THE CROWD CHEERED madly when they saw little Willy come into view at the far end of Main Street, and even more madly when they saw that Stone Fox was right on his tail.
“Go, Searchlight! Go!”
Searchlight forged ahead. But Stone Fox was gaining!
“Go, Searchlight! Go!” little Willy cried out.
Searchlight gave it everything she had.
She was a hundred feet from the finish line when her heart burst. She died instantly. There was no suffering.
The sled and little Willy tumbled over her, slid along the snow for a while, then came to a stop about ten feet from the finish line. It had started to snow—white snowflakes landed on Searchlight’s dark fur as she lay motionless on the ground.
The crowd became deathly silent.
Lester’s eyes looked to the ground. Miss Williams had her hands over her mouth. Mr. Foster’s cigar lay on the snow. Doc Smith started to run out to little Willy, but stopped. Mayor Smiley looked shocked and helpless. And so did Hank and Dusty, and so did the city slickers, and so did Clifford Snyder, the tax man.
Stone Fox brought his sled to a stop alongside little Willy. He stood tall in the icy wind and looked down at the young challenger, and at the dog that lay limp in his arms.
“Is she dead, Mr. Stone Fox? Is she dead?” little Willy asked, looking up at Stone Fox with his one good eye.
Stone Fox knelt down and put one massive hand on Searchlight’s chest. He felt no heartbeat. He looked at little Willy, and the boy understood.
Little Willy squeezed Searchlight with all his might. “You did real good, girl. Real good. I’m real proud of you. You rest now. Just rest.” Little Willy began to brush the snow off Searchlight’s back.
Stone Fox stood up slowly.
No one spoke. No one moved. All eyes were on the Indian, the one called Stone Fox, the one who had never lost a race, and who now had another victory within his grasp.
But Stone Fox did nothing.
He just stood there. Like a mountain.
His eyes shifted to his own dogs, then to the finish line, then back to little Willy, holding Searchlight.
With the heel of his moccasin Stone Fox drew a long line in the snow. Then he walked back over to his sled and pulled out his rifle.
Down at the end of Main Street, the other racers began to appear. As they approached, Stone Fox fired his rifle into the air. They came to a stop.
Stone Fox spoke.
“Anyone crosses this line—I shoot.”
And there wasn’t anybody who didn’t believe him.
Stone Fox nodded to the boy.
The town looked on in silence as little Willy, carrying Searchlight, walked the last ten feet and across the finish line.