“Smitty Valentine and Florence Huyler running neck and neck,” the announcer droned. “Betting is four to one on Smitty.”
“Oh, it is!” the girl’s face flushed. Gladly she would have plunged at once into the race, but rules forbade—twenty minutes for every racer at every rest spot, those were the orders. Refusing an offer of refreshments, she threw herself on a cot in the corner and was at once lost to the world.
This time she did not dream. And yet, when she was awakened, she imagined she was dreaming, for there above her was a familiar face, At-a-tak, the Eskimo girl.
“I go with you last mile. Say I could, those men. I not touch you, not touch sled, not touch dog, just go, say that, those men.”
Florence found herself strangely cheered by this news. If this last long mile were to be run in misery, she would at least have company.
Scarcely were they on their way than the Eskimo girl began shouting strange guttural commands to the team. This appeared to help. Florence was cheered. The next thing At-a-tak did was strange. Dragging Gray Chief from the sled, she said, “All right, you go. I come. I bring him.” Reluctantly Florence drove on.
But now new trouble appeared on the horizon. A storm was coming. Sifting fine snow at her feet, it rose to her knees, her waist, her shoulders, then began cutting at her cheeks.
To her vast surprise, out of this murk of snow-fog from behind her came a girl and a dog—At-a-tak and Gray Chief. And, wonder of wonders, Gray Chief was trotting on all fours. What had the native girl done to him? No time to ask. Some native trick of magic. She saw the leader take his place at the front, then felt the sled lurch forward.
The grim battle went on. The storm increased. Eyes half blinded by snow, the brave dogs forged forward into a day that was all but night.
Would they win? Could they? No more reports now. The end of the trail lay straight ahead. The advantage was all with Smitty. He would be through when she was still an hour from the goal. How dared she hope? And yet she did dare.