"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.