e wanted to
shout aloud, to chant a paean of savage exultation, as he remembered the
office of The Billow and the serial story of San Francisco which he had
left unfinished, along with the other fripperies of those empty days.

The grey twilight of morning was breaking as he exchanged his weary dogs
for the eight fresh Malemutes. Lighter animals than Hudson Bays, they
were capable of greater speed, and they ran with the supple tirelessness
of true wolves. Sitka Charley called out the order of the teams ahead.
Big Olaf led, Arizona Bill was second, and Von Schroeder third. These
were the three best men in the country. In fact, ere Smoke had left
Dawson, the popular betting had placed them in that order. While they
were racing for a million, at least half a million had been staked by
others on the outcome of the race. No one had bet on Smoke, who, despite
his several known exploits, was still accounted a chechako with much to
learn.

As daylight strengthened, Smoke caught sight of a sled ahead, and, in
half an hour, his own lead-dog was leaping at its tail. Not until the
man turned his head to exchange greetings, did Smoke recognize him
as Arizona Bill. Von Schroeder had evidently passed him. The trail,
hard-packed, ran too narrowly through the soft snow, and for another
half-hour Smoke was forced to stay in the rear. Then they topped an
ice-jam and struck a smooth stretch below, where were a number of relay
camps and where the snow was packed widely. On his knees, swinging his
whip and yelling, Smoke drew abreast. He noted that Arizona Bill's right
arm hung dead at his side, and that he was compelled to pour leather
with his left hand. Awkward as it was, he had no hand left with which to
hold on, and frequently he had to cease from the whip and clutch to save
himself from falling off. Smoke remembered the scrimmage in the creek
bed at Three Below Discovery, and understood. Shorty's advice had been
sound.

"What's happened?" Smoke asked, as he began to pull ahead.

"I don't know," Arizona Bill answered. "I think I threw my shoulder out
in the scrapping."

He dropped behind very slowly, though when the last relay station was
in sight he was fully half a mile in the rear. Ahead, bunched together,
Smoke could see Big Olaf and Von Schroeder. Again Smoke arose to his
knees, and he lifted his jaded dogs into a burst of speed such as a man
only can who has the proper instinct for dog-driving. He drew up close
to the tail o