Across A Thousand Miles. Nadia Nichols
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THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
Now promise made as a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code…
Robert Service,
from The Cremation of Sam McGee
THE MAN WHO DROVE his truck up Rebecca Reed’s rutted dirt drive was a stranger, and her dogs let her know it long before she stepped out of the arctic entry to her small cabin and onto the front porch. She shrugged into her parka which had been hanging in the small pre-entry room as she watched his approach. The afternoon was chilly in spite of the sunlight, and the limbs of the aspen and willow were silvery and bare. Ravens were calling along the river and the wind played a lonesome song through the spruce behind the cabin. It was late autumn and the taste of snow was in the air.
He was tall. She could see that quite clearly as he climbed out of his truck. Even if his truck—with the dog box bolted to its rusting bed—hadn’t given him away, his clothing would have. “Uh-oh. Another crazy dog driver,” she commented to Tuffy, the small black-and-tan Alaskan husky who had followed her onto the porch. In her prime, Tuffy had been Bruce’s favorite lead dog, but she was old now, her muzzle graying, her movements stiff, and her eyes a bit cloudy. “I’ll lay odds he’s after a load of dog food and he’ll want it real cheap,” Rebecca said. “But how on earth did he get past my truck?” Tuffy looked at her quizzically and flagged her tail.
The stranger was dressed like a typical musher, and as he walked up the path toward the cabin, he paused for a moment to brush the worst of the mud off his drab-colored parka. His clothes were dog-eared, dog-chewed and dog-dirty. His insulated boots were patched with rubberized tool dip, his tawny shock of hair needed trimming, he was at least two days unshaven, and heaven only knew when he’d last had a decent bath. A bush dweller and a musher. A dangerous combination. He walked to the foot of the porch steps and paused there, looking up at her. “Hello,” he said with a nod and the faintest of grins. “Your truck was blocking the road and I moved it. Hope you don’t mind, but the hood was left up as if something was wrong so I took a quick look.”
“I went out to get the mail yesterday and it stalled on me,” Rebecca explained. “The battery went dead, but it shouldn’t have. It’s fairly new.”
“Well, your battery was fine, but the ground-wire connection was loose. I tightened that up, and she started like a champ, so I moved her down the drive a ways into that little pullover near the blowdown. I’ll drive her in for you if you like.”
Rebecca was taken aback. “No, thank you. I’ll walk out and drive back. Thank you very much for fixing it. My wallet’s inside. Hold on a moment, I’ll get it.”
He grinned and shook his head. “No, you won’t. I was glad to help and that was a real easy fix. The reason I’m here is that Fred Turner told me you sold dog food. He said you had the best prices in the Territory, so I thought I’d swing by your kennel on my way into Dawson.”
“I do sell dog food,” Rebecca said warily. “But it’s good dog food. I don’t sell the cheap stuff.”
“Good dog food’s what I’m looking for,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced around her yard. “You’ve got quite a few dogs yourself,” he said.
“Forty,” she said.
“Forty!” He glanced up at her, and she noticed that his eyes were exceptionally clear and bright, a shade of gray that hinted at blue or green, she couldn’t tell which. “My name’s Bill MacKenzie. Most folks call me Mac.”
“Rebecca Reed,” she said, with a curt nod. “How much food were you looking to buy?”
“Well, I only keep fourteen dogs myself, and I have plenty of chum salmon to carry them through the winter. I was thinking along the lines of forty bags, if you had that much to spare. That should see me through till spring.”
“I could sell you that much food,” Rebecca said, “but that truck of yours is only a half-ton, and it isn’t even four-wheel drive. I doubt it could haul that heavy a load.”
“Well, I know it doesn’t look like much,” Mac admitted. “But it’s a tough truck, sure enough. She’ll carry a ton of food, easy, four-wheel drive or no.”
“How far do you have to take it?”
“Thirty miles or so. Not far. Hell, if it would just hurry up and snow, I could ferry the food back with my dog team. It’d be good training for them.”
Rebecca smiled faintly. “It’ll snow soon enough. You said you were on your way to Dawson, so I guess you’ll be wanting to pick the food up on your way back to wherever it is you live?”
Mac nodded. “That’d be great. I’m bringing a dog to the veterinarian for a checkup. She’s a good dog but she’s been off her feed for nearly a week. My appointment isn’t until four, so I thought I’d spend the night in town and get an early start tomorrow. I could be here by eight-thirty, if that’s all right with you.”
Rebecca shrugged. “Fine by me. I suppose if Fred Turner told you I sold dog food, he probably also told you that I don’t extend credit. My husband started this business five years ago and he gave credit to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that came up the trail. Couldn’t say no to anyone. When he died he left me in an awful mess. I’ll sell you however much dog food you need, but you’ll pay cash at pickup, same as everybody else. Twenty-five dollars a bag.” Rebecca narrowed her eyes as she spoke, aware that her words were hard and businesslike, and aware, too, that MacKenzie probably didn’t have two dimes to rub together. Probably didn’t even carry a checkbook or a credit card.
“I understand,” Mac said, nodding. “That’s good business.” He patted the flat, frayed pocket of his parka and grinned again. “Not to worry about my finances,” he assured her. “I’ve got me a good little jag of cash, what with all the furs I’ve sold. I could pay you right now if you like.”
“You can pay at pickup,” Rebecca said. “You’re a trapper?”
“I run a trapline up along Flat Creek.”
“Really.” Rebecca frowned. “How long have you been living out there?”
Mac paused, his eyes suddenly intent on searching the ground at his feet. The color in his windburned cheeks deepened. “Well, not that long,” he admitted. “Since early August. Actually my brother’s the trapper and they were his furs, but he’s gone to Fairbanks to finish his degree at the University of Alaska. He asked me if I’d like to spend a winter in the Yukon, taking care of his dogs and running his trapline. The timing was perfect, so here I am.” Mac grinned again, raising his eyes to hers. “They’re real good dogs. He ran the Yukon Quest with them last year and finished third. He told me to sell the furs and buy dog food for them.”
“Ah,” Rebecca said. “You’re Brian MacKenzie’s brother.”
“Yes. You know him?”
“He and my husband were friends.”
Mac nodded. “Well, he wants me to run his dogs this winter, so I expect I will. There’s not much to it, really. He gave me a some lessons before he left, and I’ve been working with the dogs for a few months now. We should be able to do really well at some of these races. I’d kind of like to win the Percy DeWolf. It’s only 210 miles and those dogs of my brother’s will eat that up like it was nothing.”
“Had you ever driven a dog team before you came out here?”