On the relay out of Sixty Mile, Smoke had next to his poorest team, and
though the going was good, he had set it a short fifteen miles. Two
more teams would bring him in to Dawson and to the Gold-Recorder's
office, and Smoke had selected his best animals for the last two
stretches. Sitka Charley himself waited with the eight Malemutes that
would jerk Smoke along for twenty miles, and for the finish, with a
fifteen-mile run, was his own team--the team he had had all winter and
which had been with him in the search for Surprise Lake.
The two men he had left entangled at Sixty Mile failed to overtake him,
and, on the other hand, his team failed to overtake any of the three
that still led. His animals were willing, though they lacked stamina
and speed, and little urging was needed to keep them jumping into it at
their best. There was nothing for Smoke to do but to lie face-downward
and hold on. Now and again he would plunge out of the darkness into
the circle of light about a blazing fire, catch a glimpse of furred men
standing by harnessed and waiting dogs, and plunge into the darkness
again. Mile after mile, with only the grind and jar of the runners in
his ears, he sped on. Almost automatically he kept his place as the
sled bumped ahead or half-lifted and heeled on the swings and swerves
of the bends. First one, and then another, without apparent rhyme or
reason, three faces limned themselves on his consciousness: Joy
Gastell's, laughing and audacious; Shorty's, battered and exhausted by
the struggle down Mono Creek; and John Bellew's, seamed and rigid, as
if cast in iron, so unrelenting was its severity. And sometimes Smoke
wanted to shout aloud, to chant a paean of savage exultation, as he
remembered the office of the Billow and the serial story of San
Francisco which he had left unfinished, along with the other fripperies
of those empty days.
The grey twilight of morning was breaking as he exchanged his weary
dogs for the eight fresh Malemutes. Lighter animals than Hudson Bays,
they were capable of greater speed, and they ran with the supple
tirelessness of true wolves. Sitka Charley called out the order of the
teams ahead. Big Olaf led, Arizona Bill was second, and Von Schroeder
third. These were the three best men in the country. In fact, ere
Smoke had left Dawson, the popular betting had placed them in that
order. While they were racing for a million, at least half a million
had been staked by others on the outcome of the race. No one had bet
on Smoke, who, despite his several known exploits, was still accounted
a chechaquo with much to learn.
As daylight strengthened, Smoke caught sight of a sled ahead, and, in
half an hour, his own lead-dog was leaping at its tail. Not until the
man turned his head to exchange greetings, did Smoke recognize him as
Arizona Bill. Von Schroeder had evidently passed him. The trail,
hard-packed, ran too narrowly through the soft snow, and for another
half-hour Smoke was forced to stay in the rear. Then they topped an
ice-jam and struck a smooth stretch below, where were a number of relay
camps and where the snow was packed widely. On his knees, swinging his
whip and yelling, Smoke drew abreast. He noted that Arizona Bill's
right arm hung dead at his side, and that he was compelled to pour
leather with his left hand. Awkward as it was, he had no hand left
with which to hold on, and frequently he had to cease from the whip and
clutch to save himself from falling off. Smoke remembered the
scrimmage in the creek bed at Three Below Discovery, and understood.
Shorty's advice had been sound.
"What's happened?" Smoke asked, as he began to pull ahead.
"I don't know," Arizona Bill answered. "I think I threw my shoulder
out in the scrapping."
He dropped behind very slowly, though when the last relay station was
in sight he was fully half a mile in the rear. Ahead, bunched
together, Smoke could see Big Olaf and Von Schroeder. Again Smoke
arose to his knees, and he lifted his jaded dogs into a burst of speed
such as a man only can who has the proper instinct for dog-driving. He
drew up close to the tail of Von Schroeder's sled, and in this order
the three sleds dashed out on the smooth going, below a jam, where many
men and many dogs waited. Dawson was fifteen miles away.
Von Schroeder, with his ten-mile relays, had changed five miles back,
and would change five miles ahead. So he held on, keeping his dogs at
full leap. Big Olaf and Smoke made flying changes, and their fresh
teams immediately regained what had been lost to the Baron. Big Olaf
led past, and Smoke followed into the narrow trail beyond.
"Still good, but not so good," Smoke paraphrased Spencer to himself.
Of Von Schroeder, now behind, he had no fear; but ahead was the
greatest dog-driver in the country. To pass him seemed impossible.
Again and again, many times, Smoke forced his leader to the other's
sled-trail, and each time Big Olaf let out another link and drew away.
Smoke contented himself with taking the pace, and hung on grimly. The
race was not lost until one or the other won, and in fifteen miles many
things could happen.
Three miles from Dawson something did happen. To Smoke's surprise, Big
Olaf rose up and with oaths and leather proceeded to fetch out the last
ounce of effort in his animals. It was a spurt that should have been
reserved for the last hundred yards instead of being begun three miles
from the finish. Sheer dog-killing that it was, Smoke followed. His
own team was superb. No dogs on the Yukon had had harder work or were
in better condition. Besides, Smoke had toiled with them, and eaten
and bedded with them, and he knew each dog as an individual, and how
best to win in to the animal's intelligence and extract its last least
shred of willingness.
They topped a small jam and struck the smooth-going below. Big Olaf
was barely fifty feet ahead. A sled shot out from the side and drew in
toward him, and Smoke understood Big Olaf's terrific spurt. He had
tried to gain a lead for the change. This fresh team that waited to
jerk him down the home stretch had been a private surprise of his.
Even the men who had backed him to win had had no knowledge of it.
Smoke strove desperately to pass during the exchange of sleds. Lifting
his dogs to the effort, he ate up the intervening fifty feet. With
urging and pouring of leather, he went to the side and on until his
lead-dog was jumping abreast of Big Olaf's wheeler. On the other side,
abreast, was the relay sled. At the speed they were going, Big Olaf
did not dare the flying leap. If he missed and fell off, Smoke would
be in the lead and the race would be lost.
Big Olaf tried to spurt ahead, and he lifted his dogs magnificently,
but Smoke's leader still continued to jump beside Big Olaf's wheeler.
For half a mile the three sleds tore and bounced along side by side.
The smooth stretch was nearing its end when Big Olaf took the chance.
As the flying sleds swerved toward each other, he leaped, and the
instant he struck he was on his knees, with whip and voice spurting the
fresh team. The smooth pinched out into the narrow trail, and he
jumped his dogs ahead and into it with a lead of barely a yard.
A man was not beaten until he was beaten, was Smoke's conclusion, and
drive no matter how, Big Olaf failed to shake him off. No team Smoke
had driven that night could have stood such a killing pace and kept up
with fresh dogs--no team save this one. Nevertheless, the pace WAS
killing it, and as they began to round the bluff at Klondike City, he
could feel the pitch of strength going out of his animals. Almost
imperceptibly they lagged, and foot by foot Big Olaf drew away until he
led by a score of yards.
A great cheer went up from the population of Klondike City assembled on
the ice. Here the Klondike entered the Yukon, and half a mile away,
across the Klondike, on the north bank, stood Dawson. An outburst of
madder cheering arose, and Smoke caught a glimpse of a sled shooting
out to him. He recognized the splendid animals that drew it. They
were Joy Gastell's. And Joy Gastell drove them. The hood of her
squirrel-skin parka was tossed back, revealing the cameo-like oval of
her face outlined against her heavily-massed hair. Mittens had been
discarded, and with bare hands she clung to whip and sled.
"Jump!" she cried, as her leader snarled at Smoke's.
Smoke struck the sled behind her. It rocked violently from the impact
of his body, but she was full up on her knees and swinging the whip.
"Hi! You! Mush on! Chook! Chook!" she was crying, and the dogs
whined and yelped in eagerness of desire and effort to overtake Big
Olaf.
And then, as the lead-dog caught the tail of Big Olaf's sled, and yard
by yard drew up abreast, the great crowd on the Dawson bank went mad.
It WAS a great crowd, for the men had dropped their tools on all the
creeks and come down to see the outcome of the race, and a dead heat at
the end of a hundred and ten miles justified any madness.
"When you're in the lead I'm going to drop off!" Joy cried out over her
shoulder.
Smoke tried to protest.
"And watch out for the dip curve half way up the bank," she warned.
Dog by dog, separated by half a dozen feet, the two teams were running
abreast. Big Olaf, with whip and voice, held his own for a minute.
Then, slowly, an inch at a time, Joy's leader began to forge past.
"Get ready!" she cried to Smoke. "I'm going to leave you in a minute.
Get the whip."
And as he shifted his hand to clutch the whip, they heard Big Olaf roar
a warning, but too late. His lead-dog, incensed at being passed,
swerved in to the attack. His fangs struck Joy's leader on the flank.
The rival teams flew at one another's throats. The sleds overran the
fighting brutes and capsized. Smoke struggled to his feet and tried to
lift Joy up. But she thrust him from her, crying: "Go!"
On foot, already fifty feet in advance, was Big Olaf, still intent on
finishing the race. Smoke obeyed, and when the two men reached the
foot of the Dawson bank, he was at the others heels. But up the bank
Big Olaf lifted his body hugely, regaining a dozen feet.
Five blocks down the main street was the Gold Recorder's office. The
street was packed as for the witnessing of a parade. Not so easily
this time did Smoke gain to his giant rival, and when he did he was
unable to pass. Side by side they ran along the narrow aisle between
the solid walls of fur-clad, cheering men. Now one, now the other,
with great convulsive jerks, gained an inch or so only to lose it
immediately after.
If the pace had been a killing one for their dogs, the one they now set
themselves was no less so. But they were racing for a million dollars
and great honour in Yukon Country. The only outside impression that
came to Smoke on that last mad stretch was one of astonishment that
there should be so many people in the Klondike. He had never seen them
all at once before.
He felt himself involuntarily lag, and Big Olaf sprang a full stride in
the lead. To Smoke it seemed that his heart would burst, while he had
lost all consciousness of his legs. He knew they were flying under
him, but he did not know how he continued to make them fly, nor how he
put even greater pressure of will upon them and compelled them again to
carry him to his giant competitor's side.
The open door of the Recorder's office appeared ahead of them. Both
men made a final, futile spurt. Neither could draw away from the
other, and side by side they hit the doorway, collided violently, and
fell headlong on the office floor.
They sat up, but were too exhausted to rise. Big Olaf, the sweat
pouring from him, breathing with tremendous, painful gasps, pawed the
air and vainly tried to speak. Then he reached out his hand with
unmistakable meaning; Smoke extended his, and they shook.
"It's a dead heat," Smoke could hear the Recorder saying, but it was as
if in a dream, and the voice was very thin and very far away. "And all
I can say is that you both win. You'll have to divide the claim
between you. You're partners."
Their two arms pumped up and down as they ratified the decision. Big
Olaf nodded his head with great emphasis, and spluttered. At last he
got it out.
"You damn chechaquo," was what he said, but in the saying of it was
admiration. "I don't know how you done it, but you did."
Outside the great crowd was noisily massed, while the office was
packing and jamming. Smoke and Big Olaf essayed to rise, and each
helped the other to his feet. Smoke found his legs weak under him, and
staggered drunkenly. Big Olaf tottered toward him.
"I'm sorry my dogs jumped yours."
"It couldn't be helped," Smoke panted back. "I heard you yell."
"Say," Big Olaf went on with shining eyes. "That girl--one damn fine
girl, eh?"
"One damn fine girl," Smoke agreed.