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‘Twas a night much like this, ’midst a fierce howling gale,

in the stark blinding snow, ‘pon a lone Yukon trail.

This most wretched of nights bore a deep freezing cold,

as the fierce arctic air took a harsh stinging hold.



Nearly six foot high drifts draped a landscape laid bleak,

one impossible place, for the frail or the meek,

as the cold swirling white could mislead the best eye,

turn the brain into slush, driving senses awry.



Now most mushers pause ’midst the cold whiteout’s rage,

both the green neophyte and the well seasoned sage,

for the arctic air freezes ‘neath pale northern lights,

creeping deep to the bone, on those cold three dog nights.*



A beckoning light on the long Yukon track,

was an old trading post owned by Mean Klondike Jack,

nearly anything made that was bought or was sold,

could be bartered and traded for furs, hides and gold.



Contemptuous, stingy, quick minded and tough,

mean-spirited, blunt, his demeanor quite gruff,

shrewd Jack drove a bargain that most men would rue,

but he did have one weakness........his pretty wife Sue.



‘Twas a strange little group in the store on that eve,

gathered ‘round the hot stove, seeking winter’s reprieve,

taking long swigs of hooch, swapping stories and tales,

warming frostbitten limbs, sharing troubles and ails.



Huddled close to the heat was a Frenchmen called Jacque,

a Canuck with an accent from big hearty stock,

and I guess we’ll ne’er know how he ended up there,

trading pelts from the beaver and skins from the bear.



Old Jacque’s fate was sealed when he entered that room,

‘neath a blanket of snow and a thick cloud of doom,

for he’d no way of knowing this brief eve’s respite,

would turn to a dismal, most terrible night.



Standing off to one side was a fool tempting fate,

it was Big Trapper Bill wooing Klondike Jacks Mate.

She’d been given  the nickname of “Dynamite” Sue,

‘cause she’d flaunt and she’d flirt until Jack finally blew.



He’d snapped more than once, in defending his pride,

for Sue was a magnet, his flirtatious bride,

and the legend’s still told there for miles around,

that there’s more than one wooer six feet in the ground.



If the fool, Trapper Bill, wasn’t careful this eve,

he’d end like the rest, a stiff corpse, I believe,

tho’ Bill’s a good trapper, the best in these parts,

he’ll ne’er be remembered with too many smarts.



The fierce Arctic wind rattled windows and doors,

crept ‘tween every crease in the roof and the floors.

It howled and screeched in the wintry night’s gloom,

while a deathlike foreboding hung thick in the room.



With the barking of dog teams just outside the wall,

bearing strange expectations, an ominous pall.

the door burst within ‘midst that blizzard surreal,

and a specter appeared draped in snow head to heel.



“Twas a bear of a man, a huge ice covered form,

half frozen to death from the cold arctic storm.

He’d been out on the trail, mushing nearly all day,

‘midst the bite of that gale in the hard winter fray



He shook off the snow, stomped his frostbitten feet,

shrugged out of his furs near the stoves welcome heat,

heaved a sigh of relief glancing ‘round at the guys,

but paused reaching Sue....... and he narrowed his eyes.



It had been many years since he’d seen that red hair,

gazed into those eyes, with their smoldering stare,

inhaled her sweet perfume, one heavenly scent,

or heard that soft voice breathe a sigh of content.



The last time he’d seen her........she’d skipped out on bail,

just ahead of the law, and a long term in jail.

She’d cleaned out his bank account, stole every dime,

ran off with some scalawag, partners in crime.



He’d searched every corner from Whitehorse to Nome,

from Anchorage to Skagway, each inch he could comb,

then scoured each dancehall and two bit hotel,

and swore that he’d find her, if it took him to hell.



Now who would have thought that he’d find the gal here

in the middle of nowhere, the Yukon frontier,

and what were the chances they’d e’er reunite,

in a fierce arctic storm, on a cold three dog night.*



Sue’s mouth flew agape and her eyes opened wide,

for she couldn’t believe who just stumbled inside,

she thought she had left Whisky Pete far behind,

in that flea bag hotel, liquored out of his mind.



She’d rifled his pockets and stolen his cash,

went straight to the bank, cleaning out his whole stash,

ran off with a swindler called Big Diamond Jim,

then shot the fool dead, up in Nome, on a whim.



After so many years she had found a new life,

out here in the Yukon as Klondike Jack’s wife,

and that spoiler Pete wouldn’t ruin her day,

‘cause she’d finish him off in her own ruthless way.



Sue reached ‘neath the counter for Klondike Jack’s gun,

‘twas a bruiser for Grizzlies, a two barreled one.

She staggered and wavered determined to shoot,

as the long muzzle shook while she aimed for that coot.



Jack jumped out in front of Sue just as she shot,

going clear through his heart, (‘twas a most vital spot),

then fell to the floor in a heap as he bled.

What a shame that old Klondike had keeled over dead.



Now the bullet, still traveling, veered off to the right,

heading off towards old John, on that cold fateful night.

The poor trapper died in the blink of an eye,

going straight through his skull, ‘twas a shot gone awry.



It wobbled and bobbled, that misguided shell,

with a mind of it’s own, like a missile from hell,

then skipped off the stove in a last deadly quest,

and lodged in Jacque’s head, finally coming to rest.



Sue couldn’t believe it, she’d shot nearly all,

yet that damn Whisky Pete was still standing up tall.

Tho’ the gunpowder stench and it’s smoke filled the room,

she still had a shot left, toward Whisky Pete’s doom.



Sue raised up the barrel and drew a sure bead,

taking real careful aim for that last dirty deed,

‘n squeezed back the trigger.... one  thunderous blast,

‘twas at that final moment old Pete breathed his last.



She buried the men-folk out back of the store,

and spoke not a word of that night evermore,

and when anyone asked she’d say “Jack mushed away,

in the cold of the night, ’midst the storm’s angry fray“.



Now she still barters furs at the old trading post,

and flirts with the trappers, (what a sweet demure host).

She still lights a lamp ‘midst the pale northern light,

and stokes a warm blaze, on a cold three dog night.*



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



*Authors Note:  It was common practice for a musher to

take one or more of his sled dogs to bed for body heat

during the cold arctic nights.  The coldest of nights came

to be known as, “a three dog night”.