For What He Could Become Page 27

  “Easier to hold the drive bow than this pencil.” He flexed his hands and signed.

  “A guy can wear out his hands on that grip, can’t he?” Mike grabbed his coat and hat, and they walked out to the dogs.

  “Your dogs look good,” Mike said. “They all drinking? No diarrhea or sickness?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Okay. I’ve got some stew cooking. If you’d like a hot meal, come on up.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be there soon as I feed the dogs.”

  “You’d do okay with the Salvation Army,” Bill said as Mike dished out large bowls of moose stew. They serve a lot of this.”

  “How about the quality?” Mike asked.

  Bill sipped a spoonful. “I think you’ve got them beat…by a hair,” and he pulled a moose hair from his mouth.

  “That’s my secret ingredient,” Mike said. “Gives it body. What’re you boys figuring to do?”

  “I’m going to scratch,” Randy said.

  “I’m going on,” Bill said.

  Mike nodded. “Well—just let me know when you’re pulling out.”

  Randy looked up. “Bill, you really going on?”

  “I’ve got to.”

  “Nobody’s got to.”

  “My brother built that sled by hand,” Bill said. “He trained those dogs. Two people I think a lot of put me on this sled when I was in no condition to sit in the sled let alone stand on the runners. We’re about a third of the way, and I think I’ll just finish it.”

  “The leaders are at McGrath,” Mike said. “You’ll never catch ‘em.”

  “Probably not, but I’ve seen some evidence of sick dogs around, and mine aren’t sick and they aren’t tired. I’ll bet those leaders came through with some tired dogs who weren’t eating or drinking.”

  “True,” Mike said.

  “I didn’t get enough training miles on mine,” Randy said. “They’re pooped out and broken up. So am I. I’m scratching.”

  “Maybe you ought to wait until morning to scratch,” Bill said. “Your dogs will be rested and so will you. You might feel different about it in the morning.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The radio crackled. “Rohn, come in. Over.”

  Mike backed up his chair and walked to the radio table.

  “Rohn. Over.”

  “Any word of Duncan and Williams yet? Over.”

  “Both are here. Over.”

  “They comin on? Over.”

  “Williams says he’s coming and Duncan is thinking of scratching. Over.”

  “Don’t know if it will make any difference to them, but a storm has hit between Nikolai and McGrath and all the leaders are stopped dead in their tracks. They’re camped out all over the trail. Let us know when your guys leave or scratch or whatever. Over and out.”

  “Could I buy some aspirin and a pair of old sunglasses from you?” Bill asked Mike when he’d switched off. “My sponsor will send in the money for them.”

  “I think I can spare some of both,” Mike said.

  When he left the room, Randy said, “You’re really gonna try it, huh?”

  Bill nodded. “You know, it’s different for me. I haven’t been of any use to myself or anybody else for twenty years. I think I gotta finish this race. I’ve been thinking…I don’t see how it could be any harder getting from here to Nome than it was coming through Hell’s Gate. The storm has stopped the leaders. We can catch up.”

  “Their dogs will be rested by the time you get there—they’ll leave you in their dust.”

  Bill smiled. “There won’t be any dust that far north.”

  Mike put a bottle of aspirin and a pair of sunglasses on the table. “Try these on. See if they fit.”

  They were tight, but Bill felt immediate relief from the light. “You sure you can spare these? I’ll see the money gets to you.”

  “Forget it. The mushers left enough dog food behind to way more than cover the cost of those. I hope they work for you.”

  “I’m already feeling better. Think I could run behind the sled to Farewell.”

  “I don’t know, a man thinks he can run behind the dogs, but the dogs are going twelve miles an hour and the man is doing six or seven and it doesn’t equate unless you’re going uphill.”

  Bill stood up. The pain wasn’t as bad. He flexed his back and shoulders, lifted his legs and swung his arms.

  “I feel pretty good. Mark me down as leaving, Mike. Randy—you coming?”

  “Not me. Good luck, Bill. I’ll watch how you do. You need anything I’ve got?”

  Bill shook his head. “Thanks, Mike.” A quick image flashed through his head and he added, “And as my friend Major Russell would say, God bless you.”

  Mike gave him a funny look. “About ten miles you’ll hit the Post River coming in on your left. Turn up the Post and around Tunis Mountain. You won’t miss that—it’s almost 6,000 feet high. Trail should be clear from there to Farewell Landing Strip. Good luck.”

  Bill nodded. On the porch the sun was clear. A good run, and they could make Big River early tomorrow. He would have to travel during the night, but the trail beyond Post River was off the river and it shouldn’t provide many obstacles. And if there was a full moon…

  Bill’s lead dogs wanted to go and stamped their feet and jumped as his team pulled out. As usual, it took a mile or two for the dogs to become a team, but they were considerate of those who wanted to urinate or look at some piece of equipment dropped along the trail. Bill was considerate too, and for long moments of time he wasn’t standing on the runners or seeing the dogs, he was planning the rest of this race.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Down the Kuskokwim, the sled moved faster than Bill could run. He leapt up with his hand on the drive bow to keep his balance and was pulled through the air. By the time they reached the entrance to Post River, he stood on the runners and turned the team. The leaders had just straightened the team out when Rusty jumped straight up and the left swing dog disappeared. The team jerked to a stop. Bill jumped off the sled and inched his way along the tug line to the swings.

  The dog was visible under the water, imprisoned in a hole in the ice, his harness pulled hard against the edge of the hole.

  He reached in, grabbed the harness, and lifted. Water poured off the dog and into Bill’s boots. The dog was shaken but breathing. He scanned the banks for firewood, then remembered what his Dad had taught him about a wet dog. He got the team across the hole, took a towel out of the sled, and rubbed the dog as dry as he could. The dog would have to run to dry off.

  Past Tunis Mountain, he followed the trail in a northwesterly direction, hoping to see the Farewell towers soon. If he could make those fifty miles, he’d feed and rest the team there and be ready for the trip through Farewell. The map showed the trail to be relatively level, which could mean a fast run.

  They rounded a corner and Bill could not believe what he saw. It looked like a frozen waterfall. The trail went up a hill covered in ice.

  Two contradictory possibilities hit him: stop and reconnoiter, or drive hard and fast and see if the team could get up the hill. The team was still moving, their backs rising and falling, and through his wind-burned eyes he could see the leaders had not slackened.

  “Hyaaa!”

  He opened the sled bag and closed his hand around the whip. Rusty and Napoleon reached the base of the ice hill with their mouths open and their bodies gathered in a magnificent effort. When the whip cracked the dogs jumped forward, heads down, chests close to the ground. Their claws dug furrows in the blue-green ice. The sled skidded, then straightened. In seconds they were up and over the hill.

  Once over the icy hill, the trail drifted in and out of the trees. Bill stopped. He didn’t intend to run clear to Big River with a quart of water in his boots. He dumped out the water, changed his socks and felt liners, and tied them on the sled to freeze-dry. There was no feeling in his feet, but he could move his toes. He stood on the runner and started kickin
g with first one leg then the other. With an assist from his kicking, the dogs picked up the pace. He reckoned they were running over fifteen miles an hour.

  The difference in speed was noticeable. He kicked for a mile, then stopped. If he could kick all the way, they would catch the other mushers. If he could get off the sled and run up the hills, they would catch the other mushers. He hadn’t caught anybody yet, but he hoped to catch them all at McGrath—and come hell or high water, he would make McGrath.

  The team made good time toward Farewell, and a hundred thoughts crowded his mind. Thoughts about Carl and Ilene building this team to win and he was only taking it as far as the next drink. But—dammit—she knew what I was the day she put me on this sled. He thought about the cost of flying everything out from McGrath instead of Nome. What he would say to Major Russell and Ilene and Carolee if he didn’t finish the race?

  What would he say to Carl if he did or didn’t finish it? I did the best I could. Would Carl believe that? Could Carl see him now? Could Herb Chulpach and Wayne? Could Major Russell be right about this God business and his ideas about this life and the next one?

  Why does he believe in me? I don’t believe in myself. So far this life has been little more than pain and disappointment. Wait—I enjoyed myself on the Northland Echo, I enjoyed big Mike O’Leary. I enjoyed Corporal Reprise Sims, and oh, I enjoyed Wayne. He smiled. I even enjoyed hunting moose with George.

  He recalled Peck Hanley. Working those horses through the bogs was a lot harder work than driving these dogs to Nome…. The thoughts kept him alert through the spruce forest and tundra of the Farewell area.

  It started snowing. It was the kind of snow you didn’t see at first, but you knew it was coming down. It was wet on your face just a little at a time and then occasionally it would sting. You didn’t look up. You pushed your dogs just the same, just as hard, and they didn’t feel it either—at first.

  Then the parka felt different. The wolf hair the woman used when she made the ruff matted together. The snow melted on his face.

  What did he need to be thinking about? Visibility? It would get worse. Darkness? He had everything in handy places, and the flashlight was okay. Dogs? Food, water? Two of them were getting dehydrated. He would have to get them to drink at the next stop. Feet? Dogs seemed to be holding up well, more than he could say for himself.

  A light shone out of the canvas sides of the tent at Big River. Bill was lucky to find it in the gathering darkness. A man emerged from the tent and stood by the trail.

  He put out his hand. “Hello. Etu Etu.”

  Bill sunk the hook and limped over to him. “Hello.”

  Etu Etu turned and walked into the tent. “Please sign paper.”

  Bill removed his mittens and gloves and flexed his hand until it was loose enough to hold the pencil and sign his name. Etu Etu looked at the paper.

  “You are Bill Williams. The last musher. Good. Good.” He smiled. “How are your dogs?”

  “Okay. Two of them aren’t drinking much, I need to hand-water them. Can I get to McGrath tonight?”

  “Better here. You go McGrath tomorrow. Big snow stopped them all in McGrath.”

  “Everybody’s at McGrath?”

  Etu Etu nodded. “You rest and get early start. Good for you. Good for dogs.”

  Bill thought for a moment. “I’ll feed the dogs.”

  He got the food and prepared it all, knowing he would have a new sack in McGrath. He took the two dogs that weren’t drinking into the tent and hand-dripped water on their tongues. There was no facility to drop a dog here. If they didn’t get better, he would drop them in McGrath. He watered both dogs, saw that they ate most of their food, and re-hooked them to the tug line.

  Etu Etu opened the flap of the tent. “Ready?”

  Bill looked up. He could see the warm inside of the tent lit against the dark backdrop of the sky, the stars and northern lights fighting each other for light dominance. A man he didn’t know was inviting him to share his food.

  Inside, the floor was covered with food sacks, smoothed out like a carpet except for the cooking area, where a small Coleman stove sat on short legs and held a pot leaking steam and the delicious scent of stew.

  Etu Etu handed Bill a tin cup filled to the brim. It was hot and fragrant. There was a small tin of biscuits, one of which he took and dipped in the thick stew.

  He chewed and looked at Etu Etu, who smiled back at him but didn’t offer any conversation.

  “How far to McGrath?” he asked.

  Etu Etu cocked his head. “Oh, fifty miles maybe. Maybe not.”

  “They have a tavern there, don’t they?”

  Etu Etu nodded.

  A mental picture of sitting at the bar overwhelmed him. He didn’t know if Ilene had made arrangements for him to have any money or credit in McGrath. He could beg it off someone, but he wasn’t a beggar on the trail, he was a musher. Mushers didn’t beg drinks off other mushers. How disappointed the major would be to hear that he had made it to McGrath, taken Carl’s and Ilene’s dreams to the tavern and washed them down with alcohol.

  He licked his fingers, wiped them on his pants, and handed his bowl to Etu Etu.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Mind if I sleep in here?”

  A gentle smile, a nod of the head, and his arm pointed to a place along the sidewall of the tent.

  Bill took a quick look at the dogs, then lay down. He tried to program his mind to sleep about four hours. The dogs would be refreshed, and he could get by with that. The plan was forming. Sleep four hours, then run to McGrath, scratch at the tavern, and do some drinking while waiting for the plane to pick them up. He’d be last at that point—no one would expect him to do any better. It was a good try but not the right timing, and timing was everything. If they’d come to him ten years ago…yes, he might have made a good job of it. His mind fogged, and the dream was not the same as his plan.

  The cold was intense when he awoke. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but Etu Etu was snoring on the other side of the tent. He rolled on his side and felt stiff muscles argue about moving. He got to his elbows and knees and stretched, twisting every joint, ligament, and muscle until he could stand up. His right hand cramped, and he grabbed it and held it straight with the other hand until the cramp abated. He sat up and blinked his wind-burned eyes.

  He crept through the tent flap, and Napoleon raised his head. He walked over and put both hands around his muzzle.

  “Can we get to McGrath in the dark?” he asked the dog.

  Napoleon looked him in the eye. Rusty lifted his head.

  “Want a snack?” He turned the sled upright and dug into the dog snacks. As each dog came awake, he downed his snack and then looked to make sure the dog next to him had eaten all of his. Bill got water from the hole in the ice and watched each dog drink. The two dogs that hadn’t been drinking last night took on enough water so that he didn’t have to hand-water. He checked their harnesses, connected the necklines and tug lines, and straightened up again. His back reminded him of his age and condition. He stood on the runners and pulled the hook.

  “The trail forks up ahead,” Etu Etu said with just his head stuck out of the tent. “Take the left fork.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Bill said. He smiled and wondered about the man’s life. He seemed content, even happy, living out here with few people around. He shook the sled.

  “Hyaaa!”

  Rusty and Napoleon growled loud enough for him to hear over the running sled. They ran on with the dogs lifting and dropping their heads, the hair on their backs sticking straight up.

  Then he saw them. A quarter of a mile away on a small rise, traveling at the same speed and in the same direction, was a pack of eight wolves.

  “Good dog! Good boy!” Bill called out.

  The dogs responded with raised tails and a deep growl. The wolves cast glances at the team but continued parallel in their general direction. Bill turned away to see what the trail held for the next fif
ty yards. When he looked back, the wolves had stopped and were sitting at the edge of a wind-blown rise, heads tilted back in a howl that made his neck creep. Another quarter-mile, and the wolves were behind them. When he turned to look again, they were loping off his right side about 100 yards away.

  Now he could see why the officials had stopped the race at McGrath. The storm blotted out the entire Kuskokwim valley with a white wall of wind. The front of wind and snow was as visible as a building, and they were headed directly into it.

  He halted the team and surveyed what he was about to enter. Then, having second thoughts, he pulled over and tied the team to a spruce tree. He figured they had come about twenty-five miles and had that much yet to go. He snacked the dogs. It would be good to water them, but he noticed several were eating snow, and the others could make it to McGrath without water.

  He’d intended to get going as soon as the last dog finished its snack, but as each dog finished, he looked back in the direction of the wolves, and an uneasy feeling came over Bill. He could no longer see or hear the wolves. What he knew and felt were two different things. He didn’t want to test either of them here and now, so he walked amongst the upraised hackles and erect heads and tails, and petted each dog and talked to it, then untied the snub line. He walked back to the sled, and as he reached for the hook he heard the howls in the trees—much closer now.

  He pulled the hook but didn’t have to shake the sled to get the dogs’ attention—they were all standing and looking back in the direction of the howls.

  “Hyaaa!”

  Rusty and Napoleon turned their heads and pulled onto the trail, the swing dogs doing a good job of making the turn and the wheel dogs pulling to put the sled in the tracks and on the trail to McGrath.

  Bill zipped his parka closed and made sure his scarf was handy if he needed to cover his nose and mouth. He’d been in Alaskan storms many times, but this was the first time he’d headed into one because he wanted a drink more than anything else in the world. Common sense dictated that he camp and ride out the storm. His desire for a drink pushed him toward McGrath. Get to where there was whiskey, then he could scratch the race and end this hardscrabble experiment with his life.