Across a Thousand Miles (21 page)

“Almost midnight. Beech and Wilton have checked out. Gurney and Kinney are still here. Go back to sleep. You have two more hours.”

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Why are you awake?”

“Just woke up,” Mac lied. “Must be getting hungry again. Go back to sleep.”

“How long have our teams been resting?”

“We got into Eagle around 6 p.m.”

Rebecca rubbed a hand across her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “I'm starving,” she said.

“Salmon?” Mac offered, reaching for his parka, laid across the foot of his bunk. By leaning and stretching they passed the smoked salmon without leaving their bunks. She pulled a bag from the foot of her bunk and unzipped it, drawing forth the thermos of tea. She poured two cups and handed one to Mac.

“What would happen,” she said, chewing on the awful dried fish, “if we were to cut our team's rest a little short here?”

“How short?”

“Oh, say, one hour.”

Mac chewed contemplatively. “There's a shelter cabin forty miles from here. Then there's Biederman's cabin another forty miles beyond that, and Slaven's. There are plenty of shelter cabins on the next stretch.
We could take a break at all of them if we wanted. Rest the dogs a lot. I think they'd be okay.”

Rebecca took a sip of tea and swallowed. “What if we left right now?” she said.

Mac glanced at her. “Getting a little anxious, are we?”

“We could snack our teams, get them ready to go and be out of here in thirty minutes. We run to Trout Creek and give them a break there, maybe two hours. Run to Biederman's, rest another two hours. Run to Slaven's and rest four. Then run on into Circle. It's downriver all the way.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Mac said.

“I'm thinking about that storm,” she said. “When that hits, it'll slow us down to a crawl. The farther along we are before that happens, the better off we'll be. Maybe we could even make it over Eagle Summit before it gets too bad.”

“Maybe,” Mac said. “But I doubt it.”

 

F
ORTY MINUTES LATER
they were signing out of the Eagle checkpoint in third and fourth place and dropping down onto the Yukon River for the long run to Circle City. It was dark and cold, though not as cold as it had been on the Fortymile. By 6 a.m. they had reached Trout Creek. The front-runners were still camped there, but when Mac and Rebecca pulled in, they were quick to ready their teams and depart.

“Did you see that?” Rebecca said to Mac while they prepared their dogs' breakfast. “Their teams were looking tired. I don't think they'd been here more than two hours. I think we should stay for three.”

“Three? I thought you planned on two.”

“We cut our rest short in Eagle. If we shave things too close, our teams will be exhausted.”

“Wilton and Beech only stayed four hours in Eagle. We stayed six,” Mac pointed out.

“We'll rest here for three and see how they do on the run to Biederman's. If they slow down too much, we'll rest four hours there.”

Mac nodded slowly. “You're the boss.”

“I think if we push too hard now, we'll burn them out,” Rebecca said. “We still have a long way to go, and I want to keep my dogs happy. I want them smiling when they cross that finish line.”

A three-hour rest was barely enough time to tend the dogs, eat their own meal and ready their gear for the next haul. They sat together on Rebecca's sled, side to shoulder, leaning against each other. Mac handed Rebecca a piece of smoked salmon and Rebecca handed Mac his portion of chili. They communicated with a series of grunts and gestures. No need for words. Words wasted too much energy.

Rebecca's eyes burned with fatigue, and the cold was a constant torment. She had shipped hundreds of chemical warmers in her food drops to the checkpoints, and she doubted there would be a single packet left by the end of the race. Being warm was a fantasy she indulged in when she drifted toward sleep. She chewed wearily on the piece of salmon and, eyes closed, leaned against Mac's shoulder. Mac. She couldn't imagine life without him. For the past several days she had shared an incredible odyssey with him, and it seemed as though he had been a part of her life forever, as much a part of it as the dogs and the race and the checkpoints and the miles and miles of trail. Whenever she dozed off, she'd awake with a jerk, wondering if she'd overslept, wondering
which checkpoint she was heading for—or was already in. Wondering where Mac was, and if he was okay.

What would happen when the race was over? Would they go their separate ways, politely shaking hands and maybe giving each other a chaste farewell kiss? Would Mac leave the Territory as Brian had predicted? And if he did, would he miss her? Would he ever think about what they'd been through in this wild arctic land, running behind a team of Alaskan huskies while a blue norther drove winter deep into both of their souls?

Rebecca drew a deep breath of polar air into her lungs. Probably not. He would most likely do just as Brian had said he would. Be drawn by forces more powerful than the land, more seductive than a woman. Technology and big bucks. Maybe Sadie would drift with him on her way to becoming a doctor. Maybe Sadie and Mac would marry.

“Fruitcake?” Mac said, interrupting her thoughts.

She poured the tea while he divided the last of the precious fruitcake. They ate and drank. The dogs curled on their snowy beds and slept. By the time Kinney and Gurney drove their teams to the Trout Creek cabin and stopped for a break, Mac and Rebecca were ready to depart. They exchanged a few words with their fellow mushers but were soon back on the trail. There was no time for socializing. No time to share a cheery campfire and the camaraderie of the long trail. This was a race, after all, and the finish line was a mere 365 miles away.

The pressure was on.

T
HE RUN TO
B
IEDERMAN'S
cabin was nasty, with strong, gusting winds pushing their sleds around on an icy river trail. A light snow made visibility poor, in spite of the strengthening daylight. Rebecca was glad they weren't making the run at night. Beech and Wilton must have had a rough time of it. She and Mac kept to their schedule of hourly stops to snack and check their dogs, and when Biederman's cabin came into view five hours after leaving Trout Creek, both were startled to see two dog teams staked outside it. Rebecca, whose team was leading, turned on her runners. “Do you see what I see?” she asked, a surge of excitement purging the fatigue and frustration from her.

“Let's burn right on by without stopping,” Mac said. “That'll shake 'em up good, maybe force them to cut their rest break short.”

Rebecca knew Mac was right, but she longed to stop. She wanted to sit beside a warm stove and toast her cold bones. She could see smoke whipping out of the cabin's chimney and she closed her eyes. “All right, Raven,” she commanded through frozen lips. “On by, Thor. Good dogs!”

There was a ripple of noise from the staked teams as they passed, and the cabin door opened. A man stepped out and waved to them. Rebecca waved back. There was a ham-radio operator stationed at Biederman's for the
duration of the race, and he would relay information about which mushers had passed by. “Reed and MacKenzie!” she shouted to the man, who waved again in acknowledgment. He stepped back inside and shut the door against the cold. Rebecca closed her eyes again. Warm cabin gone. Her teeth chattered and she clenched them together with a vengeance. “Wimp,” she muttered to herself.

Mac was right about the race strategy. She turned to look back at the cabin. Mac was watching, too. Just before the bend in the river obscured the cabin, they saw the door open again and two mushers emerge, moving quickly to their teams. Mac's teeth flashed in a triumphant grin. “Told you so,” he said, and she laughed and turned her back to the strong wind.

In less than an hour Beech and Wilton had caught up and passed them. They had strong teams, there was no denying it. But how long could they run on so little rest? It took them some time to pull ahead of Mac and Rebecca's teams. Only when Mac and Rebecca stopped for their hourly snacking did they disappear completely.

“We'll definitely see them again at Slaven's,” Mac said as they shared a cup of tea. “We can't be far from there now. And we'll be right on their heels coming into Circle. I was hoping we'd pass them before then, but now I'm not so sure. It all depends on how their teams hold up.”

“It looked as if some of their dogs are not liking the pace.”

Mac nodded. His scruffy beard and the fringe of hair that escaped his hat were coated with ice. The steam from the tea turned to ice on his eyelashes and he rubbed it off impatiently. “When this race is over, I'm going to
sleep for at least a month,” he said. “Maybe two, depending.”

Rebecca bit her tongue to keep from asking him where he'd be sleeping. Would it be California or Great Britain? A wave of emotion swept over her so unexpectedly that tears were freezing on her cheeks before she could stop them from forming. Mac was in the act of lifting his cup for another drink and he stilled. “Rebecca? What is it? What's wrong?”

She shook her head and swiped the back of her mittened hand across her cheeks. “Just tired, I guess.” She turned away and walked to the head of her team to finish her tea in privacy, leaving Mac to watch and wonder.

On the trail again, she struggled with her wildly fluctuating emotions. One moment she'd think everything was fine, that her dogs were doing great, that maybe Mac was right and they might win. The next moment her throat would close and she'd struggle against tears, thinking about how cold and tired she was, how much she hated racing and would never, ever race again, and most of all, how much she dreaded losing Mac.

Losing Mac? How could she possibly lose what she'd never had to begin with?

Wake up, Rebecca!
she'd chastise herself.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself!
And then she'd concentrate on her dogs, on the trail, on the next bend in the river and the bend after that, the miles passing slowly in a blur of wind-driven snow as daylight faded into dusk.

 

T
HERE WAS A PLANE
parked on the river below Slaven's Roadhouse. It was a big yellow deHavilland Beaver on the obligatory skis, and Mac admired it as they drove their teams up the riverbank and tied them off beside the roadhouse. The plane hadn't been here long. Snow
hadn't yet dusted its leeward side, and the landing tracks were still clearly defined. Mac's eyebrows raised. It must have been a bumpy landing. The river was a mile wide here but jumbled with chunks of ice. The plane had come to a stop right along the shoreline, almost on top of the race trail. The river ice was smoother there, but a far cry from flat.

Two snowmobiles were parked near the entry door. Beech's and Wilton's teams were staked on the far side of the roadhouse and the smell of wood smoke was a welcome invitation to the warmth that waited within. Rebecca desperately needed that warmth. Mac walked to where she was already firing up her dog-food cooker. “I can do that for you. Go thaw yourself out,” he offered. “I'll call you when it's ready to serve up.”

She shook her head, unsheathing her ax to begin the painstaking process of chopping the block of frozen meat into the smallest pieces possible and throwing them into the cooler. As she worked she scooped snow into the water pot to melt. “I'm all set,” she said. “See to your own dogs.” She glanced at Beech's and Wilton's teams. “How long do you figure they've been here?”

Mac glanced over at the other teams and shrugged. “At least long enough to have fed their teams, but not all their dogs are sleeping yet. An hour, maybe?”

The roadhouse door opened. Wilton stepped out. “Hey!” he shouted. “Either of you two got any medical experience?”

Rebecca stood up, still holding her ax. “What's wrong?”

Wilton shut the door behind him and walked toward them. “We've got the pilot of that plane in here. He landed about twenty minutes ago. I don't know much about this stuff, but he looks pretty sick to me, you
know? He was on his way to Circle and put down here when he saw smoke coming from the chimney. There's no radio at this cabin, just a couple of folks keeping the place warm for us. We could send one of them by snowmobile back to Biederman's to radio for help from there. I guess that's the best bet.”

“There must be a radio in the plane,” Mac said.

Wilton shook his head. “We asked. The guy said it didn't work. It's an old plane.” He shrugged helplessly. “I think it's his heart. His face is gray.”

Mac glanced at Rebecca. “I'll go check on him,” he said. “You finish up here.”

Rebecca watched him walk back to the roadhouse and felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. She looked at the plane parked down on the river ice, its yellow wings rocking in the wind. She stood there watching it until one of her dogs whined impatiently, and she dropped back down to her knees to finish making supper for the dogs.

 

W
ILTON WAS RIGHT
about the pilot of the plane. He was conscious and he was talking, but he was obviously in a great deal of pain, all of it in his chest and left arm. There were two race volunteers who had arrived the day before to get the roadhouse warmed up and provide a huge pot of stew for the mushers who would stop there. The pilot, Guy Johnson, was sitting at the table. Mac dropped into a chair across from him and cut to the chase.

“How much fuel is in your plane?”

“Filled her up in Circle,” Johnson muttered. He lifted anxious eyes to Mac's face. Sweat beaded his pale brow. “I was on my way to Eagle when—” he drew a few shallow breaths and swallowed “—I had to land.”

“Do you have charts in the plane?”

Johnson nodded.

“But no radio?”

Johnson shook his head. “Meant to get it fixed. Don't need one much around here.”

“Okay, here's the deal,” Mac said, leaning over the table. “I'm no doctor but I can fly a plane, and if yours is gassed up and ready, I can get you to Fairbanks. They have a good hospital there. What do you say?”

Johnson lifted his head. Hope flickered in his eyes. “You can fly?”

“I have over three thousand hours in navy jets. If you can show me how to start that old girl, I can sure as hell fly her.”

Johnson nodded. “Let's go,” he said.

Mac got to his feet. “Wrap him up in blankets or a sleeping bag and carry him down,” he said to Wilton and Beech, tough mushers and more than capable of the task. Mac pulled his parka back on and headed out to where Rebecca crouched over her cooker. She stood as he approached. “Listen up,” he said. “I'm going to fly this guy to Fairbanks. He needs to get to a hospital right away. I hate to ask it, but I need you to feed my dogs for me.” He fumbled with the parka's zipper and pulled it up. “With any luck I should be back before noon tomorrow, but I don't want you to wait for me. I want you to haul yourself out of here in eight hours, just like we planned. Snack my team before you go and tell the folks up at the cabin to keep an eye on them till I get back.” He paused and eyed her keenly. “Are you listening to me? If I get back here and you're still hanging around, I swear I'll kick your ass down the trail.” Her blue eyes were so blank that he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Rebecca?”

“You can't do this!” she blurted. “You can't fly that plane! You haven't flown a plane in a long time and you've never flown
that
plane! The radio doesn't work. How will you let Fairbanks know you're coming in? What's going to keep you from crashing into jetliners when you get near the airport? If the radio doesn't work, what else might be broken? Its almost dark, and—”

“Rebecca, eight hours and you're out of here!” The roadhouse door opened and Beech and Wilton emerged, carrying Johnson in a sitting position in the cradle of their joined arms. “I have to go. Take care of yourself, Rebecca, and beat those two guys, okay? That's an order.”

He let go of her and trotted down the riverbank toward the Beaver. The engine was still warm so she'd probably start just fine. He bled the fuel line and did his preflight walk around the old aircraft with fatalistic calm. There was no way of knowing how well the plane had been maintained. Rebecca was right. If the radio didn't work, what else might be wrong with her?

Beech and Wilton hoisted Johnson into the passenger seat and helped him get strapped in. “Hey,” Mac said, buckling his own harness, “send one of those volunteers back to Biederman's. Have the ham-radio operator call ahead to Fairbanks airport and let them know we're flying in. It's 1600 hours now, our ETA should be 1730 or somewhere thereabouts. It'll be darker than hell. Tell 'em to leave the lights on for us and have an ambulance standing by.”

He started the Beaver's engine—no problem there— then let it idle while he pored over the air charts and plotted his course. “It's going to be a bumpy takeoff,” he warned Johnson, who nodded weakly and muttered that it had been a bumpy landing.

Magnetos, oil pressure, fuel gauges, everything checked out. No time to waste. He put aside the charts and checked rudder, ailerons, flaps. “Here we go, old girl,” he said, advancing the throttle and settling himself into the seat. “Let's rock and roll.”

The stiff wind made for a short takeoff roll on the rough terrain, which was probably the only reason Mac didn't lose all his fillings, but the old engine roared smooth, deep and sweet, all nine cylinders firing well, and when he pulled back on the yoke, the Beaver lifted obediently off the ice and climbed steeply into the darkening sky. Mac caught a glimpse of Slaven's Roadhouse as he banked around and took a compass heading of 240 degrees south of west. He saw Rebecca standing on the riverbank, looking very small and defenseless. Saw her lift her arm in a wave and he dipped the plane's wings in response. And then the roadhouse was behind him. Rebecca was behind him. Something deep inside him churned with a particularly intense anguish all the way to Fairbanks.

 

R
EBECCA STOOD
rooted in place long after the plane had disappeared. She couldn't believe he was gone. Just like that! One moment they were starting to feed their dogs, and the next he was climbing into an old yellow plane and flying off into the gathering darkness. She felt completely abandoned and alone, standing on the bank of the frozen Yukon River and staring westward across the vast, snow-covered wilderness. It was the cold that galvanized her into action. The cold and the sound of a snow machine starting up, revving its engine repeatedly and then speeding down to the river and back toward Biederman's.

Feed the dogs, Rebecca, feed the dogs,
insisted the
nagging voice inside her head. Was it Mac's voice or hers? No matter. She set to the task of feeding her own team and then Mac's. She put coats on all the dogs, and when they were curled up and sleeping, she took her sleeping bag and her supper sack and walked to the roadhouse on leaden feet. Beech and Wilton were still up. She sat down at the table and thanked the volunteer who promptly set a bowl of stew in front of her. She spooned it automatically into her mouth, not tasting, not hearing the bantering words around the table, not seeing the faces. Thinking only of Mac. What if the engine failed? What if the plane crashed? What if he was killed?

“Hey, Beck,” Wilton's voice prodded. “Becky. That guy. What's his name again? MacKenzie? How long's he been driving dogs?”

“Less than a year,” she replied dully.

Wilton whistled. “No kidding!” he said. “He's pretty good. He was starting to make me nervous. We figured he'd burn his team out a long time ago. I don't mind tellin' you that I'm glad he can fly a plane. Too bad for him, though. He's blown any chance he had, and he had a damned good chance.”