Rusty looked better on Saturday morning. When Scott went into the barn to feed him, the setter stood up and walked slowly across the stall, flying his ragged tail in a weak greeting.
“Look at you.” Scott knelt down. “You’re doing great.”
“What did he do?” Howdy hurried in, carrying a pan of broth.
“He walked all the way over here. Oh, thanks, Howdy. Guess I forgot Rusty’s breakfast.”
“His leg must be a lot better. Can he go with us to workouts this morning?”
“He isn’t a sled dog, Howdy. And he doesn’t belong to us, anyway. But maybe we ought to take him outside now, so he can … you know.”
“Yeah. Come on, Rusty.” The dog limped ahead of them, out of the stall. “Do you think we’ll get to keep him, Scott?”
“I don’t know. Mom’s picture of him was in the newspaper Wednesday, but maybe the owners don’t get the paper. Or, maybe they’re out of town.”
“I hope they never come back.” Howdy followed Rusty out of the barn.
Me, too, Scott thought. Me, too.
Kaylah and Bruno rounded the corner of the barn and hurried over to sniff at Rusty. I’ve got three dogs, Scott thought, savoring the idea.
For a second he could feel the sled gliding over the trail, hear the snow creak under the runners, see the finish line just ahead …
Then he stopped himself and shut off the movie in his mind. No, I haven’t got three dogs. Only one of them is a sledder and the other two don’t belong to me.
Sure, he could race with only Kaylah if he had to, but he’d be put in the peewee class, or at least the elementary events, with just one dog. That wasn’t for him anymore. Dad had always fielded a big team, and so would he eventually.
There was something magical about training a bunch of dogs to pull together, Dad used to say. Train them to pull the way a family’s supposed to. Together, in the same direction, helping each other, wanting the same thing.
“Scott, Howdy, come in to breakfast.” Mom stood at the open back door.
“Come on,” Howdy said, his eyes bright. “Your mom’s cooking waffles this morning.”
“Be right in, as soon as I put Rusty back in the barn.” Scott watched Howdy hurry across the barnyard, his thinness hunched together in his heavy jacket, his head tucked down, away from the biting wind.
It had rained during the week, and now, as he waited for Rusty to finish, Scott looked up at the sky to see if there would be more. Pewter clouds hung like old gray kites on the line of the horizon, and pins of moisture pricked his cheeks. It felt almost like snow, and there was so much to do before the snow. Too much, he’d never be ready in time if he didn’t start soon.
“Lookin’ good,” Scott said a few minutes later, patting Rusty’s bony flanks. “You’ll be the same as new one of these days.”
Inside the barn he put down Rusty’s bowl of broth, and kibble for Kaylah and Bruno, before he hurried into the house.
Howdy and Caroline were seated at the table, sloshing maple syrup on thick Belgian waffles.
Mom turned from the stove. “Got a hot one for you, Scott,” she said. “Wash your hands and sit down.”
He began to wash. “Where’s … you know.”
“Brad hasn’t come down yet, and your dad went up to see what’s keeping him.”
Scott turned from the sink so quickly that water spilled onto the floor. “Mom, he isn’t …”
“Scott,” she said, a warning note in her voice. “Sit down and eat your breakfast.”
He sat down, looked at Howdy and Caroline plowing through their waffles. If Howdy wasn’t careful, he’d be as fat as Caroline before the end of next week. He acted as if he’d never had a square meal before.
Mom sat down with a cup of coffee. “Are you excited about the workouts today?” she asked. “Maybe there’ll be someone there that we know.”
“Don’t see how.” Scott shrugged. “Havre isn’t exactly the sled-dog capital of the world.”
“But they might have a very active club and attract mushers from all over the West.” Mom got up to get another waffle.
“Are you gonna work out Kaylah today?” Caroline asked.
“No, I don’t have a training cart, remember?”
“What’s a training cart?” Howdy tipped his empty dish to spoon up some syrup.
“It’s a three-wheel cart the dogs pull when there isn’t any snow.” Scott watched as Howdy began to butter the new waffle. Look at the amount he was taking, for crumb’s sake. It was grease city around here.
“So what’s the point of the cart then?” Howdy asked.
“More training time. Sled-dog teams don’t just happen. They need to exercise and train—work up their endurance and speed.”
“Just like human beings.” Howdy began to eat, taking mammoth bites.
“It was my turn for the next waffle,” Caroline said, staring at Howdy. “You went out of turn.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Okay, simmer down, you two,” Mom said. “Here’s another one, Caroline.”
Brad walked in from the hall, followed by his dad. Neither looked especially happy, but Mr. Hartfield was doing his best to keep a smile going.
“Look, Brad,” he said. “Waffles this morning.”
“I ate when I got up earlier.” Brad walked over and reached for his jacket on a peg by the back door.
“Where are you going?”
“Thought I’d go over to Matt’s.”
“But we’re all going to the workouts in Havre,” Mr. Hartfield said.
“I can take care of myself.” Brad zipped up his jacket. “I don’t need you.”
Mr. Hartfield came over to stand in front of Brad. “That isn’t the point, and anyway, I thought we had this straightened out upstairs. We’re all going together.”
Scott pictured the three dogs as he had left them, eating quietly together in the barn. They’re doing a better job of getting along than we are, he thought.
By the time the six of them and Kaylah left, it was nearly ten o’clock. Scott sat in the very back of the station wagon with the dog, the wicker baskets of food, and Mom’s photography bag. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to a gas station in Box Elder.
“How long does it take to get to Havre?” Caroline asked as they waited for the station attendant.
“About an hour or so,” Mr. Hartfield said, “unless we run into some weather, which might happen. Look at those clouds.” He got out of the car and began to pump the gas himself.
Scott glanced out the window. Down home in Truckee, there’d be snow in clouds like that. Up here, he wasn’t sure. Up here he wasn’t sure about anything.
While Mr. Hartfield paid for the gas, a pickup truck pulled in to the pump across from them. Scott looked at the faces staring at him from the passenger window. Oh, shoot, there was that skinny girl, Michelle, and her sister. He’d sat with them in the cafeteria every day this week. Now here she was again, and trying to tell him something, too, mouthing words he couldn’t hear.
Oh, well, he thought, as they drove down the highway a moment later. She’ll tell me on Monday. What a motor-mouth.
By the time they arrived at the field just outside Havre, where the workouts were going to be held, the sky had begun to clear. The dogs could work after all. But Scott felt no surge of excitement, only a sense of emptiness. Suddenly he wished he’d stayed at the farm.
“What do we do now?” Mr. Hartfield was looking in the rear-view mirror at him.
Scott shrugged. “Watch some workouts, I guess.”
Mr. Hartfield got out of the car. “Come on, everyone. This is going to be fun.”
His voice sounded false to Scott. He thinks he’s making points with me, but it won’t work, Scott thought.
Howdy and Caroline jumped from the car and headed for a makeshift hot-dog stand.
“Don’t buy anything,” Mom called after them. “We’re going to eat in a little while.
Scott let Kaylah out of the car and fastened him to a stake-out chain. He immediately began to pull at the end of it, jumping and barking at other staked dogs.
“Kaylah remembers what fun this is.” Mom’s voice sounded hollow, too, Scott thought. Why don’t they leave it alone?
“Now what?” Brad stood next to Scott, looking at the people and the dogs milling around pickups and station wagons drawn together in a semicircle.
“Pretty soon workouts will get going,” Scott said. “They’ve got a trail marked out over there.” He pointed to some red flags heading over a short rise into a nearby field.
“Hello, folks, my name’s Amos Underwood. I’m the referee.” Scott turned around to look up at a giant of a man. Even his hands were the size of dirt movers, Scott thought, looking at the one outstretched to shake his own.
“Who’s the musher in the crowd here?” Amos asked, his dark, gentle eyes looking at each of them.
“I am,” Scott said, still mesmerized by Amos’s size and appearance. His thick, black hair flowed into a dark, wiry beard, giving him the appearance of one of those prophets Scott had heard about in Sunday School. All he needed to complete the picture was a long robe and sandals instead of the worn jeans and plaid shirt that covered his big frame.
“Good, I’ll sign you up for a workout.” Amos began to write on the paper fastened to a clipboard. “In the junior class.”
“But I didn’t bring a team.”
“That Mally the only one you’ve got?” Amos pointed at Kaylah with his pencil.
“Yes. I just planned to watch.” Suddenly Scott felt cold. He didn’t want to do anything today, especially in front of Brad and Mr. Hartfield. Kaylah hadn’t been in harness for a while now, and Scott hadn’t worked out either. What if he really goofed it up?”
“No problem.” Amos continued to write. “You can borrow two of my dogs. If your dog is conditioned to run in a team, he’ll work fine with mine. My dogs are accepting.”
“That’s wonderful, Scott.” Mr. Hartfield gave him a slap on the back. “You show me what to do to help get ready. Come on, give Brad a job, too.”
Scott looked at Brad’s face. He wanted a job helping about as much as he wanted a case of the hives.
“Need to borrow a cart?” Amos asked.
“Yes. Dad sold ours.”
“How much did you get for it?” Amos was looking at Mr. Hartfield. Oh, crumb, he’d said it all wrong.
“I think Scott means …,” Mr. Hartfield began.
“He isn’t my dad,” Scott blurted out.
“Oh, I see.” Amos nodded. “I misunderstood. I’ll make sure that you get a cart so you can have a good workout.” Then he disappeared into the crowd milling around the starting line.
“It’s okay, Scott.” Mr. Hartfield put his arm around Scott’s shoulders.
Scott eased out of his grasp and walked away to Kaylah. He’s trying to be nice, but he’s trying too hard, Scott thought. He stayed with Kaylah until, sometime later, he heard his name being called.
“Scott.” Mom walked over to him, her camera hanging from a strap over her shoulder. “You’re up in ten minutes.”
He turned to see Amos waving him over to a cart and two dogs. Quickly he untied Kaylah from the stake-out line and led him over.
“I figured you’d want your own dog to lead,” Amos said.
Scott looked down at the gang line fastened to the cart. Two beautiful Mallys, gray and white and eager, stared at him from wheel dog and point dog positions. Scott reached out his hand and they nosed it gently.
“Did I figure right?” Amos gripped his excited dogs tightly so they wouldn’t take off with the cart.
Scott nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.” Get it over, he told himself. Remember, the first run of the year is always the hardest.
Quickly he fastened Kaylah into harness. It was clean, expertly mended, and fit Kaylah perfectly across his thick, muscled chest.
Amos handed over control of his dogs to Mr. Hartfield and gave the harness a quick inspection. “Strong dog,” he said, giving Kaylah a quick hug. “You must give him plenty of muscle food.” Then he pointed to the field. “You see the trail, don’t you? Watch that first corner and after that, you should have no problem.
“Remember, you’re running against time today and just for fun. Everybody’s starting off at three minute intervals.”
Scott nodded, unable to speak. His throat felt closed up, out for repairs. He couldn’t talk, he could only remember, and barely at that, what he should do.
“Five, four, three, two, one,” Amos shouted. “And, go.”
Mr. Hartfield turned the dogs loose and they took off, barking and yapping. Scott held on to the handlebar and ran behind the cart to accelerate their speed. Then he jumped on as the dogs yanked the cart so hard he felt his neck jerk backward first, then forward. Scott pumped with one foot, and the dogs measured his rhythm with their own. Finally they fell into a racing lope that propelled him down the earthy track and up over the rise.
“Haw,” he called, and the dogs turned quickly to the left, squaring the corner too soon, too fast. The cart tipped crazily and Scott felt his balance go, as well as his command of the dogs. They were running too hard and fast now. He had to bring them under control or they’d run themselves out and have nothing left after the first mile.
“Easy, easy,” he called. “Go easy.” Another corner came and the dogs slowed, gradually settling into a pace they could keep for the rest of the distance. Three miles, that was usual for a workout.
Suddenly the sun broke through the cloud covering. The sky was big, it was really big, just like the ads say about Montana. It must be bigger here than anywhere else.
“Go, Scott.”
Who was that? Mom? Caroline?
He rounded the three-quarter mark and headed back to the finish line. Now he pumped again, to help the dogs up a rocky incline. He was doing great, making good time. The finish was just ahead, he saw everyone standing there, heard them yelling to bring the dogs on, felt the dogs pick up their speed for the last hundred feet before they rolled over the finish line. Wish Jamie could have seen this, Scott thought.
Mr. Hartfield hurried forward to grab Kaylah’s harness and bring the dogs to a complete stop. Scott was glad for the help. His breath felt raspy in his throat, and sweat made him feel damp and prickly. He was way out of shape.
“Terrific, Scott,” Mr. Hartfield yelled. “Really terrific.”
Mom rushed up, clicking away with her Rolliflex. Howdy and Caroline ran up to pet the dogs.
“Good time,” Amos shouted, coming toward him. “Practice cornering and you could win some races. Why don’t you get three dogs together?”
“We already have three dogs, haven’t we?” Mr. Hartfield said. “Haven’t we, Brad?”
Brad jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and kicked at some gravel around his feet. “Bruno’s not interested,” he said.
He didn’t have to add, neither am I. But Scott knew, and that was okay with him. Totally.