“I DRIVE THOSE DOGS!”
In the early days of the lower Yukon, the name of Bill Ames had been a
name to conjure with. Dog train freighter in winter, and poling boat
freighter in summer, he had been no small factor in the development of
the country. Then came the misstep that plunged him into water with
the temperature at fifty below zero, a misadventure that cost him a
foot and took him forever off the trail. For years thereafter he worked
at various jobs along the river, until the big stampede found him a
passenger on one of the first boats that landed at Nome. There, as upon
the Yukon, he worked at odd jobs until his knowledge of dogs attracted
the attention of the proprietor of Nome’s principal hotel, who engaged
him to look after the dog teams of his guests. Unlike most of the old
timers on the Yukon, Bill Ames had married a white woman, and with her
he lived in a log house that formed one side of the dog corral at the
rear of the hotel.
Upon the door of this domicile MacShane knocked, and was cordially
invited to enter. For the old sourdough instinctively liked this
stranger who daily accompanied Lou Gordon to the dog corral. Bill
Ames knew dogs, and loved them. And also he knew men. And with the
same certainty that he had taken measure of Dalzene, he had also
taken measure of MacShane. For he had been quick to note that here,
also, was a man who knew and loved dogs. But there was something
else that attracted him to MacShane--an indefinable something about
the man that stirred vague memories. A word here, a slight trick of
movement--something, that caused Ames to continually cudgel his brain
in a vain endeavor to place him. He felt sure he had seen this man
before--had known him--but where? The man never volunteered information
as to his identity, nor did Ames ever violate the ethics of the country
by asking it. Therefore, when MacShane knocked at his door he was
genuinely glad to see him.
“Well, everything’s set fer the big race,” said Ames, by way of
conversation, when the two had settled themselves into their chairs and
lighted their pipes.
“Yes, I’ve be’n kind of keepin’ cases on these other teams, an’ it
looks to me as though Miss Gordon’s dogs have got as good a chance to
win as any of ’em, provided they’re handled right.”
“You spoke a mouthful,” agreed Ames. “Them dogs is _right_! I claim to
know a little bit about dogs, an’ after I’d got acquainted with ’em
fer a few days, an’ seen how she handled ’em I slipped out an’ got me
two hundred dollars worth of the short end of a ten-to-one bet--an’ I
ain’t settin’ oneasy, neither. That gal’s got the dogs, an’ she knows
how to handle ’em.”
MacShane nodded: “She does,” he agreed, “But the fact is, she ain’t
goin’ to drive ’em.”
“Ain’t goin’ to drive ’em!” cried Ames, “What d’you mean? She told me
how her old man wanted to drive, an’ how she had got to outfigger him
someway. But, I heard yesterday that he’d got run in fer peddlin’ hooch
to Injuns--an’ I was damn glad of it. Did he git bail?”
“No,” answered MacShane, “He didn’t get bail. He ain’t goin’ to drive,
neither.”
“Who is, then?”
“Well, that’s up to you--an’ me.”
“What d’you mean?”
“It’s like this. She’s sick--sick as hell. Got poisoned at supper, an’
the doc had to pump her out. She says she’s goin’ to drive anyhow.
But she can’t. I just come from talkin’ with the doc, an’ he says she
won’t be out of danger for several days, an’ she can’t even get out of
bed--let alone drive the dog race. An’ the hell of it is she thinks
I poisoned her. She’s out of her head, prob’ly--but that’s what she
thinks.”
As MacShane talked, Bill Ames’ eyes narrowed. “How come her to git
poisoned at supper?” he asked.
“We had supper together, an’ I kind of wanted it to be a big feed, so
I rustled up a lot of extra grub--fancy stuff--canned lobsters, and
canned olives, an’ a lot more stuff. The doc said it was one of them
that poisoned her--ptomaine poison he calls it, an’ if he hadn’t got
there quick an’ pumped her out, she’d be dead, by now. So, seein’ how
I’m to blame, in a way, for her gettin’ sick, it looks like it’s up to
me to win that race for her.”
Bill Ames regarded the speaker for a full minute through narrowed lids.
“It looks damn queer to me,” he said, bluntly. “The old man gittin’
pinched, an’ the gal gittin’ pizened all to onct. Facts is, I know a
damn good dog driver here in Nome. Them dogs of hern has got to win.
Not because I’ve got a little money up on ’em, but because that gal
is as square, an’ white, an’ as game a proposition as the North ever
seen----”
“Put her there, pardner!” exclaimed MacShane, impulsively offering his
hand.
Ames ignored the hand. “As I was goin’ on to say,” he continued,
still with his eyes on MacShane’s face, “It would break her heart to
lose this race. They trailed all the way down from the Koyukuk to win
it--an’ it’ll bust ’em if they don’t. Which thing bein’ the case, I’m
goin’ to see that them dogs is handled by someone that’ll drive ’em to
win.”
“I know the dogs,” answered MacShane, slowly, “I can drive ’em to win?”
“You know the dogs, all right,” answered Ames, without removing his
gaze from the other’s eyes, “An’ you prob’ly _could_ drive ’em to win.
But--I don’t know _you_! They’s somethin’ damn queer somewheres.
They’s somethin’ about this here business that stinks. Mebbe you ain’t
it, an’ mebbe you be. They was a damn skunk come nosin’ around the
corral a while back that that there Skookum dog know’d. He smelt him
’fore he got inside the corral, an’ if I’d onchained him, he’d of et
him up. This afternoon I was in the Malamute Saloon gittin’ a drink,
when you an’ this here party comes in together. I didn’t think nothin’
of it then--but I do now!” Ames paused and glared, as just the shadow
of a smile played at the corners of MacShane’s mouth. “Mebbe you see
somethin’ funny about it,” he burst forth truculently, “But if I know’d
you pizened that gal, I’d kill you where you set--an’ mebbe you’d see
somethin’ funny about that!”
“Maybe I would,” smiled MacShane, “Because the joke would be on you.
Listen here, Bill Ames!” It was the first time MacShane had addressed
him by name, and the dog keeper’s eyes opened in surprise. “I haven’t
told anyone here my name, for reasons of my own. Miss Gordon knows
me only as _Huloimee Tilakum_. But, I’m goin’ to let you tell me my
name--tell _me_, an’ no one else, either before or after the race, or
I’ll never speak to you again.”
“What the hell you talkin’ about?” exploded the man. “Me tell you yer
name! You full of hooch? Er what?”
Disregarding the interruption, MacShane proceeded: “It was way back--I
don’t remember the year. The lower river was plugged with rough ice,
an’ a certain freighter thought he could figure out a new trail--up the
Innoko, through the Kaiyuh Mountains, an’ hit Kaltag by way of Kaiyuh
Slough. It might of worked if the freighter could have got through the
mountains before he run out of grub. When he was on his last dog----”
Bill Ames leaped from his chair, and stood before MacShane, staring
straight into his eyes: “Just a minute!” he cried, excitedly pointing
a forefinger into MacShane’s face, “You tell me this, an’ By God, I’ll
know it’s _you_! What happened about a year or two after that, in a
cabin at the big bend of the Anvik?”
MacShane grinned: “Why, Bill, me an’ you come onto _Kultus_ McCormack
an’ a breed girl that he’d toled off from the mission--an’ we gave
him--what he had comin’!”
“_Burr MacShane!_ By all the gods that’s swore by! Burr MacShane! You
damn old sourdough! Where in hell you be’n fer the last twenty years,
or so? You was only a kid, then, you might say--but you was some man!
Them was the days--when I had my two legs in under me, an’ the country
wasn’t all gummed up with _chechakos_!”
“You’re right, Bill! But, do I drive those dogs? Do you think I can
handle ’em?”
“That’s right, damn you, rub it in! Mebbe I was a fool, Burr ... but
somehow, that gal----”
“Fool--hell! You done just right.”
“An’ did you know me all the time? An’ never let on!”
“Sure, I did,” laughed MacShane, “You ain’t any older than you was
then, but I’m twice as old. I’ve never forgot you, Bill.”
“All Alaska used to be talkin’ about what a hell of a trail musher you
was. Gosh sakes! If them other mushers know’d who was goin’ to drive
them dogs, they’d all quit! You’ll win--but look out fer Johnson an’
Scotty Allen. They’re both damn good men, an’ they’ve got damn good
dogs--but you’ll win. You’ve got to win--er you don’t git the gal----”
“What do you mean?” cried MacShane.
Ames laughed, knowingly: “Go on with you! I’m fer you. An’ take it from
me--they ain’t another woman in the North that’s deuce-high with her,
anyways you look at it. You’re a lucky dog, Burr.”
“You’re crazy as hell!” exclaimed MacShane, displaying real annoyance,
“If you think Miss Gordon could ever--ever care that way, for an old
sourdough like me, you’re a fool--an’ as for me--we’re just good
friends--or were till she got the idea I poisoned her--an’ that’s all
there is to it.”
“All right--have it yer own way. But I’ve kind of had a chanct to see
which way the wind was blowin’ fer a couple of weeks--an’ I’m tellin’
it to you if you don’t want to be in love with that gal, an’ don’t want
her to be in love with you--then you’re in a hell of a fix--that’s all
I got to say.”
At eight o’clock the following morning MacShane appeared at the corral
to help Ames harness the dogs. They had just concluded the operation
when through the gate walked Lou Gordon. Both men stared at the figure
that approached them. The girl’s face was deathly white, and it was
evident from her tightly-pressed lips and her slow movements that it
was only by the supremest effort of will she managed to keep on her
feet at all.
MacShane sprang to her side: “Miss Gordon!” he cried, “What are you
doing here? The doctor said it would be several days before you would
be out of danger! How did you get here? You can hardly stand!”
The girl regarded him with flashing eyes: “You should be proud of your
work,” she faltered, with withering scorn. “But, you should have waited
until this morning. I have had a night’s rest--and I am perfectly well.
I will win the race in spite of you and your partner, Dalzene.” She
turned to Ames who stood beside the dogs. “I’ll take them, now,” she
said, “Did you go over the harness?”
“Yes, Miss--but, you ain’t goin’ to try an’ drive--an’ you can’t hardly
stand on yer feet! Why, you won’t even git to the startin’ place!”
MacShane interrupted, his words rasping harshly, with a note the girl
had never before heard in his voice. “I drive those dogs!” and as Lou
Gordon stared into his face she saw that the blue-grey eyes were hard.
“You--you--” she faltered, as her two bare hands clutched at her breast.
Without a word, MacShane took one swift step, gathered her into his
arms, and motioning Ames to open the door of the log house, carried her
in, despite her furious struggles. But the struggles were futile and
short lived. The violent illness had left the girl so weak and dizzy
that the exertion of dressing herself and walking to the corral had
taxed her strength to the utmost. As MacShane carried her into the room
her muscles suddenly relaxed, and she lay limp and lifeless in his arms
while Mrs. Ames hurriedly arranged the bed which had not yet been made
up for the day.
From the moment his arms closed about her, MacShane had been conscious
of a strange, indescribable thrill that welled from the very depths of
his being--a thrill so new, and so wonderful that he stood as one in a
trance holding the girl’s body close against his own until the words of
Ames roused him to action.
“Lay her on the bed, Burr, an’ I’ll hunt up the doc while the old woman
tries to fetch her around. Come on, now, it’s time you got a-goin’.
You got to git the driver’s name changed, an’ it’s gittin’ along to
startin’ time. We’ll see that she’s took care of.”
Very gently MacShane laid the girl upon the bed, and with one long look
into the pallid face, he turned abruptly and left the room.