Across a Thousand Miles (22 page)

“Yes.” Rebecca nodded. “He did.”

“What about you, Becky? You gonna give us a run for our money?”

“You can count on it,” she said without conviction.

“Oh, I do,” Wilton said, pushing out of his chair. “You've had us on the run for the past two hundred miles. I didn't think you were planning to give us any rest.” He kicked Beech's chair. “C'mon. Let's get some quality snore time in before Rebecca rousts us out of here.” The two mushers climbed upstairs with their sleeping bags in hand.

Rebecca finished her stew. It was nearly 7 p.m. She
was due to depart the roadhouse at midnight. Without Mac. She would sleep until 10 p.m., then begin the preparations for leaving. She'd feed her own team and Mac's one more time before heading for Circle. Mac should be in Fairbanks by now. If only she knew whether or not he'd arrived safely! She poured herself a cup of tea and drank it slowly, then poured a second one and drank it, too. She should be sleeping, like Beech and Wilton, but how could she sleep when Mac might be in trouble?

She poured herself a third cup of tea and slumped over the table. She was dizzy with exhaustion and there was a constant buzzing in her ears—or was it the sound of an approaching snowmobile? She lifted her head and listened. Yes! It approached rapidly, climbed the steep riverbank, and the engine cut out. Moments later the second volunteer tramped into the roadhouse, shrugging out of his heavy clothing.

“Well,” he said before anyone could speak, “the ham-radio guy at Biederman's got the message sent okay. I hung around to see if they made it into Fairbanks and they did. Guess it was a pretty tricky landing, too. Snowing like crazy there and blowing hard. That storm must be heading this way fast.”

“He's okay?” Rebecca asked, relief flooding her.

“I don't know. They trucked him off in the ambulance. But he was alive when he got there,” the volunteer replied, thinking she was talking about the sick pilot. Then he grinned. “There was a message for you,” he said. “The guy who flew Johnson into Fairbanks. MacKenzie, is that his name? He said for you to check out of Slaven's at midnight and not a second later.”

Rebecca couldn't help but smile. He was safe. Mac was safe! She swallowed the last of her tea and stood, holding her sleeping bag in one hand. Her feet seemed
to weight fifty pounds apiece and she climbed the stairs slowly, the muscles in her thighs burning with the effort. She picked an empty bunk and unrolled her sleeping bag. Beech and Wilton were both snoring, but not loud enough to keep her awake. She pulled off her boots and bibs and crawled into her sleeping bag. Her head spun as she lay down, and she felt as exhausted as she ever had, but her own discomfort didn't matter. The race didn't matter. All that mattered was that Mac was safe.

 

“C
AN'T YOU MAKE
this thing go any faster?” Mac asked the oil-truck driver, who glanced at him and grunted.

“Impatient sum bitch, ain't you?” he said, his upper lip bulging with Copenhagen snuff.

Mac slumped back on the truck's cracked vinyl seat. The headlights beamed into the darkness but did little to penetrate the wall of wind-driven snow. The Steese Highway, connecting Fairbanks to Circle City, was 162 miles of narrow, twisting, treacherous unpaved road that in the middle of summer had some flatlanders clutching their steering wheels with white-knuckled grips. He'd been lucky to find a ride at eight o'clock at night. A race official in Fairbanks had offered to take him to Circle the following morning, but Mac hadn't wanted to wait that long. Instead, he'd parked himself inside an all-night gas-station-and-convenience store on the edge of town and asked every trucker who passed through where he was headed. Most of them weren't going anywhere until morning, but the oil-truck driver had an emergency delivery in Circle.

With any luck they'd make Circle by midnight, Mac thought as he stared out the windshield at the strip of road ahead. He'd shanghai a snowmobile to get him the fifty miles to Slaven's Roadhouse, and by morning he'd
be on the trail again with a very well-rested team of dogs. Of course, by that time the front-running teams would be miles and miles ahead of him, and there was no way he could make up that lost time.

“Nope,” the truck driver, Wardlow, said suddenly. The truck was slowing. Slewing a bit as it did, but not out of control. Just sliding gently on the snow-covered surface. Wardlow downshifted, downshifted again. “Nope,” he repeated with conviction, rolled down his window and spat, rolled it back up again. “It'll just have to wait till morning.” His big fists were turning the steering wheel, and then Mac was looking at a big log building with a sign out front that read Chatanika Lodge.

“No!” Mac sat up straight. “We can't stop! The road's not that bad. There can't be more than six inches on the ground!”

“You ever been over this road before, son?” Wardlow said, parking the big rig in front of the long line of guest-room doors. “You ever been over the Summit in a bad snowstorm?”

Mac stared back. “What about the family that's out of oil?”

“They won't freeze to death. Most of 'em have woodstoves. Indians, you know. Most of 'em that live in Circle are. Survivors. Anyway, I'll call 'em. Tell 'em I'll be there in the mornin'.” Wardlow climbed down out of the cab and looked at across the seat at him. “C'mon, son, I'll buy you a drink or two. You can drown your sorrows, and a hot shower sure wouldn't do you no harm, come to think of it.”

Mac followed him reluctantly into the lodge where they settled side by side on bar stools in the saloon. Mac had exactly twenty dollars, Canadian, in his pocket. When he told Wardlow that, the older man just chuckled.
“Save it,” he said. “I'm buying. Consider me one of your race sponsors. I've always admired you crazy sum bitches, driving those crazy dogs across all those miles through all that country in all that bad weather. Never understood it and never wanted to do it myself, but I always admired your sand. Now belly up to the bar, son, and enjoy yourself.”

Mac hadn't eaten anything in over twelve hours nor slept much at all since Dawson, and by the time he finished the third generous drink that was set before him he was almost too far gone to lift his head off the bar. Wardlow propped him up on the way to their room, leaned him against the log wall while he fished the room key out of his pocket. When he'd gotten the door open, he dragged Mac inside. There were two twin beds and Wardlow steered him toward the closest one. The bedspread was cream-colored, and as it floated up toward him, Mac thought that he'd better get his parka off. It was dirty, would make the bedspread dirty… Too late! The bedspread hit him in the chest and there was a soft mattress beneath it. Mac closed his eyes and never did get his parka off.

 

B
Y MIDNIGHT
, the wind had died. The silence was vast and palpable. Rebecca stood by her team and breathed ice into her lungs. It was time to go. Her dogs were ready, everything was packed up, her sled bag was cinched down tight. No snow, no wind. Maybe they'd been wrong about the storm. Maybe it had changed directions and was heading out to sea. She punched her headlamp's bumper switch, and bright light flooded forth. She panned her team, all of them on their feet and awaiting her command. She panned behind to where
Mac's team remained picketed. Merlin was standing, gazing solemnly at her.

She drew a deep breath and faced front again. Maybe she should wait here until Mac returned. What if the volunteers in the cabin forgot to feed Mac's team and they all starved to death?

Come on, Rebecca,
the little voice chided.
Get your team in gear.
Wilton and Beech had left a good two hours ago. Kinney and Gurney had arrived an hour ago and would probably rest four hours at least. The night was calm and still, perfect for traveling.
Come on, Rebecca…

One last look at Mac's dogs. Merlin was still watching her. She felt a twinge of guilt as she pulled her snub line and freed her sled. “All right, Raven,” she said, and her team moved forward, trotting over the steep riverbank and onto the river trail.

An hour later a gust of wind came out of nowhere and nearly flipped her sled over. After that, the night became a desperate struggle against the wind and the snow, which fell lightly at first, then with increasing strength. Her team's pace slowed with the worsening trail. She stopped hourly to snack them, to switch dogs around, to give Raven a break and try another dog up front. None of them was happy. It was a wild night and getting wilder. The hours dragged, and what should have been a four-or five-hour run into Circle took her almost seven. It was 7:30 a.m. when she arrived in the tiny settlement on the banks of the Yukon. The checkpoint was at the Yukon Trading Post, and she was gratified to learn from Kanemoto, who anxiously awaited her, that Cookie was doing just fine and that Wilton and Beech were still there. In fact, though they had left Slaven's
two hours ahead of her, they had arrived in Circle scarcely an hour before she did.

“It's going to be a heck of a storm,” the checker told her. “Supposed to last a couple of days. We're expecting at least a foot of new snow, maybe two.”

The vet checked her team, and as soon as they were strawed and fed, Rebecca took advantage of the hospitality and hot meal offered at the Trading Post. Mac had not arrived yet, but road reports were that the drifts were very bad over the Summit and the plows were working hard to clear them. She wouldn't leave Circle until noon. Mac was sure to be here by then.

Noon came, and still no Mac. Rebecca's team was all dressed and ready to go, and still she watched the road, waiting and hoping. The checker walked over and handed her the sign-out sheet. She took the pen and clumsily scrawled her signature, noting that Wilton and Beech had left two hours ahead of her. Her dogs were getting a lot more rest than theirs, and she hoped her strategy would keep her in striking distance. She released her snub line. “All right, Raven. Good girl, Thor.”

Her team trotted out of Circle. They looked good, and while a long rest might have been an extravagance at this checkpoint, she thought it would pay off on the long slog to Central. It was still snowing hard, and that would slow the teams down considerably. She would stick to her schedule and try not to think about Mac.

Of course, trying not to think about Mac was like trying not to think at all.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea.

 

“N
OW SEE HERE
, son,” Wardlow said the following morning when Mac returned to the oil truck, shovel in
hand and weaving a little—both from the onslaught of the fierce wind and the unsteadiness of his legs. “You can't shovel your way through sixty miles of snowdrifts. Get into the cab and relax. You heard me radio the plow truck. They're almost here.”

Mac climbed slowly into the cab. He stashed the shovel behind the seat and closed the door. He let his head tip back and his eyes close. He felt awful. It was more than just a hangover, much more. It was the idea of Rebecca out in this storm by herself, and also his team being looked after by people he didn't know. It was the certain knowledge that he was out of the money, that he wouldn't win a damn cent when his team crossed the finish line. He wouldn't be able to pay Rebecca with his race winnings because there wouldn't be any. He'd have to sell his Rolex again—maybe he'd get a better price in Fairbanks—and then he'd have to hope for some kind of financial miracle.

And of course there were the dogs.
His
dogs, not Brian's. They belonged to him, and yet Brian was going to sell them. Mac would probably never see them again after this race, never feel the power of Merlin's loyal gaze on him or the incredible rush of driving fourteen top dogs in the toughest sled dog race on earth.

How could he have fallen so far so fast? Just yesterday morning he'd been counting his chickens, and now he was finding out that none of them were destined to hatch. Rebecca had warned him against doing that and she'd been right. As usual.

“Well, now,” Wardlow said. “She'll be comin' around the mountain, didn't I tell you, son? Sure enough, here she comes! Sum bitch!”

Mac opened his eyes. Wardlow pointed. A spume of snow was arcing high into the air, being caught by the
cold, stiff wind and whipped to the side. The huge plow truck itself was invisible until it was nearly upon them, and then it veered slightly to clear the oil truck. They caught a glimpse of a driver, the flash of a brief wave, and then the plow truck swept on.

Wardlow started the oil truck. He waited for the oil pressure to come up and then put it into low gear. “Don't you worry, son,” he said as the big truck eased forward through what moments before had been a six-foot-high drift. “We'll get you to Circle in time to catch your taxi.”

 

B
Y THE TIME
they got to Circle it was 2 p.m. Kanemoto was still there, and when he spotted Mac, he rushed toward him. “She's gone!” he said, pointing out of town. “Gone to Central. Waited for you, hoped you'd come. Left two hours ago!”

Mac looked around. “There's supposed to be someone here to take me back to Slaven's,” he said. “The race official in Fairbanks said he'd arranged it.”

Kanemoto nodded. “He is at the Trading Post. He waits there for you.”

“How is she? How was she? I mean, was she okay?” Mac felt foolish asking, but Kanemoto would know.

Kanemoto looked at him and nodded somberly. “She's okay. Her dogs are okay. But I think, MacKenzie, she misses you.”

 

I
T TOOK THREE HOURS
for Mac and his snowmobile driver to reach Slaven's Roadhouse. It was a slow, fumbling slog through whiteout conditions, the trail markers obscured by the heavy snowfall. By 5 p.m. darkness had fallen, and Mac was beginning to despair. They'd passed five oncoming teams, each of the drivers anxious to ask
about the trail ahead of them. Mac felt his spirits sink lower. There were now seven mushers between him and Rebecca. He had fallen hopelessly behind. His spirits picked up a bit when they rounded the curve in the trail and the glow of oil lamps framed by windows beckoned through the stormy darkness. He'd made it to Slaven's.