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.