“What in the world is he doing here?” she wondered, “Surely he is not going to enter his dogs in the Sweepstakes! Oh, why couldn’t he have stayed on the Yukon? Why did he come to Nome? He’ll never try to steal Skookum again. He’s deathly afraid of him, and he has a right to be. I never saw Skookum act that way before! Why, he would have eaten him up! But, he might try to kill Skookum! I wish Pete Enright were here. He would keep an eye on Dalzene for me. As long as Dalzene is in Nome I’ll worry every minute that my dogs are out of my sight. I know he’s up to some deviltry. I could see it in his eyes. Maybe it’s just hooch-running,” she reasoned, when the first shock of the meeting had worn off. “Because he evidently didn’t expect to see me here. His face showed surprise until he saw Skookum. Then fear. Oh, why didn’t you chew him up, Skookum?” she cried aloud, but for answer the big dog increased his pace, and ran on. The girl spent the night at Topkok, fifty miles from Nome, and got away early the following morning with Telephone Creek, seventy-two miles further on, as her destination. It was on this stretch of wind-beaten trail that for the first time she really let the dogs go. Riding the sled for long stretches she urged them to their utmost, and her heart thrilled as the great brutes responded with all that was in them and the sled fairly flew over the snow. Twice that day she stopped and fed a handful of meal to each dog--an extra trail ration to balance the extra exertion, and to hearten them for the long pull. She passed Boston Roadhouse shortly after noon, and arrived at Telephone Creek at four o’clock, an hour and a half ahead of her schedule. In the morning she headed for Candle, eighty-four miles away, which is the turning point of the race. It was particularly of this stretch that Johnson had warned her. Here one must cross the wind-swept reach of Death Valley, and while in clear weather the only serious danger is a wind-smashed sled, it is a real menace should the unfortunate musher lose the trail in a thick snow-fog or a driving blizzard, for Death Valley Hill is cut by sheer bluffs and cut-banks over which an outfit might easily plunge to destruction.