CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Long Journey

August 21, 1900

We do have quite a bit of gold flour and flakes,” Sally said as she tightened the harness around my chest. “It is safe in my silver vial. Perhaps Mr. and Mr. Hughes will take that as a first payment for the cabin. We can hope, can’t we, Murphy?”

I sat on my haunches, resting before the long trek home. Sally darted around the camp like a blackfly. She couldn’t stay still and I worried she would wear herself out before we left.

“Let me clean the frying pan before I tie it to your harness.” She glanced up at the sky. “Oh, clouds are gathering again! I hope we make it to Nome before another storm.”

The wind whisked from the north, cutting through my fur, which was starting to thicken for the winter. Sally wore her leggings and jacket against the chill. I was glad we were leaving before the weather grew worse.

She gathered sand and used it to scrub the pan, which was greasy from the last of the bacon that she had cooked for our breakfast. “Do you think our tent is still waiting on the Nome beach?” Peering back at me, she wrinkled her nose. “Though after camping in the quiet of the tundra, I do not wish to live there again. That’s another reason we need a cabin. The Hughes home is far enough from town to be peaceful, but near enough to walk to Front Street even in four feet of snow.”

She dipped the pan in the river to rinse it, then froze. Frowning, she stooped and peered into the water. Then she gasped, dropped the frying pan, and slowly reached her hand into the water. When she withdrew it, something glistened from between her thumb and finger.

“Murphy,” she whispered. “It’s the nugget. I found it!” Whooping, she sprang into the air, keeping her fist wrapped tight around the gold. She opened her hand. “Look at it! It’s the size of a coin! Oh, I won’t lose it this time.”

Yanking at the leather strap around her neck, she drew the vial from her bodice. Then she looked over at me. “I know a better place to keep this safe.” She found the pocket on the inside of my canvas collar and tucked the nugget inside. It felt like a knot at my neck. “You are the only one I trust, Murphy.”

Something wet plopped on my nose. A snowflake. Tipping back my head, I looked skyward. The clouds were thick and low.

“Snow in August. Ugh. Come on, Murphy. It’s time to go.” Sally stood and surveyed the camp where we’d spent the past weeks. Then, hitching her pack securely on her shoulders, she strode off.

Snow began to fall harder as we trudged downriver, keeping the water in sight as best as we could. We followed a deer path that meandered along one side, until it curved inland. By then I was making deep tracks in the snow. We had to stop often to shake off Sally’s mukluks and pull ice balls from my paws.

When the snow got too thick and the sky too dark to see, Sally stopped under a tangle of willow roots. It was clear underneath and gave some protection from the wind. She unhooked my harness, which dropped to the ground with a clang of supplies. Then she pulled the blanket from her pack and wrapped it around herself. She opened a can of beef and shared it with me. I was weary, and I could tell Sally was just as tired. Draping the oilcloth on top of the roots, she crawled underneath. “Come on, Murphy.” She gestured for me to join her, but I scooted away. I needed to keep lookout. Sleep for me would not be easy. Snow did not keep Alaskan creatures from hunting.

I dozed fitfully until the sky turned from black to gray. It was still snowing, and a small drift kept us snug under the roots until Sally woke up. Breakfast was a bit of dried beef and the last of the biscuits, which were as hard as stones. My mouth watered for a juicy salmon.

“Nome should be one or two more days’ trek,” Sally said as she packed up her gear and tied on my harness. “Hunger will make us walk faster.”

But when we crawled from the hole, we realized that the snow was much deeper now. It reached the top of Sally’s mukluks and almost touched my belly. It was wet and heavy, making our journey slow and hard.

Sally tried to stay next to the river, where the heat from the rushing water had melted some of the snow. But it was slippery, and after falling twice, she gave up and climbed back to the flat tundra.

When we reached the high bank where the trail cut into the ridge, Sally cheered. “This is where we camped the first night. We are halfway home!” Then her face fell. “Not quite. I forgot that Mr. Lindblom ferried us farther up the river. We’ll have to make it to Point Crossing before we can catch the boat.” She sighed wearily. “At least it is not too cold.”

Reaching into her pack, she pulled out the beef and a few dried apricots. “This will be our lunch and dinner.” We ate standing, fat flakes settling on her shoulders and hat and on my back. I shook, but the snow was so wet that it stuck. Sally ran her hand along my spine to clear it. Then she took off her hat and banged it against her leg.

“We’ll have to carefully make our way along this path,” she said. “The snow’s packed on the ridge that hangs over the trail. And there’s a steep drop to the river.” She shivered as she glanced down to the rushing water. It would be slippery too.

Sally went first, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. The flakes fell so fast and heavy that I could barely see her. Then above us, I heard a rumble. I barked. Sally turned and looked at me, then up at the overhang. Under the brim of her hat, I saw fear in her eyes as the rumble turned to a roar. The overhang, heavy with wet snow, gave way. It crashed over Sally, and she vanished in a cloud of white.

For an instant, I stood frozen in horror. The snow and Sally tumbled down toward the river in a swirl of mud and rock, and it landed in a huge mound. Without hesitating I leaped to the riverbank. Furiously I began to dig.

Somewhere in the icy pile, Sally was buried—and I had to get her out!