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.
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