Strung along for five miles in the rear,
the remainder of the race strove to overtake them, but vainly, for to
Louis Savoy alone was the glory given of keeping Jack Harrington's
killing pace.
As they swung into the seventy-five-mile station, Lon McFane dashed
alongside; Wolf Fang in the lead caught Harrington's eye, and he knew
that the race was his. No team in the North could pass him on those last
twenty-five miles. And when Savoy saw Wolf Fang heading his rival's
team, he knew that he was out of the running, and he cursed softly to
himself, in the way woman is most frequently cursed. But he still clung
to the other's smoking trail, gambling on chance to the last. And as
they churned along, the day breaking in the southeast, they marvelled in
joy and sorrow at that which Joy Molineau had done.
* * * * *
Forty Mile had early crawled out of its sleeping furs and congregated
near the edge of the trail. From this point it could view the up-Yukon
course to its first bend several miles away. Here it could also see
across the river to the finish at Fort Cudahy, where the Gold Recorder
nervously awaited.
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