Tisha (38 page)

I thought about Chuck and Ethel. “Is there any chance Cab would take it?”

“Probably would if he weren’t carrying whiskey.”

“How about children?”

“Be glad he’s got the whiskey,” he said.

I heard the dogs yipping as Fred and Mr. O’Shaughnessy led them out of the barn. I sat back and closed my eyes, enjoying the last few moments of warmth and thinking how nice it would be to sleep before going out again. It was almost two in the morning and we’d been on trail for over eight hours. Suddenly I thought of something that made my eyes pop right open—the way Fred had almost walked out with my clothes. I was up like a shot.

I slipped and almost fell before my moccasins held onto the caked-down snow. The dogs were all harnessed and Fred was bending down in front of the sled. He was checking the spring fastening that held the main tow-line to be sure it was holding. It had given us trouble. As soon as I reached the sled I knew I had been right in coming out when I did. The tarp was lashed down over the load and Mr. O’Shaughnessy had my clothes bundled under his arm.

“You were going without me,” I said to Fred.

“Cab’s got a big head start,” he said. “I’ll have a better chance of catching him if I’m alone.”

“I’m going.”

“Anne—”

“You’re not going alone. I mean that.”

“It’s going to be tougher from here on, and you’re tired …”

“You’re not going to catch up with him all by yourself.”

I stood my ground and he gave in. We had to repack the load to make room for me to ride when it was possible, then we went back in and said good-bye to everyone.

I was able to ride for about a mile, and every time I thought about what he’d intended to do I’d get a lump in my throat. When we came to the bank of a slough we had to cross I got out. I put a hand on his arm.

“Fred.” I pulled my scarf down. “I’m so proud of you.”

He put his arms around me and held me for a few moments. “I feel the same way about you,” he said. Then he let me go and we went on. I felt as if I could take on anything after that.

For as long as I lived I’d never forget those next six hours. Old-timers like Ben and Uncle Arthur had told me dozens of stories of forced mushes they’d made, and of how more often than they wanted to remember they’d almost frozen to death, but on that trip I found out I hadn’t had the least idea of what they meant.

Compared to the trail we now took, traveling on the river had been a breeze. We sidled up hills that grudged us the narrow paths that bordered them and kept trying to edge the sled off. Twice, for stretches of a quarter of a mile, Fred had to put on snowshoes and break trail across snow that would have swallowed us up to the waist, while I stayed at the handle bars inching the sled forward. Time and again we both had to push from behind as the dogs labored to pull the sled up a steep bluff or the sharp bank of a creek. Half-buried bushes caught in the runners and tore at our moccasins.

Aggravated from lack of sleep, exhausted from pushing and falling and being whipped by the wind, I sat down once and cried, telling Fred to go on and leave me, that I couldn’t go any farther.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Rounding a sharp turn in the trail once while I was on the runners and Fred trotted alongside, the dogs decided to speed up suddenly and I lost my grip on the handles. I went flying off
down an embankment, and braced myself for a sickening jolt. Instead I did a flip, landed on my back and sank down in a soft fleecy bed, with my legs straight up in the air. I stared up at the sky, while Fred ran after the sled. I was still in the same position when he slipped down the embankment and his face loomed over me. “Anne, are you hurt?”

I knew how ridiculous I had to look, like a bug on its back. “Hurt my eye.” I wiggled my legs for him. It was just what we needed. The two of us started to laugh hysterically. Even after we were on the way again all we had to do was glance at each other to make us giggle.

It was almost as if it was a turning point, because in a little while the trail eased and we pushed ahead up a winding creek. Even the wind started to help us, blowing at our back and giving us an extra nudge to speed us up.

“There it is!” Fred yelled finally, “Ptarmigan Drop!” I looked for it, but I didn’t see anything that resembled a drop.

“Where?”

“The other side of that hill.”

It looked pretty steep from where we were, but not half as steep as it did when we reached the base of it. The top was half a mile away, and it seemed impossible that the dogs would be able to pull the sled up. It was an obstacle course of ledges and clefts, boulders and stunted spruce. Even with the wind in back of us, it would be a tough climb.

“Isn’t there another way up?”

“There is, but we’d lose too much time,” Fred yelled. “We’ll make it. Let’s go!”

I got behind the sled with him and we both started pushing to help the dogs. After a few minutes I had to stop and rest. It was like trying to roll a boulder uphill, shoulders behind the handlebars, struggling upward a few hundred feet, then rest. I could feel every stab of willow, every rock, through my moccasins. It was as hard on the dogs as on us. They panted and clawed for purchase where there wasn’t any, panted and strained where there was.

And finally we were at the top, all of us flopping down limply as if we were parts of one big body. My feet were bruised and I knew a couple of my toes were bleeding. I lay on my side, taking in huge gulps of air. Fred lay beside me.

“If you feel like crying,” he said between deep breaths, “go ahead. I’ll join in.”

A couple of minutes later I sat up and looked out over the country that lay behind us. We were at the top of the world, and even as played out as I was my spirits lifted. The gray wide line of the river wound northeast through mountains whose sides were shrouded in mist. Above the mist loomed white pinnacles that stood out sharp against a midnight blue sky spangled with stars. Stretching directly below us was a long sweep of slope that was as inviting as a magic carpet, a carpet that led into a wonderland of dark green distant forests. It was dizzying.

I wondered how far down the slope went. After the climb we’d just had it looked like a dog musher’s dream. The dogs would be able to take it at an effortless trot while Fred and I rode in style.

“That couldn’t be The Drop,” I said.

“No. It’s down below.”

“How far?”

“Couple of miles.”

We took them as easily as I thought we would, leaving the wind on the other side of the hill. It was like traveling through a stage setting, the air clear and tingling, the moonlight sparkling off bushes laced with frost. The slope ended in a plateau and we veered to the right, skirting a sheer drop until the ground dipped and we rode down a wide trough for a short distance. The left side of the trough gradually lowered, the curved bottom flattened out and we came out onto a narrow ledge. There below was The Drop. I thought of how scared I’d been to ski down the hill at Joe Temple’s cabin. This one made Joe’s seem level. I didn’t have to ask how it had gotten its name. It was obvious: you needed wings to climb it and wings to go down. It was just one long cascade of snow and ice-covered rock that
ended half a mile below at Ptarmigan Creek. Even on foot you’d have to slide down most of it.

“Fred, we can’t go down that in the sled—it’s suicide!”

He was already untying the dogs.

“We’re
not. I am.”

Now I saw what Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s friend had meant when he said it could be done if the sled held together. If it got out of control and went too fast it would be smashed to pieces. The driver could be badly hurt, even killed.

I kept trying to talk Fred out of it, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He’d done it before, he said, although not this late in the year when there was crusty snow and ice. “I’ll make it,” he insisted. He kept unharnessing the dogs, so I couldn’t get him to look me in the eye to see if he was as sure as he sounded. Then he swung the sled around to face The Drop.

We were almost finished rough-locking the runners with chain when Fred pointed to something way off. “Look.”

All I saw was the long flat sweep of the river.

“It’s Cab,” he said. My heart skipped a beat. “There on the river, all the way to our right. See?”

Then I saw it—a faint long speck darker than the gray around it. From this distance it looked as if it was barely moving.

“You sure it’s him?” I began to feel excited.

“It’s him,” Fred said. “He may be a little ahead of us when we hit the river, but not much.”

We finished chaining the runners quickly, then Fred told me to start down with the dogs. TU catch up with you.”

“Fred …” I was torn between the excitement of catching up with Cab and the fear that Fred might be hurt.

“Go on,” he said, “I’ll make it, don’t worry.”

I started down with all the dogs except Pancake. Fred needed him to keep the sled pointed. I didn’t have to walk. All I had to do was keep my balance and practically slide down, the dogs nipping at each other
and frisking around. I was halfway down when Fred let out a yell. I made the dogs whoa and sat down fast, bracing one moccasin against a rock.

By the time I looked up the sled was moving. Pancake was on a long lead, and the line was taut. Whether he’d be able to keep it taut once the sled picked up speed was another thing. Chains jingling, Fred on the runners, the sled nosed down in a straight line. Underneath the soft surface snow was hard crust, so Pancake had no trouble running, but the same crust was greasing the way for the sled. It picked up speed fast, even rough-locked as it was. A shower of sparks flew out from under the right runner as the chains scraped across a slab of rock. It didn’t slow the sled down, though. Once over the rock the sled jumped forward and a spray of white flew out from behind as Fred rode the brake. Pancake had to run like sixty to keep the line from going slack. It was either that or get out of the way.

“Mush Pancake!” Fred yelled. “Yah-h-h—mush!”

By the time it was close to passing me the sled was rocking from side to side and Fred had to lean hard to keep it from tipping. Once abreast of me it hit a bump that sent the front of it two feet in the air. It came down with a punishing whump that I felt in the soles of my feet and Fred was bounced off the runners. I screamed, sure he wouldn’t be able to get back on, that he’d end up tumbling like a rag doll, neck broken. But somehow he got one foot back on. In a kneeling position, he grabbed at the lashings and pulled himself up. Then he was standing, foot on the brake again, yelling to Pancake.

Once he was past the sled disappeared in its own boiling mist. In the next moment I thought my arm was going to be pulled from its socket. I was jerked forward by the dogs and went tumbling down the hill after them. Too excited to stand still, they were running after the sled, dragging me with them. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to think or try to free the line from around my mitten. All I saw was a violent white world flying around me. Then my mitten was pulled off and I slid to a stop.

By the time the world stopped spinning and I got my
wits back the dogs were a snarling, yipping mass of confusion. Tangled up in the lines, they rolled and fought their way down towards the bottom of the hill. I didn’t give one hoot about them, though, because there, all the way at the bottom was Fred. He’d made it and was already scrambling up towards the dogs.

Twenty minutes later we were on our way again, mushing down Ptarmigan Creek. I had a sore right arm and a couple of the dogs sported a red slash or two from the fight they’d had, but we were all in one piece. When we spilled down a cleft and onto the river I was disappointed. Cab was nowhere in sight.

“How far ahead is he, Fred?”

“Maybe half a mile.”

“How far is it to the Indian village?”

“Another ten maybe.”

“Fred, we’ve got to catch him!”

“We will—don’t you worry. Pancake!” he yelled, “Domino! Samson—mush!”

“Mush!” I yelled right along with him. “C’mon, the whole bunch of you—mush!”

They mushed, too. They must have picked up the scent of the dogs ahead because they dug into their collars and surged as though they knew they were in a race and they had to win. We sped down the river like the wind.

We caught our first glimpse of Cab’s sled when it was going around a bend in the river. That was all it was—just a glimpse before it disappeared around what must have been a gravel bar. A few minutes later when we rounded it ourselves there he was no more than a quarter of a mile away. We kept narrowing his lead until Fred called out to him. “Cab!” The hills picked it up and echoed it:
Cab. Cab. Cab.

He stopped his team and waited. I couldn’t see Chuck or Ethel behind him. I saw him take off a mitten and rub his eyes, trying to see who we were. As soon as he recognized us back went the mitten and he was off again.

“Cab—wait up!” I yelled. ’
Ait up. ’Ait up. ’Ait up …

But he wasn’t trying to get away. He was letting us catch up to him gradually.

“Howdy there!” he called when we pulled alongside of him. His scarf muffled his voice. Between that and his furred hood I could only see his eyes, but I knew he was grinning. Chuck and Ethel were all bundled up. Chuck looked at us as if we were ghosts. “Tisha!” he called out. Ethel waved. The two of them were all right.

“Cab,” Fred called over, “hold up a minute, will you?”

For answer Cab speeded his dogs up. “Cab, please stop,” I called.

“You got a hundred dollars, Fred?” he called back. “A hundred spondulicks says I make it to Cross Creek before ya!”

“No!”

“No race, no stop.”

“Take the kids off.”

“No race, no stop,” he repeated. “C’mon, boy, it’s an easy mile, nary a bump nor a bang. How about it?”

I waited, wondering what Fred would decide. Ahead, the river looked fairly safe. Here and there were a few humps and some gnarled jags of ice, but they could be avoided.

“You’re on!” Fred called back.

Cab let out a blood-curdling screech. “Mush, you buzzards,” he roared. “Yah-h-h!” At almost the same time Fred let out a yell of his own and our sled jumped forward. We’d gone fast a few times on trail, but it was nothing like the way we went then. We flew across that snow with the wind behind us and the sled rocking like a cradle.