were distributed impartially among men and brutes. And to make it
of greater moment, each participant had a bunch of comrades intent
on breaking him out of jam. But one by one, and by sheer
strength, the sleds crept out and shot from sight in the darkness
of the overhanging banks.
Jack Harrington had anticipated this crush and waited by his sled
until it untangled. Louis Savoy, aware of his rival’s greater
wisdom in the matter of dog-driving, had followed his lead and
also waited. The rout had passed beyond ear-shot when they took
the trail, and it was not till they had travelled the ten miles or
so down to Bonanza that they came upon it, speeding along in
single file, but well bunched. There was little noise, and less
chance of one passing another at that stage. The sleds, from
runner to runner, measured sixteen inches, the trail eighteen; but
the trail, packed down fully a foot by the traffic, was like a
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gutter. On either side spread the blanket of soft snow crystals.
If a man turned into this in an endeavor to pass, his dogs would
wallow perforce to their bellies and slow down to a snail’s pace.
So the men lay close to their leaping sleds and waited. No
alteration in position occurred down the fifteen miles of Bonanza
and Klondike to Dawson, where the Yukon was encountered. Here the
first relays waited. But here, intent to kill their first teams,
if necessary, Harrington and Savoy had had their fresh teams
placed a couple of miles beyond those of the others. In the
confusion of changing sleds they passed full half the bunch.
Perhaps thirty men were still leading them when they shot on to
the broad breast of the Yukon. Here was the tug. When the river
froze in the fall, a mile of open water had been left between two
mighty jams. This had but recently crusted, the current being
swift, and now it was as level, hard, and slippery as a dance
floor. The instant they struck this glare ice Harrington came to
his knees, holding precariously on with one hand, his whip singing
fiercely among his dogs and fearsome abjurations hurtling about
their ears. The teams spread out on the smooth surface, each
straining to the uttermost. But few men in the North could lift
their dogs as did Jack Harrington. At once he began to pull
ahead, and Louis Savoy, taking the pace, hung on desperately, his
leaders running even with the tail of his rival’s sled.
Midway on the glassy stretch their relays shot out from the bank.
But Harrington did not slacken. Watching his chance when the new
sled swung in close, he leaped across, shouting as he did so and
jumping up the pace of his fresh dogs. The other driver fell off
somehow. Savoy did likewise with his relay, and the abandoned
teams, swerving to right and left, collided with the others and
piled the ice with confusion. Harrington cut out the pace; Savoy
hung on. As they neared the end of the glare ice, they swept
abreast of the leading sled. When they shot into the narrow trail
between the soft snowbanks, they led the race; and Dawson,
watching by the light of the aurora, swore that it was neatly
done.
When the frost grows lusty at sixty below, men cannot long remain
without fire or excessive exercise, and live. So Harrington and
Savoy now fell to the ancient custom of “ride and run.” Leaping
from their sleds, tow-thongs in hand, they ran behind till the
blood resumed its wonted channels and expelled the frost, then
back to the sleds till the heat again ebbed away. Thus, riding
and running, they covered the second and third relays. Several
times, on smooth ice, Savoy spurted his dogs, and as often failed
to gain past. Strung along for five miles in the rear, the
remainder of the race strove to overtake them, but vainly, for to
Louis Savoy alone was the glory given of keeping Jack Harrington’s
killing pace.
As they swung into the seventy-five-mile station, Lon McFane
dashed alongside; Wolf Fang in the lead caught Harrington’s eye,
and he knew that the race was his. No team in the North could
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pass him on those last twenty-five miles. And when Savoy saw Wolf
Fang heading his rival’s team, he knew that he was out of the
running, and he cursed softly to himself, in the way woman is most
frequently cursed. But he still clung to the other’s smoking
trail, gambling on chance to the last. And as they churned along,
the day breaking in the southeast, they marvelled in joy and
sorrow at that which Joy Molineau had done.
Forty Mile had early crawled out of its sleeping furs and
congregated near the edge of the trail. From this point it could
view the up-Yukon course to its first bend several miles away.
Here it could also see across the river to the finish at Fort
Cudahy, where the Gold Recorder nervously awaited. Joy Molineau
had taken her position several rods back from the trail, and under
the circumstances, the rest of Forty Mile forbore interposing
itself. So the space was clear between her and the slender line
of the course. Fires had been built, and around these men wagered
dust and dogs, the long odds on Wolf Fang.
“Here they come!” shrilled an Indian boy from the top of a pine.
Up the Yukon a black speck appeared against the snow, closely
followed by a second. As these grew larger, more black specks
manifested themselves, but at a goodly distance to the rear.
Gradually they resolved themselves into dogs and sleds, and men
lying flat upon them. “Wolf Fang leads,” a lieutenant of police
whispered to Joy. She smiled her interest back.
“Ten to one on Harrington!” cried a Birch Creek King, dragging out
his sack.
“The Queen, her pay you not mooch?” queried Joy.
The lieutenant shook his head.
“You have some dust, ah, how mooch?” she continued.
He exposed his sack. She gauged it with a rapid eye.
“Mebbe–say–two hundred, eh? Good. Now I give–what you call–
the tip. Covaire the bet.” Joy smiled inscrutably. The
lieutenant pondered. He glanced up the trail. The two men had
risen to their knees and were lashing their dogs furiously,
Harrington in the lead.
“Ten to one on Harrington!” bawled the Birch Creek King,
flourishing his sack in the lieutenant’s face.
“Covaire the bet,” Joy prompted.
He obeyed, shrugging his shoulders in token that he yielded, not
to the dictate of his reason, but to her charm. Joy nodded to
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reassure him.
All noise ceased. Men paused in the placing of bets.
Yawing and reeling and plunging, like luggers before the wind, the
sleds swept wildly upon them. Though he still kept his leader up
to the tail of Harrington’s sled, Louis Savoy’s face was without
hope. Harrington’s mouth was set. He looked neither to the right
nor to the left. His dogs were leaping in perfect rhythm, firm-
footed, close to the trail, and Wolf Fang, head low and unseeing,
whining softly, was leading his comrades magnificently.
Forty Mile stood breathless. Not a sound, save the roar of the
runners and the voice of the whips.
Then the clear voice of Joy Molineau rose on the air. “Ai! Ya!
Wolf Fang! Wolf Fang!”
Wolf Fang heard. He left the trail sharply, heading directly for
his mistress. The team dashed after him, and the sled poised an
instant on a single runner, then shot Harrington into the snow.
Savoy was by like a flash. Harrington pulled to his feet and
watched him skimming across the river to the Gold Recorder’s. He
could not help hearing what was said.
“Ah, him do vaire well,” Joy Molineau was explaining to the
lieutenant. “Him–what you call–set the pace. Yes, him set the
pace vaire well.”
AT THE RAINBOW’S END
It was for two reasons that Montana Kid discarded his “chaps” and
Mexican spurs, and shook the dust of the Idaho ranges from his
feet. In the first place, the encroachments of a steady, sober,
and sternly moral civilization had destroyed the primeval status
of the western cattle ranges, and refined society turned the cold
eye of disfavor upon him and his ilk. In the second place, in one
of its cyclopean moments the race had arisen and shoved back its
frontier several thousand miles. Thus, with unconscious
foresight, did mature society make room for its adolescent
members. True, the new territory was mostly barren; but its
several hundred thousand square miles of frigidity at least gave
breathing space to those who else would have suffocated at home.
Montana Kid was such a one. Heading for the sea-coast, with a
haste several sheriff’s posses might possibly have explained, and
with more nerve than coin of the realm, he succeeded in shipping