For What He Could Become Read online

  The dogs slowed and almost stopped at the edge of the storm. Never had Bill seen anything like it. The edges swirled with small snow particles being driven parallel to the ground. Inside the storm, the sky was black. And the sound. The sound was like an endless train coming by just outside his vision, somewhere within that boiling mass. It blotted out the trail, the sky, and the surroundings. Rusty looked back at Bill as if to ask, “You want us to go into that?”

  Bill could taste the bourbon now, and the inside of his mouth was wet. He pulled the whip out of the bag and cracked it over their heads.

  “Hyaaa!”

  The sound of his yell was swallowed up by the roar of the storm, but the dogs heard it and picked up their pace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The wolves watched the team disappear into the storm front. They sat on their haunches for a minute, then the leader stood up, shook himself, and started off at a trot parallel to the storm line.

  Inside the storm Bill could not see past the wheel dogs. The sled began to slow. Bill cracked the whip, but the speed did not change.

  Okay, take your time—it isn’t far.

  A wave of dizziness swept over him and he thought he would fall. He tightened his grip on the drive bow and lifted one foot after another to make sure he was on a runner. All boundaries had disappeared. There was no up or down or sideways, and only one color. Somewhere in this whiteout there was a trail, but the dogs would have to find it.

  You don’t know where you are, do you? Well, at least you know who you are. You’re one lost Indian.

  A tree became visible on the left side. It looked familiar, and Bill halted the team and set the hook. He walked over and looked at the tree, then around the area. It all seemed familiar.

  “We’re headed the wrong way,” he said. “Napoleon, you got us turned around.”

  He got back on the sled and turned the team. Napoleon stopped, and the team stopped behind him.

  “Hyaaa!”

  Nobody moved. He got off the sled and walked to the front. Napoleon looked up at him with a smile on his face.

  “Let’s go,” Bill said.

  He pulled the dogs straight and went back to the sled out of sight of the lead dogs again. This time when he yelled the team took off. He closed his eyes to rest them against the driving snow. He wished he could close his ears and rest them from the noise of the storm. When he opened his eyes, he thought he saw the same spruce tree again.

  “Whoa!”

  He set the hook and looked at the tree. “We’ve circled—we’re headed the wrong way again. You crazy dogs!” He walked over to the leaders, then got down on one knee and took Napoleon’s head in his hands. His eyes fell on the outline of a paw track in the snow. The track was bigger and deeper into the snow than any of his dogs would make.

  A wolf? He released Napoleon’s head and ran his hands over the outline. It was frozen. He walked ahead several yards, checking. The big tracks went straight ahead.

  “Okay, I’m crazy. You’re right. Let’s go.”

  The wind howled, and he could never see more than fifteen feet ahead of him. He thought at times that he only had two dogs, that the rest of the team had disappeared, run off, joined the wolves. Snow caught in his beard and drove inside the parka hood, the whiteout distorted all balance with the earth, only his feet confirmed the solid substance under them. At times he squeezed the drive bow until his hands were numb so he could feel still attached to the sled.

  He was afraid now to think about McGuire’s Tavern, afraid the thought would poison his brain and cause him to fail in this storm that could take his life and leave the dogs hooked up to a sled with no driver. He knew the dogs wanted to stop, eat, and curl up. Let the snow blow, they could sleep under it. It was he who wanted the town.

  Bill watched the wheel dogs rise in front of him, then felt the sled hit the incline. They came onto a flat area, and as they whipped by, he could make out the shadowy outlines of airplanes. They were on an airstrip that was also the main street of McGrath. Bill let the dogs run to the edge of the airfield and the lip of the bank going onto the Kuskokwim before he halted them and found a good place to camp. There was another team close by—the weary dogs lifted their heads but did not offer greetings.

  The trees close by had all been stripped of their lower branches to provide bedding for dogs. Bill snubbed the team and got out his cooking gear. While the food was warming he dug the sacks out, settled the dogs on them, and covered each of them with a second sack. They started to work on their feet while he cooked and set up the tent.

  Set up camp, feed the dogs, then go to McGuire’s.

  The wind drove down the river but swirled into lowspeed whirlwinds at the top of the bank, and the cold was not intense.

  A good thing. Water. Got to get them water. He followed a rutted walking trail down to the river and found the mushers’ hole in the ice. He filled the buckets and turned to go back. For a moment he had a complete whiteout in front of him. There was no up, no down, no direction, no change of lighting. Everything was flat, and he stood there with the buckets of water dragging on his arms. A whisper of wind cleared the trail, and he trudged back up to find the team mostly covered with snow. Large flakes were falling that would wipe out the trail if it kept up.

  Bill smiled. I got here just in time.

  He poured water and ladled out the food. Most of the dogs were asleep by the time he headed over to McGuire’s Tavern.

  He opened the door and stepped in. People were everywhere, with mushers standing at the bar or seated at a table in the back of the room. Several mushers turned and looked at him.

  A trapper put his hand on Bill’s arm. “I’ve got beaver. You want to buy some?”

  “I don’t know if I have any money.”

  The trapper looked at him like that was something a person should know.

  Bill walked up to the bar. He licked his lips and ran his tongue over them.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

  Bill looked around, then took a deep breath.

  “You the owner?” he asked as he expelled the air.

  The man nodded.

  Bill ran his hands down the sides of his parka and unzipped it, the cold air trapped inside rising against his face as it escaped from the jacket.

  “Did Ilene Williams send any money here for me?”

  “You Bill Williams?”

  Bill nodded, his tongue folded between his teeth, his eyes searching the owner’s face.

  “Yeah. You’ve got a credit. What’ll you have?”

  Bill let his eyes run over the bottles behind the bar. The warmth was making him drowsy, and his legs felt unstable.

  “Do you have any good bourbon? Maker’s Mark or Knob Creek?” He swallowed as the saliva built up in his mouth, the anticipated taste of the whiskey activating the soft tissue inside. He could already feel it warming, relaxing, then sending back the fire.

  “How about Jim Beam?” the bartender said.

  “Do you have Canadian Club?”

  “You’re pretty choosy for a musher. No. No CC.”

  “I used to work in a hotel, and we had a good bar. Okay. Jim Beam then. No ice, just in the glass. Half a glass full.”

  The bartender looked up at him. “That will about use up your credit.”

  Bill felt a rush of panic. One stiff drink would use up his credit?

  “How much more do I have?”

  “Enough for four beaver, to only be used for beaver, and about two more ounces of whiskey.”

  “Two ounces?” Bill said too loudly. He looked around. Several mushers looked at him, drinks in their hands. He rubbed the palms of his hands on the parka. The noise in the back of the room subsided as he stood there, his body weaving slightly.

  “Okay,” he whispered.

  The bartender poured a generous four ounces, and Bill watched him put the cork back in the bottle and return it to the shelf. He reached for the drink and held the glass in his hand. He sme
lled it first. Maybe he should drink cheaper whiskey. He would get more of it. He smelled it again with his eyes closed.

  He set it back on the bar and looked at it. His mind had started a running picture show, and he couldn’t stop it. How good he would feel after he had this drink. How many more drinks he would want—would need, would have to have—after he had this drink. This drink wasn’t enough, by a long shot. The amount of cheaper whiskey he could have until his credit was used up wouldn’t be enough.

  He ran his tongue over his teeth, inhaled, and closed his eyes. The smell of the place grew stronger. He put both hands on the bar and took a step back. He opened his eyes and glanced at the people on both sides of him.

  Six ounces. That’s all? That’s not even close.

  “You okay?” the bartender asked.

  Bill nodded. His mind was racing. If I can get to the Kuskokwim from Anchorage without a drink, I can get from the Kusko to the Yukon and the Yukon to Nome. That’s why Ilene only gave me little credit here. She didn’t trust me not to get drunk. He took another step backward, then turned around to find the trapper.

  “I need some beaver.”

  The trapper led him outside and pulled the frozen carcasses out of a burlap bag. Bill loaded them in his arms.

  “The bartender will pay you. How much are they?”

  “Twenty dollars apiece.”

  “Do you know anything about the trail from here to Gane’s Creek?”

  “Sure. I trap the Imnoko country. Go there all the time.”

  “Will you come tell me about it?”

  “Can I have your whiskey when I come back?”

  “If you go in and save it now.”

  Four hours later the trapper lifted the flap of Bill’s tent and shook him awake.

  “Time to go,” he whispered. “I’ll give the dogs something.”

  Bill crawled out of the caribou skins and pulled on his boots. He stuck a piece of jerky in his mouth, thawing and chewing it at the same time, then stepped outside. The snow was still piling up, but the wind wasn’t as bad. He didn’t like leaving in the dark in country he didn’t know, but this was the first day of the rest of the race and he could picture Nome now as a land of golden temples and wide streets.

  The trapper had the dogs harnessed, and Bill checked them. Neck line, tug line, harness straight. He offered the trapper a piece of jerky.

  The trapper cocked his head in the direction of the Imnoko. “You’ll need that out there.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  The trapper nodded, grabbed the lead dogs’ harness and started them down the hill and out onto the Kuskokwim River ice. Yelling into the wind, the trapper repeated his instructions. Bill nodded and got the dogs moving. He didn’t want to alert the other mushers to his team’s leaving McGrath at night.

  He was almost to Tatalina when the light began to fill the sky. The swooshing of the runners on the snow gave off a gentle background noise that was amplified in the pre-dawn quiet. Bill felt every surface of the uneven trail as the sled bent and slid over it, driving the vibration through his feet and up his legs.

  At Tatalina he turned northwest and crossed the flat country into Gane’s Creek. He found the place the trapper had told him about and set the hook. Moving around, chopping the frozen beaver and salmon, and getting water generated enough body heat to keep the cold from bothering him. Their four-hour run had moved them out of the storm and into colder weather.

  It had also catapulted them into first place. It was tougher to find the trail now with no previous teams to follow, but they had made good time, and when Bill went to sign in at the check station, it startled him to write his name first on the page.

  He signed, then stepped back and looked at the book. It was the first time he had seen his name at the top of anything. He was number one into Gane’s Creek and heading for Nome.

  “How far behind are the others?” the checker asked. “I don’t know. I left in the dark.”

  “Left where?”

  “McGrath.”

  The checker scratched his head. “You already here from McGrath? Today?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Man alive,” the checker said. “Who’d want to travel at night!”

  Bill shrugged. “It wasn’t bad. We had stars, some moonlight.”

  “Well, that’s something. That’s something. When you fixin’ to leave?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Well, come check out when you leave. Need anything?”

  Bill pulled on his mittens. “You know the temperature?”

  The checker looked through his bifocals and squinted. “Twenty below.”

  Bill fed the dogs, shook out the sacks, and let the dogs sleep. After he had repacked the sled he crawled on top, covered himself with caribou hides, and fell into a deep sleep. The sled was close enough to the trail that he could hear others if they came by.

  Barking dogs awakened him. He pushed the hides back and glanced sideways at the trail. A team was stopped by the cabin. He could see the checker and musher talking, then they both looked over at him. He pulled the hides back in place and a smile crept over his face.

  They’ll be wondering who this guy is who’s sleeping while they’re just arriving. Good for them to wonder a little.

  By the time the third team came through, Bill figured he and the dogs had slept long enough. Besides, they now could follow trail instead of breaking trail. That would make them faster. He shook the sled but he didn’t need to. The dogs were all up and alert.

  The trail followed the Imnoko River to Cripple Landing, then wound past Hunch Mountain, a 272-foot hump in the middle of the broad flat drainage leading to Poorman. He let the dogs run at their normal pace along the river basin, hoping to catch a glimpse of the leading teams.

  He would have to see if running four hours and resting four hours would work. It meant keeping a twenty-four-hour schedule. But that gave him twelve hours on the trail instead of eight. Everyone else stopped at dark. If he didn’t get lost or have other night problems, he’d be ahead of the game.

  The two teams that had passed him at Gane’s Creek were stopped alongside the trail near Placerville. Bill slowed down and waved. They waved back but didn’t seem interested in conversation, so he picked up speed and headed for Poorman. He hadn’t gone a hundred yards, and he knew why they’d stopped. He would be breaking trail all the way to Ruby. They felt they could catch him when they wanted to.

  A slow anger rose inside of him. This wasn’t just dogs against dogs. This was also a thinking man’s race. They had beaten him to McGrath and were stopped by the storm. Now he was in front, and they were planning on letting him break trail nearly all the way to Nome—then passing him at the last minute with fresher dogs. He would have to review his plans. Get the camping schedule tightened. Lighten his load. Make sure all the dogs were working at the top of their form.

  “Hyaaa!” he bellowed. “Move, you huskies! We’re on our way to Ruby, come hell or high water.”

  A plane flew over and the pilot pulled into a stall and threw a bundle out of the window. The lead dogs came to where it lay in the trail looking like a big pineapple with red streamers. Bill set the hook and walked up to it. His name was written on the sack in large black letters.

  Inside was some fresh jerky, chocolate, a letter, and a photo. He unwrapped a Hershey bar and bit into the frozen chocolate. It tasted waxy until it warmed up in his mouth. He looked at the photo, still chewing. He smiled, then laughed. There, sitting on the steps of the Salvation Army building in Anchorage, were Patrolman Pat, Major Russell, Ilene, and Carolee. They had smiles on their faces and their arms in the air like they were cheering.

  He unfolded the letter.

  Dear Bill. You can’t hear us but we got word that you’re in the lead out of McGrath and we’re cheering our lungs out. Our hopes and prayers are with you always. Love to you from us.

  It was signed by each of them.

  PS: We also understand you only
bought beaver. Your progress is being told at evening vespers and many of the people coming here are cheering also. If you can do it…so can they.

  God bless you.

  Bill blinked several times and his face tightened. He looked at the dogs, all of them wondering if the bag held anything for them.

  “Here. Look at this.” He showed the photo to each dog. Rusty sniffed the photo, then licked his lips.

  “Oh, you smell the jerky, do you? Well, that’s for me but I have something for you, too.”

  He dug out the round balls, held them in his hand and let each dog take one. They begged for the chocolate and jerky but he pocketed those.

  He looked at the sky, clear with a few wispy clouds off to the west. He checked the map. They should be able to make the Sulatna River before the next rest.

  A north wind was blowing straight into his face. Down in the creek bottoms it was cold, and Bill kicked to keep warm though his energy was flagging. He pulled out some pemmican.

  His thoughts drifted, unable to stay on one thought for longer than a moment, then an overwhelming thought settled the confusion. How good he was feeling. How long has it been since I knew what it was to feel good? Was it when we got out of the Snow Eifel? No, it had to be when I walked back to the village. That was something. Ninety miles and no trail. But I feel better now than I did then. What a thing, this body. What a gift.

  The lead dogs pitched over a rise, and within seconds the team and sled angled down the bank of the Sulatna River, the sled skidded, and Bill leaned uphill to force the runner to dig into the snow. The lead dogs stopped at the edge of the river, and he set the hook and went forward. An overflow was running about a foot deep with solid ice underneath. Rusty and Napoleon walked into it, with his urging, and since it didn’t quite touch their bellies they moved on across it. They had just reached the opposite bank when the ice gave way under the sled and Bill dropped through the hole up to his armpits.

  He flung his arms onto the edge of the ice, his mittens sliding across the slick surface. Air trapped in his parka kept his head and shoulders out of the water. He kicked his legs. He grabbed the shelf ice, but it broke off. He pounded it with his fist, and the weaker ice broke until the sled was in front of him, half on the ice and half in the water. He reached for the drive bow and pulled.