Sled Dog Poem by David Welch

Wind whipped his face, the dogs, they ran,
across bleak-white ice and snow,
paid in cash by Rand McCorchoran
to Dawson, he would go.
Delivering mail, medicine, and booze,
to a town still on the grow,
earning tips from richer folk
prospectors flush with gold.

But the briefest hint of red arose,
catching his cold glance,
broke the passage of the miles,
broke the driver's trance.
The slight trail, it followed them,
like tiny, reddened ants,
it ran along up to the dogs,
stopping at old Nance.

The husky whined, and looked to him,
her body gaunt and thin,
from nine long years here at his side,
through toil, frost, and sin.
From countless scrapes and brouhahas,
saving each other's skin,
he no longer saw his favorite sight:
Nance's toothy, husky grin.

He sighed aloud and cursed the world,
knowing what should be done.
He shed his gloves and searched a pack,
there finding his old gun.
His hand it trembled at the thought,
thinking to distant dawns,
when he and Nance took on the word,
back when it had all begun.

With just one dog at his side,
and a rifle worn and old,
they'd marched up north, to try their luck,
to seek out Yukon gold.
He'd found no ore out in the wild
but Nance, so proud and bold,
showed him how to carve a life
from the endless ice and cold.

The gun it slipped into his belt,
he could not even pretend
that he could even point it at
his oldest, truest friend.
He brought of Nance up on the sled,
and the others he did send,
they raced to Dawson seven strong,
this would not be her end.