“I’ll take a thousand that this Johnson’s team don’t win,” said MacShane, tossing a sack onto the bar. “I don’t know anything about Johnson or his team, either. But I’m headin’ for Nome, an’ I guess I’ll just hang around and see the race. It’ll be more interestin’ if I’ve got somethin’ up on it.” “Take another thousan’ if you want it,” invited the saloon keeper. “No, a thousand will be enough. How’s the trail down river?” “You’ll have a trail. An outfit pulled through the other day from the Koyukuk. Old Man Gordon an’ his gal. Purtiest gal I ever seen, too. They’ve got a string of dogs they think kin run, an’ they’re goin’ to enter ’em in the Sweepstakes.” The man laughed harshly, “They ain’t got no more show than a rabbit, runnin’ agin them Nome race dogs.” “Gordon? Old Man Gordon, you say?” “Yes. Know him?” “Knew a man named Old Man Gordon once down to Dawson--before the big stampede. Maybe it’s the same one.” “Might be, at that,” agreed the saloon keeper. “But that gal of his’n! You’d ort to see her. Didn’t know they grow’d peaches on the Koyukuk. Baudette, here, he’s French, an’ nach’ly runs to wimmin more’n what us others does--she makes such a hit with him that he offered to bet her dogs would win. I give him odds of ten-to-one agin ’em. They can’t win.” “Got any more dust at ten-to-one that says they can’t win?” asked MacShane. “Why, do you know them dogs?” queried the man suspiciously. MacShane laughed: “Never saw ’em or heard of ’em,” he replied. “It’s just a hunch--an’ when I get a hunch, I ride it. Ten-to-one’s a good bet if I lose.” “How much do you want of it?” “Oh, couple hundred.” “All right, you’re on fer two hundred. If them Koyukuk dogs wins, you stop in on your way back an’ collect three thousan’.” “I’ll stop,” grinned MacShane, and headed his dogs down river.