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.

“Not a half mile between them,” the radio announcer droned. “The two last teams driven by Scot Jordan and Sinrock Charlie now lag behind.

“Surprise has been expressed in many quarters,” he droned on. “Surprise at the endurance of the girl racer, Florence Huyler.”

So she had them surprised? Florence smiled grimly as she gulped down a large mug of steaming coffee. “Surprised! Huh!” she said aloud. Then to the trail-house keeper’s wife, “Call me, please, when the time is up. I’m going to sleep.” She threw herself down upon a couch and was at once fast asleep.

In her sleep she dreamed—odd dream it was, too. In it she saw the huge Madam Chicaski placing seven candlesticks on the mantel at Rainbow Farm. Gold they must have been, for they shone like the sun. Then she saw the woman pouring something out of a huge copper kettle.

“Gold,” she whispered in her dream. “Gold coins, hundreds and hundreds of them.”

These were all poured on the table, some rolling on the floor. Then a little, dark man, Mr. Il-ay-ok, approached the table and began gathering them up. “I need them for my people,” was all he said.

Florence awoke with a start. The dream was at an end. The trail-house matron was shaking her.

“Time is up.”

One minute more and the girl was on her way back. But that dream, it lingered in the back of her mind. What did it mean? Probably nothing. Perhaps this, that life’s adventures are never at an end, that if she won this race, it was to be not an end but a beginning of other things. There was Madam Chicaski and her supposed treasure, Mr. Il-ay-ok and his people, and her grandfather’s mine. “Life,” she thought, “goes on and on and, like one’s shadow, adventure goes before it.”

But now once again she thought only of the race. Once again, as in a dream, the long, white trail glided on beneath her weary feet.

The next stop, twenty miles along the homeward trek, brought bad news—Jodie was falling behind, already he had lost twenty minutes.

“It’s his dogs,” Florence explained to the sympathizing trail-house keeper. “They’re not right.”

“Anything happens in dis race,” encouraged her host, “yust anyting at all. You yust keep pushin’ dem sled handles.”

“I’ll keep pushing,” she smiled. She was thinking not of herself but of Jodie. How was it all to end?

Hours later she found herself approaching “Twenty-Mile House,” the last stop before the home stretch. Jodie was now quite definitely out of the race. But—she squared her shoulders at the thought—Smitty Valentine, her closest opponent, was twenty minutes behind her. A slim lead this, but if only she could hold it. If—

Of a sudden, Gray Chief, her leader, gave a yelp of pain, then began hopping along on three feet. Time after time the brave fellow put that foot to the snow, only to lift it again.

In consternation she stopped the dogs to race ahead and examine that foot.

“Not a scratch,” she murmured. “Just one of those things that happen to a dog in a race.” Drawing her sheath knife, she cut the leader’s draw rope, then, lifting him in her arms, carried him back to deposit him on the sled. He whined piteously, but, with almost human wisdom, appeared to know that for the time at least, he was through.

“Must bring you all in,” the girl spoke to the dogs, there were tears in her voice. “Who could be cruel enough to leave you behind on the frozen trail?”

At Twenty-Mile House, with sinking heart, she learned that already her slim lead was lost.

“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.

“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!

Three minutes more and she caught the refrain of their wild chant:

“You win! You win! We win! We win! Sourdough? No! No! No! Fresh-Dough! Fresh-Dough! We win! We win!”

There could be no doubting the truth of this chant. She read it in their faces when, as she shot across the line, they seized her, tossed her upon a broad expanse of dry walrus skin, then lifting her high, began bearing her away in triumph.

At the clubroom door they paused. Then, in a spirit of fun, they allowed the skin to sag. Two score hands gave a quick yank and the heroine of the hour rose in air.

This was not new to Florence. “Yea!” she shouted. “Come on! Let’s go!” Balancing herself in the center of this strange blanket, she stood erect and, with the next lusty pull, shot skyward like a rocket.

Three times she sought the stars. Three times she scanned that throng for a face. She was looking for Jodie. He was not there.

“Come on in,” they shouted in a chorus. “We’ll celebrate!”

“No,” she shook her head. “Please. Not tonight. I’m dead. Tomorrow night we’ll whoop it up.”

“All right! All right!” they screamed. “Big brass band and all. Tomorrow night.”

At that, seizing proud Tom Kennedy’s arm, she marched away.

“Grandfather,” she whispered, “where’s Jodie? Didn’t he get in?”

“Sure! Oh, sure!” the old man replied. “Of course, he lost. Three dogs went wrong, but he came in, all the way.

“When he got to the cabin,” he laughed, “he just tumbled on the cot and fell asleep. Before that, though, he said, ‘Be sure to wake me up when she comes in,’ meaning you. But, you know, I didn’t have the heart to wake him. He’s still fast asleep.”

This last was not quite true, at least they found Jodie standing just inside the door when they arrived.

“Congratulations!” he held out a hand.

“Jodie, I’m sorry you couldn’t win,” the girl’s voice was low.

“I know,” he stood silent for an instant, then a mischievous look stole into his eyes.

“Well, anyway,” he said, “_we_ won the race. Just the way a man and his wife killed the bear. Ever hear of that?”

“No.”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Florence sat down. “You see,” said Jodie, “there was a man, his wife and two children in a shack when a great big bear entered. The man went to the rafters. The woman, being hampered by children clinging to her skirts, stayed on the floor. Seizing an axe, she killed the bear. Whereupon the man climbed down shouting, ‘Mary! Mary! We killed the bear!’

“And now,” he added soberly, “now we’ve won the race, what are we to do about it?”

“Put half the prize money in the bank for Mr. Il-ay-ok, spend the rest for grub, a new rifle or two and some ammunition, then go in search of Grandfather’s lost mine,” she panted all in one breath.

“Sounds great!” the boy exclaimed. “Do I go along?”

“Certainly. We’ll be generous,” the girl laughed. “We’ll let you do nearly all the digging.”

“Mulligan’s on,” said Tom Kennedy, dragging up a chair. “What do you say?”

“Grand!” Florence was ready for just that. Never before had she been so hungry and so sleepy all in one.

“Jodie,” she said with the sudden start of one who had recalled something very unusual. “What about this Phantom Leader?”

“Why, have you seen him?” Jodie grinned.

“Sure—sure I’ve seen him, at least that’s what At-a-tak called him. ‘The Phantom Leader.’ And Jodie,” her tone was serious, “that’s why I won the race. He ran before us, miles and miles.”

“Never heard of such a thing,” Jodie stared. “Probably a white wolf daring your dogs to get him, or perhaps a wandering dog.

“But the Phantom Leader, h-m-m—that’s a grand little Eskimo legend. This Phantom is a real ghost hound who appears to help people out of trouble. An Eskimo woman is lost in a storm, he appears to lead her home. A hunter lost in the drifting floes, starving and freezing, sees the Phantom Leader, follows him and finds land. You know, regular thing, stuff dreams are made of.”

“All the same,” said Florence, resuming her meal, “I hope to meet the Phantom again. He brought us rare good luck.”

Giving herself over to the business of eating, she consumed a vast amount of mulligan stew and a great heap of hot biscuits. After that she dragged her reluctant feet to her cubby-hole of a bedroom and, creeping between blankets, slept the clock around.