CHAPTER ONE

The Lodge on the Lake

The battered station wagon bumped and groaned over the rutted dirt road at about ten miles per hour, churning up great clouds of dust. Sandy Steele wiped the grime and grit from his face with his handkerchief and bent forward to yell in the driver’s ear.

“How much further, Mr. McClintock?”

The wizened little old man tugged his dirty straw hat down tighter as the front wheels lurched in and out of a hole with a jolt that sent all four occupants of the car bouncing several inches off the seats.

“’Bout ’nother quarter of a mile is all,” the man finally replied.

Sandy grinned at his high-school friend Jerry James, seated beside him. “Well, we’ve come twenty miles; I guess we’ll last another fifteen hundred feet.”

The short, stout boy seated up front with the driver turned to face them, his eyes owlish behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. “One thousand, three hundred and twenty feet, to be precise,” he said solemnly. “That’s a quarter of a mile exactly.”

Sandy and Jerry let out long-suffering groans. At fifteen, Clyde Benson (Quiz) Taylor was the No. 1 student at Valley View High School in central California where the three boys lived only houses apart. At the age of ten, Quiz had been a winning contestant on a television quiz program, which accounted for his nickname. Quiz could discuss Einstein’s Theory of Relativity or the batting averages of the leading hitters in the National and American Leagues with equal ease. His mind was a bulging storehouse of facts and figures that his friends found very valuable. But at times the superior manner in which he flaunted his knowledge could be highly irritating.

“Why did you have to ask him along?” Jerry demanded wearily. “Living with Quiz for a whole month is more than any human being can take.”

“That lets you out then, Jerry,” Quiz said, grinning.

“Okay, wise guy.” Jerry thrust his lantern jaw out indignantly. “Just you wait till we’re camping out in the deep woods—hundreds of miles from civilization, with no one around to hear your deathly screams.”

The driver interrupted this byplay, pointing to a patch of blue between the trunks of the giant pines. “There, you can see the lake now, fellers. Five minutes more, we’ll be at Mr. Steele’s camp.” He caught Sandy’s eye in the rear-view mirror. “You’re Russ Steele’s nephew, ain’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The driver nodded. “Great man, Russ Steele. My son was in his division in Korea. Said General Steele was the best CO any outfit ever had. Used to be real interested in his men. My boy said the dogfaces swore by him.”

“Uncle Russ is a regular guy all right,” Sandy said.

“I’ll say,” Jerry put in. “How many big shots like him would spend their summer vacations taking a bunch of teen-agers on a camping trip?”

The driver looked surprised. “Russ never talks about his work. Is he really a big shot?”

“Mr. Steele is vice president in charge of research of World Dynamics Corporation,” Quiz explained loftily. “That’s the firm that does all that secret government work.”

The driver tipped back his straw hat. “Well, now, I never would’ve guessed it. He sure don’t act it.”

At that moment, the station wagon rounded a curve, and the road broke out of the trees on the lake shore. To the left and 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 your belt. We’ll split up the larger utensils—pots and frying pans.”

Jerry James jumped up, stood at attention and threw off a snappy salute. “Yes, sir! Hut-two-three-four! We’re in the Army now. We march at dawn.”

Russ grinned appreciatively; then he said in his most authoritative, military manner, “There’s just one thing, soldier. You don’t salute with a boloney sandwich in your hand.”