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.
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