A thousand deaths by Jack London

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.