North

In the early days of the lower Yukon, the name of Bill Ames had been a name to conjure with. Dog train freighter in winter, and poling boat freighter in summer, he had been no small factor in the development of the country. Then came the misstep that plunged him into water with the temperature at fifty below zero, a misadventure that cost him a foot and took him forever off the trail. For years thereafter he worked at various jobs along the river, until the big stampede found him a passenger on one of the first boats that landed at Nome. There, as upon the Yukon, he worked at odd jobs until his knowledge of dogs attracted the attention of the proprietor of Nome’s principal hotel, who engaged him to look after the dog teams of his guests. Unlike most of the old timers on the Yukon, Bill Ames had married a white woman, and with her he lived in a log house that formed one side of the dog corral at the rear of the hotel.

Upon the door of this domicile MacShane knocked, and was cordially invited to enter. For the old sourdough instinctively liked this stranger who daily accompanied Lou Gordon to the dog corral. Bill Ames knew dogs, and loved them. And also he knew men. And with the same certainty that he had taken measure of Dalzene, he had also taken measure of MacShane. For he had been quick to note that here, also, was a man who knew and loved dogs. But there was something else that attracted him to MacShane—an indefinable something about the man that stirred vague memories. A word here, a slight trick of movement—something, that caused Ames to continually cudgel his brain in a vain endeavor to place him. He felt sure he had seen this man before—had known him—but where? The man never volunteered information as to his identity, nor did Ames ever violate the ethics of the country by asking it. Therefore, when MacShane knocked at his door he was genuinely glad to see him.

“Well, everything’s set fer the big race,” said Ames, by way of conversation, when the two had settled themselves into their chairs and lighted their pipes.

“Yes, I’ve be’n kind of keepin’ cases on these other teams, an’ it looks to me as though Miss Gordon’s dogs have got as good a chance to win as any of ’em, provided they’re handled right.”

“You spoke a mouthful,” agreed Ames. “Them dogs is right! I claim to know a little bit about dogs, an’ after I’d got acquainted with ’em fer a few days, an’ seen how she handled ’em I slipped out an’ got me two hundred dollars worth of the short end of a ten-to-one bet—an’ I ain’t settin’ oneasy, neither. That gal’s got the dogs, an’ she knows how to handle ’em.”

MacShane nodded: “She does,” he agreed, “But the fact is, she ain’t goin’ to drive ’em.”

“Ain’t goin’ to drive ’em!” cried Ames, “What d’you mean? She told me how her old man wanted to drive, an’ how she had got to outfigger him someway. But, I heard yesterday that he’d got run in fer peddlin’ hooch to Injuns—an’ I was damn glad of it. Did he git bail?”

“No,” answered MacShane, “He didn’t get bail. He ain’t goin’ to drive, neither.”

“Who is, then?”

“Well, that’s up to you—an’ me.”

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s like this. She’s sick—sick as hell. Got poisoned at supper, an’ the doc had to pump her out. She says she’s goin’ to drive anyhow. But she can’t. I just come from talkin’ with the doc, an’ he says she won’t be out of danger for several days, an’ she can’t even get out of bed—let alone drive the dog race. An’ the hell of it is she thinks I poisoned her. She’s out of her head, prob’ly—but that’s what she thinks.”

As MacShane talked, Bill Ames’ eyes narrowed. “How come her to git poisoned at supper?” he asked.

“We had supper together, an’ I kind of wanted it to be a big feed, so I rustled up a lot of extra grub—fancy stuff—canned lobsters, and canned olives, an’ a lot more stuff. The doc said it was one of them that poisoned her—ptomaine poison he calls it, an’ if he hadn’t got there quick an’ pumped her out, she’d be dead, by now. So, seein’ how I’m to blame, in a way, for her gettin’ sick, it looks like it’s up to me to win that race for her.”

Bill Ames regarded the speaker for a full minute through narrowed lids. “It looks damn queer to me,” he said, bluntly. “The old man gittin’ pinched, an’ the gal gittin’ pizened all to onct. Facts is, I know a damn good dog driver here in Nome. Them dogs of hern has got to win. Not because I’ve got a little money up on ’em, but because that gal is as square, an’ white, an’ as game a proposition as the North ever seen——”

“Put her there, pardner!” exclaimed MacShane, impulsively offering his hand.

Ames ignored the hand. “As I was goin’ on to say,” he continued, still with his eyes on MacShane’s face, “It would break her heart to lose this race. They trailed all the way down from the Koyukuk to win it—an’ it’ll bust ’em if they don’t. Which thing bein’ the case, I’m goin’ to see that them dogs is handled by someone that’ll drive ’em to win.”

“I know the dogs,” answered MacShane, slowly, “I can drive ’em to win?”

“You know the dogs, all right,” answered Ames, without removing his gaze from the other’s eyes, “An’ you prob’ly could drive ’em to win. But—I don’t know you! They’s somethin’ damn queer somewheres. They’s somethin’ about this here business that stinks. Mebbe you ain’t it, an’ mebbe you be. They was a damn skunk come nosin’ around the corral a while back that that there Skookum dog know’d. He smelt him ’fore he got inside the corral, an’ if I’d onchained him, he’d of et him up. This afternoon I was in the Malamute Saloon gittin’ a drink, when you an’ this here party comes in together. I didn’t think nothin’ of it then—but I do now!” Ames paused and glared, as just the shadow of a smile played at the corners of MacShane’s mouth. “Mebbe you see somethin’ funny about it,” he burst forth truculently, “But if I know’d you pizened that gal, I’d kill you where you set—an’ mebbe you’d see somethin’ funny about that!”

“Maybe I would,” smiled MacShane, “Because the joke would be on you. Listen here, Bill Ames!” It was the first time MacShane had addressed him by name, and the dog keeper’s eyes opened in surprise. “I haven’t told anyone here my name, for reasons of my own. Miss Gordon knows me only as Huloimee Tilakum. But, I’m goin’ to let you tell me my name—tell me, an’ no one else, either before or after the race, or I’ll never speak to you again.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” exploded the man. “Me tell you yer name! You full of hooch? Er what?”

Disregarding the interruption, MacShane proceeded: “It was way back—I don’t remember the year. The lower river was plugged with rough ice, an’ a certain freighter thought he could figure out a new trail—up the Innoko, through the Kaiyuh Mountains, an’ hit Kaltag by way of Kaiyuh Slough. It might of worked if the freighter could have got through the mountains before he run out of grub. When he was on his last dog——”

Bill Ames leaped from his chair, and stood before MacShane, staring straight into his eyes: “Just a minute!” he cried, excitedly pointing a forefinger into MacShane’s face, “You tell me this, an’ By God, I’ll know it’s you! What happened about a year or two after that, in a cabin at the big bend of the Anvik?”

MacShane grinned: “Why, Bill, me an’ you come onto Kultus McCormack an’ a breed girl that he’d toled off from the mission—an’ we gave him—what he had comin’!”

“Burr MacShane! By all the gods that’s swore by! Burr MacShane! You damn old sourdough! Where in hell you be’n fer the last twenty years, or so? You was only a kid, then, you might say—but you was some man! Them was the days—when I had my two legs in under me, an’ the country wasn’t all gummed up with chechakos!”

“You’re right, Bill! But, do I drive those dogs? Do you think I can handle ’em?”

“That’s right, damn you, rub it in! Mebbe I was a fool, Burr ... but somehow, that gal——”

“Fool—hell! You done just right.”

“An’ did you know me all the time? An’ never let on!”

“Sure, I did,” laughed MacShane, “You ain’t any older than you was then, but I’m twice as old. I’ve never forgot you, Bill.”

“All Alaska used to be talkin’ about what a hell of a trail musher you was. Gosh sakes! If them other mushers know’d who was goin’ to drive them dogs, they’d all quit! You’ll win—but look out fer Johnson an’ Scotty Allen. They’re both damn good men, an’ they’ve got damn good dogs—but you’ll win. You’ve got to win—er you don’t git the gal——”

“What do you mean?” cried MacShane.

Ames laughed, knowingly: “Go on with you! I’m fer you. An’ take it from me—they ain’t another woman in the North that’s deuce-high with her, anyways you look at it. You’re a lucky dog, Burr.”

“You’re crazy as hell!” exclaimed MacShane, displaying real annoyance, “If you think Miss Gordon could ever—ever care that way, for an old sourdough like me, you’re a fool—an’ as for me—we’re just good friends—or were till she got the idea I poisoned her—an’ that’s all there is to it.”

“All right—have it yer own way. But I’ve kind of had a chanct to see which way the wind was blowin’ fer a couple of weeks—an’ I’m tellin’ it to you if you don’t want to be in love with that gal, an’ don’t want her to be in love with you—then you’re in a hell of a fix—that’s all I got to say.”

At eight o’clock the following morning MacShane appeared at the corral to help Ames harness the dogs. They had just concluded the operation when through the gate walked Lou Gordon. Both men stared at the figure that approached them. The girl’s face was deathly white, and it was evident from her tightly-pressed lips and her slow movements that it was only by the supremest effort of will she managed to keep on her feet at all.

MacShane sprang to her side: “Miss Gordon!” he cried, “What are you doing here? The doctor said it would be several days before you would be out of danger! How did you get here? You can hardly stand!”

The girl regarded him with flashing eyes: “You should be proud of your work,” she faltered, with withering scorn. “But, you should have waited until this morning. I have had a night’s rest—and I am perfectly well. I will win the race in spite of you and your partner, Dalzene.” She turned to Ames who stood beside the dogs. “I’ll take them, now,” she said, “Did you go over the harness?”

“Yes, Miss—but, you ain’t goin’ to try an’ drive—an’ you can’t hardly stand on yer feet! Why, you won’t even git to the startin’ place!”

MacShane interrupted, his words rasping harshly, with a note the girl had never before heard in his voice. “I drive those dogs!” and as Lou Gordon stared into his face she saw that the blue-grey eyes were hard. “You—you—” she faltered, as her two bare hands clutched at her breast.

Without a word, MacShane took one swift step, gathered her into his arms, and motioning Ames to open the door of the log house, carried her in, despite her furious struggles. But the struggles were futile and short lived. The violent illness had left the girl so weak and dizzy that the exertion of dressing herself and walking to the corral had taxed her strength to the utmost. As MacShane carried her into the room her muscles suddenly relaxed, and she lay limp and lifeless in his arms while Mrs. Ames hurriedly arranged the bed which had not yet been made up for the day.

From the moment his arms closed about her, MacShane had been conscious of a strange, indescribable thrill that welled from the very depths of his being—a thrill so new, and so wonderful that he stood as one in a trance holding the girl’s body close against his own until the words of Ames roused him to action.

“Lay her on the bed, Burr, an’ I’ll hunt up the doc while the old woman tries to fetch her around. Come on, now, it’s time you got a-goin’. You got to git the driver’s name changed, an’ it’s gittin’ along to startin’ time. We’ll see that she’s took care of.”

Very gently MacShane laid the girl upon the bed, and with one long look into the pallid face, he turned abruptly and left the room.