North

“What’s the matter with you all Koyukuk malamutes? Broke? Cold feet? Or, what? I’ve still got twenty-five hundred dollars here that’s tryin’ to talk! Five-to-one that my team’ll come in first tomorrow! Who’s got five hundred dollars that ain’t workin’? Or, don’t yer six mangy curs you be’n floggin’ up an’ down the river look as good as they did yiste’day?” Jake Dalzene stood at the end of the bar in the Aurora Borealis, Nolan’s single saloon, a whisky glass in one hand and a roll of bills in the other, and blustered forth his challenge.

No one accepted the bet. Old Man Gordon, knowing his limitations, and realizing that he must keep a clear head for the morrow, after three or four drinks, had retired to the roadhouse where he was passing the afternoon close beside the big stove, alternately dozing and reading from a dilapidated copy of Lorna Doone that comprised the entire fictional section of the roadhouse library.

The Aurora Borealis swarmed with the men from the creeks. The roulette wheel, and the faro layout were crowded to capacity, games of stud were in progress at the poker tables, from above stairs came the incessant din of the dance hall piano, and the ceiling boards creaked to the thumping and scraping of moccasined feet.

At the bar, a group of sourdoughs heard the loud-bawled challenge of Dalzene, but heeded it not. Among them was Pete Enright, who had whispered the ill tidings that Old Man Gordon, and not his daughter, was to drive the dog race. Thereupon deep gloom had settled upon the camp, for not a man among them but knew the futility of argument with Old Man Gordon when his mind was made up, nor did a man among them have any faith in Gordon’s ability to drive the ten team to victory.

“We all was sure hell-bent on makin’ it plain that there wasn’t to be no backin’ out,” dolefully reflected Angel Crabb. “I’ve got a thousan’ in good dust locked up in Clem’s safe there that yesterday sure looked like six thousand. An’ now it looks like a busted flush that had be’n draw’d to an’ missed.”

“My five hundred don’t look that good,” opined Rim Rock Keets. “Busted flushes that wasn’t helped on the draw has be’n made to drag down the pot—but they ain’t no way to bluff through on a dog race.”

“It ain’t so much the dust that’s botherin’ me,” confided Enright, “I got quite a heft of it put up, too. But, it’s the idee of this here low down scum comin’ up here an’ makin’ a killin’ off’n us Koyukukers. That—an’ knowin’ how bad Miss Lou feels about it. They ain’t none of us that feels as plum disapp’inted as what she does. Damn Old Man Gordon!”

“We might git him stewed so bad he wouldn’t be fitten to drive no dogs tomorrow,” suggested a man from Sheep Creek.

Enright shook his head: “No we mightn’t, neither. First off, it would be playin’ it low down on the girl. An’ anyone that tries that game, him an’ I is goin’ to put in some spare time blackin’ one another’s eyes, an’ otherwise roughin’ things up. I’ve know’d that girl, a little better’n four year, an’ so has quite a lot of us—ever since she come into the country. She don’t like fer the Old Man to drink much—an’ that settles that. Onct an’ a while he gits stewed, but that’s his business, an’ not ourn. But even if anyone was to try I don’t think he could git another drink down Gordon this day. He’s the settest man there is, an’ he don’t aim to git drunk—leastwise till after the race.”

“He might win it, at that,” said the mail carrier, hopefully.

“’Tain’t hardly likely,” replied Enright. “Gordon he ain’t no hell of a dog musher, that anyone ever heard tell of, an’ the dogs would have to be jist nach’ly so damn good that they couldn’t lose before he could win. No, I guess we all kin kiss our dust good bye, er try to git it back bettin’ on some other race er fight, er wrastle.”

“Can’t win it back off’n Dalzene,” growled Rim Rock, “He wouldn’t bet less’n he thought he had a sure thing.”

A slow grin overspread Enright’s face as he eyed the speaker: “Yeh, but you know, on this here race we was kind of workin’ a little, what you might call, politics, ourself.”

The outside door opened and the men turned casually to see the newcomer, when with a startled exclamation, Enright pushed hurriedly through the group, and passing the man without a word, disappeared through the door.

“What in hell ails him?” asked Angel Crabb.

“Busted out like he’d be’n sent fer, an’ had to go!”

Johnny Atline joined the group, pinching icicles from his mustache.

“Who’s outside, Johnny?” asked Rim Rock, “I ketched sight of a dog outfit when you shoved open the door. Must be someone Enright is plumb mindful to meet up with.”

Before Atline could answer, Enright himself reentered the room. At the rear of the bar, Dalzene was still roaring his challenge between drinks. Enright drew his watch from his pocket and meticulously compared it with the bar-room clock. “Twenty minutes to four,” he muttered, incredulously, and then he repeated, still staring at the face of his watch, “Twenty minutes to four!”

“Well, what’s so damn curious about twenty minutes to four?” asked the mail carrier, “It’s be’n twenty minutes to four, twict a day ever sence I kin remember, but I never heer’d no one ravin’ about it before.”

“Oh, nothin’ much,” replied Enright, “Only, it’s jist exactly the time I aim to lay a bet.”

Carelessly, he sauntered toward the rear of the room. Dalzene saw him coming, and a sneering grin twisted his lips. “Here’s the man with the team of six world beatin’ fish hounds!” he cried. “What’s the matter today, Enright, can’t you rake up five hundred more dollars, or has yer guts gone back on you?”

“Still got some money left to bet?” drawled Enright.

“Here it is!” the man shook his roll of bills before the other’s face. “Twenty-five hundred agin five hundred that my dogs wins! I be’n bawlin’ it out here fer a couple hours, an’ I hain’t had no takers. You Koyukuk sports is sure plumb timid when it comes to puttin’ up real money.”

“Is that all you got?”

“Every damn cent, except some chicken feed that’ll run me till tomorrow evenin’. I’ll have all kinds of money then—dust an’ bills—Koyukuk dust.”

“I’ll take it,” remarked Enright, and turning to the proprietor of the saloon, he tossed a sack of dust onto the bar. “Weigh her out Clem, five hundred dollars, an’ lock it up along with Dalzene’s twenty-five hundred. I’ll be callin’ around tomorrow evenin’ fer both batches.”

“Haw, haw haw!” laughed Dalzene, as he counted out his bills upon the bar, and shoved them over to the proprietor, “So you’ll be callin’ around fer it will you? Lemme tell you somethin’, Enright. I’ll tell you now, seein’ how I got all my money up, an’ no objeck in holdin’ out on you. I made the run up an’ back yeste’day in nine hours an’ ten minutes! The best you’ve did it is around ’leven hours. Why them six old pelters of yourn couldn’t win a race agin a string of mud turtles! I’ll jest walk off tomorrow an’ stop fer lunch at Atline’s, an’ then trot in ahead of the bunch an’ collect my wages—three thousan’ in dust fer part of a day’s work hain’t so pore! I’ve got jest fifteen thousan’ bet, at five-to-one. Nine hours an’ ten minutes, Enright, think of that!”

“Yeh,” drawled Enright, turning away, “That had ort to git you in fer supper, Dalzene, but the bets’ll all be cashed, an’ a lot of the money spent ’fore you even see the smoke of Nolan.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“No use sp’ilin’ yer fun,” grinned Enright, tauntingly, “You’ll find out tomorrow.” And, deliberately he walked away and joined the group at the forward end of the bar.

Instantly, he was besieged by a chorus of questions: “What in hell did you lay that bet fer?”

“You must be plumb crazy, sendin’ good money after bad! What ails you?”

“What’s twenty minutes to four got to do with it?” persisted the mail carrier.

“Jist this,” answered Enright, speaking slowly. “Miss Lou took them dogs of hern over the race trail today. She started at eight o’clock!”

“Eight o’clock! An’ back a’ready!”

“Yer crazy as hell!”

“She never went the hull ways!”

“It’s plumb onpossible!”

“It means,” said Enright, ignoring the exclamations, “that any team that can burn up the snow like that is good enough to carry my money no matter who drives ’em.”

“But, I tell ye, she couldn’t of gone the hull distance!” insisted the man from Sheep Creek.

“The hell she didn’t!” exclaimed Johnny Atline, whose presence had been entirely forgotten in the interest that had centered upon Enright’s last bet. “I know, ’cause I was up to my cabin, an’ I rid down with her. She rested ’em ten minutes at the turn, an’ they carried double comin’ down—her an’ me, both. I’ve saw dogs I thought could run before—but Gawd!”