Kodi replied, her female voice soothing even when the tension in the air seemed thick enough to see.

The rest of the team remained quite, letting the air that had long been flying through their lungs, slowly return through their gasping.

On the back of the sled Mr. Simpson seemed unaware of the time and without care as to what time in the day it might be. He knew what day it was, and today was the day that the mail was scheduled to arrive in Nome. That was good enough for him.

He grabbed his snow-hook, a long double clawed hook with points sharp enough to gouge metal, from the open leather sack on the handlebar of his sled and threw it into the snow. With a light hop, he put his full weight on the hook, sinking it’s teeth deep enough that if the dogs decided to take a run the hook would most likely grab a rock or dirt under the snow.

Mr. Simpson moved around the side of the sled, grabbing a large canvas bag with obviously little in it. He walked up to his wheel dogs, Kip, and Fell. Both of the dogs were big and brawny, full of muscle. Most mushers thought that the wheel dogs, due to their size and place on the sled, had little brain power. This was true for Kip, a black spot freckled full white male Newfoundland, who‘s off time hobbies consisted chasing tree‘s, and scratching himself.

Fell was just as big as his brother and had received all the brain power his brother had lost. He had also received much of his brothers black coat. The only black spots on his coat being the extra long socks that came up to - what humans would refer on themselves as their elbows and knees. Despite his considerable brain power over any member of the team, he did not want a promotion to the front of the team. He always said he wanted to be beside his brother. And so he was.

Mr. Simpson grabbed Kip, his left wheel dog, by the scruff of his neck and shook his fur, followed by stroking his gloved hand down his coat. “Good boy. Good boy.” He then reached over to Fell and gave him a scratch across his ears. “You know you’re a good boy to Fell.” Mr. Simpson grinned; he knew exactly how to make his dogs melt in his hands. Reaching into the loose sack he removed two extra large balls of fish. Mr. Simpson dropped the sack and put one of the balls into each of his mittens. Kip gripped the ball in his mouth before letting the ball drop to the snow where he looked stupidly at it. Mr. Simpson then handed the other ball to Fell, who held the frozen ball in his mouth till it became soft enough to break apart and swallow.

Mr. Simpson hefted the sack ahead to his next dogs Ralph and Dusty. He gave Ralph a good pat. “Good boy Ralph, good boy.” Mr. Simpson let his mitten slide slowly across his fur from his ears to his tail. He then moved his hand over to Dusty’s back. “Good bo-” Mr. Simpson couldn’t really tell, but he swore Dusty was glaring at him for almost calling him a boy. “I mean girl. Good girl.” Mr. Simpson made sure to pat Dusty extra for confusing her gender with the rest of the team. He quickly handed them both a meatball of fish, and moved on to his two leaders, Kirby and Kodi.

Kirby had light brown fur and a wide face. His eyes had the look of a leader, seeing the trail different than any other dog, but his wide face made him look stupid. Kodi’s eyes and face beheld a cunning. It was a cunning deep within. Perhaps a cunning that had yet to be discovered and truly brought to the surface. But it was there.

Mr. Simpson let his hands glide over both his leaders, scratching behind their ears, and rubbing their shoulders. “My boys. My good boys.” He grinned. Mr. Simpson brought out two more balls, the last two balls he had. He put one in front of Kirby who took the meat instantly and held it high in his mouth, letting his teeth grind slivers off to swallow. Mr. Simpson then held the other ball in front of Kodi who took it and let it melt in his mouth before chewing it apart.

With the dogs fed and loved, Mr. Simpson went back to the sled. He threw the empty sack into the sled and removed his beaver skin mittens, the only protection from his hands and the cold being a thin wool mitten that steamed in the cold. Mr. Simpson looked at his hands. The steam was thick. It must be really cold, He thought. With his thin gloved hands he grabbed the two sacks of mail and pulled them up from all his gear in the sled. The sideboards - the sides of the sled basket - released the tension that they had been carrying since they left Nome; and for the first time in two days the sled no longer bulged at the sides with gear.

Mr. Simpson carried the mail around the back of the sled, glancing once at his dogs to see them still busy eating their treat. With a grin that only he knew about under his hood, he stepped up on the front porch of the post office. The door was an antique and had been in Nome since the first house had been put up. Scratches and different marks covered the front under the gray of age. The frosted glass was the original. On a warmer day the glass looked old and smoky, like it had been left in a chimney. Mr. Simpson grabbed the handle, old and rusty with delicate designs that had been rubbed of with thousands of uses, and opened the door.

The bell above the door chimed as he entered the heat of the room. A potbelly stove with a tea kettle slowly heating greeted Mr. Simpson on his right.

“Simpson, is that you?” Mr. Conner’s frail voice called from the back. It was quickly followed by a sneeze that shook the glass in the front windows behind the stove.

“Still got that cold?” Mr. Simpson then realized his hood was still on. He walked to the counter and set the mail down then removed his hood. “Still got that cold?” He repeated, letting the heat of the room warm his face.

Mr. Conner stepped around a back partition. Around his shoulders he held a wool blanket tight to his neck. On top of his head he wore a wolf skin hat with muskrat earflaps down around his ears. His face was pale and had signs of weakness and exhaustion. Though it might have just been his old age that made him look so sick and tired

“You don’t look so good.” Mr. Simpson offered. Mr. Conner agreed with a shake of his head and stepped closer to the desk. He opened the blanket and set his right hand on one of the frosty bags of mail. His hand shuddered and recoiled back into the blanket. “It’s frozen.”

Mr. Simpson smiled, the red of his rosy cheeks following the curve of his native face up to just below his black eyes. “Well it’s kind of hard to keep it warm in all this heat.”

Mr. Conner grinned his toothy grin, letting a slight chuckle escape. He reached both of his hands up out of the blanket and grabbed one of the mail bag’s strings. With a groan he pulled it back off the counter and let the full weight of it land on the muscles in his arm. He moved around the counter that stopped short of the far end of the building with the mail dangling between his legs as he shuffled along.

“You know, I could take that if you want me to?” Mr. Simpson offered.

“No, no, that’s just alright, I got it. If I don’t use my muscles while I’m sick, I won’t be able to do my job when I’m better.”

Mr. Simpson grabbed the remaining bag of mail off the counter and walked to the stove. Above the stove hung an empty sack on a rusty nail in the ceiling. He took the sack down and replaced it with the frozen mail that already began to drip and sizzle on the stove. Mr. Conner handed the bag of mail he had, to Mr. Simpson who hung it next to the first bag on another nail.

“So have I missed anything?” Mr. Simpson asked.

Mr. Conner was already on his way back around the counter. “Oh nothing much. Some young man got drunk and fell asleep behind Huxley’s house.” Mr. Conner turned to Mr. Simpson and smiled. “He’s alive, but I’m sure he’ll think twice before he drinks again.”

Mr. Simpson smiled back. “Frostbite?”

“Oh yeah. I heard it said that he might loose all his toes, and possibly some of his fingers. He’s in rough shape, especially his face. Mrs. Tobith, you know, who lives by the hospital, said she could hear the young man screaming yesterday morning as they warmed him up.” Mr. Conner let a long grin wrap around his face. “She said she thought they were cutting a horse open over there, and rushed over in her nightgown to beg them to stop.” Mr. Conner laughed lightly. Mr. Simpson grinned at the thought of Mrs. Tobith running into the hospital screaming “Stop killing the horse.”

Mr. Conner busied himself in some paperwork on the counter.

Mr. Simpson left the warmth of the stove; it had started to heat straight through his clothing, for the bulletin board hung up on the far side of the room. Twenty-one different ads covered its face, all of them handwritten with addresses, services, and products. There was one hung up by the town carpenter saying that he would build anything asked of him, and would repair anything he was called for. Another one in the corner advertised a sewing circle for young women who wanted to learn how. All of them he had seen before. Yet a new one tacked right in the center of the board, printed in black ink on white paper, brought his attention.

Town meeting Wednesday the 20th

Due to the recent number of criminal activities, and low moral in the town itself, a town meeting has been called for the night of Wednesday to discus possible options for raising moral. All are welcome to attend and share their thoughts and ideas. The meeting will be at 6p.m. in the town hall, coffee and pastries will be served for all who attend.

George Neil.

Mayor

“So there’s a problem with moral in town?” Mr. Simpson grinned back at Mr. Conner.

Mr. Conner raised his eyes away from papers he had been writing on to look at Mr. Simpson. His eyes looked to be full of answers and stories of what had been happening. “Yeah. With fourteen people dead due to snow, and fights in every bar every night and day, and the jail so full of people that criminals are just turned loose, something has to be