By the time Scott rode into the barnyard, Mr. Wagner had already gone into the house. But Chinook and Kaylah were still playing, wrestling like a couple of kids on the wet ground.
“Chinook,” Scott yelled, jumping off Ginger and running toward the dogs. “Come here, Chinook.”
Even though Scott braced himself, he was nearly knocked flat by the huge Mally’s greeting. He felt the dog’s slobbery tongue lick his face, its mouth pull at his clothes, eager and ready for a game.
Scott saw Brad coming out of the barn. “Hey, Brad, come over and meet Chinook.”
“Not me,” Brad answered, but he came over anyhow. “I don’t want to get licked to death. Say, do you plan to let Ginger go to town by himself?”
Scott glanced up. He’d forgotten about him, and the old nag was taking advantage of it. He was headed toward the hard road. “Oh, sorry, Brad, I forgot.”
Scott ran after the horse, and Kaylah and Chinook joined in as if it were a workout. After a moment Bruno followed and then Rusty, nearly keeping up.
It’s like old times, Scott thought, running with the pack of them in the snow. These dogs run for the fun of it. Look at the way Kaylah and Chinook keep pace with one another. They’re great. They’re super. They could lead a winning team. My team.
Scott stopped suddenly. Why had Mr. Wagner brought Chinook? he wondered. Was he going to sell him to someone? Then why can’t that someone be me? Oh, man, what a deal if I could buy that dog. But what would I use for money? There’s always that blasted problem.
“Come on, you old oat eater,” Scott said, grabbing Ginger’s bridle and dragging reins. “Don’t you know where you belong after all this time?”
Scott hurried Ginger back into the barn, removed his bridle and bit, threw his blanket over him, and tossed him a measure of hay before hurrying to the house. But all the while, he couldn’t stop thinking about Chinook and some way that he could own him.
Scott raced up the back steps, stomped snow from his boots, and opened the back door. Mom, Mr. Hartfield, and Mr. Wagner were talking in the kitchen. They turned as he came in.
Then Scott was shaking Mr. Wagner’s hand and, after that, gasping in an eye-popping hug. Man, the guy was strong. Scott had forgotten. He must eat his dog’s muscle food.
“Would you look at the size of you?” Mr. Wagner stepped back and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. “You’ve grown a foot since I saw you in September.”
“How are you doing, Mr. Wagner?” Scott suddenly felt shy about the rush of emotions flooding him. “Have you seen Kaylah?”
“Not yet.” Mr. Wagner threw his burly arms around Scott’s shoulders again. “You first. Tell me how you’re doing? Are you running Kaylah? Have you got a team yet?”
“No, not yet.” Scott felt Mr. Hartfield and Brad looking at him, listening to each word. “But maybe soon. I was going to ask you …”
“We’re all going to help, aren’t we, Brad?” Mr. Hartfield took over with his booming voice. “Brad’s got a dog and we found another one, so we’ll have a team in no time. Maybe you’d take a look at the dogs and tell us what to do.”
“Sure, be happy to.” Scott felt Mr. Wagner’s arm tighten around his shoulders, as if he were communicating a message through it. “Though I think you’ve got an expert right here, in this boy. He’s pretty good, you know.”
“Oh, I know that,” Mr. Hartfield answered quickly. “I know he’s good. Why don’t we have some coffee and talk about what we have to do to get a team ready?” Mr. Hartfield led Mr. Wagner over to the table and pulled out a chair for him. “Have we got any pie left from last night, Margaret?”
“I made an extra one, but you’re going to spoil a good supper if you eat pie now.” Mom brought cups and a coffeepot to the table.
“Well, what about it?” Mr. Hartfield leaned forward and looked intently at Mr. Wagner. “Don’t you think the boys could do something with the dogs we have?”
“It’s possible.” Mr. Wagner rubbed his chin, and the stubble of his beard sounded like sandpaper scraping his hands. “I’d have to look at them together before I passed judgment.”
“Bruno’s a real strong dog,” Mr. Hartfield said. “Isn’t he, Brad?”
“As strong as Scott’s mutt,” he answered. “And just as big, too.”
“That’s good.” Mr. Wagner looked quickly from Brad to Scott and back again. “But you really need to have dogs matched for strength and endurance as well as size. You wouldn’t want to have one dog who’d hold up the rest.”
“Bruno wouldn’t do that.” Brad’s eyes were hot, dark bits of coal.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Mr. Wagner said. “I’m sure he’s a fine dog.”
Mr. Wagner knows how to handle people as well as dogs, Scott thought.
Then Mr. Wagner began to spin his yarns about sledding and races that he’d entered and often won. Scott felt wrapped in a time warp, remembering the comfort of other moments such as this, as the words painted beautiful dreams of dogs and sleds and snow.
“Did I tell you about the time I wanted to win so much that I misjudged the energy of my team, Scott?” Mr. Wagner asked.
He didn’t wait for an answer, there wasn’t supposed to be one. But Scott listened carefully, knowing there was a message especially for him in the story. Mr. Wagner was like that. Just like … just like Dad.
“It happened in this race, see, where I was supposed to be a big-shot musher. Everyone figured me to win. Anyway, when we were climbing a hill, I let go of the sled so my dogs wouldn’t have to pull any extra weight. Before I could stop them, they pulled away from me and were over the top of the hill and out of sight. I had to chase them for five miles and those were the longest five miles of my life, I can tell you. And, of course, I lost the race.”
Mr. Wagner’s laughter flowed like rich molasses through the warm kitchen that smelled of roast beef simmering in the oven. Sometime, during the story, Caroline and Howdy had drifted in and stood, transfixed, near the doorway. Even Brad looked dreamy-eyed as he waited for Mr. Wagner to continue.
“I guess this is what I’m trying to say,” Mr. Wagner said after a long pause. “People are going to give you all kinds of advice, and dogs are going to figure they know twice as much about running as you do because they’ve got twice as many legs. But Scott, you can’t ever let go of control to others the way I let go of that sled.”
I hear you, Scott thought. Dad used to say that, too. It’s your race, all the way.
“You got a way with words,” Mr. Hartfield said after a moment.
“I think I know what I’m talking about.” Mr. Wagner twisted his empty cup between his hands. “And I like what I’m doing.”
“You make it sound so exciting.” Mr. Hartfield said. “Doesn’t he, Brad?”
“Yeah,” Brad said softly.
Scott looked at him, surprised. Did he mean he was becoming interested in sledding? That would be different. Or was he thinking about what Mr. Wagner had said and applying it to himself? That would be interesting, too.
But now Scott shook himself free of all other thoughts. He had to talk to Mr. Wagner about Chinook. Alone. And soon.
“Mr. Wagner, do you suppose you could look at my sled?”
“Don’t be too long,” Mom said, hurrying around the kitchen. “Supper’s going to be ready soon.”
“Good idea, Scott,” Mr. Hartfield said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Mr. Hartfield grabbed his jacket from the peg by the door and his boys followed. How was Scott going to get a private talk with Mr. Wagner now? No way was he going to talk about buying Chinook in front of them. Mr. Wagner said take control and he was trying. But it would be easier if he didn’t have to wrestle Mr. Hartfield for it.
Before Mom called them back into the house for supper, Mr. Wagner had inspected the sled with his expert eye. Then he’d offered advice that everyone followed without question. More bracing here, he said. And Mr. Hartfield added an extra bolt. Reglue this crack on the handlebar and clamp it until the epoxy sets, Mr. Wagner instructed.
Scott held the pieces of wood steady while Brad carefully worked them together. It was perfect, no seam showed to indicate there had been a break. Scott could see that Brad worked well with his hands and that he liked the feel of the wood, which was satiny to the touch.
He and Dad would have liked each other, Scott realized suddenly. The thought stunned him; he couldn’t take his mind from it no matter how hard he tried.
Later, no one talked much at the table. Instead, they dug into the food and ate in happy silence, especially Mr. Wagner. When Mom brought out the apple and raisin pies for dessert, he had a second piece.
“Margaret, you’re just as good a cook as Alice,” he said, leaning back in his chair and sighing.
“How is Alice?” Mom asked. “And all the children?”
“We’re doing fine now that I’ve found a job again,” he said. “Don’t know if you remember how the logging business went all to pieces down in Truckee.”
“Yes, I remember,” Mom answered quietly.
“We had some hard times,” Mr. Wagner said. “I couldn’t find work anywhere. But I finally found this job up in Canada, and things are only going to get better for the Wagners from now on.”
“Canada?” Scott asked. “You’re moving to Canada? You ought to get in some good racing up there.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Wagner said. “The only problem is I had to sell my dogs, all but Chinook. Couldn’t afford to feed them.”
Now, Scott thought. Now, maybe I can find out about Chinook. “Are you thinking about selling Chinook in Canada?” he asked hesitantly. “Bet you could get a good price for him there.”
Mr. Wagner looked at Scott before he spoke. “Chinook isn’t for sale, son. I couldn’t do that. Chinook isn’t anybody I could ever sell.”
Scott nodded, understanding how he felt. Of course. He should have known that Mr. Wagner would never sell his favorite dog. But a deep sadness flooded him as hopes of adding Chinook to his own team faded. Now what was he going to do?
“George, when you talk to Alice, please give her a message for me,” Mom said. “Tell her that I’m very, very happy.” Then she looked at Mr. Hartfield. Scott saw that it was a private look between them only and turned away.
“I can see that,” Mr. Wagner smiled.
“What time do you want to get up in the morning?” Mom’s face looked all pink and shiny. “I know you want to be on the road early.”
“Don’t you worry about it.” Mr. Wagner stood up. “I’ll just get up at first light and be on my way.”
“There’ll be coffee to heat if you want it,” Mom said. “And some rolls. I’ll make some sandwiches for you to take along.”
Scott went to bed, leaving the grownups still at the table, talking. Tomorrow morning he’d get up and say his own private goodbyes to Mr. Wagner and Chinook.
I couldn’t have bought Chinook anyway, Scott thought, just before he fell asleep. Mr. Wagner needs money right now, and that’s just what I don’t have plenty of.
Scott shook himself out of sleep at first light, trying to remember why he’d wanted to wake up this early. Then he heard the sound of a pickup revving its motor and knew.
Oh, shoot, he thought, running across the cold floor and opening the window.
“Mr. Wagner, wait,” he called.
But the pickup was already roaring out of the barnyard, and Scott watched as it headed toward the hard road. When it was out of sight, he shut the window and shivered his way back to bed.
Then he heard something else. The dogs seemed to be all stirred up. What was going on? Maybe he’d better have a look and simmer them down before they woke up Mom and Mr. Hartfield.
Quickly Scott pulled on clothes over his pajamas and tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen. He turned on the light and blinked for a second or two until he could see.
Mr. Wagner had left his coffee cup and plate on the table, and something else. It looked like a note. Scott walked over and picked it up.
“Dear Scott,” the note began. “I told you Chinook wasn’t for sale, and he isn’t. But he is something else. He’s a gift to you in honor of the friendship I shared with your father. Chinook will enjoy running with you and Kaylah. Run well together. Your friend, George Wagner.”
Scott dropped the note and ran out of the house, feeling the cold air knife his lungs. He ran across the barnyard, pulled open the barn door, turned on the light and ran to the stall. Kaylah and Chinook sat inside by the sled, yipping and yapping together, as Bruno and Rusty listened.
Mallys talk to one another, Scott remembered. And right now, Chinook was doing most of the talking, probably asking all kinds of questions about his new home.