A thousand deaths by Jack London

“Oh, I see, you want me to go in for it,” Smoke drawled.

“If you haven’t the money for the dogs, I’ll–”

She faltered, but before she could continue, Smoke was speaking.

“I can buy the dogs. But–er–aren’t you afraid this is gambling?”

“After your exploits at roulette in the Elkhorn,” she retorted, “I’m

not afraid that you’re afraid. It’s a sporting proposition, if

that’s what you mean. A race for a million, and with some of the

stiffest dog-mushers and travellers in the country entered against

you. They haven’t entered yet, but by this time to-morrow they

will, and dogs will be worth what the richest man can afford to pay.

Big Olaf is in town. He came up from Circle City last month. He is

SMOKE BELLEW

87

one of the most terrible dog-mushers in the country, and if he

enters he will be your most dangerous man. Arizona Bill is another.

He’s been a professional freighter and mail-carrier for years. It

he goes in, interest will be centred on him and Big Olaf.”

“And you intend me to come along as a sort of dark horse.”

“Exactly. And it will have its advantages. You will not be

supposed to stand a show. After all, you know, you are still

classed as a chechaquo. You haven’t seen the four seasons go

around. Nobody will take notice of you until you come into the home

stretch in the lead.”

“It’s on the home stretch the dark horse is to show up its classy

form, eh?”

She nodded, and continued earnestly. “Remember, I shall never

forgive myself for the trick I played on the Squaw Creek Stampede

until you win this Mono claim. And if any man can win this race

against the old-timers, it’s you.”

It was the way she said it. He felt warm all over, and in his heart

and head. He gave her a quick, searching look, involuntary and

serious, and for the moment that her eyes met his steadily, ere they

fell, it seemed to him that he read something of vaster import than

the claim Cyrus Johnson had failed to record.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll win it.”

The glad light in her eyes seemed to promise a greater need than all

the gold in the Mono claim. He was aware of a movement of her hand

in her lap next to his. Under the screen of the tablecloth he

thrust his own hand across and met a firm grip of woman’s fingers

that sent another wave of warmth through him.

“What will Shorty say?” was the thought that flashed whimsically

through his mind as he withdrew his hand. He glanced almost

jealously at the faces of Von Schroeder and Jones, and wondered if

they had not divined the remarkableness and deliciousness of this

woman who sat beside him.

He was aroused by her voice, and realized that she had been speaking

some moments.

“So you see, Arizona Bill is a white Indian,” she was saying. “And

Big Olaf is–a bear wrestler, a king of the snows, a mighty savage.

He can out-travel and out-endure an Indian, and he’s never known any

other life but that of the wild and the frost.”

“Who’s that?” Captain Consadine broke in from across the table.

“Big Olaf,” she answered. “I was just telling Mr Bellew what a

traveller he is.”

“You’re right,” the Captain’s voice boomed. “Big Olaf is the

greatest traveller in the Yukon. I’d back him against Old Nick

himself for snow-bucking and ice-travel. He brought in the

SMOKE BELLEW

88

government dispatches in 1895, and he did it after two couriers were

frozen on Chilcoot and the third drowned in the open water of Thirty

Mile.”

III.

Smoke had travelled in a leisurely fashion up to Mono Creek, fearing

to tire his dogs before the big race. Also, he had familiarized

himself with every mile of the trail and located his relay camps.

So many men had entered the race, that the hundred and ten miles of

its course was almost a continuous village. Relay camps were

everywhere along the trail. Von Schroeder, who had gone in purely

for the sport, had no less than eleven dog teams–a fresh one for

every ten miles. Arizona Bill had been forced to content himself

with eight teams. Big Olaf had seven, which was the complement of

Smoke. In addition, over two-score of other men were in the

running. Not every day, even in the golden north, was a million

dollars the prize for a dog race. The country had been swept of

dogs. No animal of speed and endurance escaped the fine-tooth comb

that had raked the creeks and camps, and the prices of dogs had

doubled and quadrupled in the course of the frantic speculation.

Number Three Below Discovery was ten miles up Mono Creek from its

mouth. The remaining hundred miles was to be run on the frozen

breast of the Yukon. On Number Three itself were fifty tents and

over three hundred dogs. The old stakes, blazed and scrawled sixty

days before by Cyrus Johnson, still stood, and every man had gone

over the boundaries of the claim again and again, for the race with

dogs was to be preceded by a foot and obstacle race. Each man had

to re-locate the claim for himself, and this meant that he must

place two centre-stakes and four corner-stakes and cross the creek

twice, before he could start for Dawson with his dogs.

Furthermore, there were to be no ‘sooners.’ Not until the stroke of

midnight of Friday night was the claim open for re-location, and not

until the stroke of midnight could a man plant a stake. This was

the ruling of the Gold Commissioner at Dawson, and Captain Consadine

had sent up a squad of mounted police to enforce it. Discussion had

arisen about the difference between sun-time and police-time, but

Consadine had sent forth his fiat that police time went, and,

further, that it was the watch of Lieutenant Pollock that went.

The Mono trail ran along the level creek-bed, and, less than two

feet in width, was like a groove, walled on either side by the snow-

fall of months. The problem of how forty-odd sleds and three

hundred dogs were to start in so narrow a course was in everybody’s

mind.

“Huh!” said Shorty. “It’s goin’ to be the gosh-dangdest mix-up that

ever was. I can’t see no way out, Smoke, except main strength an’

sweat an’ to plow through. If the whole creek was glare-ice they

ain’t room for a dozen teams abreast. I got a hunch right now

they’s goin’ to be a heap of scrappin’ before they get strung out.

An’ if any of it comes our way you got to let me do the punchin’.”

SMOKE BELLEW

89

Smoke squared his shoulders and laughed non-committally.

“No you don’t!” his partner cried in alarm. “No matter what

happens, you don’t dast hit. You can’t handle dogs a hundred miles

with a busted knuckle, an’ that’s what’ll happen if you land on

somebody’s jaw.”

Smoke nodded his head.

“You’re right, Shorty. I couldn’t risk the chance.”

“An’ just remember,” Shorty went on, “that I got to do all the

shovin’ for them first ten miles an’ you got to take it easy as you

can. I’ll sure jerk you through to the Yukon. After that it’s up

to you an’ the dogs. Say–what d’ye think Schroeder’s scheme is?

He’s got his first team a quarter of a mile down the creek an’ he’ll

know it by a green lantern. But we got him skinned. Me for the red

flare every time.”

IV.

The day had been clear and cold, but a blanket of cloud formed

across the face of the sky and the night came on warm and dark, with

the hint of snow impending. The thermometer registered fifteen

below zero, and in the Klondike-winter fifteen below is esteemed

very warm.

At a few minutes before midnight, leaving Shorty with the dogs five

hundred yards down the creek, Smoke joined the racers on Number

Three. There were forty-five of them waiting the start for the

thousand-thousand dollars Cyrus Johnson had left lying in the frozen

gravel. Each man carried six stakes and a heavy wooden mallet, and

was clad in a smock-like parka of heavy cotton drill.

Lieutenant Pollock, in a big bearskin coat, looked at his watch by

the light of a fire. It lacked a minute of midnight.

“Make ready,” he said, as he raised a revolver in his right hand and

watched the second hand tick around.

Forty-five hoods were thrown back from the parkas. Forty-five pairs

of hands unmittened, and forty-five pairs of moccasins pressed

tensely into the packed snow. Also, forty-five stakes were thrust

into the snow, and the same number of mallets lifted in the air.

The shots rang out, and the mallets fell. Cyrus Johnson’s right to

the million had expired. To prevent confusion, Lieutenant Pollock