At Selkirk, the old team of dogs, fresh and in condition,
were harnessed, and the same day saw Daylight plodding
on, alternating places at the gee-pole, as a matter
of course, with the Le Barge Indian who had volunteered
on the way out. Daylight was two days behind
his schedule, and falling snow and unpacked trail kept
him two days behind all the way to Forty Mile.
And here the weather favored. It was time for
a big cold snap, and he gambled on it, cutting down
the weight of grub for dogs and men. The men
of Forty Mile shook their heads ominously, and demanded
to know what he would do if the snow still fell.
“That cold snap’s sure got to come,”
he laughed, and mushed out on the trail.
A number of sleds had passed back and forth already
that winter between Forty Mile and Circle City, and
the trail was well packed. And the cold snap
came and remained, and Circle City was only two hundred
miles away. The Le Barge Indian was a young
man, unlearned yet in his own limitations, and filled
with pride.
He took Daylight’s pace with joy, and even dreamed,
at first, that he would play the white man out.
The first hundred miles he looked for signs of weakening,
and marveled that he saw them not.
Throughout the second hundred miles he observed signs
in himself, and gritted his teeth and kept up.
And ever Daylight flew on and on, running at the
gee-pole or resting his spell on top the flying sled.
The last day, clearer and colder than ever, gave
perfect going, and they covered seventy miles.
It was ten at night when they pulled up the earth-bank
and flew along the main street of Circle City; and
the young Indian, though it was his spell to ride,
leaped off and ran behind the sled. It was honorable
braggadocio, and despite the fact that he had found
his limitations and was pressing desperately against
them, he ran gamely on.
A crowd filled the Tivoli—the old crowd
that had seen Daylight depart two months before; for
this was the night of the sixtieth day, and opinion
was divided as ever as to whether or not he would
compass the achievement. At ten o’clock
bets were still being made, though the odds rose,
bet by bet, against his success. Down in her
heart the Virgin believed he had failed, yet she made
a bet of twenty ounces with Charley Bates, against
forty ounces, that Daylight would arrive before midnight.
She it was who heard the first yelps of the dogs.
“Listen!” she cried. “It’s
Daylight!”
There was a general stampede for the door; but where
the double storm-doors were thrown wide open, the
crowd fell back. They heard the eager whining
of dogs, the snap of a dog-whip, and the voice of
Daylight crying encouragement as the weary animals
capped all they had done by dragging the sled in over
the wooden floor. They came in with a rush,
and with them rushed in the frost, a visible vapor
of smoking white, through which their heads and backs
showed, as they strained in the harness, till they
had all the seeming of swimming in a river. Behind
them, at the gee-pole, came Daylight, hidden to the
knees by the swirling frost through which he appeared
to wade.
