“Much depends on this race,” she murmured.
“Much,” At-a-tak echoed hoarsely at her side.
And then came one more surprising burst of speed. “Good old Gray Chief!” she murmured. “Go! Go! Go! Go, Gray Chief!”
“Look!” In spite of rules, At-a-tak gripped her arm as they ran. “Look! It is the Phantom Leader. Now you win! It is good! Nagoo-va-ruk-tuk.”
Straining her eyes, Florence caught a glimpse of something white before her on the trail. Was it wolf, dog, or phantom? She could not tell, nor did she care, enough that, for the moment at least, her speed had been increased.
“It can’t last,” she murmured to herself. “It will disappear, that beast, or phantom of the storm. Or, perhaps he will lead us astray.”
To her surprise and great joy, it did last. Ever and anon, as the wild drive of the snow faded, she caught sight of that drifting spot of white. Now it was there and now gone, but for Gray Chief and his band it was always there and always, in some superhuman way, it inspired them to fresh endeavor.
Only at the crest of the last ridge did the “phantom” vanish. And then it was but a short mile, all down hill, to the last stake, to defeat or victory.
“Than—thank God for the Phantom Leader,” she exclaimed as, leaping on her sled and using one foot for a brake, she went gliding down, down, down—to what? She would soon know.
As she came into view, she heard their wild scream from half a mile away. “Our gang,” her throat tightened. They would be loyal. Win or lose, she would receive a round of cheers. Good old Arctic gang! How good they had been to take her in!