Jodie drew first place. Smitty Valentine, hero of many another race and favorite of old-timers, drew second, Florence was third, and the two other sourdough contenders drew up the rear.
With a wild round of applause, Jodie was away in a cloud of fine driving snow.
For an hour the crowd lingered. Then, at the crack of a pistol, with a shout and a flourish of the whip, Smitty was away. Then such a shout! “Smitty! Smitty! Go, Smitty! Go!”
Florence swallowed hard. The popularity of this man had been honestly won. Tom Kennedy had said he was a real old-timer, and Tom knew. And yet, “Time marches on. Youth must be served. Unless youth is given a place in the sun, there can be no progress.” These words of a truly great man rang in her ears. They must win. It was Jodie or she. Which should it be?
The crowd did not linger to see her off. Oh, yes, the younger crowd, her gang, the tried and true, would stick. As for the others, who could blame them? There was a bitter cold wind from the west. And who was she? Only a girl from somewhere or other. What place had a girl in such a race? Hundred miles! What, indeed! Probably lose her team in some wild storm, they may have been thinking. At thought of this, she set her teeth and clenched her fists. She would show them. Girl or no girl, they should see.
A thin cheer arose from the faithful few when at last the pistol sounded out the hour and with a quiet “All right,” to her leader, she headed straight out over the long, long trail.
CHAPTER XV
THE PHANTOM LEADER
For nine long hours, save for three brief pauses to rest her dogs and catch some light refreshments for herself, Florence followed the long, winding trail that led away and away one hundred miles into the great beyond. Now and then a thrill coursed through her being. Other than this there was no sign that this was a race, and not just one more joy ride. True, as she mounted the crest of a steep ridge, she did catch a fleeting glimpse of a speeding dog team. Was it her nearest opponent, Smitty Valentine? There was no way to tell. He had left an hour before her. Should she reach the finish just fifty-nine minutes behind him, the race was hers. If not—well, Jodie was still further ahead, perhaps the race was to be his. Who could tell?
Plop-plop-plop went her feet on the snow. Her light basket sled was empty, yet she never rode—her fleet gray hounds must have every advantage. Plop-plop-plop on the hard-packed snow. Here a covey of white ptarmigan rose fluttering from the trail, there a sly white wolf mounted a ridge to stare after her, here a column of smoke rose above the tree tops and there two little brown men, their dog-team drawn off the trail, watched in silence as she passed. What a weird, wild world was this!
Strangely enough, as she reached the last trail-house prepared for the required twenty minute rest before starting back over the trail, she learned that three racers—Jodie, Smitty, and herself—were running neck and neck.