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.  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.