CHAPTER III
THE FIRST STEP
With the boy's more frequent visits Baldy's horizon began to widen almost imperceptibly. He even looked forward to those moments when, with George Allan and his friend Danny Kelly, Ben stood beside him discussing his points and possibilities.
Up to the present his world had included but two friends—the boy and Moose Jones. Annoyed and sometimes abused at the Camp, he had felt that there was no real understanding between himself and most of those with whom he came into association, and it had made him gloomy and suspicious. Now he knew, with the intuition so often found in children and animals, that George and Danny, as well as Ben, comprehended, at least in part, the emotions he could not adequately express—gratitude for kindness and a desire to please; and in return he endeavored to show his appreciation of this understanding by shy overtures of friendliness. He even licked George's hand one day—a caress heretofore reserved exclusively for Ben Edwards—and he escorted Danny Kelly the full length of the town to his home in the East End, much as he dreaded the confines of the narrow city streets where he was brought into close contact with strange people and strange dogs.
At Golconda, in his absorbing affection for the boy, he had more or less ignored the others of his kind—they meant nothing to him. But now the advantages of plenty of food and excellent care were almost offset by his occasional contact with the quarrelsome dogs of the street, and his constant companionship with the distinguished company into which he had come reluctantly and in which he seemed so unwelcome.
In "Scotty" Baldy discerned a compelling personality to whom he rendered willing allegiance and respect, as well as a dawning affection. And it was with much gratification that he had heard occasionally after inspection comments in a tone that contained no trace of regret at his presence, even if it had as yet inspired no particular enthusiasm. To be sure Allan found some merit in the least promising dogs as a rule, and perhaps the faint praise he was beginning to bestow on Baldy had in it more or less of the impersonal approval he gave to all dogs who did not prove themselves hopelessly bad. But it seemed at least a step in the right direction when "Scotty" had said, replying to criticism of the Woman, "No, he is certainly not fierce, and by no means so morose as he looks. So far I must confess he's proving himself a pretty good sort."
Of course even the Woman, who admitted frankly that first impressions counted much with her, knew that it was not always wise to judge by appearances, for she had seen the successful development of the most unlikely material. There was the case of Tom, Dick, and Harry. No one would ever have supposed in seeing them, so alert and with the quickness and grace of a cat in their movements, that in their feeble mangy infancy they had only been saved from drowning by their excellent family connections, and their appealing charm of responsiveness. A responsiveness that in maturity made them favorites with every one who knew them, and prompted the tactful ways that convinced each admirer that his approval was the last seal to their satisfaction in the fame they had won. When Tom leaned against people confidingly, and put up his paw in cordial greeting; and Dick and Harry, so much alike that it was nearly impossible to tell them apart, stood waiting eagerly for the inevitable words of praise, it was hard indeed to realize that their perfect manners were a cloak for morals that rough, uncultured Baldy would condemn utterly.
With the departure of the last boats of the summer there is no connecting link with the great, unfrozen outside, except the wireless telegraph and the United States Government Dog Team Mail that is brought fifteen hundred miles, in relays, over the long white trail from Valdez. Then, with the early twilight of the long Arctic winter, which lasts until the dawn of the brilliant sunshine and pleasant warmth of May, there come the Dog Days of Nome. Days that are heralded by an increased activity in dog circles, a mysterious fascination that weaves itself about all prospective entries to the races, and the introduction of a strange dialect called "Deep Dog Dope," which is the popular means of communication between all people regardless of age, sex or nationality—from the Federal Judge on the Bench to the tiniest tots in Kindergarten.
The town gives itself up completely to the gripping intensities and ardors of this period when all dog men assemble in appropriate places to talk over the prospects of the coming Racing Season. Accordingly George and Danny were in the habit of meeting in the Kennel, each afternoon, to consider the burning questions of the hour, with all of the certain knowledge and wide experience that belonged to their mature years—for George and Danny were seven and eight respectively.
Often Ben, whose mother had obtained work in town so that he might go to school regularly, joined in these important discussions; and while somewhat older than his companions, he greatly enjoyed being with them, for they were manly little fellows and had picked up much valuable dog lore from "Scotty" and Matt.
The Woman, too, for no apparent reason, was frequently at these serious conclaves, and was apt to voice rather trifling views on the weighty matters in debate. George felt that she was entitled only to the courteous toleration one accords the weaker sex in matters too deep for their inconsequent minds to grasp fully; for even if she was his father's racing partner, she had openly acknowledged that she considered dogs a pastime, and not a life study, which naturally proved her mental limitations.
THE WOMAN
One of the events already assured was a race for boys under nine years of age. "It's too bad you're too old for it, Ben," George had exclaimed sympathetically. "Father's told Danny and me we can use some of his dogs; and he'd 'a' been glad t' do the same for you. When I want t' drive fast dogs, and go t' the Moving Pictures at night, and drink coffee, I wish I was old too; but now I can see that gettin' old's pretty tough on a feller sometimes."
"Mebbe there'll be a race fer the older boys later," replied Ben hopefully. "I dunno as I could do much myself, but I sure would like t' try Baldy out. He minds so quick I think he'd be a fine leader; an' it looks like he'd be fast from the way he chases rabbits and squirrels out on the tundra."
"You can't allers tell about that," observed Dan pessimistically. "I got a dog that's a corker when he's just chasin' things; but when I put a harness on him he ain't fit for a High School Girl's Racin' Team, an' you know what girls is for gettin' speed out of a dog. 'You poor tired little doggie, you can stop right here an' rest if you want to; I don't care if they do get ahead of us,'" and Danny finished his remarks in the high falsetto and mincing inflection he attributed to the youthful members of a sex that in his opinion, as well as in George's, has no right to engage in the masculine occupation of Dog Mushing.
"Of course," said George, looking thoughtfully at Baldy, who was lying contentedly at Ben's feet, and giving voice to the wisdom of "Scotty" or Matt in such discussions, "of course, in a dog that's goin' in for the Big Race, you got t' have more'n speed. You can't depend on just that for four hundred and eight miles. There's got t' be lots of endurance an' the dogs had ought t' really enjoy racin' t' do their best. But for this race we're goin' in, Danny, I guess speed's the whole thing. Speed, an' the dog's mindin' you." George glanced involuntarily toward Jack McMillan, who sat with his head resting against the Woman's knee. "You can't do anythin' at all, no matter how fast dogs is, if they don't mind."
"I'm afraid, Mr. McMillan," commented the Woman seriously, "that these personalities are meant for you. Just because your first owner spoiled you, and the second paid the highest price ever given for a dog in the North, all accuse you of thinking yourself far too important to be classed with the common herd whose chief virtue is obedience. They say you lost a great race by being ungovernable. Guilty, or not guilty?" The brown eyes that had been wont to blaze so fiercely now looked pleadingly into the Woman's face, and the sable muzzle was pressed more closely against her. "They started you off all wrong, Jack. They let you become headstrong, and then tried to force you arbitrarily into their ways, instead of persuading you. If you had been a human being, all this would have been considered Temperament, but being only a dog it was Temper, and was dealt with as such." McMillan gravely extended his paw in appreciation of her championship.
"Oh, I didn't only just mean Jack when I was talkin' about dogs not mindin'," explained George with embarrassed haste; for he knew of the Woman's fondness for the dog and did not wish to hurt her feelings, much as he condemned her judgment in selecting such a favorite.
Her preference had dated from the night when she had entered the Kennel after a long absence, and had seen the stranger in the half light of the June midnight. He had changed somewhat since the imperious days when he had threatened the life of his trainer, and she had not recognized the Incorrigible in the handsome dog who had greeted her with such flattering cordiality.
He soon manifested an abject devotion to her, and would barely listen even to "Scotty" when she was near—the moment he heard her footsteps howling insistently till she ignored all of the others and came directly to him. It became a matter of pride with her to take him into the streets where people would still look askance at the erstwhile "man-eater," and comment on her courage in handling the "brute." While she and the "brute" had the little joke between them, which she later confided to Ben, that Jack McMillan's misdemeanors were merely the result of an undisciplined nature handled unsympathetically, and that at heart he was the gentlest dog in Nome.
"Jack minds all right now," ventured Ben. "I seen him the other day with Mr. Allan, an' he minded as good as any of 'em—even Kid."
"Well, none of them could do better than that. 'Scotty' says that Kid has every admirable quality that a dog could possibly possess, and that without a doubt he is the most promising racing leader in Alaska. But of course Jack would have to mind or he would not be here. The first thing a new dog must realize is that 'Scotty' is the sole authority, and that obedience is the first law of the Kennel. Even with his first racing driver I believe it was more a case of misunderstanding on both sides than wilful disobedience. But it grew to a point where it became almost a matter of life or death for one or the other."
"Moose Jones said they had t' break his tusks t' use him at all, an' that it took three men t' hold him away from his driver sometimes; an' that 'Scotty' was the only man in the whole North that could git the best of him without breakin' his spirit. An' he seems terrible fond o' 'Scotty'—I mean Mr. Allan—now."
"You may call him 'Scotty,' Ben; he doesn't mind in the least. He's 'Scotty' to every Alaskan from Juneau to Barrow, Eskimos included—age no restraint. Yes, Jack is fond of 'Scotty,' but it took a battle royal to bring about this permanent peace."
"It's a wonder he wasn't killed before you an' 'Scotty' got him, if they was all so scared t' handle him."
"He would have been killed except that his enormous strength and unusual alertness made him too valuable. So in spite of their fears they kept him, but he was watched incessantly; and after his tusks were broken he became even more rebellious, and grew to distrust every one about him. Poor old fellow." She turned the handsome head toward the boy. "Look at him, Ben. Would you believe that they used to frighten naughty children by telling them that Jack was out looking for them?"
It was a fact that his name had once carried a suggestion of grim terror and impending disaster in Nome. And the dark hint that McMillan of the Broken Tusks was in the neighborhood struck consternation to the hearts of infant malefactors, and had been the source of much unwilling virtue, and many a politic repentance on the part of those offenders hitherto only impressed by the threatened arrival of the Policeman.
Ben regarded Jack with admiration and pity. He was sorry for even a dog that has been misunderstood.
"No, ma'am, he don't look vicious, but he sure does look powerful. If a man had a whole team like Jack there'd hardly be a chanct t' beat him, I s'pose."
"I'm not so sure of that, Ben. Of course the team counts for a great deal; so, too, does the skill of the driver. But there are many other things that enter into this contest that do not have to be considered usually. Given a mile of smooth track and horses in perfect condition, well mounted, the fastest one is apt to win. In a race that lasts for over three days and nights, however, through the roughest sort of country, in weather that may range from a thaw to a blizzard, and with fifteen or twenty dogs to manage, the Luck of the Trail is an enormous factor. One team may run into a storm, and be delayed for hours, that another may escape entirely; and a trivial accident may put the best team and driver entirely out of commission."
"That's so," agreed Danny. "That's what happened the year 'Scotty' lost the race to Seppala, an' came in second. Don't you know, George, your father told us it was near the end o' the run, an' the dogs was gettin' pretty tired, so he put a loose leader at the head t' give 'em new life—sort t' ginger 'em up. I guess that dog was as tired as the rest, an' nervous, 'cause he missed the trail in a terrible blow an' got separated from 'Scotty' an' went back t' the Road House they'd left last, like he'd been learned t' do. O' course 'Scotty' looked for him a while an' then went back for him. But it lost the race, all right, an' the cinch he had on breakin' the record. With them four hours lost, an' what he done later, he'd 'a' made the best time ever known in a dog race in Alaska. Gee, it was awful."
The Woman sighed. "Well, at least they can't blame the loss of that race on you, can they, Jack? It certainly was hard luck, but we will have to be good sports and try it again. Perhaps you'll develop a dog star of the first magnitude for us in your race, boys."
George and Danny looked serious. It was a difficult problem—this assembling of a racing team, and the responsibility weighed heavily upon them. Why, it meant the possibility of making a juvenile Record, and winning a Cup, and naturally required a critical consideration of even the smallest details.
"If I could only take some o' the Sweepstakes Dogs," mused George regretfully, "it 'ud be dead easy; but Father says it wouldn't be fair t' the fellers that hasn't a racin' stable t' pick from. We got t' use some o' the untried ones. I been thinkin' o' Spot for a leader. He seems sort o' awkward, 'cause he's raw-boned, an' ain't filled out yet; but all the other dogs like him, an' he'd ruther run than eat."
"Isn't he pretty young for that position?" hazarded the Woman. "Let me see, he can't be much more than a year old now."
She remembered when he had been a common little fellow, but a short time ago, sprawling in every mud-puddle, or wobbling uncertainly after the many strange alluring things in the streets. Matt, who seemed to have second sight in regard to the invisible, latent good points in all horses and dogs, had picked him up in the pound for a mere nothing; and to him there was granted the vision of a brilliant future for the vagrant puppy. "Mark my words," he had said decisively when Spot's fate hung in the balance, "you can't go wrong on him; he'll be a credit to us all some day." And so Spot was rescued from death, or at least from a life of poverty and obscurity, and given to George Allan to become his constant companion.
"You know," she persisted, "if a leader is too young he's apt to become over-zealous and important the way Irish did the day we loaned him to Charlie Thompson in the first Moose Handicap. Don't you remember he was disgusted at the way they were being managed by a rank novice, so he took his place in front of a rival team that was being well driven, and led them to victory, with the whole town cheering and yelling? You don't want that to happen to you, because your leader is inexperienced."
"It ain't the same thing at all," explained George patiently; for it is ever the man's part to try to be patient with the feminine ignorance of dogs and baseball and other essential things about which women seem to have no intuition. "You see, I ain't goin' to drive him loose. A dog shouldn't ever be a loose leader unless he's a wonder at managin' all the rest, an' young dogs ain't generally had the trainin' for it. After a dog has showed he can find the trail, an' keep it, an' set the pace, an' make the others mind him, bein' a loose leader's kind of an honor he's promoted to; like bein' a General in the army. He don't have t' be hitched up to the tow-line any more, an' pull; he just has t' think, an' keep the team out o' trouble."
"It's too bad that dogs aren't driven with lines instead of spoken orders—then there wouldn't be all of the bother about a leader every time." Both George and Danny looked at her for a moment with a contempt they barely succeeded in concealing. Even Ben Edwards was unpleasantly surprised, and he was not given to regarding her vagaries with unfriendly criticism.
Drive with lines! Bother about a leader! Why, if dogs were driven with lines there would be no more interest in driving a dog team than there is in driving a delivery wagon, or running an automobile. All of the fascination of having your dogs answer to your will, voluntarily and intelligently, would be lost in the mechanical response to the jerk and the pull of the reins.
She was utterly hopeless. There was no use of a further waste of words with her on such matters.
George turned to Danny and Ben. They were discerning, and capable of grasping a dog man's point of view. "Then there's Queen, for one wheeler. You know we're only allowed three dogs, an' we got t' be mighty careful."
"I expect it's pretty near 's important t' git the right wheel dogs as 'tis a leader, ain't it, George? Bein' next t' the sled an' so close t' the driver an' load, they allers seem t' kinda manage the business end o' things."
"That's right, Ben. That's why we got t' be sure o' gettin' good wheelers. In racin' there's no load, but it takes some managin' just the same t' keep the sled right on side hills an' goin' down steep slopes. O' course in a short race I wouldn't get into the sled at all, an' on the runners at the back I can get my feet on the brake easy. But Father an' Matt say that you want your wheelers t' know just what their duties is if the brake gets out o' order, or any thin' goes wrong."
"Wheelers have to be clever, and strong and tractable then—rather a big order," murmured the Woman somewhat meekly, as one seeking information.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Danny politely, "all o' that, an' I was just wonderin' if Queen 'ud do for the place."
Queen, another present of Matt's to George, was a Gordon Setter with a strong admixture of native blood, and was hopeless as a regular team dog because of her high-strung and irritable disposition. Naturally nervous, she had become, with the advent of her first family, so fierce that it was dangerous for any one to approach her except George, and for him she cheerfully left her puppies to be of service in sled pulling.
"Oh, I think she'll do; when you know Queen an' like her she ain't so bad; an' besides not bein' able t' take any o' the real racers don't leave us much choice."
"Do you—don't you think you could use Baldy?" suggested Ben eagerly. "He's no locomotive like McMillan, ner a flyin' machine like them Tolman dogs an' Irish an' Rover; but you've no idea how powerful an' willin' he is till you've tried him. Just give him a show, George. I'm 'most sure he'd make good. Moose Jones allers said he would."
There was a moment of serious consideration on the part of George, while Danny eyed Baldy critically, and remarked with discrimination, "Better take him; some o' these common lookin' dogs has the right stuff in 'em. If looks was everythin' I guess you an' me 'ud be scrappin' over Oolik Lomen or Margaret Winston, that new fox-hound Russ Downing just got from Kentucky. But you an' me know too much t' get took in by just good looks, George."
"All right, Ben. I'll take Baldy for the other wheel dog," said George as he ran his hand over Baldy's sturdy, muscular body. "He'll be able to show somethin' o' what's in him in this dash. Now we'd better see about Danny's team."
The Woman's observation that she thought Jemima, being black, would make a more artistic wheel-mate for Queen from the standpoint of color harmony, than would white-faced sable Baldy, was silently ignored, as was merited.
And so, in defiance of Art, and in spite of her evident prejudice against him, Baldy made one of George Allan's Racing Team.
Danny, after much discussion and deep thought, selected Judge for his leader, and Jimmie and Pete as wheelers. They were all steady and reliable, and made up a more dependable team than George's uncertain combination of youthful Spot, fiery Queen, and untried Baldy.
Ben was elated that the latter had been accepted by such experts as being worthy a place in the coming event. And as he left the Kennel to rush home to tell his mother the great news, he pictured Baldy in his coming rôle of wheeler in so distinguished a company. "I'm mighty glad I give him up when I did," he thought cheerfully. "Baldy is sure gettin' his chanct now."
