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...
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