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
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96
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.
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97
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
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98
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.