He bounded out from behind the cabin shirtless and wearing an Indian headdress he had found among the camp supplies. Bart of a box full of Indian headbands, beads, and vests Steve had panned to use for teaching the campers Indian dances.

Whooping like Crazy Horse descending upon Custer, Ned came out, prancing, doing his version of a rain dance which looked something halfway between a man walking barefoot on hot rocks and Michael Jackson on catnip. Intent upon his performance, he didn't notice Dorf until he pranced right up to him and found himself staring at his own reflection in Dorf's mirrored shades. He came to a dead halt and gulped.

"Oh shit."

Dorf took off his shades with a dramatic flourish.

"All right," he said, giving Ned a strange look, "Who are you?"

"Camp counselors," said Brenda, "Ah, Neddie's just fooling around."

"Yeah, right," Ned added quickly, "I'm just fooling around."

"Can it, Cochise," said Dorf, "Steve Christy hire you people?"

"That's right," Brenda replied.

"He pay you for this?"

Brenda nodded. 'No, we're doing this for free, you dork,' she thought.

Jack came walking over to the Harley, checking it out.

"Hey, nice bike."

Dorf put his hands out, stopping Jack before he could get any closer. Dorf didn't like people touching his motorcycle. He used to have a sticker on the gas tank that said "If you value your life as much as I value this bike, don't mess with it" but the sheriff made him take it off. The sheriff was always making him take things off his bike. Once, Dorf had bought a special leather shotgun case that strapped to the front forks and he had slipped a riot gun into it but the sheriff made him take that off as well.

'You're not a Rooster Cogburn, Dorf,' the Sheriff had said with a world-weary tone, 'You're a police officer. You're supposed to patrol the town on that thing and write up speeders, not case down stagecoach riders.' Dorf didn't think the sheriff understood about projecting authority. Not only did the sheriff never shine his boots, he didn't even wear regulation police boots. He wore red wing work shoes. The oil leather kind that didn't take a shine. One time, Dorf had heard about a special charity program in New York that bought bulletproof vests for the police and he had used department stationary to apply for four vests for the Crystal Lake police force. The sheriff had returned them with a letter of apology.

'I don't really think we need them, Dorf,' he had said, 'Cassidy and Sundance havn't been through here in years.'