ld Recorder
nervously awaited. Joy Molineau had taken her position several rods back
from the trail, and under the circumstances, the rest of Forty Mile
forbore interposing itself. So the space was clear between her and the
slender line of the course. Fires had been built, and around these men
wagered dust and dogs, the long odds on Wolf Fang.

"Here they come!" shrilled an Indian boy from the top of a pine.

Up the Yukon a black speck appeared against the snow, closely followed by
a second. As these grew larger, more black specks manifested themselves,
but at a goodly distance to the rear. Gradually they resolved themselves
into dogs and sleds, and men lying flat upon them. "Wolf Fang leads," a
lieutenant of police whispered to Joy. She smiled her interest back.

"Ten to one on Harrington!" cried a Birch Creek King, dragging out his
sack.

"The Queen, her pay you not mooch?" queried Joy.

The lieutenant shook his head.

"You have some dust, ah, how mooch?" she continued.

He exposed his sack. She gauged it with a rapid eye.

"Mebbe--say--two hundred, eh? Good. Now I give--what you call--the tip.
Covaire the bet." Joy smiled inscrutably. The lieutenant pondered. He
glanced up the trail. The two men had risen to their knees and were
lashing their dogs furiously, Harrington in the lead.

"Ten to one on Harrington!" bawled the Birch Creek King, flourishing his
sack in the lieutenant's face.

"Covaire the bet," Joy prompted.

He obeyed, shrugging his shoulders in token that he yielded, not to the
dictate of his reason, but to her charm. Joy nodded to reassure him.

All noise ceased. Men paused in the placing of bets.

Yawing and reeling and plunging, like luggers before the wind, the sleds
swept wildly upon them. Though he still kept his leader up to the tail
of Harrington's sled, Louis Savoy's face was without hope. Harrington's
mouth was set. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. His dogs
were leaping in perfect rhythm, firm-footed, close to the trail, and Wolf
Fang, head low and unseeing, whining softly, was leading his comrades
magnificently.

Forty Mile stood breathless. Not a sound, save the roar of the runners
and the voice of the whips.

Then the clear voice of Joy Molineau rose on the air. "Ai! Ya! Wolf
Fang! Wolf Fang!"

Wolf Fang heard. He left the trail sharply, heading directly for his
mistress. The team dashed after him, and the sled poised an instant on