CHAPTER XIV

“THEY ARE OFF”

In Nome each twenty-four hours that passed saw the great race just one day nearer. Each day the excitement over this event increased. The prize this year was large. Men of means had contributed generously. Though thought of winning for the honor of the “Fresh-Dough Club” was ever uppermost in Jodie’s mind, and in Florence’s when she indulged in strange day-dreams, the prize was not entirely forgotten. Jodie had been let in on the secret of the lost mine. Once the race was won, or lost, it was planned that they should be away at once on their search for that mine. And the prize money would go far toward providing them with the very necessary grub-stake.

Little wonder then that, while keeping one eye on her own gray team—just in case something happened—Florence always had the other turned upon Jodie’s fine dogs.

The crack of the starter’s gun was only three days away when, as Jodie came in from his daily practice run, Florence met him on the street. “What’s the matter with old Sparks?” she asked, nodding at the right hand wheel dog. “He doesn’t seem quite up to himself.”

“Been lagging all day,” Jodie’s brow wrinkled. “Off his feed a little, I guess. I’ll cut him out tomorrow. He’ll be O. K. after that.”

“Jodie,” the girl’s tone was low, serious, “do you watch your dogs?”

“Sure thing I do.” He stared at her.

“Jodie, there’s talk of gambling going on among those foreigners, you know. They might—”

“I know,” Jodie replied wearily. “They’ll not get to my dogs. The kennel is right against my bunk. Besides, from now on, Az-az-ruk, a half-breed, is going to watch them at night.”

“I’m glad. Good-bye, Jodie.” The girl was away.

That night Florence sat a long time by the fire. She was thinking hard. What Jodie had told her had not entirely reassured her. One of his dogs did not appear to be right for the race. What if another and perhaps another began to wear down under the strain.

“We’d lose,” she whispered.

“But suppose I enter the race with the grays?” A thrill ran up her spine. How she’d love it. Always her sturdy body had cried out for action. She had swum a swift flowing mile-wide river on a dare. She had climbed mountains alone. She had done all manner of wild things on trapeze and ropes, just for the thrill of it. And now this race! All else seemed to pale into insignificance.

“And yet,” she thought, “would it be fair to Jodie?”

One more day passed, then another. It was the forenoon of the day before the coming of the great event. Only a few hours were left for entering the race. Yesterday she had driven her gray streaks over fifty miles of tough trails. How magnificently they had performed! With such a team, who could stay out? And yet—

Fifteen minutes later her mind was made up. Jodie passed her. He was off for a short spin. Short as had been her experience at driving and judging dogs, she knew at a glance that all was not well. Four of his dogs were now imitating the actions of a very weary rag doll. Their heads hung low. Their tails drooped. Each forward sprint called for a great effort.

“That half-breed must have slept on his watch,” her eyes narrowed.

When Jodie came trotting back two hours later, she met him in the street.

“Whoa! Whoa, there!” he shouted at his dogs. “What’s on your mind?” The smile that he gave the girl was an uncertain one.

Florence’s heart was in her throat. Would he hate her now? “Jodie,” she replied soberly, “I’m in the race with the grays. I—I just had to do it!”

“Good!” seizing her hand, he gripped it until it hurt. “I hoped you’d enter. It’s a tough grind all that way and back, so I didn’t want to urge you. But you—you’ll make it, and you’ll win.”

“No, Jodie,” her voice was deep and low, “I’ll only win if I see you can’t.”

“That,” he swallowed hard, “that’s sporting of you, but you—you can’t do that. You go in to win. Forget me. Forget everything. Go after those gray wolves and make them do their best, start to finish. And here—here’s luck to the best man!

“All right, Ginger,” his voice dropped. “Mush along you!” He trotted away behind his team.

“And this,” Florence murmured, “this is the North. No wonder they call it ‘God’s country.’”

“You go to sleep, girl,” Tom Kennedy said to her at nine that night. “I’ll stay up till morning. You never can tell what’s going to happen in the wee small hours.

“God made a mistake,” his keen gray eyes took her in—squirrel skin cap, bright orange mackinaw, corduroy knickers and all, “you should have been a boy.”

“A girl can do what any boy can, if she’s strong and keeps herself fit,” she flashed back at him.

“No girl’s ever run in the great race before,” he reminded her.

“That’s what makes it so fascinating. Who wants to be forever doing what others do?”

“You’ll be an honor to your old granddad. I—I’m glad you came,” his voice was husky.

“I hoped you would be,” she replied simply.

All that night, with lights out and with the inner door ajar, Tom Kennedy sat by the window that overlooked the distant, moonlit hills and the dog kennels close at hand. Once Florence stirred in her sleep, then suddenly sat up. What was it? Had she heard a shot? She did hear the door softly closed, she was sure of that.

“What was it, grandfather?” she asked sleepily.

“Thought I saw a skunk. Can’t be sure. He’s gone now, went mighty fast.”

“Skunks,” she thought dreamily, “do they have skunks in Alaska?” What did it matter? Once more she was asleep.

And then the great day dawned.

All the little city’s population was out to see them start. A picturesque throng it was. Indians, Eskimos, trappers, traders, gold hunters, shop keepers, adventurers, they were all there.

The five contestants drew for places. The teams would start one hour apart. Many hours would pass before their return. When they began straggling back, the throng would be there again. Meanwhile, snug and warm in their cabins, they would with shouts of joy or howls of disappointment listen to shortwave radio accounts of the race.

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.