Smoke Bellew

by Jack London

  VI. THE RACE FOR NUMBER THREE.

  "Huh! Get on to the glad rags!"

  Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke,vainly attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he hadjust put on, was irritated.

  "They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy," Shorty went on. "Whatwas the tax?"

  "One hundred and fifty for the suit," Smoke answered. "The man wasnearly my own size. I thought it was remarkably reasonable. What are youkicking about?"

  "Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for ameat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit ofunderclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that lookedlike they'd been through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front,pardner. Pretty gay front. Say--?"

  "What do you want now?" Smoke demanded testily.

  "What's her name?"

  "There isn't any her, my friend. I'm to have dinner at Colonel Bowie's,if you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is you're enviousbecause I'm going into high society and you're not invited."

  "Ain't you some late?" Shorty queried with concern.

  "What do you mean?"

  "For dinner. They'll be eatin' supper when you get there."

  Smoke was about to explain with crudely elaborate sarcasm when he caughtthe twinkle in the other's eye. He went on dressing, with fingers thathad lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the throatof his soft cotton shirt.

  "Wisht I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry," Shortymurmured sympathetically. "I might 'a' fitted you out."

  By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The woollen sockswere too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly at Shorty, whoshook his head.

  "Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn't lend 'em to you. Back to themoccasins, pardner. You'd sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled gearlike that."

  "I paid fifteen dollars for them, second hand," Smoke lamented.

  "I reckon they won't be a man not in moccasins."

  "But there are to be women, Shorty. I'm going to sit down and eat withreal live women--Mrs. Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel toldme."

  "Well, moccasins won't spoil their appetite none," was Shorty's comment."Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?"

  "I don't know, unless he's heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It willtake a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for investment."

  "Reckon that's it. That's right, stick to the moccasins. Gee! That coatis sure wrinkled, an' it fits you a mite too swift. Just peck around atyour vittles. If you eat hearty you'll bust through. An' if them womenfolks gets to droppin' handkerchiefs, just let 'em lay. Don't do anypickin' up. Whatever you do, don't."

  As became a high-salaried expert and the representative of the greathouse of Guggenheim, Colonel Bowie lived in one of the most magnificentcabins in Dawson. Of squared logs, hand-hewn, it was two stories high,and of such extravagant proportions that it boasted a big living roomthat was used for a living room and for nothing else.

  Here were big bear-skins on the rough board floor, and on the wallshorns of moose and caribou. Here roared an open fireplace and a bigwood-burning stove. And here Smoke met the social elect of Dawson--notthe mere pick-handle millionaires, but the ultra-cream of a miningcity whose population had been recruited from all the world--men likeWarburton Jones, the explorer and writer; Captain Consadine of theMounted Police; Haskell, Gold Commissioner of the Northwest Territory;and Baron Von Schroeder, an emperor's favourite with an internationalduelling reputation.

  And here, dazzling in evening gown, he met Joy Gastell, whom hithertohe had encountered only on trail, befurred and moccasined. At dinner hefound himself beside her.

  "I feel like a fish out of water," he confessed. "All you folks areso real grand you know. Besides, I never dreamed such Oriental luxuryexisted in the Klondike. Look at Von Schroeder there. He's actually gota dinner jacket, and Consadine's got a starched shirt. I noticed he woremoccasins just the same. How do you like MY outfit?"

  He moved his shoulders about as if preening himself for Joy's approval.

  "It looks as if you'd grown stout since you came over the Pass," shelaughed.

  "Wrong. Guess again."

  "It's somebody else's."

  "You win. I bought it for a price from one of the clerks at the A. C.Company."

  "It's a shame clerks are so narrow-shouldered," she sympathized. "Andyou haven't told me what you think of MY outfit."

  "I can't," he said. "I'm out of breath. I've been living on trail toolong. This sort of thing comes to me with a shock, you know. I'd quiteforgotten that women have arms and shoulders. To-morrow morning, likemy friend Shorty, I'll wake up and know it's all a dream. Now, the lasttime I saw you on Squaw Creek--"

  "I was just a squaw," she broke in.

  "I hadn't intended to say that. I was remembering that it was on SquawCreek that I discovered you had feet."

  "And I can never forget that you saved them for me," she said. "I'vebeen wanting to see you ever since to thank you--" (He shrugged hisshoulders deprecatingly). "And that's why you are here to-night."

  "You asked the Colonel to invite me?"

  "No! Mrs. Bowie. And I asked her to let me have you at table. And here'smy chance. Everybody's talking. Listen, and don't interrupt. You knowMono Creek?"

  "Yes."

  "It has turned out rich--dreadfully rich. They estimate the claims asworth a million and more apiece. It was only located the other day."

  "I remember the stampede."

  "Well, the whole creek was staked to the sky-line, and all the feeders,too. And yet, right now, on the main creek, Number Three belowDiscovery is unrecorded. The creek was so far away from Dawson thatthe Commissioner allowed sixty days for recording after location. Everyclaim was recorded except Number Three below. It was staked by CyrusJohnson. And that was all. Cyrus Johnson has disappeared. Whether hedied, whether he went down river or up, nobody knows. Anyway, in sixdays, the time for recording will be up. Then the man who stakes it, andreaches Dawson first and records it, gets it."

  "A million dollars," Smoke murmured.

  "Gilchrist, who has the next claim below, has got six hundred dollarsin a single pan off bedrock. He's burned one hole down. And the claim onthe other side is even richer. I know."

  "But why doesn't everybody know?" Smoke queried skeptically.

  "They're beginning to know. They kept it secret for a long time, and itis only now that it's coming out. Good dog-teams will be at a premiumin another twenty-four hours. Now, you've got to get away as decently asyou can as soon as dinner is over. I've arranged it. An Indian will comewith a message for you. You read it, let on that you're very much putout, make your excuses, and get away."

  "I--er--I fail to follow."

  "Ninny!" she exclaimed in a half-whisper. "What you must do is to getout to-night and hustle dog-teams. I know of two. There's Hanson'steam, seven big Hudson Bay dogs--he's holding them at four hundred each.That's top price to-night, but it won't be to-morrow. And Sitka Charleyhas eight Malemutes he's asking thirty-five hundred for. To-morrow he'lllaugh at an offer of five thousand. Then you've got your own teamof dogs. And you'll have to buy several more teams. That's your workto-night. Get the best. It's dogs as well as men that will win thisrace. It's a hundred and ten miles, and you'll have to relay asfrequently as you can."

  "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 beforeshe 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 notafraid that you're afraid. It's a sporting proposition, if that'swhat you mean. A race for a million, and with some of the stiffestdog-mushers and travellers in the country entered against you. Theyhaven't entered yet, but by this time to-morrow they will, and dogs willbe worth what the richest man c
an afford to pay. Big Olaf is in town.He came up from Circle City last month. He is one of the most terribledog-mushers in the country, and if he enters he will be your mostdangerous man. Arizona Bill is another. He's been a professionalfreighter and mail-carrier for years. If he goes in, interest will becentered 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 tostand a show. After all, you know, you are still classed as a chechako.You haven't seen the four seasons go around. Nobody will take notice ofyou 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 forgivemyself for the trick I played on the Squaw Creek stampede unless youwin this Mono claim. And if any man can win this race against theold-timers, it's you."

  It was the way she said it. He felt warm all over, and in his heart andhead. He gave her a quick, searching look, involuntary and serious, andfor the moment that her eyes met his steadily, ere they fell, it seemedto him that he read something of vaster import than the claim CyrusJohnson 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 meed than all thegold in the Mono claim. He was aware of a movement of her hand in herlap next to his. Under the screen of the tablecloth he thrust his ownhand across and met a firm grip of woman's fingers that sent anotherwave of warmth through him.

  "What will Shorty say?" was the thought that flashed whimsically throughhis mind as he withdrew his hand. He glanced almost jealously at thefaces of Von Schroeder and Jones, and wondered if they had not divinedthe remarkableness and deliciousness of this woman who sat beside him.

  He was aroused by her voice, and realized that she had been speakingsome moments.

  "So you see, Arizona Bill is a white Indian," she was saying. "And BigOlaf is a bear wrestler, a king of the snows, a mighty savage. He canout-travel and out-endure an Indian, and he's never known any other lifebut 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 atraveller he is."

  "You're right," the Captain's voice boomed. "Big Olaf is the greatesttraveller in the Yukon. I'd back him against Old Nick himself forsnow-bucking and ice-travel. He brought in the government dispatches in1895, and he did it after two couriers were frozen on Chilkoot and thethird drowned in the open water of Thirty Mile."

  Smoke had travelled in a leisurely fashion up to Mono Creek, fearingto tire his dogs before the big race. Also, he had familiarized himselfwith every mile of the trail and located his relay camps. So many menhad entered the race that the hundred and ten miles of its course wasalmost a continuous village. Relay camps were everywhere along thetrail. Von Schroeder, who had gone in purely for the sport, had no lessthan eleven dog-teams--a fresh one for every ten miles. Arizona Billhad been forced to content himself with eight teams. Big Olaf had seven,which was the complement of Smoke. In addition, over two score of othermen were in the running. Not every day, even in the golden north, was amillion dollars the prize for a dog race. The country had been swept ofdogs. No animal of speed and endurance escaped the fine-tooth comb thathad raked the creeks and camps, and the prices of dogs had doubled andquadrupled 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 theYukon. On Number Three itself were fifty tents and over three hundreddogs. The old stakes, blazed and scrawled sixty days before by CyrusJohnson, still stood, and every man had gone over the boundaries of theclaim again and again, for the race with the dogs was to be precededby a foot and obstacle race. Each man had to relocate the claim forhimself, and this meant that he must place two center-stakes and fourcorner-stakes and cross the creek twice, before he could start forDawson with his dogs.

  Furthermore, there were to be no "sooners." Not until the stroke ofmidnight of Friday night was the claim open for relocation, and notuntil the stroke of midnight could a man plant a stake. This was theruling of the Gold Commissioner at Dawson, and Captain Consadine hadsent up a squad of mounted police to enforce it. Discussion had arisenabout the difference between sun-time and police-time, but Consadine hadsent forth his fiat that police-time went, and, further, that it was thewatch of Lieutenant Pollock that went.

  The Mono trail ran along the level creek-bed, and, less than two feetin width, was like a groove, walled on either side by the snowfall ofmonths. The problem of how forty-odd sleds and three hundred dogs wereto 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 everwas. 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 adozen teams abreast. I got a hunch right now they's goin' to be a heapof scrappin' before they get strung out. An' if any of it comes our way,you got to let me do the punchin'."

  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 bustedknuckle, 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 thechance."

  "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'llsure jerk you through to the Yukon. After that it's up to you an' thedogs. Say--what d'ye think Schroeder's scheme is? He's got his firstteam a quarter of a mile down the creek, an' he'll know it by a greenlantern. But we got him skinned. Me for the red flare every time."

  The day had been clear and cold, but a blanket of cloud formed acrossthe face of the sky, and the night came on warm and dark, with the hintof snow impending. The thermometer registered fifteen below zero, and inthe Klondike winter fifteen below is esteemed very warm.

  At a few minutes before midnight, leaving Shorty with the dogs fivehundred yards down the creek, Smoke joined the racers on Number Three.There were forty-five of them waiting the start for the thousandthousand dollars Cyrus Johnson had left lying in the frozen gravel.Each man carried six stakes and a heavy wooden mallet, and was clad in asmock-like parka of heavy cotton drill.

  Lieutenant Pollock, in a big bearskin coat, looked at his watch by thelight 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 handtick around.

  Forty-five hoods were thrown back from the parkas. Forty-five pairs ofhands unmittened, and forty-five pairs of moccasins pressed tensely intothe packed snow. Also, forty-five stakes were thrust into the snow, andthe same number of mallets lifted in the air.

  The shot rang out, and the mallets fell. Cyrus Johnson's right tothe million had expired. To prevent confusion, Lieutenant Pollockhad insisted that the lower center-stake be driven first, next thesouth-eastern; and so on around the four sides, including the uppercenter-stake on the way.

  Smoke drove in his stake and was away with the leading dozen. Fires hadbeen lighted at the corners, and by each fire stood a policeman, list inhand, checking off the names of the runners. A man was supposed to callout his name and show his face. There was to be no staking by proxywhile the real racer was off and away down the creek.

  At the first corner, beside Smoke's stake, Von Schroeder placed his. Themallets struck at the same instant. As they hammered, more arrived frombehind and with such impetuosity as to get in one another's way andcause jostling and shoving. Squirming through the press and calling hisname to the policeman, Smoke saw the Baron, struck in collision by oneof the rushers, hurled clean off his feet into the snow. But Smoke didnot wait. Others were still ahead of him. By
the light of the vanishingfire, he was certain that he saw the back, hugely looming, of Big Olaf,and at the southwestern corner Big Olaf and he drove their stakes sideby side.

  It was no light work, this preliminary obstacle race. The boundariesof the claim totalled nearly a mile, and most of it was over the unevensurface of a snow-covered, niggerhead flat. All about Smoke men trippedand fell, and several times he pitched forward himself, jarringly, onhands and knees. Once, Big Olaf fell so immediately in front of him asto bring him down on top.

  The upper center-stake was driven by the edge of the bank, and down thebank the racers plunged, across the frozen creek-bed, and up the otherside. Here, as Smoke clambered, a hand gripped his ankle and jerked himback. In the flickering light of a distant fire, it was impossible tosee who had played the trick. But Arizona Bill, who had been treatedsimilarly, rose to his feet and drove his fist with a crunch into theoffender's face. Smoke saw and heard as he was scrambling to his feet,but before he could make another lunge for the bank a fist dropped himhalf-stunned into the snow. He staggered up, located the man, half-swunga hook for his jaw, then remembered Shorty's warning and refrained. Thenext moment, struck below the knees by a hurtling body, he went downagain.

  It was a foretaste of what would happen when the men reached theirsleds. Men were pouring over the other bank and piling into the jam.They swarmed up the bank in bunches, and in bunches were dragged backby their impatient fellows. More blows were struck, curses rose fromthe panting chests of those who still had wind to spare, and Smoke,curiously visioning the face of Joy Gastell, hoped that the malletswould not be brought into play. Overthrown, trod upon, groping inthe snow for his lost stakes, he at last crawled out of the crush andattacked the bank farther along. Others were doing this, and it was hisluck to have many men in advance of him in the race for the northwesterncorner.

  Reaching the fourth corner, he tripped headlong and in the longsprawling fall lost his remaining stake. For five minutes he groped inthe darkness before he found it, and all the time the panting runnerswere passing him. From the last corner to the creek he began overtakingmen for whom the mile run had been too much. In the creek itself Bedlamhad broken loose. A dozen sleds were piled up and overturned, and nearlya hundred dogs were locked in combat. Among them men struggled, tearingthe tangled animals apart, or beating them apart with clubs. In thefleeting glimpse he caught of it, Smoke wondered if he had ever seen aDore grotesquery to compare.

  Leaping down the bank beyond the glutted passage, he gained thehard-footing of the sled-trail and made better time. Here, in packedharbors beside the narrow trail, sleds and men waited for runners thatwere still behind. From the rear came the whine and rush of dogs, andSmoke had barely time to leap aside into the deep snow. A sled torepast, and he made out the man kneeling and shouting madly. Scarcelywas it by when it stopped with a crash of battle. The excited dogs ofa harbored sled, resenting the passing animals, had got out of hand andsprung upon them.

  Smoke plunged around and by. He could see the green lantern of VonSchroeder and, just below it, the red flare that marked his own team.Two men were guarding Schroeder's dogs, with short clubs interposedbetween them and the trail.

  "Come on, you Smoke! Come on, you Smoke!" he could hear Shorty callinganxiously.

  "Coming!" he gasped.

  By the red flare, he could see the snow torn up and trampled, andfrom the way his partner breathed he knew a battle had been fought. Hestaggered to the sled, and, in a moment he was falling on it, Shorty'swhip snapped as he yelled: "Mush! you devils! Mush!"

  The dogs sprang into the breast-bands, and the sled jerked abruptlyahead. They were big animals--Hanson's prize team of Hudson Bays--andSmoke had selected them for the first stage, which included the tenmiles of Mono, the heavy going of the cut-off across the flat at themouth, and the first ten miles of the Yukon stretch.

  "How many are ahead?" he asked.

  "You shut up an' save your wind," Shorty answered. "Hi! you brutes! Hither up! Hit her up!"

  He was running behind the sled, towing on a short rope. Smoke could notsee him; nor could he see the sled on which he lay at full length. Thefires had been left in the rear, and they were tearing through a wall ofblackness as fast as the dogs could spring into it. This blackness wasalmost sticky, so nearly did it take on the seeming of substance.

  Smoke felt the sled heel up on one runner as it rounded an invisiblecurve, and from ahead came the snarls of beasts and the oaths of men.This was known afterward as the Barnes-Slocum Jam. It was the teams ofthese two men which first collided, and into it, at full career, piledSmoke's seven big fighters. Scarcely more than semi-domesticated wolves,the excitement of that night on Mono Creek had sent every dog fightingmad. The Klondike dogs, driven without reins, cannot be stopped exceptby voice, so that there was no stopping this glut of struggle thatheaped itself between the narrow rims of the creek. From behind, sledafter sled hurled into the turmoil. Men who had their teams nearlyextricated were overwhelmed by fresh avalanches of dogs--each animalwell fed, well rested, and ripe for battle.

  "It's knock down an' drag out an' plow through!" Shorty yelled in hispartner's ear. "An' watch out for your knuckles! You drag dogs out an'let me do the punchin'!"

  What happened in the next half hour Smoke never distinctly remembered.At the end he emerged exhausted, sobbing for breath, his jaw sore froma fist-blow, his shoulder aching from the bruise of a club, the bloodrunning warmly down one leg from the rip of a dog's fangs, and bothsleeves of his parka torn to shreds. As in a dream, while the battlestill raged behind, he helped Shorty reharness the dogs. One, dying,they cut from the traces, and in the darkness they felt their way to therepair of the disrupted harness.

  "Now you lie down an' get your wind back," Shorty commanded.

  And through the darkness the dogs sped, with unabated strength, downMono Creek, across the long cut-off, and to the Yukon. Here, at thejunction with the main river-trail, somebody had lighted a fire, andhere Shorty said good-bye. By the light of the fire, as the sled leapedbehind the flying dogs, Smoke caught another of the unforgettablepictures of the Northland. It was of Shorty, swaying and sinking downlimply in the snow, yelling his parting encouragement, one eye blackenedand closed, knuckles bruised and broken, and one arm, ripped andfang-torn, gushing forth a steady stream of blood.

  "How many ahead?" Smoke asked, as he dropped his tired Hudson Bays andsprang on the waiting sled at the first relay station.

  "I counted eleven," the man called after him, for he was already away,behind the leaping dogs.

  Fifteen miles they were to carry him on the next stage, which wouldfetch him to the mouth of White River. There were nine of them, but theycomposed his weakest team. The twenty-five miles between White River andSixty Mile he had broken into two stages because of ice-jams, and heretwo of his heaviest, toughest teams were stationed.

  He lay on the sled at full length, face-down, holding on with bothhands. Whenever the dogs slacked from topmost speed he rose to hisknees, and, yelling and urging, clinging precariously with one hand,threw his whip into them. Poor team that it was, he passed two sledsbefore White River was reached. Here, at the freeze-up, a jam had pileda barrier, allowing the open water, that formed for half a mile below,to freeze smoothly. This smooth stretch enabled the racers to makeflying exchanges of sleds, and down all the course they had placed theirrelays below the jams.

  Over the jam and out on to the smooth, Smoke tore along, calling loudly,"Billy! Billy!"

  Billy heard and answered, and by the light of the many fires on the ice,Smoke saw a sled swing in from the side and come abreast. Its dogs werefresh and overhauled his. As the sleds swerved toward each other heleaped across, and Billy promptly rolled off.

  "Where's Big Olaf?" Smoke cried.

  "Leading!" Billy's voice answered; and the fires were left behind, andSmoke was again flying through the wall of blackness.

  In the jams of that relay, where the way led across a chaos of up-endedice-cakes, and where Smoke slipped
off the forward end of the sled andwith a haul-rope toiled behind the wheel-dog, he passed three sleds.Accidents had happened, and he could hear the men cutting out dogs andmending harnesses.

  Among the jams of the next short relay into Sixty Mile, he passed twomore teams. And that he might know adequately what had happened to them,one of his own dogs wrenched a shoulder, was unable to keep up, and wasdragged in the harness. Its teammates, angered, fell upon it with theirfangs, and Smoke was forced to club them off with the heavy butt of hiswhip. As he cut the injured animal out, he heard the whining cries ofdogs behind him and the voice of a man that was familiar. It was VonSchroeder. Smoke called a warning to prevent a rear-end collision, andthe Baron, hawing his animals and swinging on the gee-pole, went by adozen feet to the side. Yet so impenetrable was the blackness that Smokeheard him pass but never saw him.

  On the smooth stretch of ice beside the trading-post at Sixty Mile,Smoke overtook two more sleds. All had just changed teams, and for fiveminutes they ran abreast, each man on his knees and pouring whip andvoice into the maddened dogs. But Smoke had studied out that portion ofthe trail, and now marked the tall pine on the bank that showed faintlyin the light of the many fires. Below that pine was not merely darkness,but an abrupt cessation of the smooth stretch. There the trail, heknew, narrowed to a single sled-width. Leaning out ahead, he caught thehaul-rope and drew his leaping sled up to the wheel-dog. He caught theanimal by the hind legs and threw it. With a snarl of rage it tried toslash him with its fangs, but was dragged on by the rest of the team.Its body proved an efficient brake, and the two other teams, stillabreast, dashed ahead into the darkness for the narrow way.

  Smoke heard the crash and uproar of their collision, released hiswheeler, sprang to the gee-pole, and urged his team to the right intothe soft snow where the straining animals wallowed to their necks. Itwas exhausting work, but he won by the tangled teams and gained thehard-packed trail beyond.

  On the relay out of Sixty Mile, Smoke had next to his poorest team, andthough the going was good, he had set it a short fifteen miles. Two moreteams would bring him into Dawson and to the gold-recorder's office, andSmoke had selected his best animals for the last two stretches. SitkaCharley himself waited with the eight Malemutes that would jerk Smokealong for twenty miles, and for the finish, with a fifteen-mile run, washis own team--the team he had had all winter and which had been with himin the search for Surprise Lake.

  The two men he had left entangled at Sixty Mile failed to overtake him,and, on the other hand, his team failed to overtake any of the threethat still led. His animals were willing, though they lacked staminaand speed, and little urging was needed to keep them jumping into it attheir best. There was nothing for Smoke to do but to lie face downwardand hold on. Now and again he would plunge out of the darkness intothe circle of light about a blazing fire, catch a glimpse of furred menstanding by harnessed and waiting dogs, and plunge into the darknessagain. Mile after mile, with only the grind and jar of the runners inhis ears, he sped on. Almost automatically he kept his place as the sledbumped ahead or half lifted and heeled on the swings and swerves of thebends. First one, and then another, without apparent rhyme or reason,three faces limned themselves on his consciousness: Joy Gastell's,laughing and audacious; Shorty's, battered and exhausted by the struggledown Mono Creek; and John Bellew's, seamed and rigid, as if cast iniron, so unrelenting was its severity. And sometimes Smoke wanted toshout aloud, to chant a paean of savage exultation, as he remembered theoffice of The Billow and the serial story of San Francisco which he hadleft unfinished, along with the other fripperies of those empty days.

  The grey twilight of morning was breaking as he exchanged his weary dogsfor the eight fresh Malemutes. Lighter animals than Hudson Bays, theywere capable of greater speed, and they ran with the supple tirelessnessof true wolves. Sitka Charley called out the order of the teams ahead.Big Olaf led, Arizona Bill was second, and Von Schroeder third. Thesewere the three best men in the country. In fact, ere Smoke had leftDawson, the popular betting had placed them in that order. While theywere racing for a million, at least half a million had been staked byothers on the outcome of the race. No one had bet on Smoke, who, despitehis several known exploits, was still accounted a chechako with much tolearn.

  As daylight strengthened, Smoke caught sight of a sled ahead, and, inhalf an hour, his own lead-dog was leaping at its tail. Not until theman turned his head to exchange greetings, did Smoke recognize himas Arizona Bill. Von Schroeder had evidently passed him. The trail,hard-packed, ran too narrowly through the soft snow, and for anotherhalf-hour Smoke was forced to stay in the rear. Then they topped anice-jam and struck a smooth stretch below, where were a number of relaycamps and where the snow was packed widely. On his knees, swinging hiswhip and yelling, Smoke drew abreast. He noted that Arizona Bill's rightarm hung dead at his side, and that he was compelled to pour leatherwith his left hand. Awkward as it was, he had no hand left with which tohold on, and frequently he had to cease from the whip and clutch to savehimself from falling off. Smoke remembered the scrimmage in the creekbed at Three Below Discovery, and understood. Shorty's advice had beensound.

  "What's happened?" Smoke asked, as he began to pull ahead.

  "I don't know," Arizona Bill answered. "I think I threw my shoulder outin the scrapping."

  He dropped behind very slowly, though when the last relay station wasin sight he was fully half a mile in the rear. Ahead, bunched together,Smoke could see Big Olaf and Von Schroeder. Again Smoke arose to hisknees, and he lifted his jaded dogs into a burst of speed such as a manonly can who has the proper instinct for dog-driving. He drew up closeto the tail of Von Schroeder's sled, and in this order the three sledsdashed out on the smooth going below a jam, where many men and many dogswaited. Dawson was fifteen miles away.

  Von Schroeder, with his ten-mile relays, had changed five miles back andwould change five miles ahead. So he held on, keeping his dogs at fullleap. Big Olaf and Smoke made flying changes, and their fresh teamsimmediately regained what had been lost to the Baron. Big Olaf led past,and Smoke followed into the narrow trail beyond.

  "Still good, but not so good," Smoke paraphrased Spencer to himself.

  Of Von Schroeder, now behind, he had no fear; but ahead was the greatestdog-driver in the country. To pass him seemed impossible. Again andagain, many times, Smoke forced his leader to the other's sled-tail, andeach time Big Olaf let out another link and drew away. Smoke contentedhimself with taking the pace, and hung on grimly. The race was notlost until one or the other won, and in fifteen miles many things couldhappen.

  Three miles from Dawson something did happen. To Smoke's surprise, BigOlaf rose up and with oaths and leather proceeded to fetch out the lastounce of effort in his animals. It was a spurt that should have beenreserved for the last hundred yards instead of being begun three milesfrom the finish. Sheer dog-killing that it was, Smoke followed. His ownteam was superb. No dogs on the Yukon had had harder work or were inbetter condition. Besides, Smoke had toiled with them, and eaten andbedded with them, and he knew each dog as an individual and how best towin in to the animal's intelligence and extract its last least shred ofwillingness.

  They topped a small jam and struck the smooth going below. Big Olafwas barely fifty feet ahead. A sled shot out from the side and drew intoward him, and Smoke understood Big Olaf's terrific spurt. He had triedto gain a lead for the change. This fresh team that waited to jerk himdown the home stretch had been a private surprise of his. Even the menwho had backed him to win had had no knowledge of it.

  Smoke strove desperately to pass during the exchange of sleds. Liftinghis dogs to the effort, he ate up the intervening fifty feet. Withurging and pouring of leather, he went to the side and on until hislead-dog was jumping abreast of Big Olaf's wheeler. On the other side,abreast, was the relay sled. At the speed they were going, Big Olaf didnot dare try the flying leap. If he missed and fell off, Smoke would bein the lead and the race would be lost.

  Big Olaf tried to spur
t ahead, and he lifted his dogs magnificently, butSmoke's leader still continued to jump beside Big Olaf's wheeler. Forhalf a mile the three sleds tore and bounced along side by side. Thesmooth stretch was nearing its end when Big Olaf took the chance. As theflying sleds swerved toward each other, he leaped, and the instant hestruck he was on his knees, with whip and voice spurting the fresh team.The smooth stretch pinched out into the narrow trail, and he jumped hisdogs ahead and into it with a lead of barely a yard.

  A man was not beaten until he was beaten, was Smoke's conclusion, anddrive no matter how, Big Olaf failed to shake him off. No team Smoke haddriven that night could have stood such a killing pace and kept up withfresh dogs--no team save this one. Nevertheless, the pace WAS killingit, and as they began to round the bluff at Klondike City, he could feelthe pitch of strength going out of his animals. Almost imperceptiblythey lagged behind, and foot by foot Big Olaf drew away until he led bya score of yards.

  A great cheer went up from the population of Klondike City assembledon the ice. Here the Klondike entered the Yukon, and half a mile away,across the Klondike, on the north bank, stood Dawson. An outburst ofmadder cheering arose, and Smoke caught a glimpse of a sled shooting outto him. He recognized the splendid animals that drew it. They were JoyGastell's. And Joy Gastell drove them. The hood of her squirrel-skinparka was tossed back, revealing the cameo-like oval of her faceoutlined 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 ofhis 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 whinedand 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 yardby yard drew up abreast, the great crowd on the Dawson bank went mad. ItWAS a great crowd, for the men had dropped their tools on all the creeksand come down to see the outcome of the race, and a dead heat at the endof a hundred and ten miles justified any madness.

  "When you're in the lead I'm going to drop off!" Joy cried out over hershoulder.

  Smoke tried to protest.

  "And watch out for the dip curve half way up the bank," she warned.

  Dog by dog, separated by half a dozen feet, the two teams were runningabreast. 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 roara warning, but too late. His lead-dog, incensed at being passed, swervedin to the attack. His fangs struck Joy's leader on the flank. The rivalteams flew at one another's throats. The sleds overran the fightingbrutes and capsized. Smoke struggled to his feet and tried to lift Joyup. But she thrust him from her, crying: "Go!"

  On foot, already fifty feet in advance, was Big Olaf, still intent onfinishing the race. Smoke obeyed, and when the two men reached the footof the Dawson bank, he was at the other's heels. But up the bank BigOlaf lifted his body hugely, regaining a dozen feet.

  Five blocks down the main street was the gold-recorder's office. Thestreet was packed as for the witnessing of a parade. Not so easily thistime did Smoke gain to his giant rival, and when he did he was unableto pass. Side by side they ran along the narrow aisle between the solidwalls of fur-clad, cheering men. Now one, now the other, with greatconvulsive jerks, gained an inch or so, only to lose it immediatelyafter.

  If the pace had been a killing one for their dogs, the one they now setthemselves was no less so. But they were racing for a million dollarsand greatest honour in Yukon Country. The only outside impression thatcame to Smoke on that last mad stretch was one of astonishment thatthere should be so many people in the Klondike. He had never seen themall at once before.

  He felt himself involuntarily lag, and Big Olaf sprang a full stride inthe lead. To Smoke it seemed that his heart would burst, while he hadlost 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 puteven greater pressure of will upon them and compelled them again tocarry him to his giant competitor's side.

  The open door of the Recorder's office appeared ahead of them. Both menmade a final, futile spurt. Neither could draw away from the other, andside by side they hit the doorway, collided violently, and fell headlongon the office floor.

  They sat up, but were too exhausted to rise. Big Olaf, the sweat pouringfrom him, breathing with tremendous, painful gasps, pawed the air andvainly tried to speak. Then he reached out his hand with unmistakablemeaning; Smoke extended his, and they shook.

  "It's a dead heat," Smoke could hear the Recorder saying, but it was asif in a dream, and the voice was very thin and very far away. "And allI can say is that you both win. You'll have to divide the claim betweenyou. You're partners."

  Their two arms pumped up and down as they ratified the decision. BigOlaf nodded his head with great emphasis, and spluttered. At last he gotit out.

  "You damn chechako," was what he said, but in the saying of it wasadmiration. "I don't know how you done it, but you did."

  Outside, the great crowd was noisily massed, while the office waspacking and jamming. Smoke and Big Olaf essayed to rise, and eachhelped the other to his feet. Smoke found his legs weak under him, andstaggered 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 finegirl, eh?"

  "One damn fine girl," Smoke agreed.