第39章 A DAUGHTER OF THE AURORA(2)

But competition at Forty Mile was limited.With the camp devoting its energies to the equipping either of Jack Harrington or Louis Savoy, no man was unwise enough to enter the contest single-handed.It was a stretch of a hundred miles to the Recorder's office, and it was planned that the two favorites should have four relays of dogs stationed along the trail.Naturally, the last relay was to be the crucial one, and for these twenty-five miles their respective partisans strove to obtain the strongest possible animals.So bitter did the factions wax, and so high did they bid, that dogs brought stiffer prices than ever before in the annals of the country.And, as it chanced, this scramble for dogs turned the public eye still more searchingly upon Joy Molineau.

Not only was she the cause of it all, but she possessed the finest sled-dog from Chilkoot to Bering Sea.As wheel or leader, Wolf Fang had no equal.The man whose sled he led down the last stretch was bound to win.There could be no doubt of it.But the community had an innate sense of the fitness of things, and not once was Joy vexed by overtures for his use.And the factions drew consolation from the fact that if one man did not profit by him, neither should the other.

However, since man, in the individual or in the aggregate, has been so fashioned that he goes through life blissfully obtuse to the deeper subtleties of his womankind, so the men of Forty Mile failed to divine the inner deviltry of Joy Molineau.They confessed, afterward, that they had failed to appreciate this dark-eyed daughter of the aurora, whose father had traded furs in the country before ever they dreamed of invading it, and who had herself first opened eyes on the scintillant northern lights.

Nay, accident of birth had not rendered her less the woman, nor had it limited her woman's understanding of men.They knew she played with them, but they did not know the wisdom of her play, its deepness and its deftness.They failed to see more than the exposed card, so that to the very last Forty Mile was in a state of pleasant obfuscation, and it was not until she cast her final trump that it came to reckon up the score.

Early in the week the camp turned out to start Jack Harrington and Louis Savoy on their way.They had taken a shrewd margin of time, for it was their wish to arrive at Olaf Nelson's claim some days previous to the expiration of its immunity, that they might rest themselves, and their dogs be fresh for the first relay.On the way up they found the men of Dawson already stationing spare dog teams along the trail, and it was manifest that little expense had been spared in view of the millions at stake.

A couple of days after the departure of their champions, Forty Mile began sending up their relays,--first to the seventy-five station, then to the fifty, and last to the twenty-five.The teams for the last stretch were magnificent, and so equally matched that the camp discussed their relative merits for a full hour at fifty below, before they were permitted to pull out.At the last moment Joy Molineau dashed in among them on her sled.

She drew Lon McFane, who had charge of Harrington's team, to one side, and hardly had the first words left her lips when it was noticed that his lower jaw dropped with a celerity and emphasis suggestive of great things.He unhitched Wolf Fang from her sled, put him at the head of Harrington's team, and mushed the string of animals into the Yukon trail.

"Poor Louis Savoy!" men said; but Joy Molineau flashed her black eyes defiantly and drove back to her father's cabin.

Midnight drew near on Olaf Nelson's claim.A few hundred fur-clad men had preferred sixty below and the jumping, to the inducements of warm cabins and comfortable bunks.Several score of them had their notices prepared for posting and their dogs at hand.Abunch of Captain Constantine's mounted police had been ordered on duty that fair play might rule.The command had gone forth that no man should place a stake till the last second of the day had ticked itself into the past.In the northland such commands are equal to Jehovah's in the matter of potency; the dum-dum as rapid and effective as the thunderbolt.It was clear and cold.The aurora borealis painted palpitating color revels on the sky.Rosy waves of cold brilliancy swept across the zenith, while great coruscating bars of greenish white blotted out the stars, or a Titan's hand reared mighty arches above the Pole.And at this mighty display the wolf-dogs howled as had their ancestors of old time.

A bearskin-coated policeman stepped prominently to the fore, watch in hand.Men hurried among the dogs, rousing them to their feet, untangling their traces, straightening them out.The entries came to the mark, firmly gripping stakes and notices.They had gone over the boundaries of the claim so often that they could now have done it blindfolded.The policeman raised his hand.Casting off their superfluous furs and blankets, and with a final cinching of belts, they came to attention.

"Time!"

Sixty pairs of hands unmitted; as many pairs of moccasins gripped hard upon the snow.

"Go!"

They shot across the wide expanse, round the four sides, sticking notices at every corner, and down the middle where the two centre stakes were to be planted.Then they sprang for the sleds on the frozen bed of the creek.An anarchy of sound and motion broke out.Sled collided with sled, and dog-team fastened upon dog-team with bristling manes and screaming fangs.The narrow creek was glutted with the struggling mass.Lashes and butts of dog-whips were distributed impartially among men and brutes.And to make it of greater moment, each participant had a bunch of comrades intent on breaking him out of jam.But one by one, and by sheer strength, the sleds crept out and shot from sight in the darkness of the overhanging banks.