As three quick blasts came from the sternwheeler’s steam whistle, I stole a quick backward glance over my left shoulder. With much chuffing and belching of smoke, the steamboat left the skiffs behind.
I returned my attention to Donner and Brackett. Stroke by stroke, we were gaining on them. Jamie veered us slightly left, to give us room to pass them.
As we came abreast of them the sternwheeler appeared on our left, no more than a hundred yards away and slightly behind. It was the Eldorado, and its captain was being careful not to raise a wake that might affect the race. From the corner of my eye I saw hundreds of people crowding the rails, raising their hats and waving. Over the racket of the steam engine and three more whistle blasts I could hear the shouts and the cheers. Burnt Paw was in a frenzy on my lap, barking to the left at the sternwheeler and to the right at our enemies.
The Eskimos had fallen in behind the two kayaks in order to watch us race, and were chanting, “Ai-ee! Ai-ee! Ai-ee!”
From the shore, perhaps in response to the sternwheeler’s whistle, perhaps because people had been watching with telescopes, a fleet of small boats rowed out to meet us. They made a wide path for our kayak and its twin, tied neck and neck for the lead.
The sun was just starting to rise. It must have been one in the morning.
We passed among the giant ocean steamers anchored a mile or so from shore. I was aware of them towering above us, but I never took the time to look.
With a quick glance to my right I saw the muscles in Donner’s neck corded to bursting. I remembered him whipping me when we arm-wrestled. Brackett’s height came to mind, how much leverage it gave him.
Merely thinking about their advantages sapped me of what strength I had left—there was suddenly little power in my stroke. Donner and Brackett started to slip ahead.
“Paddle!” Jamie cried. “Paddle for the mill, Jason! Paddle as you love me!”
I forgot about Donner. I forgot about Brackett. I barely noticed all the people waving from small boats along our route. Their shouts seemed to come from a great distance. I put my mind on my brothers, on the mill, on Jamie, on my paddle.
Finally I could see, at the mouth of a tundra river, a tent metropolis with a sprinkling of buildings beyond. Nome.
Pull! I told myself. Pull, pull!
I kept the double-bladed paddle moving with everything I had, not too deep, not too shallow. Let Jamie make the steering adjustments, I told myself, you just give it the power. Give it more power.
More power!
I could see the crowd at the landing now. I could hear a tumultuous roar. There must be thousands, I thought. Thousands.
Pull! Remember how that husky of yours could pull. King, for the love of heaven, help me!
Remember what your brother suffered to stay in the ring with the Sydney Mauler. To beat him!
I kept pulling with all I had.
No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t seem to gain on them. But they weren’t putting any distance on us—they were barely ahead.
The crowd at the beach was parting to make a lane.
“Remember, the Alaska Commercial Company building!” Jamie cried. “We’ll have to run for it!”
A hundred yards to the beach. Everybody waving their hats. A sea of arms and hats and blurred faces.
The lane. Keep your eye on the lane. Straight as an arrow to the lane.
Keep paddling!
The two kayaks were no more than ten feet apart. Over the roar of the crowd I could hear Donner wheezing for breath. I caught a glimpse of Brackett’s granite face turned beet red.
At the last, the beach and crowd seemed to surge forward. Suddenly we were scraping bottom.
“Let’s go!” came Jamie’s cry.
I was fumbling with the drawstring of the kayak skirt. It wouldn’t come loose. I ripped it loose, tried to lift myself out of the kayak, fell sideways into the water and almost onto Burnt Paw. Jamie was staggering beside me, trying to give me a hand up.
Donner had tripped, too, face forward on the beach. Brackett yanked him up; the four of us stumbled forward like drunks. After so long in the kayaks, it was impossible to walk, much less run.
On both sides voices were shouting that we had to touch the Alaska Commercial Company building. A man wearing a derby hat was shouting, “I’m from the A.C.C. Follow me, I’ll run straight to it!”
Jamie and I held hands to try to keep each other up, ran and stumbled and staggered forward.
A yelp, and Jamie went down.
The yelp was from Burnt Paw. He’d gotten under her feet.
I gave Jamie two hands and pulled her up. We were looking at Donner’s and Brackett’s backs.
The boxer ran ahead. We had a chance of catching Donner. I could hear his wheezing.
Burnt Paw ran out in front of us, looking behind over his shoulder, looking to his side at Donner.
In the midst of my delirium I noticed one of his ears was up, one down.
There, written large across the second story of a building in the next block, was the lettering ALASKA COMMERCIAL COMPANY.
Feeling had fully returned to our legs, and we were running as fast as we could run.
But we weren’t going to catch Brackett.
Maybe not Donner, either.
“Burnt Paw!” I warned. Zigzagging, he was about to run under my feet.
Barely in time, the mutt looked over his shoulder and saw me, accelerated, and veered off to the right, in front of Donner.
The roar from the throng was deafening. Brackett had touched the building. Forty feet to go and Donner had two steps on us.
Burnt Paw looked over his shoulder at Donner, but too late.
With his last spurt of energy, Donner was upon him.
I saw Burnt Paw try to get out of the way. He veered left, but so did Donner. Cornelius Donner went down in a heap, and we ran past him.
Jamie and I touched the corner of the building together. The man with the derby hat lifted her arm and mine in triumph.
“The winners!” he proclaimed, tossing his derby in the air. “Both must finish, and these just did!”
Jamie and I collapsed against the building.
I embraced her, let her go. Heaving for breath, I slumped against the building. Neither of us could speak. Tears popped from Jamie’s eyes, then mine gushed. Burnt Paw came between us, licked us both on the face.
Donner was above us crying foul. “Their dog tripped me! You saw it plainly!”
“Tripped her, too,” the official from the A.C.C. said dryly. “Anyway, there’s nothing in the rules about being tripped by dogs.”
A laugh went up from the crowd. The throng was so close, I was suffocating.
“Stand back! Stand back. Give them room. What are your names as registered?”
“Hawthorn and Dunavant,” I gasped.
“Check the list!”
The official was handed a sheaf of papers, flipped through them, and fingered his way down a page. “Here they are! Jason Hawthorn and Jamie Dunavant.”
“That’s us,” Jamie said.
We struggled to our feet as the cheers kept coming, along with hearty slaps on the back. All of a sudden I thought how strange we must look in our gut pants and jackets.
“Stand back, stand back!”
At last, room to breathe. Just then a grizzled fellow stepped out of the crowd, walked up close to Jamie, and looked at her oddly. He inspected her from several angles, then stepped back into the crowd, said something to a second graybeard, who stepped forward and did the same thing—looked at Jamie this way and that. A smile broke out on his face like he’d just discovered a vein of solid gold.
“What is it?” demanded the official. “What is it, man? Speak up!”
“Why…my partner told me, and I have to agree. This is the Princess of Dawson!”
“You are, aren’t you?” cried the sourdough who’d recognized her first. “It’s really you, from the Palace Grand Theater! Recited your father’s poems…I musta seen you a dozen times if I saw you once!”
The crowd was electrified.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” the grizzled prospector insisted. “You used to be the Princess of Dawson. I’m sure it’s you.”
The crowd hushed, all eyes on Jamie.
“That’s me,” she agreed.
A cheer went up from every throat. The word was passed to those who hadn’t been close enough to hear, and the roar went down the street and back again.
“Wait a minute!” cried Donner. “What about the rules? Produce the rules!”
“I have them right here,” said the A.C.C. man, pulling them out from among his papers.
Donner snatched the page away from him. “Right here. Two-man teams. Two-man teams!”
For a moment the official hesitated. To his eternal credit, he thought it over for only a few seconds. Then he broke into a belly laugh that could be heard all the way to Dawson City.
“That’s just an expression!” he roared.
“No, it’s not!” thundered the boxer, who brandished his fist. “She can’t be a girl. The race is only for men.”
“All I can say is, fellows…if you were beaten by a girl, which you certainly were, then more power to her!”
The crowd went berserk. “The Princess of Dawson! The Princess of Dawson won the race!”
Amid the confusion, a fireplug of a man in an immaculate business suit approached Donner from the side. With a deft movement, he spun him off-balance, tripped him, put one knee on his back, and handcuffed him. “What is the meaning of this?” Donner cried from the side of his mouth.
Several men with badges appeared from the crowd and restrained Brackett.
“What is this all about?” yelled Donner from the ground.
The man who’d handcuffed him raised his voice for the crowd to hear. “It’s about false identity, and worse.”
“Explain, please,” demanded the official from the Alaska Commercial Company.
“My name is John Tobin. I’m a detective with the Bartholomew and James Agency of Omaha, Nebraska. I arrived minutes ago from Dawson City aboard the Eldorado. I’ve been tracking this fellow who claims to be Cornelius Donner of Dawson City. He is actually George Swink of Jefferson City, Missouri, and he is wanted for murder and arson in two countries, the United States and Canada.”
The detective stood Donner up and looked him in the eye. “For a year and a half, mister, I’ve been looking forward to this moment. You’ve put me through quite a bit of trouble, you have.”
Donner—Swink, that is to say—spit in his face.
The crowd yelled its outrage. The detective wiped his face with a handkerchief and said calmly to Donner, “You’ll need a good lawyer, mister. A mighty good lawyer.”
As would have been the case in Dawson City, Nome turned out to be full of lawyers. Four were within earshot, and rushed forward to offer their services.
“I have nothing to pay with,” Swink muttered. “All my assets are back in Dawson City.”
“Impounded by the Canadian government, no doubt,” put in the A.C.C. man.
“You’ll be tried in Dawson City first,” said the detective. “Then I’ll take you back to Nebraska.”
“I need a lawyer!” Donner cried. “A good one! Who’ll represent me? I need an American!”
The four lawyers were about to turn heel. One of them said, “Nobody’s working charity for the likes of you.”
Now it was my time to step forward. “I think I can help you, George Swink. You need funds, and I need to get the Hawthorn Brothers Sawmill back. Remember?”
“Twenty thousand dollars!” he said with a look almost of triumph.
I shook my head. “That was your number, not mine.”
“What’s your number?”
“We’ll have one of these lawyers draw up the papers—legal as can be, with witnesses and all. I’ll give you three thousand dollars for the mill, which is the amount you loaned to my brother Ethan. We’ll be fair and square.”
“Three thousand dollars,” he raged. “Who’ll pay me more? It’s worth far more! I have a saloon in Dawson as well!”
“The New Bodega,” I said. I lowered my voice and said to Swink, “Should I tell everybody in Nome, loud and clear, that your partner died in the fire? Should I tell them that the arson you’re accused of is the Great Fire?”
“Don’t,” the detective told me. “They’ll lynch him dead.”
The crowd had fallen to a hush, wondering what was being said. At last a wag shouted, “Give him three dollars, Hawthorn, not three thousand!”
Swink had as much room to negotiate as a mouse in a trap. A short while later, at the jail, he deeded over his entire interest in the mill for the sum of three thousand dollars, and not a dime more, to Abraham, Ethan, and Jason Hawthorn.