right, water stretched away as far as the eye could see. Straight across, the far shore was barely visible through the blue haze on the horizon.

Jerry whistled in wonder. “Wow! That’s a lake? It looks more like the Pacific Ocean.”

“If I remember correctly,” Quiz said, “the Red Lake Indian Reservation is somewhere around here, isn’t it?”

McClintock nodded. “Couple of miles west, on the lower lake. Actually, there’s twin lakes, connected by sort of a gooseneck. Russ Steele’s place is on the south shore of the upper lake. Here we are now.”

Set back in an acre of cleared land beyond the beach was a two-story, rambling lodge with a wide front porch. The rough, pine log walls were solidly chinked so that they could withstand the frigid north Minnesota winters; Russell Steele, an avid hunter, used the place as often in winter as he did in summer. A small dock ran out into the lake and served as a mooring for three rowboats as well as a 16-foot cabin cruiser.

As the station wagon drew up in front of the porch, a tall, powerful man with broad shoulders came down the steps to greet them.

“Welcome to Red Lake.”

Sandy leaped out of the car and wrung his uncle’s hand vigorously. “Uncle Russ! It’s great to be here.”

A lithe six-footer, Sandy seemed puny beside the older man. In his plaid shirt and dungarees, Russell Steele looked more like a lumberjack than a corporation executive. He shook hands with the other two boys.

“Glad the whole gang could make it,” Russ said, grinning.

“You’re a peach to invite us, Mr. Steele,” Jerry said.

Russell Steele walked over to the front window of the station wagon and put one big hand on the driver’s shoulder. “How’s it going, John?”

John McClintock removed his straw hat and blew the dust off the crown. “Not bad, Russ. But I could use some rain like everybody else around here.”

Russ frowned. “It’s bad. Very bad. The ground is like cement and everything is dry as parchment. I don’t mind telling you I’m worried, John.”

The driver shrugged. “Like living in a tinder-box. I hear you’re takin’ these young fellers out into the deep woods. Better not go too far. We’re just about due for a forest fire.”

“We’ll be careful,” Russ promised. He reached into his pocket and took out a folded ten-dollar bill. “Thanks for bringing the boys out, John. Here, let me take care of their taxi fare.”

John McClintock pushed the extended bill away firmly. “Not on your life, Russ. This one’s on me. I owe you a favor after what you did for my family last year.”

He looked up at Sandy. “Last winter when your uncle was up hunting around my place, my youngest cut hisself bad on a band saw. Russ hiked nine miles through a raging blizzard to fetch the doc.”

Russ laughed easily. “I needed the exercise, John. Now you take this money—” But before he could finish, the old man had gunned the motor and the station wagon leaped forward. It turned into the drive, backed around in the road, then headed off in the direction of town.

Russ helped the boys carry their luggage into the lodge and upstairs to their rooms. “The bathroom’s at the end of the hall. After you shower, come down to the porch. I’ll have the cook fix you some lemonade and sandwiches.”

Sandy was the first one finished. Russ Steele looked up and grinned as his nephew appeared in the doorway, running a comb through his unmanageable blond hair with dogged determination.

“Still having trouble with that cowlick, I see,” Russ said.

“One of these days I’m going to get a butch haircut like Jerry James’s. Then all I’ll have to do is run a washrag across it.”

“Your mother will never buy that,” Russ laughed. “How are the folks?”

“They’re fine,” Sandy said. “Dad’s down in Mexico for two weeks.”

Russ took a long draw on his pipe. “On another one of those government geological expeditions, I suppose. I envy John, getting to see so much of the world.”

“He enjoys it, all right,” Sandy admitted. He looked up as a big, sleek-haired dog came bounding out of the pines on one side of the house. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Prince, the cook’s Doberman pinscher.” Russ whistled softly through his teeth.

The dog’s sharp ears and muzzle thrust alertly into the air; then, with the bounce of a recoiling spring, he came striding across the sunburned lawn and cleared the front steps in a single leap, to squat in front of Russ with his short stub of a tail wagging vigorously.

“Talk about jet propulsion!” Sandy exclaimed. “What do you feed him on?”

Russ laughed and leaned over to stroke the animal’s glossy black coat. “Pound for pound the Doberman is the strongest canine bred. One of the most intelligent, too. We use them as watchdogs at the plant. I brought this fellow up as a Christmas present for the cook two years ago. Prince, meet Sandy.”

Promptly, the dog turned to Sandy and raised his right paw.

“How do you do, Prince,” Sandy said solemnly, taking the paw and shaking it. “Say, he is smart.”

Jerry and Quiz came out on the porch a few minutes later, and Russ entertained the boys by putting Prince through some of his tricks. But the dog was temporarily forgotten when a rangy, string bean of a man arrived with a huge tray piled high with sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade.

“This is Lars Johannsen,” Russ introduced him to the boys. “He’s my cook and caretaker. Lars used to cook in a lumber camp, so he’s used to chow hounds. Dig in, fellows.”

Johannsen, who had lank blond hair bleached white by the sun, and a drooping mustache, flashed a snaggle-toothed grin. “Ya, you eat all you want,” he said with just a trace of a Scandinavian accent. “Plenty more to eat in kitchen.”

“You don’t have to coax me,” Jerry said, grabbing a big, two-inch-thick sandwich in each hand. “I’m famished.”

“Didn’t they feed you on the plane?” Russ asked.

“Sure,” Sandy told him. “We had a big breakfast just before we landed. But Jerry is the hungriest man alive.”

“If he keeps it up, he won’t make the football team this year,” Quiz said dryly. “He’ll be too fat to bend over to center the ball.”

“Look who’s calling who fat!” Jerry spluttered between mouthfuls. “The original blob in person.”

Quiz sniffed. “My mother thinks I’m perfect just the way I am. When this baby fat drops off, I’ll have a physique the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

“That I can believe!” Jerry said.

“Break it up, boys,” Russ laughed. “After a month in the woods, you’ll both be slim as reeds and hard as rocks.”

“Will we really be camping out for the whole month?” Sandy asked curiously.

“Well, we’ll always be on the move. Of course, there will be times when we’ll stop over at ranger stations or lumber camps. But for the most part, we’ll be roughing it in the best frontier tradition.”

“What time do we leave?” Jerry wanted to know.

“Tomorrow morning at six. Packs will be rolled before we hit the sack tonight.”

“Packs?” Jerry asked.

Russell Steele nodded as he relit his pipe with a long wooden match. “A conventional infantryman’s pack. Bedroll, shelter half, tent pegs, mess kit, raincoat, socks, underwear, spare shirt and levis, canned goods, K-rations, toothbrush, shaving kit, trenching tools, and, of course, a canteen and cup on