to the bar.”

Father and son waited until the Bells Fargo stagecoach had thundered by, then crossed the street to the Dry Gulch Saloon.

Baloo, getting into the spirit of the place, flung the swinging doors open wide, inciting a pained “Ow!” from the man on the other side of the door.

“Sorry, pal.” Seeing who was squished behind the door, Baloo cried, “Well, jumpstart my heart! It’s you!”

It was Burt, Sr. The rabbit patriarch looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks, which was probably the case. “H-hello,” he stuttered, rubbing at the large knot forming on his forehead.

“Hey, Burt, ol’ buddy,” Baloo boomed. “Are ya followin’ us?”

“Uh...no,” Burt said nervously.

Suddenly, there was a mighty crash and a smash behind him.

Burt winced and reflexively reached for his wallet. “They’re at it again.”

Bewildered, Kit stared at the chaos in the saloon. Two rabbit children were 'riding' on a saddled sawhorse and shouting “Yee-haw!” at the top of their voices. One boy was pouring peanuts down his gullet as fast as he could remove them from the shells. Three girls were doing a cancan atop the bar. Four children were playing cowboys and Indians with their popguns and whooping. The eleventh was pounding away merrily on the player piano. All wore coonskin caps.

“Oh, man! Where’s the wife?” Baloo yelled over the deafening din. Kit’s hands flew to his ears.

“What?”

“Where’s your wife?”

“Life? I don’t have a life,” Burt said in a small, defeated voice. “They’ve sucked it all out of me.”

Just then, to Burt’s relief, his wife returned. She blew a large, shrill whistle that made all of the bratty youngsters stop whatever they were doing and put their hands over their ears. “Everyone outside now!” she screamed.

Baloo, Kit, and Burt were nearly trampled by the stampede of running, hopping, skipping rabbit children. They watched as the noisy procession disappeared down the street.

“Relax, man,” Baloo said, slapping Burt on the back, startling him.

Burt murmured wearily, “I only wish I could.” He trudged slowly in the direction of his brood.

“Kinda jumpy, even for a rabbit,” Baloo remarked.

“Where’d you meet him?” Kit asked as they entered the saloon.

Baloo swept peanut shells from a bar stool and sat down; Kit did likewise. “Ester’s Park. Those kids of his scared the bejeezers and the coat off a Santy Claus.”

“I’d believe it,” Kit said.

Baloo set the shopping bag on the floor, then tapped the bald head of the barkeeper, who was crouched behind the bar. “They’re gone, Mac.”

“T-they are? Are you sure?”

“Yup. They’re solid gone.”

Warily, the canine with black handlebar mustaches stood up. He straightened his red and white striped bow tie and brushed peanut shells from his shoulders. “What’ll it be?”

“Two sarsaparillys, my good man. Uh, you got any money, Kit?”

Kit let out an exasperated sigh and reached into his pocket.

Just then, Weazel cautiously emerged from around the corner of the saloon. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning every inch of the town. Several times, he spun around to see if anyone was following him. His sanity was at the breaking point and his nerves were as raw as meat in a butcher’s window. “No chipmunks here,” he said, breathing quickly. “But I must keep a lookout. Oh, yes, I must. Chipmunks are sneaky little devils. Almost as sneaky as Jerry the Nipper and Mickie Finn. Sneak up with no warning. No map yet. Heimlich must be mad. Not mad, furious. I bet he sicced them on me. Them or the chipmunks, nasty little things. Could be anywhere.”

His left eye twitched nervously as he pressed his nose to the saloon’s large window. A crazed smile lit up his face when he saw Kit spread a yellowed piece of paper on the bar.

“The map! The map! At long last!” he said with a maniacal chuckle. “Those bears have slipped up this time. Thinking they could hide it by keeping it out in the open. Clever. Very clever, but not too clever for Weasel. Weazel. That’s me. Weazel.”

He hurried over the saloon’s swinging door, crouched down, peered in. Seeing that the saloon was free of chipmunks and Heimlich’s goons, Weazel crawled under the door. When a peanut shell crunched under his feet, he immediately stopped in his tracks. He looked down, trembling. “Nuts! Chipmunks have been here! I've gotta get outta here.” He then looked at the map,

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