by Sue Henry
“I have the authority to stop this race right here, and I’m tempted to do it. Though I have no report on these dogs,” he motioned to the black bags near his feet on the ice, I think something in the food, or at least something ingested, caused the attack on Smith. Do you agree?”
Holman nodded. “Yeah. Dogs don’t act like that. Sure the hell can’t understand what would make anyone do this kind of stuff. And we don’t know this is all, do we? If the race goes on, there may be other attacks. Right?”
“I think we should assume that.”
“Now, a lot of mushers’ll be pretty pissed off if it’s canceled. Besides, how do we get them all out of here? Equipment, supplies, dogs, and all the rest. Need an airlift to pull out checkers, vets, radio operator’s officials, volunteers—hundreds of people, tons of stuff. And if it stops we may never find out who’s responsible, right? They’ll scatter all over the state, the lower forty-eight, and even other countries. There are five internationals—two from France and one each from Japan, Switzerland, and Sweden. Even some of the vets and radio operators come from out of state.”
Holman had obviously been thinking. He had also talked it over with the musher and checkpoint officials who stood watch with him, for they backed him up with nods of agreement.
“There’s some who wouldn’t quit,” the musher said slowly. “These guys are pretty damn stubborn and competitive. Ego has a lot to do with this race, not just money. They train all year and come determined to finish. Some would just harness up their teams and take off. Then what could you do?”
Jensen knew if it came to that, there was little he could do, except feel somehow responsible if any of them died. Officially stopping the race would mean that those who went on to Nome would not be competing for money, which would take some pressure off the situation, but only if greed was the motive.
“Well,” he said, “I guess it isn’t a decision to be made without the mushers. I think we should hold a meeting and find out how they feel. What do you say?”
“Good idea,” Matt agreed. “I’ll put out the word. In the lodge? Half an hour?”
“Yeah. I’ll send Becker down here to relieve the three of you. Especially you, Matt, because they’ll listen to you. In fact, I’d like you to run the meeting. Okay?”
In a short time almost everyone in Rainy Pass was gathered in the lodge. As Holman climbed onto a chair by the stove and raised a hand for silence, the mumble of voices subsided, and only the shuffling of feet could be heard.
“We got a problem.” His deep growl filled the room.
“More than one damn problem,” someone commented from the back.
“Yeah. More than one. This race has never been stopped. Suspended a couple of times in bad weather when the supply planes couldn’t fly, but never canceled. We may have to do that now.”
A mutter of negative response rose from the group. Jensen noticed a few heads nodding, however. The group seemed split about in thirds: those opposed, those in favor, and those still reserving judgment. Few mushers were among the ones in favor. Most of those seemed to be officials and support people.
In the rear he saw the DOG stocking cap shaking back and forth.
“Hey,” called one of the men. “What the hell is going on? I’ve heard three different versions of these . . . accidents, and I don’t know what to believe. How about some information?”
Holman turned to Jensen. “You better do this,” he said. “You’ve got the info from the lab.”
He stepped down from the chair and Jensen climbed up.
“I’m Sergeant Jensen, State Troopers, Homicide,” he said. “I’m going to be straight with you. I’ll tell you everything I can, but I also need your help. Decisions have to be made here.
“At least two of these mushers were murdered,” he went on, wanting to shock them. “We are assuming Smith is the third.
“It has been called to my attention that a whole team of dogs does not go mad without reason. What makes most sense is that something was put in their food earlier this evening, but until I have confirmation from the lab in Anchorage, I can only say that this is probable.
“The other two deaths were definitely homicide. George Koptak went to sleep on his sled because his coffee was drugged, probably in Skwentna. Virginia Kline’s gang line was cut, causing her to fall into the worst part of Happy Valley.
“Murder is what’s going on. I can’t say it plainer. Someone is killing mushers. We don’t know why, or who. But we will. I just don’t want any more of you to die. If we stop the race now, the deaths will probably stop too. You had all better think about that carefully.”
He started to step down from the chair but was held by a question from a musher in the front row. “What do we do then, just sit and be targets here? There are over forty other mushers out there, some in Rohn, but most on their way up. What about them? How do you know whoever is doing this isn’t out there picking them off right now? I’d rather be out running, where I feel in control, than sitting here like a duck in a shooting gallery.”
“There is that, of course, I can’t guarantee anything. We don’t know about the mushers in other locations except that we haven’t heard of problems from anywhere else. I also have to be honest and say that I believe if Smith’s dog food was poisoned here, it only stands to reason that whoever did it may still be here. Unless any of you know of someone who left after Smith fed his dogs.”
Negative response. Two mushers had left for Rohn early in the evening, but no one had gone into the Dalzell Gorge beyond Rainy Pass since before seventhirty in the evening, and none were likely to now. It was a section of the trail as tough on mushers and teams as Happy Valley. With new snow falling, these drivers would wait to attempt it in daylight.
On clear nights, with luck, under the best conditions, the run could be successfully completed in as little as eight hours. On others, when wind howled through the canyon, blowing snow obscured the trail and made a treacherous maze of the descent. Mushers could wear themselves and their dogs out trying to work their way through unbroken drifts. The soft, feathery snow that was now falling was deceptive in its loveliness. Even the trail-breaking snow machines had come back up from Rohn early in the evening and waited in Rainy. They would pack down the new snow in the morning as soon as it was light.
“Look,” said a tall veteran musher, “I think you should let those who want to go on, go. I agree with Jim that I’ll feel like a rat in a trap if I have to stay here. It’s a long way to Nome, but I’ll feel better out on the trail. I can watch myself if I only have whoever’s in front and in back of me to deal with. Let those who want to scratch and wait for transportation out. I don’t intend to be careless, but I’ve got a race to run. I’ve got too much invested to shut ‘er down.”
A woman whose face even Jensen knew from the news coverage of her victory two years back stepped forward and turned to face the group. “What if we agree to travel in twos or threes? A lot of us do that anyway. Until we get closer to the finish, we could keep track of each other.”
She turned back to Jensen. “Each of these mushers was alone when he or she died, right?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a good idea, if you really want to keep going.” He stepped off the chair and motioned Holman back onto it. “Ask for a vote,” he suggested. “I want to know how many think the race should continue.”
Holman did, and almost half those in attendance immediately voted to continue the race. Slowly, as Holman counted, more hands were raised until he had to start over. “Damn it. Only mushers vote. Put ‘em up and keep ‘em up,” he demanded finally. “Can’t tell how many of you there are.” The final count indicated that all but three of the mushers were in favor of continuing.
“You agree to travel together?” he asked. “If you do, and you report anything suspicious right away, I’ll let the race go on for now.”
They a
greed.
“I’ve gotta tell you I can’t promise to let it keep on if anything else happens,” he told them. “And for God’s sake, don’t cover up anything just to keep this damn thing going. Keep track of each other. I mean it. This scares the hell out of me and it should you, too.”
He hopped off the chair and the meeting broke up. Within minutes mushers had chosen traveling partners and were headed off to rest until morning, either in the warmth of the lodge or out in their sleds where they could keep an eye on their dogs. Through the window, Jensen watched as some of them moved their teams closer together. While one partner stayed awake to watch, the others returned to the lodge or bedded down on their sleds.
With a sigh he sat on a bench near the stove. He knew he needed sleep too, but he couldn’t quite make himself go to arrange the watch with Becker. What he really wanted was information he couldn’t get until morning. He needed to know which mushers had been in the three checkpoints at the critical times and enough about them to establish possible motives.
He dug his pipe out of his pocket but found the ritual of filling and lighting it too much of an effort. So he sat with the bowl cupped in the palm of his hand until he saw Jessie Arnold crossing the room toward him with two steaming mugs of coffee.
Gratefully, he accepted the one she gave him, sliding over to make room for her on the bench. For a long moment they sat, sipping the coffee while they watched the bedding down of those who were not headed back for more food. A couple of them gave Jessie a questioning look, obviously wondering about her proximity to the law. Though he was sure she noticed, it did not seem to make her uncomfortable.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked finally.
“I think it’s the best we can hope for now. Holman’s satisfied and they sound like they trust him.”
“They should. He’s run the race nine times, been marshall for three years, and knows as much about it as anyone alive.”
“Do you think they’ll keep together?”
“For now. As we get closer to Nome it’ll spread out and become more of a dash for the finish. There’ll be lots of psyching each other out, slipping out of checkpoints, running with headlamps off in the dark, stuff like that. They’ll be less inclined to stay together, but they’ll also be more aware of exactly where everybody is. The ones who aren’t aimed at the top twenty usually travel together and just enjoy the trip.”
“Sounds like you aren’t going to stop here.”
“No, I’m going on with a couple of guys I’ve run with before. Bomber you met. Jim Ryan is the other. Bomber and I both have moose guns, and we’ll keep them handy. I’ll be okay.”
“There’s always another race next year,” Jensen suggested.
“Maybe, but I already started this one. I don’t quit easy. Besides, there might not be another one for me for a couple of years. I’ve put everything I have into this one, including some of my dad’s money for the entry fee.” She hesitated, then went on. “The Iditarod’s an expensive business. Just raising enough dogs to put together a good team takes twenty thousand a year. I can’t go on doing this unless I’m in good financial shape.”
Alex calculated rapidly, adding the thousand-dollar entry fee to the cost of air transportation, food and supplies, plus sleds, harness, clothing, and a lot more. He hadn’t thought running this race meant much more than standing behind a sled from Anchorage to Nome. Now he was surprised so many had entered.
He got his pipe going. “How many do you think will pull out?”
“A few, but most will go on in the morning. Daylight will cure some of the tension. Some who’re having a bad time will scratch. Wilbur Close wrecked his sled in the trees before Finger Lake, and coming down through Happy Valley he smashed up the one he borrowed. He’s already said he’s had it. One or two others, probably.”
The door of the lodge opened and two mushers came in carrying sleeping bags. One was the bearded musher with the DOG cap. They found a place on the floor as close to the stove as they could get, removed their heavy boots, hung their socks over a line to dry, and crawled into their bags. The wooden floor was beginning to look comfortable to Jensen, and he realized again how tired he was. He was glad he and Becker had already pitched their tent on the lake and that he had plenty of insulating pad to put under his down bag.
“Who’s the guy with the hat?” he asked. “I keep seeing him.”
She grinned. “Paul Banks from Bethel. I think they’re all slightly mad down there. Maybe that’s what happens when the river eats the ground under your town year after year. He says you have to be nuts to live on that particular curve of the Kuskokwim. Caterpillar’s his biggest sponsor. The mechanics gave him the hat.”
They fell silent and Alex looked at her, surprised that this woman was putting herself through punishment many larger, stronger men found difficult.
“Is it tough being a woman on the trail?” he asked suddenly.
Jessie smiled a little self-consciously. “We don’t talk much about our problems, or how tough it is,” she said, “except to each other once in a while, when there’re no men around.”
“Why not?”
She looked thoughtfully at the floor for a minute, then turned slightly to face him on the bench.
“You have to understand that some male mushers still think there’s no place on the trail for women, especially on the Iditarod Trail. Some of them still see things in terms of male and female, rather than the expertise required to make it. You can’t exactly blame them. This state’s a macho place, and we scare them. Some of them will do almost anything to keep from getting beat by a woman. Coming in behind one of us threatens most of them.
“I’ve had guys do the damnedest things. One year I ran with two of them for almost half the race. The minute we hit the coast and the push to Nome was on, they said they were going to water their dogs, but when I went out fifteen minutes later, they were gone. They sneaked out and left me, after I’d broken more than my share of trail, including the last ten miles into Unalakleet. I was so mad I chased them all the way across the ice, passed one in Elim and the other eight miles out of Nome. One of them still isn’t speaking to me. The other has come to laugh about it.” She nodded toward Bomber Cranshaw, who was finishing up a last piece of apple pie across the room, and smiled. “He figured out that I probably wouldn’t have been so determined to beat him if he hadn’t pulled that stunt.
“So, we women have a sort of unspoken pact. We try not to whine about anything in mixed company. You may hear the men complain, even some of the best. It’s part of the hype. But we don’t say a word that will give them the idea we can’t cut it. But when a few of us get together, we bitch to each other, let some of the tension out.”
Jensen nodded. “Seems a little silly,” he said. “With women winning, you wouldn’t think there would be anything to question.”
She smiled again and shook her head. “When have men—well, people—ever been rational? It’s how things seem and feel, isn’t it? Not how they are.”
He turned to her with a question that had been growing in his mind as she spoke of prejudice on the trail. “How deep does this feeling go in the guys who are threatened?”
She turned her head in a quick motion to look at him for a minute before she answered. He could see on her face the connections her mind was making.
“You mean is anyone mad enough to do something about it?” she said. “That’s a pretty serious thought.”
“Off target?”
“I think so,” she said slowly, but he could see the idea wasn’t one she could dismiss with total conviction. “I can’t think of anyone I would accuse, and I know a few who are pretty bitter. But a couple are also bitter about not winning the last few races. Does that help?”
He waited, feeling she had more to say.
“In the last part of the race almost every year, people are so tired they
get a little weird and lose their tempers easily. Last year I heard one musher say he was sick of nursing women through the race who just got in his way and saved their energy, letting the men break trail, then walked off to Nome. I shrugged it off. We’re all unreasonable toward the end, driven by emotion, not intellect. Some of them hold back, forcing any woman to break more than her share of trail. Others go out of their way trying to take care of you, which is worse. And there are other things.
“They say we haven’t the upper body strength they have, and that’s true, but they ignore the fact that we don’t need as much, just enough to do the job. Where they can muscle through a bad spot, we have to compensate, think and move a little faster, keep our sleds lighter, choose our dogs with that in mind. But it can work to our advantage sometimes. Lighter women and sleds may not break through ice that will dunk an extra hundred pounds of man and sled.”
She grinned. “It equals out, or we wouldn’t win, would we?”
He nodded, slowly, pulling on his pipe as he considered the pleasant, confident look of her. She had something, this unusual woman. She seemed so alive and filled with pleasure in what she was doing. It was refreshing. He thought he might ask Holman about her later, if he could do it casually.
As he reminded himself he was in the middle of a homicide investigation, he realized he was staring. His ears burning self-consciously, he glanced at the floor. Looking back he saw her watching him.
“Makes you think about women a little differently, doesn’t it?” She stood up. “I’ve got to get some rest, if not some actual sleep. If you don’t have any more questions, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Alex watched her cross to the door and go out, thinking of the thousand miles plus between Anchorage and Nome. He realized his ideas were changing. Jessie Arnold was not what he had expected to find driving a team in the toughest race of the year. He had imagined most women mushers were less serious about the whole thing than the men. Thinking back on the women who had won this race over the last few years, he knew this wasn’t the case. Winners were made of long, hard training and experience, and gender had little to do with it. Intelligent, well-conditioned, dedicated people, who planned ahead and could cope with all kinds of weather and trail conditions, won races.
