The days that followed were the strangest, most thrilling of Florence Huyler’s young life. Because she was Tom Kennedy’s granddaughter, she was taken at once into the very heart of the young set of Nome. A bright, jolly, carefree, healthy crowd she found them to be. She might, had she so chosen, have risen at once to a place of leadership among them. She did not choose. A natural, friendly girl, she loved being a member of some jolly gang, but being their leader, ah! that was quite another matter. She was not ambitious in this way.
She might, had she wished it, have been wined and dined from morning to night, for, of all the sociable, good-time-loving people, the dwellers of Alaska belong at the top. This she did not choose. From time to time she joined in some quiet evening affair. For the most part, two subjects held the center of her every waking thought, her grandfather and the coming annual dog race.
On stormy days she enjoyed lying stretched out on a couch before the glowing fire, while Tom Kennedy in his low, musical voice that rumbled like a drum, told of his days on Arctic trails. Always and always she listened for the story that would, she knew, hold her spellbound, the story of his lost mine. Day after day passed and he made no mention of it. More than once she bit her lips to keep from suggesting it. Always her question remained unasked. She could wait.
On bright days she might have been seen trotting along after Jodie Joleson’s dog sled. At first the boy appeared to resent that. She could almost hear him say, “A girl! Sooner or later she’ll go too far, play out, then I’ll have to haul her home.”
To his vast astonishment and final utter admiration, he found that she did not tire.
Florence, as you will know if you have read about her, was far from a weakling. From a small child she had gloried in strength and health. No slender waist line acquired on a diet of pickles and nut sundaes for her. She gloried in all of life, good things to eat, long nights of sleep, and now, most of all, long, long trails.
One day, when a storm was coming in from the northwest, Jodie deliberately took the trail that leads up the coast, then over the bitter wind-blown flats of Tissue River.
By the time they reached those flats, the whole narrow valley was a mad whirl of snow. Without a word to the girl, Jodie headed his dogs straight into the storm and shouted one word:
“Mush!”
Magnificent beasts that they were, they sprang into the harness. Their speed redoubled, they leaped forward.