CHAPTER X
THE SOLOMON DERBY
The morning of the Solomon Derby dawned clear and cold. It was twenty degrees below zero, but was ideal racing weather, as there was no wind; and the course was reported in excellent condition.
"This is the first time I ever prepared for a race," remarked Allan as he examined the different dogs carefully, "that I have not been looking forward to it with the keenest pleasure. I was mighty fond of Kid, and had trained him with more care than any other dog I have handled except old Dubby. And Kid was perfectly adapted to lead this particular team, for the dogs were so willing to defer to him without any ill-feeling. His loss is a severe handicap now, I can tell you. Somehow he was so young and vigorous that the possibility of anything serious happening to him did not occur to me; he had never been ailing a day in his life. Generally I have at least one other dog fairly well prepared to lead if necessary; but I was so determined to make a marvel of Kid that I did not take that precaution, and at present there is not a single one that I consider up to the mark for such a race as this."
"Why not try Tom?" suggested the Woman. "The Tolman dogs are all intelligent, and these have never known anything but racing all their lives, and must have absorbed a lot of knowledge about it, even if they have not been leaders. Besides, you have had Tom in the lead a few times, have you not?"
"Yes, once or twice lately to rest Kid, and," ruefully, "the result was not one that fills me with any confidence in him for a really important event like this. The Tolmans, you know, never fall below the necessary standard in anything, neither do they ever rise above it. They are all right in the rank and file where their thinking is done for them; but as for leading—" the man shrugged his shoulders expressively.
"Well, if Tom wouldn't do, there's no use talkin' 'bout Dick and Harry; fer Tom is the smartest o' that bunch. But he ain't popular with the rest o' the team, like Kid was. Them Tolmans has a high-handed way to 'em that some won't stand fer," remarked Matt as he began to remove the racing harness from the hooks and place it on the floor beside the tow-line, which was stretched out in the middle of the Kennel.
Dan, Ben and George had been considering the predicament gravely as George bestowed even more than his usual attention upon Spot's appearance.
"Spot," he observed with repressed pride, "ain't had much 'sperience, but he won a great race just the same. Don't forget that, Dad."
"He's a trifle young," replied "Scotty," "and besides," slyly, "we might meet an Eskimo hunter somewhere on the way."
Dan claimed recognition for the Mego "houn'" pups, especially Judge, and the Woman, with some hesitation, spoke of McMillan; but Allan gave valid reasons why they were not eligible.
"Not much time left," announced the Big Man as he, with the Peril, paced restlessly up and down in front of the Kennel.
"Scotty" pondered anxiously, for his decision must be made immediately. He walked over to Rex, regarding him intently.
"Do you believe," said a low, faltering voice beside him, "that—that Baldy could lead? Him and Kid took us safe over the Golden Gate Divide in that terrible blizzard, an' mebbe he learnt somethin' about leadin' from Kid that night. He's mighty willin' an' strong, an'—"
"True, Ben; that idea had just come to me, too. I am absolutely sure I can depend upon him to do his level best. Whether he is fast enough is the question." With a sigh he added, "Well, fast or slow, there's not much choice. I'll have to fall back upon Baldy to-day. Matt," he called, "you may put Baldy in the lead."
"Baldy in the lead!" exclaimed Matt in astonishment. "Why, except fer a time or so that we've drove him that way t'kinda fill out, he's never been in the lead since we got him. If we're as shy on leaders as all that, I'd hook up Mego; she's still good, if she is old. But Baldy!"
"Surely, surely, 'Scotty,'" pleaded the Woman, "you'll not use an untried dog to-day of all days. Baldy has never shown anything more than just ordinary speed, and you know a leader has to set the pace for them all. If he hasn't the pride in his work, the spirit, he's a failure; and Baldy," desperately, "is just a plodder."
But "Scotty" was firm. "He's more than that; you couldn't see what he did in the storm on the Hot Springs Trail. He's our best chance." Then, "Baldy in the lead, Matt, and be quick; we're almost due now at the post." And so it was Baldy who led the Allan and Darling entry in the Solomon Derby.
It took the strongest self-control and the keenest desire not to shake "Scotty's" faith in him, to keep Baldy from bolting when he moved through those throngs whose nearness roused in him such unaccountable fear.
Most of the dogs, now more or less accustomed to these gatherings, stood quietly indifferent to the clamor and confusion.
Jack McMillan was distinctly annoyed by it all; he did not wish to have strangers pushing against him, stroking his back, and even taking liberties with his velvety ears. What was the use of a Black Past, if it did not protect one from such unwelcome familiarities?
Tom, Dick and Harry, as usual, were charmed with the situation; for they dearly loved any sort of a demonstration in which they could figure conspicuously. Tom, ever anxious to be in the public eye, glanced about and, seeing the United States Marshal, who was known to be an ardent admirer of the Allan and Darling team, jumped upon him, demanding recognition, which was cordially granted.
Baldy, to whom the whole episode was trying in the extreme, did not even resent this little play for favor in official circles, so anxious was he to be over the ordeal, and out in the open speeding away toward the dark and frowning cliffs of Cape Nome, in the dim distance.
Two teams at intervals of ten minutes had started before them, and there were three others to follow.
As it was only sixty-five miles to Solomon and back, Allan decided to try to pass the teams in front, even if he acted as trail-breaker and pace-maker; for there was no necessity in so short a race for generalship in the matter of feeding and resting.
Shortly after they left Fort Davis, four miles down the coast, they could see John Johnson ahead, and still beyond him a rapidly moving dot which Allan knew to be Fred Ayer with his "Ayeroplanes," as the Woman had dubbed them; facetiously, but with a certain trepidation. For that splendid team had been successful in many of the shorter races, and bade fair to develop into dangerous antagonists in the longer ones.
But the Allan and Darling dogs, urged on constantly by "Scotty," went forward at an even gait that soon lessened the space between themselves and the Siberians; when, having passed them, they gained perceptibly upon the others.
The "Ayeroplanes" seemed almost to float along the surface of the snow, so light and smooth was their pace, so harmonious their team action.
But as if impelled by a hidden force he had never felt before, Baldy sturdily forged on and on, till they, too, were left behind. A new fervor thrilled him as he determined to show that he was more than "just dog." No understudy on the stage, given an unexpected opportunity, ever desired more ardently to eclipse the star than did Baldy to fill poor Kid's place.
How they flew over the ground; how exhilarating the air; how light the sled. And then it suddenly dawned upon Baldy that the sled was too light. When Allan was not running behind with a tight grasp on the handle-bars, he was usually perched at the back on the projecting runners; and for some time the dog had not noticed this additional weight. Then, too, he was beginning to miss his master's voice—"Hi, there, Tom, Dick, Harry, snowbirds in sight; rabbits, Spot; road house, Barney." Of course all of the dogs knew perfectly well that it was only a joke; that snowbirds, rabbits and road houses are things that do not concern you at all when you are being driven in a race. But they enjoyed the little pleasantry, nevertheless, and it gave them delightful subjects to think about that might become possibilities when they were not in harness.
If "Scotty" was not addressing them personally, he was often singing bits of Scotch ballads, or whistling scraps of rag-time, which was wonderfully cheering, and gave them a sense of companionship with him.
At last the instinct that all was not right was too strong for Baldy. Stopping suddenly, he looked back and discovered that they were driverless.
He realized that such halts were most unwise; but the team without Allan was as a ship without a Captain and to Baldy there was but one thing to do—to find "Scotty" at all hazards.
For an instant there was danger of a mutiny amongst the dogs. Tom, Dick and Harry tacitly agreed that it was a marvelous chance to make that snowbird joke a charming reality; there was a stirring of McMillan's fiery blood, for he still admitted but one source of control; a plump fluffy hare, scurrying by within range of Spot's young eyes inspired him with a desire to give chase, as once again he quite forgot the grave importance of filling a position in a racing team.
But Baldy, knowing that the time for action had come, that his supremacy as a leader must be acknowledged, and at once, firmly held his ground. Turning, he faced them fearlessly. There was a low ominous growl, a smouldering light in his strange, somber eyes, a baring of his sharp white fangs. Yet it was something else, a something in the very nature of the dog, in his steadfast spirit, his indomitable will, that made the others feel in some subtle, final way that they must obey him. So when he swung round they followed him as unswervingly as they would have followed Kid.
Far away in the whiteness, Baldy saw a black spot toward which he sped with mad impatience. It grew more and more distinct, till, beside it, he saw that it was his master, lying pale, motionless and blood-stained in the trail. From a deep gash on his head a crimson stream oozed and froze, matting his hair and the fur on his parka.
Baldy stopped short, quivering with an unknown dread. There was something terrifying in the tense body, so still, so mute. He licked the pallid face, the cold hands, and placed a gentle paw upon the man's breast, scratching softly to see if he could not gain some response. There was no answer to his loving appeal; and throwing back his head, there broke from him the weird, wild wail of the Malamute, his inheritance from some wolf ancestor. The other dogs joined the mournful chorus, and then, as it died away, he tried again and again to rouse his silent master.
Moment after moment passed, the time seemed endless; but finally the warm tongue and the insistent paw did their work; for there was a slight movement, a flicker of the eyelids, and then "Scotty" lifted himself upon his elbow and spoke to them.
He was hopelessly confused. What was he doing in the snow, in the bitter cold, soaked in blood, and with his team beside him? Where was Kid?
Then it all came back to him; he remembered he was in a race—the Solomon Derby, and Kid was dead. That with Baldy in the lead they had gone ahead of the other teams at a terrific speed, when he heard something snap. Thinking it might be a runner, he had leaned over the side of the sled to look; there was a crushing blow, and he recalled no more until he felt Baldy's hot breath, and an agonizing pain in his temple.
Gazing about, he saw the cause of the mishap—an iron trail stake half concealed by a drift, now red with his blood. All around, as far as the eye could reach, stretched the vast snowy plains that merged into the purple shadows of the distant mountains, outlined in dazzling beauty against the azure sky. There was no sign of the other teams. He could not tell how long he had been unconscious—whether minutes or hours; he only realized that he had never entered Solomon.
Weakly he stumbled to his feet and fell helplessly into the sled. At a word Baldy darted ahead, and Allan, wiping the blood from his eyes, saw they were traveling in the wrong direction, toward the wireless tower at Port Safety. In some way he dimly realized that the dogs had turned on the trail. Given the order, Baldy wheeled instantly, and dashed forward with no slackening of his former speed, though "Scotty" was lying inert and useless, an unusual and unexpected burden.
But, wounded and shaken, "Scotty's" spirit was still undaunted; and uncertain of anything save that you are never beaten till the race is over, Allan inspired Baldy to do his willing best.
The bitter disappointment of Kid's death was fast yielding to amazement at Baldy's unsuspected fleetness. Trustworthy he had always been, and obedient and faithful—but his pace now was a revelation. There was yet a chance.
"On, Baldy; on boys." And away they flew till the roofs of Solomon loomed on the horizon, directly ahead.
Solomon at last. At the end of the one short street was a group of Kennel Club officials, and the entire population of the place, ready to welcome the coming and speed the parting racers.
To his intense surprise Allan learned that his was the first team in, his delay having evidently been but a brief one. He resisted all entreaties that he should have medical attention. "There's no trouble at all," he maintained stoutly, "so long as my cap is frozen to the wound. Of course I am a little faint, and dizzy, but that will pass in the fresh air. Just water the dogs and see that they're all right, will you?" And resting only the five minutes that are obligatory for the signing of papers, he was again on his way, as Fred Ayer came into view, closely followed by Johnson.
Returning, it seemed as if Kid himself could not have excelled Baldy in the management of the team—all of his latent powers developing to meet the great demands made upon him. He was proving himself indeed a leader.
The news of the mishap had been telephoned to Nome; and the usual enthusiasm over the first arrival was turned into an ovation for the plucky and popular little Scotchman.
With the loss of the best dog in the Kennel, on the eve of the race, and an obscure, untried dog in the lead; with a stunning blow that had left him alone and senseless on the trail he was still victorious, to the admiration of all Nome.
The excitement was intense as the cheering throngs closed in upon the dogs and their driver, ready and eager to give their hearty greetings and unstinted applause.
AN OVATION FOR THE PLUCKY LITTLE SCOTCHMAN
Moose Jones and Ben hurried toward the winners, both overjoyed at the success of Allan and their favorite, Baldy,
"Some dog, Baldy o' Golconda, ain't he, Mart?" was Jones's exultant comment as they passed Barclay, who stood regarding the heroes with ill-concealed contempt.
"Some accident!" retorted Mart. "There'll be a fine day," belligerently, "when 'Scotty' Allan'll find out that there dog's a fake, a reg'lar quitter. Jest now he's bluffed you all inter thinkin' him a wonder; but you wait an' he'll give himself away yet. He was ornery as a pup, an' he's ornery as a dog. You can't make a silk purse outen a sow's ear, an' I tell you straight you can't make a Sweepstakes Winner out o' Baldy o' Golconda, no matter what he done in this here measly Solomon hike."
"Well, we'll see, Mart."
"You've won a great race," exclaimed the Woman as she came forward with the Big Man, and grasped "Scotty's" hand warmly; "a great race, and against heavy odds."
But "Scotty," looking down on Baldy with gratitude and pride, replied simply:
"No, the credit all belongs to good old Baldy here; it is his race, not mine."
Then the Woman, kneeling in the snow beside the leader, with her arms about him, said softly, "It was wonderful, Baldy, simply wonderful, the way you saved the day."
And so the Solomon Derby was over, and Baldy had made good.
XI
One Summer
