CHAPTER XIII
FOR THE SUPREMACY OF THE TRAIL
Slowly the people returned to town after every team had received an ovation; for none was too partisan to give a hearty "God Speed" to all of the men and all of the dogs in the race—and favorites were, for the moment, forgotten.
Each day had brought word from the Outside that the Great Race was not forgotten by the Alaskans in sunnier lands; and because of this the excitement, as well as the purse, had grown apace.
No one, of course, settled down to anything serious, for business is practically suspended during the entire progress of the event, and a spirit of revelry is abroad. Formal and informal gatherings serve to pass the hours, while telephone reports from each village and road house are announced in all public places, and bulletins are posted at convenient points for men, women and children, who await the news with keen expectation. The messages come continuously, keeping up the intense excitement from start to finish.
Soon on the Official Bulletin Board at the corner of Lane's way appeared the first, telling that all of the teams had arrived in Solomon, practically together, and had left shortly in the bitter wind that blows in fierce gusts across the icy lagoons and sleet-swept beach.
Then in the low foot-hills had come milder weather; and the route was fairly good, though it lay buried under freshly fallen snow through which Baldy led, picking his way with unerring precision across the trackless tundra. Now that he was in the open, away from noise and people, he had settled down to a steady gait that promised much for his endurance.
Sometimes in the glory of the April sunshine they passed other teams, or other teams passed them; and sometimes there were hours when two teams and possibly more met at the same relay camp.
There was never a hint here that the men were pitted against one another in the fiercest rivalry of the North; for they were ever ready to help their opponents to patch a broken harness, mend a sled, or care for the dogs—just as, on the way, they give fair warning of overflows or other obstacles. It is no race for those of weak bodies, mean minds or small souls.
The dogs, however, carried the idea of rivalry to the point of personal enmity, and watched ceaselessly for the opportunity to engage in a diverting row. A row in which they might leave as many wounded on the scene as would be caninely possible before human intervention. But this was a vain aspiration; for every precaution was taken to guard against fighting, and every leader slept with his driver to insure safety. Dogs, like Death, love a shining mark, and the leaders are usually the real victims of the fray.
Then came Candle, the end of the first half of the race, where the dogs, after being cordially welcomed by the whole town, were checked off by the appointed Judges, and their identification papers signed.
"Open those tins of dog feed, will you, Rydeen? This is to be their first big banquet, where they get as much as they can eat," said "Scotty" to one of the friends in the group about him. "Then if Humber and some of the rest will help me, we'll give them a fine alcohol rub in no time."
"You'd better do some resting yourself, 'Scotty,'" they urged, but he would not consider that till he had thoroughly examined the team.
Then, "McMillan's feet are bruised," he exclaimed ruefully. There were many offers of assistance in caring for the dog, which, however, Allan gratefully declined. "He doesn't like having strangers work over him; and when he's nervous he becomes headstrong; so I'd better attend to him myself."
From Candle came the news—"All teams have left on return trip except Allan and Darling." And as hour after hour passed and "Scotty" had not yet started, there was exasperation in the hearts of his backers in Nome. Exasperation, but not despair; for all remembered when Allan had driven Berger's Brutes to success after a wait so long that all of Nome was in a ferment over the fact that "Scotty" had "slept the race away." But he had planned that campaign well; he had figured the possibilities of his rivals, and knew that they had exhausted their strength too early in the game. And so he had come in first with every other team at least six hours behind; and the cry "'Scotty's' sleeping the race away at Candle" became the derisive slogan of the Allan clan.
"Jack McMillan's feet are giving trouble," was the response of "Central" to the frantic inquiries over the long distance telephone as to the delay, "and 'Scotty's' massaging them with menthalatum."
To the repeated request, and then the demand, that McMillan be put back into the wheel to get along as best he could, there was a moment's hesitation and a sweet, but firm, feminine voice replied, "'Scotty' says"—a gasp and a pause—"he says he'll not ruin a faithful dog if every man, woman and child in all Alaska has bet on him. And I think he's just right, too; Jack is a perfect dear," and the receiver was hung up with a click that admitted of no further argument.
At last they were off again, five hours behind the others; but when they did leave, the North knew that the sport was on in earnest—for Allan's policy had ever been to do his real driving on the "home stretch."
Soon the languor from the rest, and the heaviness from the food were forgotten; and there existed but one dominating, resistless impulse in dog and man—the impulse to win.
Even the least responsive dog must then have felt the thrill of the famous race, for never a whip—hardly a word—was necessary to spur them on.
Frequently the trails were sodden, and often obliterated; soft snow piling up like drifts of feathers into fleecy barriers through which the dogs, with the aid and encouragement of their Master, fought their way, inch by inch. Beyond them lay Death Valley, a dread waste where the dead silence is broken only by the wailing and shrieking of the wind as it sweeps down in sudden fury from the sentinel peaks that guard it. Across this Baldy led unswervingly, never hesitating, and hardly relaxing his steady pace, though the sudden gusts from the mountainside often curved the team into a half circle; and he was forced to keep his nose well into the air and brace himself firmly to keep from being carried off his feet.
Further on came the Glacier Grade, on either side of which rose overhanging cliffs. Here the bitter wind of Death Valley became a veritable hurricane. Time and again the dogs tried to climb the icy slopes and time and again they were hurled back by the fearful buffeting of the elements.
"Scotty" finally halted them, and with the greatest difficulty succeeded in fastening spiked "creepers" to his mukluks. Then he tied Baldy to the back of his belt by a strong leash. "Baldy, it's up to us now to get this team through safely—and quickly—" and bowing his head to the storm he toiled step by step, slipping and sliding, up the perilous heights, ten miles to the summit of the range, with the dogs following and aiding where they could.
Then came the descent, fraught with more danger still; for the gale bore down upon them so relentlessly that all resistance was useless, and the dogs lay flat and were swept along with the sled; while "Scotty" stood clinging to the brake, and dragging one spiked foot behind in the desperate attempt to act as a human anchor.
And at the bottom, quite without warning, they found themselves breaking through the snow into an overflow of a stream, where the water had just come through cracks in the ice to the surface. As they landed on it with great force it sprayed over them like a fountain; and almost instantly was frozen by the chill of the air.
Allan unhooked them. "Now, boys, roll and get rid of that ice you've been making. You're racing dogs, not ice plants." They pawed the ice from their eyes, and thawed it out from between their toes with their warm tongues. And "Scotty," too, was obliged to remove the ice from his lashes before he could be sure of his bearings.
"Now then," as they had divested themselves of their glistening coats, "the worst is over, and off we go."
At times the hard smooth trail wound like a silver ribbon under the pale glow of the Aurora. Then, with flying feet, they sped along the edge of deep gorges, up steep slopes, and over the glare ice of rivers and lakes.
But the distance between them and the other teams was now gradually lessening, and at Timber Road House they had made up half of the time lost in Candle. Here they had the next "big sleep," lying on clean straw on the floor beside Allan, whose closeness calmed their nerves. It was a great comfort to be able to place a paw on him, or sociably lick his hand—for they felt that all was well if they were but within reach of their master's touch.
They awoke full of renewed energy. "Scotty" was harnessing them for the last long run, with the help of his brother Bill, and Paul Kegsted, who had charge of that relay station for the Kennel Club.
"Boys," he gasped in amazement, "Baldy's gone lame. He's so stiff he can scarcely move. I can't understand it, for he was all right when I turned in." At the slightest touch the dog winced, and Allan was appalled at the situation.
He had trained nearly all of the dogs so that they could lead under most circumstances; but this final struggle would require far more than ordinary ability.
Wise old Tom, Dick and Harry, reluctant in the start, had saved themselves until they were most needed; and were now steady and reliable, as had been predicted—but they were not leaders for such a trial as this. Irish and Rover were too inexperienced for so much responsibility, Spot was too young, and McMillan too headstrong.
"Scotty" was without a leader.
Allan's consternation was echoed in Nome when the report of the mishap was given out—"Allan practically no hope. Baldy down and out; no other leader available. All other teams well ahead in good condition."
There was much diverse, and some heated, comment on the situation. But above the general clamor rose the strident tones of Black Mart, alluding with manifest satisfaction to the fact that Baldy was certainly proving himself a "quitter" now.
"Baldy may be lame, but he is not a quitter," denied the Woman wrathfully. "Besides, this race is never won—nor lost—till the first team is in," and she turned to comfort Ben Edwards.
He had been suddenly roused from happy thoughts by this disconcerting news. From his eyes there faded the glorious vision of the great University beside the Golden Gate; of the rose-covered cottage where his mother would have only pleasant things to do; of Moose Jones in a shiny hat and tailed coat receiving the plaudits of a whole State for his princely gifts to its chosen seat of learning—the vision of his own success laid upon the altar of love and gratitude. And instead he saw only the distant cabin at Timber, with poor Baldy crippled and suffering, bringing bitter disappointment to his friends; and his heart was filled with grief and longing for the dog.
Black Mart edged through the throng toward Jones. "I told you how it 'ud be, Moose; that pet o' yourn ain't comin' through as good as you thought he would when you was so willin' an' anxious t' bet your hard-earned dust on him. An' I reckon 'Scotty' Allan ain't so pleased with himself fer goin' agin what most ev'rybody said about his usin' that cur fer a leader."
"Speakin' o' bets, an' curs, Mart, ef you want t' do any more bettin', I'm willin't' accommodate you. I'm ready t' back my opinion that 'Scotty' kin come in first, without a leader, ef you think any ways diffr'ent."
Black Mart glanced again at the Bulletin and read slowly—"Rubbing tried without success. Baldy on sled. Irish and Rover probably in lead. McMillan's feet still tender. Another storm coming up. Outlook bad."
"Seems kinda onsportsman like, like bettin' on a sure thing; but ef you really insist, Moose, in the face o' this yere message, why you kin go as fur's you like. Mebbe a dollar 'ud suit you better, the way things is goin' now, than a thousand;" and the people laughed at the covert allusion to their previous wager. Moose Jones whitened visibly under his thick coat of tan at the insulting manner of his enemy. All of his hatred culminated in his desire to show his contempt for Mart and his predictions.
"Well then, let's make it somethin' worth while this time. Let's say your claim agin mine—the Midas agin the Golconda—that the Allan an' Darlin' dogs win the race."
A thrill of wild excitement ran through the crowd—two of the richest claims in the whole of Alaska staked on the success or failure of one dog team, and the leader of that "down and out" at Timber.
"Oh, Moose, if our team don't come in you'll lose a terrible lot, an' you've worked so hard t' git it."
"Even losin' Golconda won't break me now, Sonny; not by a long shot. An' even ef it did, I got what I allers did have left; two hands t' work with, the hull country t' work in, an' a kid that likes me," with an affectionate glance at the boy, "t' work fer. With all that, an' a good dog er two, I wouldn't call a Queen my aunt. An' ef we should win, Ben,—well, it's porterhouse fer Baldy the rest of his life at Mart Barclay's expense."
At Timber the time was passing with discouraging rapidity. Nothing they could do seemed to have any beneficial effect on Baldy's legs—the legs that had been such a matter of pride to the boy in the old Golconda days.
In the races it is the custom to carry, at intervals, any dogs who need to recuperate, but Baldy had always manifested a certain scorn of these "passengers"; and "Scotty" knew that it would only be by force that he could be kept off his feet.
"Bill, you hold the dog; and Paul, if you'll keep the mouth of the sleeping bag open, I'll try to get Baldy into it."
Poor Baldy resisted, but he was in the hands of his friends, so that his resistance was of necessity less violent than he could have wished; and in spite of his opposition he was tied in the bag, and gently lifted upon the sled.
After thoughtful consideration, "Scotty" placed Irish and Rover at the head of the team. "They're good dogs; mighty good dogs, but they're not used to the grind like Baldy."
He took his place at the handle-bars. "I'll try my hardest, boys, but every chance is against me now."
Before he could give the word to the new leaders, there was the sound of gnawing, and the quick rending of cloth. He turned to see Baldy's head emerge from the bag, his eyes blazing with determination and his sharp fangs tearing the fastenings apart, and the hide to shreds.
"Baldy," he called; but Baldy threw himself from the sled with evident pain, but in a frenzy of haste.
With intense amazement they watched him drag himself, with the utmost difficulty, out of the sled, and up to the front of the team.
He paused a moment, and then by a supreme effort started off, expecting the others to follow. There was no response to his desperate appeal—for they were not used to Baldy as a loose leader. Again he came back, and again endeavored to induce his team-mates to go with him down the trail, but in vain; they waited a word from their master.
The men stood speechless; and the dog, whimpering pitifully, crept close to Allan and looking up into his face reproachfully seemed to beg to be restored to his rightful place, and tried to show him that just so long as there was life in Baldy's body, "Scotty" would have a leader.
Paul Kegsted and Bill Allan hastily disappeared around opposite corners of the building to meet on the other side with eyes suspiciously wet.
"Bill, did you ever see anything like that," demanded Kegsted tremulously, "for grit and spirit and—"
"And brave and loving service," added Bill, swallowing hard.
While "Scotty's" voice broke as, leaning down to stroke the dog tenderly, he said, "I know you're game, Baldy, game to the end; but it can't be done, and I'll hook you up to prove it."
To his astonishment Baldy moved forward; very, very slowly at first, then slightly faster and with less and less stiffness, until in an hour or so of moderate speed he was himself once more.
The exercise had done more than the liniment, and finally he was swinging along at a rate that showed no sign of his recent incapacity. They were off again in their usual form, and Nome waited impatiently for word of the belated team.
In the next few hours the messages that reached the expectant city were full of thrills—of hopes and fears. Groups of excited people met to discuss again all phases of the contest; the freshness of the dogs, the stamina of the men, the possibility of accidents; for a broken harness, a refractory leader, an error in judgment, may mean overwhelming defeat at the eleventh hour.
Never in the annals of the Sweepstakes had the result been so doubtful, the chances so even. The two Johnsons, Holmsen, Dalzene, Allan—all men noted for their ability and fortitude—men who would be picked out of the whole North to represent the best type of trailsmen, were nearly neck and neck, less than fifty miles from Nome, ready for the final dash. And what a dash it was!
AN ALASKAN SWEEPSTAKES TEAM
Fay Dalzene, Driver
Like phantom teams they silently sped far out over the frozen waters of Bering Sea, threading their way between huge ice hummocks that rose, grotesque and ghostly, in the misty grayness of the Arctic twilight. Through the chill dusk they toiled up the steep slopes of Topkok Hill, through treacherous defiles, over perilous hidden glaciers, toward Solomon and safety.
It was any one's race.
The telephone brought news that varied from moment to moment. John Johnson was steady as to pace, and slightly in the lead; later Holmsen had passed him, then Dalzene. Allan had dropped behind. The excitement grew more intense each instant. Side by side drove Dalzene and Charlie Johnson, with Holmsen at their heels—dogs and men on their mettle, magnificent in endurance and spirit; but closing in upon them was "Finn John" with his Blue Eyed Leader, and Nome well knew what they could do, and had done twice.
Then, too, there was always "Scotty" to be feared; always his marvelous generalship to be reckoned with; his perfect mastery of the dogs, and their devotion to him to be considered.
"Seals on the ice ahead, Spot," had been a suggestion that had fired not only Spot, but Tom, Dick and Harry also with a new interest that almost banished fatigue.
Then at intervals there were broken bars, alternately whistled and sung, of Home Sweet Home; and the dogs knew, someway, that this strange noise always signified that their journey was nearly at an end. And once, in readjusting his harness, "Scotty" had caressed Baldy so affectionately that the dog forgot the struggle he had passed through, remembering the happy fact that he had not failed in his trust.
All of this encouragement resulted in an increased activity that began to tell in the fast decreasing distance between their team and the others.
"On, Baldy; on, boys," and on they came out of the long reaches of utter desolation, of dreary monotony, of lifeless calm, with a rush that soon brought Johnson in view. "Gee"—they whirled to the right and by him with unexpected ease; then on and on still, till they could see the others. Baldy, spurred by that to yet stronger efforts, plunged forward with renewed vigor until he seemed, with his team-mates, to touch the drifted snows as lightly as a gull skims the crested waves.
When nearly abreast of those who had been setting so fast a pace, Allan, in a low voice, tense with the excitement of the moment, called again to the dogs. "Speed up, Baldy; speed up, boys. Don't let the Siberian Fuzzy-Wuzzies beat you again. Show them what your long legs are good for—Alaskans to the front," and Baldy, with an almost incredible burst of speed, shot past them, and was at last in the lead in that mad, headlong drive for Nome.
There was no hint of the laggard now in Tom, Dick and Harry—no suspicion of "staleness" in their keen pride in their work; Irish and Rover, ever fleet and responsive, needed no urging; Jack McMillan gave his stupendous energy, his superb intelligence with loyal abandon; and Baldy, as well as "Scotty," felt that each dog in the entire team had proved the wisdom of his choice by a willing service now to the driver he loved.
Fort Davis! The thunderous boom of the guns heralded the approach of the first team. Nome, up the coast, was in a furor. Once more the people gathered quickly in the streets, and hurried toward the gaily illuminated stands to witness the finish of the great event.
Though it was ten o'clock at night, the full moon and the radiance of the snow made everything shimmer and glitter with wonderful brilliancy. High above the lights of the little town, which seemed but a continuation of the stars, flamed the Way-Farer's Cross on the spire of St. Joseph's; huge bonfires cast a flickering crimson glow upon the frosted pinnacles of ice, and rockets rose and fell like sparkling jewels in the clear sky.
Overhead fluttered a silken purse and the Trophy Cup, suspended by the Kennel Club colors from a wire that marked the end of the longest and most picturesque course in the racing world.
The wild wailing of many wolf dogs, shrill whistles, the merry peal of bells, added to the deafening clamor—as far away over the frozen sea a dim black shadow came—a swiftly moving shadow that soon was engulfed in the swaying mob that surged to meet it.
The Woman leaned from out the Judges' Stand, waving streamers of White and Gold in joyous welcome.
Ben Edwards, thrilling with pride and happiness, slipped through the jostling crowd, and saw coming to him, down the Silver Trail, an ugly, rough-coated, faithful dog—bringing in his triumph, a justification of the boy's unshaken faith, a reward for his unfaltering affection.
Again and again there were the stirring notes of the bugle, shouts of good will and praise, wild, incessant cheers, as the Allan and Darling Team, with every dog in harness, and "Scotty" Allan at the handle-bars, swept over the line—winners of the most hotly contested race the North has ever known, and led to victory by Baldy of Nome.
XIV
Immortals of the Trail
