THE great Alaska sweepstakes race is unique in the annals of racing, for there is nothing else just like it in the whole world. Neither men, animals, nor machines are raced under just these conditions anywhere else. It is the one great sporting event in far-away Alaska, and it absorbs all the attention for weeks. Alaskans rarely get together to spin yarns in the winter time at the roadhouses, but they recall sweepstake races which they have seen, or tell tales of Alaska's great dog mushers.
The king of all Alaskan dog mushers at the time of which I write was Scotty Ellis. He was a tall muscular Scotchman, with muscles like whipcords, nerves like steel and wind like a moose. He had a low, pleasant voice and a fascinating smile. He was not the brute type of driver, but made it a point to understand his dogs and to drive them by appealing to their good will. He was an inordinate lover of dogs. If Scotty Ellis was the most famous of dog mushers, the most famous dog at this time was Baldy of Nome, who had helped Ellis win the great sweepstake for seven consecutive years, preceding the time when Richard Henderson entered the race.
The purse for which the race was run was fifteen thousand dollars (the first prize being ten thousand), but it is safe to say that fifty times as much money changed hands each year in betting. Not only did each of the drivers usually put up considerable money, but outsiders often bet claims and mines in addition to their bags of hardearned yellow gold. Although he had won the prize for seven consecutive years, yet Scotty Ellis was still the favorite in the betting. Next to him ranked Yukon Harry. He had a fine team of Malemutes.
Scotty Ellis's team was composed of his old dog, Baldy, and several of his descendants, for he had been breeding from old Baldy a strain of racers which could not be duplicated in Alaska.
Next to Yukon Harry, who was a giant in stature and a brutal driver, Hans Johnson, a Swede, was placed. Henderson's Huskies were not ranked very high, although some said they might come in fourth. This was after Klondyke Jones had pronounced them winners.
Frenchie's big Hudson Bay dogs were good to look at, but were generally considered too heavy and likely to get footsore. Another team of Siberian Huskies driven by a half-breed named Joe were also good lookers but not seriously considered as winners. The last team in the race was composed of Russian Wolf hounds driven by an Englishman called Buck Wellington.
Not only was the team a prime factor in this great race, but also the endurance of the driver was most important, for he had to run much of the way behind the sled holding on to the gee pole.
The more the driver ran, the better chance there was to save the team for the finish. So it was really a race of endurance, for both man and dogs.
Weather conditions which would have killed a man from the States also had to be taken into consideration. Wind, frost, storms and snow would all conspire to retard the race and make it a stern battle with the elements all the way.
When the racing dog teams and their drivers finally assembled at Nome, Richard had never imagined there were so many people in all Alaska. There were all sorts and conditions of spectators, from every walk of life, so far as Alaska could furnish them. There were tradesmen ranging all the way from rich bankers, to bootblacks. Old grizzled miners with their weather-stained faces and "chechahcos" just arrived from the States. Indians, half-breeds and Eskimos, English, French, Swedes, Canadians, Scotchmen, and others from nearly all parts of the civilized world.
Even women and small children swarmed the streets and packed the sidewalks as everything was made ready for the start of this, the greatest of all races.
Promptly at daybreak the teams assembled. There was little jockeying for best positions, for the start did not signify much in a race of several days. The main thing was to go off with colors flying and a stern determination to win or break in the attempt.
Promptly at the crack of the pistol the Hudson Bay dogs, the Russian Wolf hounds, and the Malemutes all dashed down the main street as though racing for a flag only five miles away. The spectators went wild and cheered themselves hoarse at the sight. But such old-timers as Scotty Ellis and Yukon Harry took it more leisurely and trailed after the racing teams just as though they were off on a pleasure trip. Richard Henderson took his cue from Scotty Ellis and did not push his team. Finally when the last team had disappeared the crowd went back into stores and hotels to wager more gold and to talk over the probabilities of the race. They would not see any of the racers again for days, although word of the race would be hourly received at headquarters. So it was a case of patient waiting for all the thousands of bettors.
Yukon Harry with his fine Malemutes and Buck Wellington with his Russian Wolf hounds led the race to Salman, thirty-two miles away, but it was utter folly to push the teams so hard in this early stage of the game, as they soon discovered. Yukon Harry should have known better, but Buck Wellington was a "chechahco" and had much to learn. Richard Henderson was also a "chechahco" in the eyes of the sourdoughs, but he was a very keen one and had bent his every energy to learn the dog-mushing business.
He took his cue in everything from Scotty Ellis and so hung upon his flank and copied his every movement.
If old Baldy was the leader and the prime spirit of Ellis's team, even more so Silversheene was the heart and soul of Dick's team, and he had the advantage of being younger than Baldy. Between him and Dick there had sprung up since the Phantom Wolf adventure an understanding which was almost marvellous. The fine dog seemed to read his master's thoughts perfectly.
And the love Silversheene felt for Dick which he expressed in a dozen ways each day often brought tears to Henderson's eyes.
Sometimes when they had been upon a long hard trail making record-breaking time upon some errand of great importance Richard would be awakened in the night by feeling the dog's nuzzle poking at his sleeping bag, trying to nuzzle it open and get at his master's face. Then Dick would open the bag and press the faithful dog's cheek against his, and often print a kiss upon the top of his head and tell him to go back to his snow bed. The rest of the team were all sleeping beneath their white snow blankets, but old Silversheene had dug out of the snow to see if his beloved master was all right and to express the deep love and fidelity that constantly welled up in him. He was the very life and backbone of the celebrated Henderson Huskies. He ruled them like a tyrant, that is, he saw that perfect discipline was maintained and at his master's command he drove them to the last ounce of their endurance. But Silversheene himself never seemed to be tired, or, if he was, he did not show it. His love for his master seemed to give him extra endurance. He was a super-dog. He could pull twice as much as any other dog of his weight in the Yukon and he could travel twenty-five per cent. further in a day. So it was his indomitable spirit that gave the punch to Henderson's Huskies.
As the day wore on Silversheene often looked back at his master to get a smile and a cheery word. Then with eager barks and a wagging of his fine plume he would urge the team to a still faster pace. Twice they pulled up to Scotty Ellis and led him a few miles just to feel their mettle. But for the better part of the way Richard let the veteran musher lead. This was his best policy. In the late afternoon Richard noted that Scotty Ellis began whistling and calling out cheery words to his team so he followed suit.
He remembered hearing an old sourdough remark that, although his own heart might be nearly bursting with fatigue, yet he never showed it to the team. So Dick followed the veteran's lead.
Friends and relatives were thinking of him and wishing him luck. He knew that full well. They would all be expecting him to do his best. They looked to him to win. Not only his family and friends, but also his college. Dear old Oregon! Tears filled his eyes as he thought of the old days. How his fellow students had spurred him on with their songs and cheers. He would fight for old Oregon and for the state he loved. So he struck up the well remembered college song and sang it to the very end. For the rest of the race the chorus was his battle song and he sang it again and again. He sang it when every muscle in his body ached and it seemed that his heart must burst with fatigue.
Past the village winds a river, fed by snows on mountain's crest.
Near its banks there stands a college, full of dignity and fame,
And the Varsity of Oregon's the institution's name.
Oregon's the varsity, the only one.
It takes you as a freshman in, and changes all except your skin,
Then takes you kindly by the fin and turns you out in life to win.
Oh, Oregon! Oh, Oregon!
Five miles from Forest, Yukon Harry and Buck Wellington came to grips. These two teams which had been driven to the limit, although the race was still young, were leading by five miles and each put forth every effort to be first in.
With whip and voice the splendid teams were urged forward. The dogs were running with tongues out and with considerable effort, but their reckless drivers did not heed these warning signs.
Mile after mile they urged them to the limit. The sleds bumped and whined over the frosty snow. The men either ran at the gee pole or lay prone upon the sled, calling continually to the teams to increase the pace. But neither could gain upon the other, although the Huskies were in the better condition, the showy Wolf hounds of Wellington were nearly all in. Finally as a climax to this folly when about a mile from the stopping place the teams, which were running almost side by side, became infuriated and the lead dogs flew at each other's throats and the rest of the teams followed suit. Buck and Harry each thought that the other had given the word for the battle so a lively fist fight ensued.
Finally, when Hans Johnson's team rushed by, the men came to their senses and disentangled the teams and were off again. But they had lost time enough so that Hans was enabled to beat them into Forest by a sled's length. Five minutes later the half-breed, Joe, came in and Frenchie's Hudson Bays soon followed, while Scotty Ellis and Richard Henderson were last. But their teams were in much the best condition and, after all, this was what counted in an endurance race.
The dogs were fed their tallow and corn meal while their tired masters bolted bacon and eggs and drank hot coffee.
Each man allowed himself a few minutes' rest and they were off again.
Richard continued his policy of following in the lead of Scotty Ellis. Most of the drivers knew the route but he did not, yet if he clung to the tail of Scotty's sled he would be safe.
But this lap of the race was quite different from that which they had already run, for it was now night. The heavens were studded with stars as thick as they could stick, and seemingly very low. The moon shed a weird mysterious light, and the aurora danced in the heavens like wildfire, painting the sky a dozen different colors in as many minutes.
Scotty divined that Henderson was afraid he would lose the trail, and twice he tried to shake him by putting his team to its best pace. But each time Dick's team would let out a burst of speed and he could not get away from him.
Whenever the Scot's team started to draw ahead Dick would call to Silversheene. He in turn would look back over his shoulder and with quick excited barks call to his team mates to come on, while he would increase the pace until the gap had been closed up. Then he would grin back over his shoulder at Dick who would cry "Good Dog! That's the stuff. We'll show 'em." So perfect was the understanding between Dick and Silversheene that the slightest word or gesture brought immediate response.
So, with only the stars and the pale light of the moon and the aurora, the teams sped on through the darkness. Whenever the pace began to slow down the men would spring from the sled and run by the gee pole.
Dick had thought himself a great runner before he came to Alaska as he held the Marathon record for American colleges, but this cross country mile on mile was quite a different affair. It pulled upon the muscles as no Marathon ever did.
What tired him and lamed him the most was the slipping and sliding. If the footing had been uniform that would have been one thing, but to have one's feet constantly slipping and sliding was quite another. This also required more wind even than did the Marathon races, for here it was a case of running hour after hour without stopping to rest. When he was utterly exhausted he would throw himself face down on the sled and lie gasping for breath. At these times he relied entirely upon Silversheene to see that his team still hugged the tail of the Scotchman's sled.
Once while he was lying prone in this way after a long run Scotty tried to give the team the slip and whipped up and dashed away into the darkness. But Silversheene was not to be tricked in that way. With excited barks he called to his team mates and soon closed up the gap. Several times that night, Scotty Ellis looked back over his shoulder at the silvery gray dog with bright eyes and lolling tongue, who clung so persistently to the tail of his sled. Then and there he made up his mind that if he was beaten it would be that dog who would do it.
As a gray streak appeared along the eastern horizon the racers reached Telegraph river, another stopping place. Here the dogs were fed tallow and rice while their masters ate their breakfasts.
Some of the men allowed themselves an hour for sleep, but others were off as soon as they had eaten.
Yukon Harry and Buck Wellington were among those who did not stop to rest but took the trail as soon as they had eaten.
Frenchie's Big Hudson Bay dogs limped in an hour behind the leaders and were so footsore and done up that he abandoned the race. But the other teams still held on with bulldog determination.
So on they rushed across the frozen waste while the arctic sun crept up over the eastern horizon and mounted into the blue sky. This day the men ran more than they had the day before, to save the teams.
Every time Dick saw Scotty Ellis leap from his sled he followed suit and ran by the gee pole until the older man again took the sled.
Every muscle in Dick's body was now aching and he sat upon the sled and rubbed the kinks from his calves each time after the long run. But as the day wore on he found that he was getting his second wind. His muscles were becoming used to their terrible strain, and his wind was better. His spirits also rose high as he saw a possibility of being in at the finish.
Twilight found them at Dead Man's Hill. Yukon Harry and Buck Wellington were first in.
Hans Johnson was third, with Scotty Ellis fourth and old Silversheene hugging the back end of his sled. The half-breed, Joe, was an hour behind.
Again men and dogs rested for an hour or two. The dogs threw themselves down with deep sighs and some of them groaned as well, while their masters fell to the floor like logs, some of them being even too tired to eat.
Scotty Ellis was one of these, but Richard Henderson noted that he had a lunch slipped into a bag. So Dick followed suit and ordered a lunch to eat on the trail.
But Scotty Ellis only slept an hour and then got slyly up and stole out of the cabin to harness his team. By good fortune Dick awoke at the same time, having a premonition of trouble. Scotty was trying to give him the slip, for he already saw in him a dangerous rival. But as good fortune willed it, Dick was enabled to get his team ready and follow a few minutes after Scotty, so he was safe on that score for the present. The trail was now much rougher than it had been the night before.
The sled bumped and scraped over the uneven snow. Running behind the sled here was also difficult. The footing was very uneven and one had to rest his weight on the handlebars of the gee pole and be prepared to support half his weight on the pole if he stepped into a hole. It was so dark it seemed fairly sticky. Without Scotty to lead and Silversheene to follow, Dick felt that he would be hopelessly lost in a very few miles, but do what he would, the wary Scotchman could not break Silversheene's hold on the tail of his sled.
About midnight they came to Gold Gulch and here for several miles the trail led along under the high banks, and was one sled's width, but Dick did not know this and the Scotchman got in a little jockeying that nearly put Henderson's Huskies out of the race.
Just before they reached the narrow trail Scotty Ellis called to his team and it slowed up to Dick's great surprise. His own eager team rushed wildly by, glad to get ahead, while they at once overtook Hans Johnson who was just ahead. Side by side the two teams raced for the narrow trail and came together at its mouth in a wild medley of fighting dogs and twisted and snarled traces. Hans at once supposed that Richard had collided with him to retard him, and a lively fist fight ensued. Finally Dick was enabled to persuade the Swede that they were losing valuable time. The force of this argument was seen when Richard pointed out Scotty Ellis driving his team through the deep snow on one side. This, then, had been his ruse.
He would snarl Dick and Hans up in the narrow trail, and then, while they were untangling, give Silversheene the slip. He did not think they could catch him in the darkness after that.
Dick worked frantically at his team, and got untangled several minutes ahead of Hans and they were off after the wary Scot. But where the trail led or whether they were following it rightly or not he did not know. He only knew that Silversheene was leading. His nose was like that of wolf, he could see at night like an owl. He knew they were after Scotty Ellis. The night and the day were alike to him. So Dick trusted him and prayed that they might keep the trail.
Often it seemed to Richard that they were going straight back the way they had come, the trail bent so sharply. But Silversheene did not seem at a loss. He never faltered, but always strained at the lead, his head up, his eager barks urging on his team mates when the pace lagged.
Two hours went by and they saw nothing of Scotty Ellis, or any of the other racers. Dick was at last filled with misgivings. Surely they had lost the trail. But just as he was despairing a bright light blazed up ahead and he distinctly heard the tinkle of Scotty's bells, and it was the best music he had ever heard.
Dawn found them at Kendall, the turning point in the race. Again Yukon Harry and Buck Wellington came in ahead, but their teams had so many shoulder-sprained and footsore dogs and so many dogs riding that it was doubtful if they could make many more miles, while Scotty Ellis's team and that of Richard Henderson were surprisingly fresh. This was partly because Dick and the Scotchman had run more than the other drivers.
Again the men fell like logs on the floor while the dogs lopped down in their traces almost too tired to eat. It seemed to Dick that the brief hour which he allowed himself was only about two seconds. With a groan of weariness he aroused himself, only to find that Scotty Ellis had not slept at all. He had merely pretended to sleep and then dashed away again. Fearing he had lost valuable time Dick hurried away after the cunning Scotchman. But it was now broad day and he did not fear losing the trail.
Again Silversheene recognized the fact that it was their business to catch up with the Baldy team.
But now there was an added difficulty. Up to this point the trail had not been very hard, but now it became desperate, due to high wind and driving snow. A mile took more out of the team and driver than ten miles had done on the good trail, and here Scotty Ellis's long Alaskan training stood him in good stead. Richard strained his nerves almost to the breaking point and Silversheene barked and whimpered at his team mates, but in spite of them the Scotchman drew steadily ahead. By noon he was two miles ahead and by night he was four miles in the lead. He had now passed all the other teams and was squaring away for the home stretch.
Dick pulled into Gold Gulch just as Scotty Ellis was pulling out. The debonair Scotchman waved him a farewell.
Richard wanted to go after him immediately, but he saw it was the better part of valor to rest a bit. Perhaps his courage would come back to him. Seeing that his team was all in, he struck up the Oregon University song and sang and laughed until their tails were up again and they were all grinning their cheerful dog grins.
It takes you as a freshman in, and changes all except your skin,
Then takes you kindly by the fin and turns you out in life to win,
Oh, Oregon! Oh, Oregon!"
The stirring old song did Dick a world of good. It gave him back the college enthusiasm. He would fight for old Oregon and would not give up. The people of his University and state would yet be proud of him and of old Silversheene.
The fine dog seemed to know how much depended on him and was all eagerness to be off. That rascally Scotchman was miles ahead of them.
The trail was rather better that night than it had been in the daytime, and Dick was very grateful for this. It did not seem to him that he could have floundered on all that night in the snow and the winding treacherous trail. Even as it was it seemed almost hopeless to follow it through the stygian darkness. But his only hope was again in Silversheene and that noble dog was equal to anything.
Hours passed by. Hours of terrible toil when Dick would run until he fell almost fainting on the sled, and left everything to Silversheene. Finally at about midnight they heard the soft tinkle of bells ahead, and Silversheene announced by his eager barking that they had again overtaken the Scotchman.
Until dawn the two matchless teams held on together, the Scotchman setting the pace.
At dawn they stopped at Dead Man's Hill for a bite to eat and to throw the dogs each his portion. But neither man stopped to sleep. The heartbreaking part of the race was still ahead and every minute counted.
All that day they raced over the frozen trail, the whining of the runners and the tinkle of the bells and the panting of the straining dogs making arduous music in their ears. By twilight they reached Forest. Sixty-four miles from Nome, the goal of the race. Sixty-four long, weary miles, miles that strained men's hearts almost to the breaking point. The last sixty-four miles where nerve and will and superhuman endurance all counted. Only men with souls like gods could stay in at the finish in this race, and only dogs with the brains of dogs and the endurance of wolves could win.
Here the dogs were again fed and the men took a hasty supper and a short rest, and they were off. But now there were only four men in the race, the half-breed, Joe, Hans Johnson, the Scotchman and Henderson. But Hans and the Indian were plainly outclassed, being an hour behind.
If Dick himself was excited Silversheene was equally so. He had drawn a sled to Nome many a time in the past and knew instinctively that the city was their destination. That was where men always went. And for some reason his master wanted to beat the team that they had trailed for the past three days and nights. Silversheene loved his master more than he did his life, and he would haul him into the city ahead of the Scotchman or die in his traces.
He would pull, pull, pull. He would run, run, run. He would make his team mates run. They must not lag. They must fly. The team ahead was flying, and they must fly.
So if the team started to lag Silversheene would lash them into a better pace by his eager barking. The dogs all knew he was their leader. They loved him in their brute way because he was faster and stronger than any of them. They would follow his lead or all die in the traces. So it was a perfectly working machine with no friction or discord and that is what counts.
On the teams sped, through the long, dark night and the whining runners, the tinkling bells, and panting dogs made mad music to the ears of the two fighting, straining men. There was a small fortune at the end of the race for the winner. The Scotchman had already won seventy thousand dollars in these races, and Dick vowed in his soul, and swore by old Oregon and the state he loved that the ten thousand should be his this year. So on through the inky night they raced.
Finally the great gun at Fort Davidson boomed out its warning that the racers were coming. All the spectators who wished to see the finish must be in line. But Henderson's Huskies and Scotty Ellis's Baldies were not racing now. They were trotting heavily along. The strained dogs' tongues were out. Their tails drooped, while the men ran as though they could hardly move one leg after the other. But there was one thing which gave Richard hope. He had run ten miles more on the home stretch than had the Scotchman. Truly his youth was telling.
At the sound of the cannon the Scotchman flung his whip into his straining team, and with voice and whip lifted them a hundred feet ahead of Henderson's Huskies. The spectators cheered themselves hoarse as they saw him take the lead, and several teams dashed back to the city to tell the waiting crowd that the Scotchman was going to win. He was running away from the "chechahco" and his Huskies, but they had counted their chickens too soon. For, while the Henderson team was being driven by a greenhorn, yet he was a wonderful "chechahco." But, best of all, he had the greatest lead dog in Alaska urging on his mates. Seeing the gap that the Scotchman had put between them, Dick called to Silversheene.
"Mush, Silversheene! mush!" and the splendid dog put his last ounce of strength into closing up the gap. He strained at his traces and barked at his team mates, and in another mile had closed up the gap and was running side by side with the Scotchman's team. This so infuriated the Baldies that they swerved against the Huskies to engage them in a running fight. But Dick called to Silversheene, and Scotty Ellis to Baldy, and they swung back into their respective places and the miles rushed by.
Finally they reached the last mile and Dick jumped off the sled to rest his team for the final spurt. Here his Marathon training would stand him in good stead. The lighter sled enabled his team again to take the lead which Scotty vainly tried to overcome. He called to his straining dogs and flung the whip into them, but it was useless.
Dick and Silversheene had the advantage and they meant to keep it.
Half a mile from the coveted goal Richard again flung himself on the sled. He could scarcely breathe and his eyesight was dim. He had just sense enough left to guide his team.
"Mush! Silversheene! Mush!" he gasped in a wheezy voice and Silversheene cried to his team mates and they opened up another burst of speed.
Gradually they drew away from the Baldies while the waiting crowd cheered itself hoarse.
"The Huskies," they cried, "Henderson's Huskies. They are going to win. The Scotchman is beaten. The Huskies have won."
For with a rush of eager feet and a tinkle of bells old Silversheene had carried his team by the winning flag two hundred feet ahead of the seven-times winner and won the sweepstake for his dear master.
Men shouted and laughed and threw their caps in the air. Women and children laughed and cried while the bands played and the flags and handkerchiefs were waved to the victors.
Finally as Scotty Ellis's Baldies neared the flag a great cheer also went up for them. Scotty was still the king of the Alaskan trail, and the fact remained that he had already won the race seven times.
As his team came to a halt he got stiffly to his feet and limped towards Richard.
"Put it there, you chechahco. You have beaten me and you did it fair. You are a good sport, and a mighty good driver, but it was not you that beat me. It was that lead dog of yours. He is the greatest sled dog in Alaska. I will give you ten thousand dollars for him, just as he stands."
"Thank you, Scotty. "You are the best loser I ever saw. But there isn't gold enough in Alaska to buy Silversheene. He is my brother and we don't sell our brothers. Shake again, Scotty."