Hunter’s Dance by Kathleen Hills

exactly ten seconds before giving a prolonged blast on the horn. The plank door burst open, and the owner of the grizzled pate appeared.
    Legend said that the Club’s guards were recruited from murderers paroled from the state prison—in early years even a notorious stagecoach robber. The man who confronted them was disillusioning. He appeared as neither a menacing thug nor the fabled armed and uniformed figure. His costume consisted of a workman’s green coveralls, and he was equipped with only a stick of gnarled willow. He hobbled toward them, his face clouded with anger or possibly arthritis. Koski gave McIntire a chagrined look and hefted himself out of the car. After a quick conference, bending almost double to shout into the old man’s ear, the sheriff opened the gate himself, and they drove through.
    The narrow road meandered under birch and maple for another quarter mile before the woods opened into farmlands. Sleek Holsteins wandered to the fence along the road to observe their passing. The road traversed fields of oat stubble, potatoes, and dried corn stalks, before turning to the north and again entering forest. Another ten minutes of driving brought them to the Club proper, a collection of unpainted log buildings that made up a village. But for the Red Crown gas pump, it could have been a scene from a hundred years past. McIntire had to admit it would be a pleasant place to escape from the world, although their mission here furnished proof that the world could find you where and when it chose. A little further on stood what must have been the main lodge. It was disappointingly modest, a rambling two-story structure of weathered wood and slightly sagging porches. Koski drove past.
    â€œIt’s Mr. and Mrs. Wendell Morlen,” he said. “Their place is the fourth one on the upper side, the old boy says. He called it a
cottage
. Another half mile or so.”
    The track wound further along the lakeshore and through the trees, passing a half-dozen private lodges ranging from simple cabins to structures the size of the Lincoln Memorial. This was more what McIntire had expected to see.
    The Morlen summer hideaway also lived up to his expectations, and then some. The “cottage” hugged the earth on a stone foundation. Its lower portion was of cedar logs, tightly fitted and varnished to a subtle glow. Perched on this rustic base, like a birthday cake resting on an orange crate, was a second story of pale yellow fish-scale siding, a high peaked roof, and dormers with leaded windows. It could have held McIntire’s house twice over.
    Koski drove a short distance past the cabin and pulled off the road. He took a few deep breaths before switching off the engine, then rolled down the window, removed a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket, and stuck one between his lips. In spite of the chill air, his forehead and neck were damp with sweat. It was a natural reaction to the task ahead, but one that, nevertheless, surprised McIntire. They waited. A splash sounded as a golden retriever hit the water off the end of a nearby dock.
    â€œOh, hell. Let’s get to it.” The sheriff stuffed the unlit cigarette into the ashtray, wiped his hands on his twill-clad thighs, and wrenched open the door.
    The cabin’s front door stood open and the sound of an unaccompanied operatic aria issued forth. Rossini maybe, McIntire thought, Italian anyway, and not half badly done. As they approached, the singer abandoned her high-brow theme and launched into a musical lament about how she couldn’t help loving that man of hers.
    Koski rapped on the door frame. The song trailed off and steps sounded on hardwood floors. A dark, plumpish woman in a kerchief and flour-dusted apron appeared in the entryway and spoke through the screen. “Yes?”
    The sheriff introduced himself with more formality than McIntire thought he had in him. “I’m Peter Koski, sheriff of Flambeau County, and this is