This is a modern-English version of The call of the wild, originally written by London, Jack.
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The Call of the Wild
by Jack London
Contents
Chapter I.
Into the Primitive
“Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom’s chain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain.”
“Old desires take a wandering jump,
Frustrated by tradition’s limits;
Once more from its winter slumber
Awakens the wild instinct.”
Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.
Buck didn’t read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was coming, not just for him, but for every strong, warm, long-haired dog from Puget Sound to San Diego. Men, searching in the Arctic darkness, had discovered a yellow metal, and because shipping and transportation companies were promoting the find, thousands of men were heading to the North. These men needed dogs, and they were looking for heavy dogs with strong muscles for hard work and thick coats to keep them warm in the cold.
Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Judge Miller’s place, it was called. It stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. At the rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front. There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth, rows of vine-clad servants’ cottages, an endless and orderly array of outhouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where Judge Miller’s boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the hot afternoon.
Buck lived in a big house in the sunny Santa Clara Valley. It was called Judge Miller’s place. The house was set back from the road, partly hidden among the trees, which offered views of the wide, cool veranda that wrapped around all four sides. You could get to the house via gravel driveways that meandered through expansive lawns and under the intertwining branches of tall poplars. At the back, everything was even more spacious than in front. There were large stables where a dozen grooms and boys worked, rows of vine-covered cottages for the staff, a neat and endless array of outbuildings, long grape arbors, lush pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the pumping station for the artesian well and the big cement tank where Judge Miller’s boys took their morning swims and stayed cool in the hot afternoons.
And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were other dogs. There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless,—strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.
And over this large estate, Buck was in charge. This is where he was born and where he had spent the first four years of his life. It was true that there were other dogs. There had to be other dogs in such a vast place, but they didn't matter. They came and went, stayed in the busy kennels, or lived quietly in the corners of the house like Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless—odd creatures that rarely ventured outside or set paw to the ground. On the other hand, there were the fox terriers, at least a dozen of them, who barked loudly at Toots and Ysabel as they peered out the windows, protected by a group of housemaids wielding brooms and mops.
But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at the Judge’s feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches. Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel he utterly ignored, for he was king,—king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of Judge Miller’s place, humans included.
But Buck was neither a house dog nor a kennel dog. The entire property was his. He jumped into the swimming pool or went hunting with the Judge’s sons; he accompanied Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s daughters, on long evening or early morning walks; on cold nights, he lay at the Judge’s feet in front of the roaring fire in the library; he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, rolled with them in the grass, and watched over their steps during wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard, and even further, where the paddocks and berry patches were. He stalked among the terriers with authority and completely ignored Toots and Ysabel, for he was king—king over all the crawling, creeping, flying creatures on Judge Miller’s property, including humans.
His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of his father. He was not so large,—he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds,—for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a health preserver.
His father, Elmo, a massive St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s constant companion, and Buck was set to follow in his father’s footsteps. He wasn’t as big—he weighed only one hundred and forty pounds—because his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog. Still, one hundred and forty pounds, combined with the dignity that comes from good living and universal respect, allowed him to carry himself with confidence. Over the four years since he was a puppy, he had lived the life of a satisfied aristocrat; he took great pride in himself and had become a bit egotistical, as country gentlemen often do because of their sheltered lives. However, he managed to avoid becoming just a spoiled house dog. Hunting and other outdoor activities kept him fit and toned, and like the cold-bathing races, his love for water was a source of energy and good health.
And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardener’s helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance. Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness—faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener’s helper do not lap over the needs of a wife and numerous progeny.
And this was the kind of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike gold rush drew people from all over the world to the frozen North. But Buck didn’t read the newspapers, and he didn’t know that Manuel, one of the gardener’s assistants, was not a good influence. Manuel had one major flaw. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also, in his gambling, he had one big weakness—he believed in a system; and this guaranteed his downfall. Because playing a system requires money, while the wages of a gardener’s assistant barely cover the needs of a wife and many children.
The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable night of Manuel’s treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, and money chinked between them.
The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and the boys were busy setting up an athletic club on the memorable night of Manuel’s betrayal. No one noticed him and Buck sneak off through the orchard for what Buck thought was just a walk. Aside from one lone man, no one saw them reach the small flag station called College Park. This man spoke with Manuel, and money exchanged hands between them.
“You might wrap up the goods before you deliver ’m,” the stranger said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck’s neck under the collar.
“You might want to wrap up the goods before you deliver them,” the stranger said roughly, and Manuel doubled a strong piece of rope around Buck’s neck beneath the collar.
“Twist it, an’ you’ll choke ’m plentee,” said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a ready affirmative.
“Twist it, and you’ll choke them plenty,” said Manuel, and the stranger grunted a quick agreement.
Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger’s hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knew nothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.
Buck accepted the rope with quiet dignity. It was an unusual situation, but he had learned to trust the men he knew and respected their wisdom that went beyond his own. However, when the ends of the rope were handed to the stranger, he growled threateningly. He thought he was just expressing his displeasure, believing that hinting was enough to assert control. But to his shock, the rope tightened around his neck, cutting off his air. In a fit of rage, he lunged at the man, who met him halfway, grabbed him by the throat, and expertly flipped him onto his back. The rope then tightened mercilessly as Buck thrashed in fury, his tongue hanging out and his huge chest heaving in vain. Never in his life had he been treated so horribly, and never had he felt such anger. But his strength faded, his eyes glazed over, and he was oblivious when the train was signaled and the two men tossed him into the baggage car.
The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand, nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.
The next thing he knew, he was vaguely aware that his tongue was hurting and that he was being jolted around in some kind of vehicle. The harsh sound of a train whistle at a crossing told him where he was. He had traveled too often with the Judge not to recognize the feeling of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and staring back at him was the wild fury of a kidnapped king. The man lunged for his throat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws clamped down on the man's hand and didn't let go until he was choked out of his senses again.
“Yep, has fits,” the man said, hiding his mangled hand from the baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. “I’m takin’ ’m up for the boss to ’Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks that he can cure ’m.”
“Yeah, has seizures,” the man said, hiding his injured hand from the baggage handler, who had come over, drawn by the sounds of the struggle. “I’m taking him up to San Francisco. A top dog doctor there thinks he can fix him.”
Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for himself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.
Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke very effectively for himself, in a small shed behind a bar on the San Francisco waterfront.
“All I get is fifty for it,” he grumbled; “an’ I wouldn’t do it over for a thousand, cold cash.”
“All I get is fifty for it,” he complained; “and I wouldn’t do it again for a thousand, straight up.”
His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.
His hand was covered in a bloody handkerchief, and the right pant leg was torn from the knee to the ankle.
“How much did the other mug get?” the saloon-keeper demanded.
“How much did the other guy get?” the bar owner asked.
“A hundred,” was the reply. “Wouldn’t take a sou less, so help me.”
“A hundred,” was the reply. “I wouldn’t take a dime less, I swear.”
“That makes a hundred and fifty,” the saloon-keeper calculated; “and he’s worth it, or I’m a squarehead.”
“That's one hundred fifty,” the bartender figured; “and he's worth it, or I'm an idiot.”
The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his lacerated hand. “If I don’t get the hydrophoby—”
The kidnapper unwrapped the bloody bandages and examined his injured hand. “If I don’t get the rabies—”
“It’ll be because you was born to hang,” laughed the saloon-keeper. “Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight,” he added.
“It’ll be because you were born to hang,” laughed the saloon owner. “Here, give me a hand before you take off,” he added.
Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with the life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.
Dazed and in excruciating pain from his throat and tongue, with life nearly choked out of him, Buck tried to confront his tormentors. However, he was thrown down and choked over and over until they finally managed to get the heavy brass collar off his neck. Then, the rope was taken off, and he was tossed into a cage-like crate.
There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrath and wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. What did they want with him, these strange men? Why were they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he felt oppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several times during the night he sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it was the bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in Buck’s throat was twisted into a savage growl.
There he lay for the rest of the long night, stewing in his anger and hurt pride. He couldn't figure out what it all meant. What did these strange guys want from him? Why were they keeping him locked up in this tiny crate? He didn't know why, but he felt weighed down by a vague sense of something bad about to happen. Several times during the night, he jumped to his feet when the shed door rattled open, expecting to see the Judge, or at least the boys. But each time, it was just the bulging face of the saloon owner peering in at him by the dim light of a tallow candle. And each time, the happy bark that quivered in Buck’s throat turned into a fierce growl.
But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men entered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands. Clerks in the express office took charge of him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carried him, with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and finally he was deposited in an express car.
But the bartender left him alone, and in the morning, four men came in and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck thought, because they looked like trouble—ragged and unkempt—and he barked and growled at them through the bars. They just laughed and poked sticks at him, which he bit at until he realized that was exactly what they wanted. So, he lay down sulkily and let them lift the crate into a wagon. Then, he and the crate he was trapped in started a journey through many hands. Clerks at the express office took charge of him; he was driven around in another wagon; a truck carried him, along with a bunch of boxes and packages, onto a ferry steamer; he was trucked off the steamer into a big railway depot, and finally, he was dropped off in an express car.
For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the tail of shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by teasing him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering and frothing, they laughed at him and taunted him. They growled and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms and crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more outrage to his dignity, and his anger waxed and waxed. He did not mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water caused him severe suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter, high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his parched and swollen throat and tongue.
For two days and nights, this express car was pulled along by loud locomotives, and for two days and nights, Buck neither ate nor drank. Furious, he initially responded to the express messengers’ first attempts to approach him with growls, and they retaliated by messing with him. When he slammed himself against the bars, shaking and frothing, they laughed and mocked him. They growled and barked like annoying dogs, mewed, flapped their arms, and crowed. He realized it was all very silly, but that only added to the insult to his dignity, and his anger grew and grew. He didn’t mind the hunger too much, but the lack of water caused him intense suffering and pushed his rage to the breaking point. In any case, being highly strung and very sensitive, the mistreatment had pushed him into a fever, fueled by the irritation of his dry and swollen throat and tongue.
He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would show them. They would never get another rope around his neck. Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself would not have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed with relief when they bundled him off the train at Seattle.
He was grateful for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had given them an unfair advantage, but now that it was removed, he was determined to show them. They would never get another rope around his neck again. He was set on that. For two days and nights, he didn’t eat or drink, and during that time of torment, he built up a rage that spelled trouble for whoever crossed him first. His eyes became bloodshot, and he transformed into a furious beast. He was so different that even the Judge wouldn’t have recognized him; and the delivery messengers sighed with relief when they got him off the train in Seattle.
Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small, high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor, and he hurled himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club.
Four men carefully carried the crate from the wagon into a small backyard with high walls. A heavyset man in a red sweater that hung loosely at the neck came out and signed the book for the driver. Buck sensed he was the next tormentor and lunged fiercely against the bars. The man smiled grimly and fetched a hatchet and a club.
“You ain’t going to take him out now?” the driver asked.
“You're not going to take him out now?” the driver asked.
“Sure,” the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a pry.
“Sure,” the man said, driving the hatchet into the crate to pry it open.
There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared to watch the performance.
The four men who had brought it in quickly scattered, finding safe spots on top of the wall where they could watch the show.
Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it, surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was calmly intent on getting him out.
Buck charged at the breaking wood, biting into it, pushing and struggling with it. Wherever the axe hit on the outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, just as desperately wanting to escape as the man in the red sweater was calmly focused on getting him out.
“Now, you red-eyed devil,” he said, when he had made an opening sufficient for the passage of Buck’s body. At the same time he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.
“Now, you red-eyed devil,” he said, after creating an opening wide enough for Buck to get through. At the same time, he dropped the hatchet and switched the club to his right hand.
And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him down.
And Buck was definitely a wild animal, as he braced himself for the spring, hair standing on end, mouth foaming, with a crazy look in his bloodshot eyes. He launched himself at the man with all one hundred and forty pounds of rage, fueled by the built-up anger of two days and nights. In midair, just as his jaws were about to clamp down on the man, he felt a jolt that stopped him in his tracks and snapped his teeth together painfully. He flipped over and hit the ground on his back and side. He had never been struck by a club before and didn’t understand what just happened. Letting out a sound that was part growl and mostly a scream, he got back on his feet and leaped again. And again, the shock hit him, crushing him to the ground. This time he realized it was the club, but his frenzy didn’t allow for any caution. He charged a dozen times, and each time the club broke his attack and sent him crashing down.
After a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left, coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head and chest.
After a brutal hit, he crawled to his feet, too disoriented to rush. He stumbled around weakly, blood streaming from his nose, mouth, and ears, his beautiful fur splattered with bloody slobber. Then the man moved in and deliberately struck him hard on the nose. All the pain he had already felt was nothing compared to the sharp agony of this. With a roar that was almost as fierce as a lion's, he lunged at the man again. But the man, shifting the club from one side to the other, calmly grabbed him by the jaw while pulling down and back. Buck spun completely through the air, and then half of another turn, before crashing to the ground on his head and chest.
For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went down, knocked utterly senseless.
For the last time, he rushed in. The man delivered the clever blow he had deliberately held back for so long, and Buck crumpled and collapsed, completely knocked out.
“He’s no slouch at dog-breakin’, that’s wot I say,” one of the men on the wall cried enthusiastically.
“He’s really good at training dogs, that’s what I say,” one of the men on the wall shouted excitedly.
“Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays,” was the reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the horses.
“Better break horses any day, and twice on Sundays,” was the driver's response as he climbed onto the wagon and started the horses.
Buck’s senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red sweater.
Buck’s senses returned, but his strength didn’t. He lay where he had fallen and watched the man in the red sweater from there.
“‘Answers to the name of Buck,’” the man soliloquized, quoting from the saloon-keeper’s letter which had announced the consignment of the crate and contents. “Well, Buck, my boy,” he went on in a genial voice, “we’ve had our little ruction, and the best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You’ve learned your place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all ’ll go well and the goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I’ll whale the stuffin’ outa you. Understand?”
“‘Answers to the name of Buck,’” the man mused, quoting the saloon owner’s letter that had informed him about the crate and its contents. “Well, Buck, my boy,” he continued in a friendly tone, “we’ve had our little conflict, and the best thing we can do is leave it at that. You’ve learned your role, and I know mine. Be a good dog, and everything will go well, and the rewards will be great. Be a bad dog, and I’ll give you a beating. Got it?”
As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly pounded, and though Buck’s hair involuntarily bristled at touch of the hand, he endured it without protest. When the man brought him water he drank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw meat, chunk by chunk, from the man’s hand.
As he talked, he confidently patted the head he had just beaten up, and even though Buck's hair instinctively stood up at the touch, he put up with it without complaining. When the man brought him water, he drank it eagerly, and later devoured a hearty meal of raw meat, piece by piece, from the man’s hand.
He was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his after life he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law, and he met the introduction halfway. The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. As the days went by, other dogs came, in crates and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and some raging and roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched them pass under the dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and again, as he looked at each brutal performance, the lesson was driven home to Buck: a man with a club was a lawgiver, a master to be obeyed, though not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck was never guilty, though he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon the man, and wagged their tails, and licked his hand. Also he saw one dog, that would neither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in the struggle for mastery.
He was beaten (he realized that); but he wasn’t broken. He understood that he had no chance against a man with a club. He learned this lesson, and throughout his life, he never forgot it. That club was an eye-opener. It was his introduction to the harsh realities of life, and he faced that reality head-on. The facts of life took on a harsher tone; and while he faced this new truth without fear, he did so with all the hidden cleverness of his nature awakened. As time passed, more dogs arrived, in crates and on leashes, some calmly, and some struggling and howling like he had; and he watched as they all came under the control of the man in the red sweater. Again and again, witnessing each brutal act reinforced the lesson for Buck: a man with a club was a lawmaker, a master to be followed, though not necessarily appeased. Buck never made that mistake, even though he saw other beaten dogs that would grovel to the man, wagging their tails and licking his hand. He also saw one dog that would neither try to please nor obey, ultimately getting killed in the battle for dominance.
Now and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly, wheedlingly, and in all kinds of fashions to the man in the red sweater. And at such times that money passed between them the strangers took one or more of the dogs away with them. Buck wondered where they went, for they never came back; but the fear of the future was strong upon him, and he was glad each time when he was not selected.
Now and then, strangers showed up, talking excitedly and trying to charm the man in the red sweater in all sorts of ways. Whenever money changed hands, the strangers took one or more of the dogs with them. Buck wondered where they went since they never returned, but the fear of what was to come weighed heavily on him, and he felt relieved each time he wasn't picked.
Yet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened man who spat broken English and many strange and uncouth exclamations which Buck could not understand.
Yet his time came, at last, in the shape of a little, scraggly man who spoke broken English and a lot of weird and crude exclamations that Buck couldn’t understand.
“Sacredam!” he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. “Dat one dam bully dog! Eh? How moch?”
“Wow!” he exclaimed when he saw Buck. “That’s one tough dog! Right? How much?”
“Three hundred, and a present at that,” was the prompt reply of the man in the red sweater. “And seem’ it’s government money, you ain’t got no kick coming, eh, Perrault?”
“Three hundred, and a bonus at that,” was the quick response from the guy in the red sweater. “And since it’s government money, you have no reason to complain, right, Perrault?”
Perrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been boomed skyward by the unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum for so fine an animal. The Canadian Government would be no loser, nor would its despatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs, and when he looked at Buck he knew that he was one in a thousand—“One in ten t’ousand,” he commented mentally.
Perrault smiled. Given that the price of dogs had skyrocketed due to the unusual demand, it was a reasonable amount for such an impressive animal. The Canadian Government wouldn't be at a loss, nor would its messages take longer to deliver. Perrault understood dogs, and when he saw Buck, he recognized that he was truly exceptional—“One in ten thousand,” he thought to himself.
Buck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when Curly, a good-natured Newfoundland, and he were led away by the little weazened man. That was the last he saw of the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from the deck of the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm Southland. Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned over to a black-faced giant called François. Perrault was a French-Canadian, and swarthy; but François was a French-Canadian half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new kind of men to Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and while he developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and François were fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.
Buck saw money exchanged between them and wasn’t surprised when Curly, a friendly Newfoundland, and he were taken away by the little, wrinkled man. That was the last time he saw the man in the red sweater, and as Curly and he watched Seattle fade from view on the deck of the Narwhal, it was also the last time he saw the warm south. Curly and he were taken below deck by Perrault and handed over to a giant with a dark face named François. Perrault was a French-Canadian, dark-skinned; but François was a French-Canadian half-breed and even darker. They were a new type of men to Buck (of which he would encounter many more), and while he didn’t develop any affection for them, he nonetheless grew to genuinely respect them. He quickly learned that Perrault and François were fair men, calm and neutral when administering justice, and too knowledgeable about dogs to be easily deceived by them.
In the ’tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two other dogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling captain, and who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens. He was friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one’s face the while he meditated some underhand trick, as, for instance, when he stole from Buck’s food at the first meal. As Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of François’s whip sang through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of François, he decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck’s estimation.
In the between decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly met two other dogs. One of them was a large, snow-white dog from Spitzbergen, taken away by a whaling captain, who later went on a Geological Survey into the Barrens. He was friendly in a sneaky way, smiling at you while planning some trick, like when he stole Buck’s food during their first meal. When Buck jumped up to confront him, François’s whip cracked through the air, hitting the thief first; all Buck could do was get back his bone. Buck thought that was fair of François, and the half-breed started to earn Buck’s respect.
The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not attempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were not left alone. “Dave” he was called, and he ate and slept, or yawned between times, and took interest in nothing, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew excited, half wild with fear, he raised his head as though annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went to sleep again.
The other dog didn't approach or get approached, and he didn't try to take anything from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, moody guy, and he made it clear to Curly that all he wanted was to be left alone, and that there would be trouble if anyone bothered him. He was called "Dave," and he mostly just ate and slept, occasionally yawning, showing no interest in anything, not even when the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched like a wild thing. When Buck and Curly got all worked up, half-crazed with fear, he lifted his head as if annoyed, gave them an uninterested look, yawned, and went back to sleep.
Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the propeller, and though one day was very like another, it was apparent to Buck that the weather was steadily growing colder. At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet, and the Narwhal was pervaded with an atmosphere of excitement. He felt it, as did the other dogs, and knew that a change was at hand. François leashed them and brought them on deck. At the first step upon the cold surface, Buck’s feet sank into a white mushy something very like mud. He sprang back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling through the air. He shook himself, but more of it fell upon him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some up on his tongue. It bit like fire, and the next instant was gone. This puzzled him. He tried it again, with the same result. The onlookers laughed uproariously, and he felt ashamed, he knew not why, for it was his first snow.
Day and night, the ship pulsed with the relentless rhythm of the propeller, and even though each day felt much like the last, Buck noticed that the weather was getting colder. Finally, one morning, the propeller stopped, and the Narwhal was filled with an air of excitement. He sensed it, just like the other dogs did, and realized that a change was coming. François put them on leashes and brought them up on deck. When Buck first stepped onto the cold surface, his feet sank into a white, mushy substance that felt a lot like mud. He jumped back with a snort. More of this white stuff was falling from the sky. He shook himself, but more landed on him. He sniffed it curiously, then licked some off his tongue. It stung like fire, and in an instant, it was gone. This puzzled him. He tried again, getting the same result. The spectators laughed heartily, and he felt embarrassed for reasons he didn't understand, as it was his first experience with snow.
Chapter II.
The Law of Club and Fang
Buck’s first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment’s safety. All was confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril. There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who knew no law but the law of club and fang.
Buck’s first day on Dyea beach felt like a nightmare. Each hour was filled with shock and surprises. He had been abruptly pulled from the heart of civilization and thrown into the wilderness. This was no lazy, sun-soaked life where he could just lounge around and be bored. There was no peace, no rest, and not a single moment of safety. Everything was chaotic and active, and at every moment, his life was at risk. He needed to stay constantly alert because these dogs and men were not the kind you’d find in town. They were all wild, knowing no rules other than the law of power and violence.
He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning, only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out equally swift, and Curly’s face was ripped open from eye to jaw.
He had never seen dogs fight like these wolf-like creatures did, and his first experience taught him an unforgettable lesson. It’s true, it was a vicarious experience; otherwise, he wouldn’t have lived to learn from it. Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she, in her friendly way, approached a husky dog the size of a fully grown wolf, even though she was not half as large as him. There was no warning, just a flash of movement, a metallic snap of teeth, and a swift leap back, leaving Curly’s face ripped open from her eye to her jaw.
It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them. This was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies.
It was the wolf's way of fighting: strike and jump back. But there was more to it than that. Thirty or forty huskies rushed in and surrounded the fighters in a focused, silent circle. Buck didn’t understand that intense silence, nor the excited way they were licking their chops. Curly charged at her opponent, who hit her again and then jumped aside. He met her next charge with his chest in a way that knocked her off her feet. She never got back up. This was what the watching huskies had been waiting for. They closed in on her, growling and yelping, and she was overwhelmed, screaming in pain, beneath the writhing mass of bodies.
So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he saw François, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred.
It was so sudden and unexpected that Buck was shocked. He saw Spitz stick out his red tongue in that way he had of laughing; and he saw François, swinging an axe, jump into the crowd of dogs. Three men with clubs were helping him break them up. It didn't take long. Two minutes after Curly went down, the last of her attackers were clubbed away. But she lay there, limp and lifeless in the bloody, trampled snow, nearly torn to pieces, with the dark-skinned half-breed standing over her, cursing horribly. This scene often came back to haunt Buck in his sleep. So that was how it was. No fair play. Once you were down, that was it for you. Well, he would make sure he never went down. Spitz stuck out his tongue and laughed again, and from that moment on, Buck hated him with a deep and lasting hatred.
Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of Curly, he received another shock. François fastened upon him an arrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such as he had seen the grooms put on the horses at home. And as he had seen horses work, so he was set to work, hauling François on a sled to the forest that fringed the valley, and returning with a load of firewood. Though his dignity was sorely hurt by thus being made a draught animal, he was too wise to rebel. He buckled down with a will and did his best, though it was all new and strange. François was stern, demanding instant obedience, and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while Dave, who was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck’s hind quarters whenever he was in error. Spitz was the leader, likewise experienced, and while he could not always get at Buck, he growled sharp reproof now and again, or cunningly threw his weight in the traces to jerk Buck into the way he should go. Buck learned easily, and under the combined tuition of his two mates and François made remarkable progress. Ere they returned to camp he knew enough to stop at “ho,” to go ahead at “mush,” to swing wide on the bends, and to keep clear of the wheeler when the loaded sled shot downhill at their heels.
Before he had fully processed the shock from Curly's tragic death, he was hit with another surprise. François strapped a harness on him, similar to the ones he had seen grooms use on horses back home. Just like the horses worked, he was also set to work, pulling François on a sled to the forest at the edge of the valley and bringing back a load of firewood. Although his pride was severely wounded being treated like a draft animal, he was smart enough not to fight back. He knuckled down and did his best, even though it all felt foreign and strange. François was strict, demanding immediate obedience, and with the help of his whip, he got it. Meanwhile, Dave, an experienced wheel dog, would nip at Buck’s hindquarters when he made a mistake. Spitz was the leader, also experienced; while he couldn't always get to Buck, he would growl sharply to reprimand him now and then or cleverly shift his weight to nudge Buck in the right direction. Buck adapted quickly, and with the guidance of his two companions and François, he made impressive progress. By the time they returned to camp, he learned to stop at “ho,” move out at “mush,” swing wide on turns, and stay clear of the wheeler when the loaded sled sped downhill behind them.
“T’ree vair’ good dogs,” François told Perrault. “Dat Buck, heem pool lak hell. I tich heem queek as anyt’ing.”
"Three very good dogs," François told Perrault. "That Buck, he's as stubborn as they come. I can teach him quicker than anything."
By afternoon, Perrault, who was in a hurry to be on the trail with his despatches, returned with two more dogs. “Billee” and “Joe” he called them, two brothers, and true huskies both. Sons of the one mother though they were, they were as different as day and night. Billee’s one fault was his excessive good nature, while Joe was the very opposite, sour and introspective, with a perpetual snarl and a malignant eye. Buck received them in comradely fashion, Dave ignored them, while Spitz proceeded to thrash first one and then the other. Billee wagged his tail appeasingly, turned to run when he saw that appeasement was of no avail, and cried (still appeasingly) when Spitz’s sharp teeth scored his flank. But no matter how Spitz circled, Joe whirled around on his heels to face him, mane bristling, ears laid back, lips writhing and snarling, jaws clipping together as fast as he could snap, and eyes diabolically gleaming—the incarnation of belligerent fear. So terrible was his appearance that Spitz was forced to forego disciplining him; but to cover his own discomfiture he turned upon the inoffensive and wailing Billee and drove him to the confines of the camp.
By the afternoon, Perrault, eager to hit the trail with his deliveries, came back with two more dogs. He called them “Billee” and “Joe,” two brothers and true huskies. Even though they had the same mother, they couldn't be more different. Billee was overly friendly, while Joe was the complete opposite—sour and withdrawn, with a constant snarl and an angry look in his eyes. Buck welcomed them like a friend, Dave ignored them, and Spitz started to beat on both of them, one after the other. Billee wagged his tail in a friendly way and tried to run away when he realized that being friendly wouldn't help. He cried out (still trying to be friendly) when Spitz's sharp teeth dug into his side. But no matter how Spitz circled around, Joe pivoted to face him, fur bristling, ears flattened, lips curling into a snarl, snapping his jaws together as quickly as he could, and his eyes shining fiercely—a perfect picture of aggressive fear. His fierce look was so intimidating that Spitz had to back off; but to mask his own unease, he turned on the harmless, whimpering Billee and chased him to the edge of the camp.
By evening Perrault secured another dog, an old husky, long and lean and gaunt, with a battle-scarred face and a single eye which flashed a warning of prowess that commanded respect. He was called Sol-leks, which means the Angry One. Like Dave, he asked nothing, gave nothing, expected nothing; and when he marched slowly and deliberately into their midst, even Spitz left him alone. He had one peculiarity which Buck was unlucky enough to discover. He did not like to be approached on his blind side. Of this offence Buck was unwittingly guilty, and the first knowledge he had of his indiscretion was when Sol-leks whirled upon him and slashed his shoulder to the bone for three inches up and down. Forever after Buck avoided his blind side, and to the last of their comradeship had no more trouble. His only apparent ambition, like Dave’s, was to be left alone; though, as Buck was afterward to learn, each of them possessed one other and even more vital ambition.
By evening, Perrault had secured another dog, an old husky, long, lean, and gaunt, with a battle-scarred face and a single eye that flashed a warning of strength that commanded respect. He was named Sol-leks, which means the Angry One. Like Dave, he asked for nothing, gave nothing, expected nothing; and when he slowly and deliberately walked into their midst, even Spitz left him alone. He had one quirk that Buck unfortunately discovered. He didn’t like being approached from his blind side. Buck unknowingly committed this offense, and the first he knew of his mistake was when Sol-leks turned on him and slashed his shoulder to the bone for three inches up and down. From then on, Buck avoided his blind side, and throughout their time together, he had no more trouble. His only obvious ambition, like Dave’s, was to be left alone; although, as Buck would later learn, each of them had one other, even more important ambition.
That night Buck faced the great problem of sleeping. The tent, illumined by a candle, glowed warmly in the midst of the white plain; and when he, as a matter of course, entered it, both Perrault and François bombarded him with curses and cooking utensils, till he recovered from his consternation and fled ignominiously into the outer cold. A chill wind was blowing that nipped him sharply and bit with especial venom into his wounded shoulder. He lay down on the snow and attempted to sleep, but the frost soon drove him shivering to his feet. Miserable and disconsolate, he wandered about among the many tents, only to find that one place was as cold as another. Here and there savage dogs rushed upon him, but he bristled his neck-hair and snarled (for he was learning fast), and they let him go his way unmolested.
That night, Buck struggled with the challenge of trying to sleep. The tent, lit by a candle, glowed warmly against the white landscape; and when he calmly walked in, both Perrault and François attacked him with insults and kitchenware, until he shook off his shock and hurried outside into the freezing cold. A biting wind was blowing, sharply nipping at him and especially stinging his injured shoulder. He lay down on the snow and tried to sleep, but the cold soon drove him shivering back to his feet. Feeling miserable and hopeless, he wandered around the various tents, only to discover that every spot was just as cold as the last. Here and there, aggressive dogs charged at him, but he raised his hackles and growled (since he was learning quickly), and they let him pass without any trouble.
Finally an idea came to him. He would return and see how his own team-mates were making out. To his astonishment, they had disappeared. Again he wandered about through the great camp, looking for them, and again he returned. Were they in the tent? No, that could not be, else he would not have been driven out. Then where could they possibly be? With drooping tail and shivering body, very forlorn indeed, he aimlessly circled the tent. Suddenly the snow gave way beneath his fore legs and he sank down. Something wriggled under his feet. He sprang back, bristling and snarling, fearful of the unseen and unknown. But a friendly little yelp reassured him, and he went back to investigate. A whiff of warm air ascended to his nostrils, and there, curled up under the snow in a snug ball, lay Billee. He whined placatingly, squirmed and wriggled to show his good will and intentions, and even ventured, as a bribe for peace, to lick Buck’s face with his warm wet tongue.
Finally, an idea struck him. He would go back and see how his teammates were doing. To his surprise, they had vanished. Again, he wandered around the large camp, searching for them, and once more he returned. Were they in the tent? No, that couldn't be it; otherwise, he wouldn't have been pushed out. So where could they possibly be? With his tail down and shivering, feeling quite dejected, he aimlessly circled the tent. Suddenly, the snow gave way under his front legs, and he sank down. Something squirmed beneath his feet. He jumped back, bristling and snarling, scared of the unseen and unknown. But a friendly little yelp reassured him, and he returned to investigate. A whiff of warm air filled his nostrils, and there, curled up under the snow in a cozy ball, lay Billee. He whined softly, squirmed and wriggled to show his goodwill, and even dared to lick Buck’s face with his warm, wet tongue as a peace offering.
Another lesson. So that was the way they did it, eh? Buck confidently selected a spot, and with much fuss and waste effort proceeded to dig a hole for himself. In a trice the heat from his body filled the confined space and he was asleep. The day had been long and arduous, and he slept soundly and comfortably, though he growled and barked and wrestled with bad dreams.
Another lesson. So that’s how they did it, huh? Buck confidently picked a spot and, with a lot of fuss and wasted effort, started digging a hole for himself. In no time, the heat from his body filled the little space, and he was sound asleep. The day had been long and tough, and he slept deeply and comfortably, even though he growled, barked, and struggled with bad dreams.
Nor did he open his eyes till roused by the noises of the waking camp. At first he did not know where he was. It had snowed during the night and he was completely buried. The snow walls pressed him on every side, and a great surge of fear swept through him—the fear of the wild thing for the trap. It was a token that he was harking back through his own life to the lives of his forebears; for he was a civilized dog, an unduly civilized dog, and of his own experience knew no trap and so could not of himself fear it. The muscles of his whole body contracted spasmodically and instinctively, the hair on his neck and shoulders stood on end, and with a ferocious snarl he bounded straight up into the blinding day, the snow flying about him in a flashing cloud. Ere he landed on his feet, he saw the white camp spread out before him and knew where he was and remembered all that had passed from the time he went for a stroll with Manuel to the hole he had dug for himself the night before.
He didn't open his eyes until he was stirred by the sounds of the waking camp. At first, he had no idea where he was. It had snowed during the night, and he was completely buried. The snow walls pressed in on him from all sides, and a wave of fear washed over him—the instinctive fear of a wild animal caught in a trap. It was a sign that he was connecting with his past, with the lives of his ancestors; he was a domesticated dog, overly civilized, and from his own experiences, he had never encountered a trap, so he couldn't fear it on his own. His whole body tensed up, the hair on his neck and shoulders bristled, and with a fierce snarl, he jumped straight up into the bright daylight, snow flying around him in a flurry. As he landed on his feet, he saw the white camp spread out before him, realized where he was, and remembered everything that had happened since he went for a walk with Manuel to the hole he had dug for himself the night before.
A shout from François hailed his appearance. “Wot I say?” the dog-driver cried to Perrault. “Dat Buck for sure learn queek as anyt’ing.”
A shout from François announced his arrival. “What did I say?” the dog driver called to Perrault. “That Buck will definitely learn faster than anything.”
Perrault nodded gravely. As courier for the Canadian Government, bearing important despatches, he was anxious to secure the best dogs, and he was particularly gladdened by the possession of Buck.
Perrault nodded seriously. As a courier for the Canadian Government, carrying important messages, he was eager to get the best dogs, and he was especially pleased to have Buck.
Three more huskies were added to the team inside an hour, making a total of nine, and before another quarter of an hour had passed they were in harness and swinging up the trail toward the Dyea Cañon. Buck was glad to be gone, and though the work was hard he found he did not particularly despise it. He was surprised at the eagerness which animated the whole team and which was communicated to him; but still more surprising was the change wrought in Dave and Sol-leks. They were new dogs, utterly transformed by the harness. All passiveness and unconcern had dropped from them. They were alert and active, anxious that the work should go well, and fiercely irritable with whatever, by delay or confusion, retarded that work. The toil of the traces seemed the supreme expression of their being, and all that they lived for and the only thing in which they took delight.
Three more huskies joined the team within an hour, bringing the total to nine, and before another fifteen minutes had passed, they were in harness and heading up the trail toward Dyea Canyon. Buck was happy to be on the move, and even though the work was tough, he realized he didn’t really hate it. He was surprised by the enthusiasm that filled the entire team, which he picked up on. Even more surprising was the change in Dave and Sol-leks. They were like new dogs, completely transformed by the harness. All their passiveness and indifference had disappeared. They were alert and energetic, eager for the work to go smoothly, and intensely irritated by anything that slowed them down or caused confusion. The effort of pulling the sled seemed to be the ultimate expression of their existence, all they lived for, and the only thing that brought them joy.
Dave was wheeler or sled dog, pulling in front of him was Buck, then came Sol-leks; the rest of the team was strung out ahead, single file, to the leader, which position was filled by Spitz.
Dave was the lead dog, pulling in front of him was Buck, then came Sol-leks; the rest of the team was lined up ahead in a single file, with Spitz as the leader.
Buck had been purposely placed between Dave and Sol-leks so that he might receive instruction. Apt scholar that he was, they were equally apt teachers, never allowing him to linger long in error, and enforcing their teaching with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very wise. He never nipped Buck without cause, and he never failed to nip him when he stood in need of it. As François’s whip backed him up, Buck found it to be cheaper to mend his ways than to retaliate. Once, during a brief halt, when he got tangled in the traces and delayed the start, both Dave and Sol-leks flew at him and administered a sound trouncing. The resulting tangle was even worse, but Buck took good care to keep the traces clear thereafter; and ere the day was done, so well had he mastered his work, his mates about ceased nagging him. François’s whip snapped less frequently, and Perrault even honored Buck by lifting up his feet and carefully examining them.
Buck was intentionally put between Dave and Sol-leks so he could learn. As a quick learner, he had great teachers who didn't let him stay in mistakes for long and reinforced their lessons with their sharp teeth. Dave was fair and very smart. He never nipped Buck without a reason, and he always nipped him when he needed it. With François’s whip backing him up, Buck found it easier to correct his behavior than to fight back. Once, during a short break, he got caught in the traces, causing a delay, and both Dave and Sol-leks jumped on him and gave him a good beating. The resulting mess was even worse, but Buck made sure to keep the traces clear after that; by the end of the day, he had learned his job well enough that his teammates stopped bothering him. François’s whip cracked less often, and Perrault even honored Buck by lifting his feet and checking them carefully.
It was a hard day’s run, up the Cañon, through Sheep Camp, past the Scales and the timber line, across glaciers and snowdrifts hundreds of feet deep, and over the great Chilcoot Divide, which stands between the salt water and the fresh and guards forbiddingly the sad and lonely North. They made good time down the chain of lakes which fills the craters of extinct volcanoes, and late that night pulled into the huge camp at the head of Lake Bennett, where thousands of goldseekers were building boats against the break-up of the ice in the spring. Buck made his hole in the snow and slept the sleep of the exhausted just, but all too early was routed out in the cold darkness and harnessed with his mates to the sled.
It was a tough day’s trek, up the canyon, through Sheep Camp, past the Scales and the tree line, across glaciers and snowdrifts that were hundreds of feet deep, and over the massive Chilcoot Divide, which separates the salt water from the fresh and ominously watches over the desolate North. They made good time down the series of lakes filling the craters of extinct volcanoes, and late that night arrived at the large camp at the head of Lake Bennett, where thousands of gold seekers were building boats in preparation for the melting ice in spring. Buck dug his spot in the snow and fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion, but all too soon was woken up in the cold darkness and hitched up with his teammates to the sled.
That day they made forty miles, the trail being packed; but the next day, and for many days to follow, they broke their own trail, worked harder, and made poorer time. As a rule, Perrault travelled ahead of the team, packing the snow with webbed shoes to make it easier for them. François, guiding the sled at the gee-pole, sometimes exchanged places with him, but not often. Perrault was in a hurry, and he prided himself on his knowledge of ice, which knowledge was indispensable, for the fall ice was very thin, and where there was swift water, there was no ice at all.
That day they covered forty miles because the trail was well-packed. But the next day, and for many days after, they had to create their own trail, which made their work harder and their progress slower. Usually, Perrault led the team, using webbed shoes to pack down the snow and make it easier for them. François, who guided the sled from the gee-pole, sometimes swapped places with him, but not very often. Perrault was in a rush and took pride in his knowledge of ice, which was essential since the ice in the fall was very thin, and in places where the water was fast, there was no ice at all.
Day after day, for days unending, Buck toiled in the traces. Always, they broke camp in the dark, and the first gray of dawn found them hitting the trail with fresh miles reeled off behind them. And always they pitched camp after dark, eating their bit of fish, and crawling to sleep into the snow. Buck was ravenous. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon, which was his ration for each day, seemed to go nowhere. He never had enough, and suffered from perpetual hunger pangs. Yet the other dogs, because they weighed less and were born to the life, received a pound only of the fish and managed to keep in good condition.
Day after day, for endless days, Buck worked hard in his harness. They always broke camp before dawn, and the first light of day found them on the trail with miles already covered. They set up camp after dark each night, eating their share of fish and curling up to sleep in the snow. Buck was always hungry. The pound and a half of sun-dried salmon he was given each day didn’t seem to satisfy him at all. He was never full and constantly felt hungry. Meanwhile, the other dogs, being lighter and suited for the lifestyle, only got a pound of fish but managed to stay in good shape.
He swiftly lost the fastidiousness which had characterized his old life. A dainty eater, he found that his mates, finishing first, robbed him of his unfinished ration. There was no defending it. While he was fighting off two or three, it was disappearing down the throats of the others. To remedy this, he ate as fast as they; and, so greatly did hunger compel him, he was not above taking what did not belong to him. He watched and learned. When he saw Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever malingerer and thief, slyly steal a slice of bacon when Perrault’s back was turned, he duplicated the performance the following day, getting away with the whole chunk. A great uproar was raised, but he was unsuspected; while Dub, an awkward blunderer who was always getting caught, was punished for Buck’s misdeed.
He quickly lost the care for details that had marked his previous life. A picky eater, he realized that while he was still eating, his friends were finishing first and taking his leftover food. There was no way to avoid it. While he was trying to fend off a few, it was disappearing into the mouths of the others. To fix this, he started to eat as fast as they did; and driven by hunger, he didn’t hesitate to take what wasn’t his. He watched and learned. When he saw Pike, one of the new dogs, a clever slacker and thief, sneak a piece of bacon when Perrault's back was turned, he copied that the next day, taking the entire chunk. A big scene was made, but no one suspected him; instead, Dub, a clumsy oaf who always got caught, was punished for Buck's theft.
This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland environment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible death. It marked, further, the decay or going to pieces of his moral nature, a vain thing and a handicap in the ruthless struggle for existence. It was all well enough in the Southland, under the law of love and fellowship, to respect private property and personal feelings; but in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, whoso took such things into account was a fool, and in so far as he observed them he would fail to prosper.
This first theft showed Buck was ready to survive in the harsh Northern environment. It highlighted his ability to adapt, his skill in adjusting to changing circumstances, something that, without it, would have led to a quick and brutal death. It also signified the decline of his moral sense, which was a useless burden in the ruthless fight for survival. In the South, where love and community were valued, it was acceptable to respect private property and personal feelings; but in the North, where power and violence reigned, anyone who took those things into account was a fool, and by adhering to them, he would not succeed.
Not that Buck reasoned it out. He was fit, that was all, and unconsciously he accommodated himself to the new mode of life. All his days, no matter what the odds, he had never run from a fight. But the club of the man in the red sweater had beaten into him a more fundamental and primitive code. Civilized, he could have died for a moral consideration, say the defence of Judge Miller’s riding-whip; but the completeness of his decivilization was now evidenced by his ability to flee from the defence of a moral consideration and so save his hide. He did not steal for joy of it, but because of the clamor of his stomach. He did not rob openly, but stole secretly and cunningly, out of respect for club and fang. In short, the things he did were done because it was easier to do them than not to do them.
Not that Buck figured it all out. He was just fit, and without realizing it, he adapted to the new way of life. Throughout his life, no matter the odds, he had never shied away from a fight. But the blows from the man in the red sweater had ingrained a more basic and primitive code in him. In a civilized world, he might have died for a moral reason, like defending Judge Miller’s riding whip; but the extent of his de-civilization was now shown by his ability to flee from defending a moral reason and save himself instead. He wasn’t stealing for the thrill of it, but because his stomach was urging him. He didn’t rob openly; instead, he stole stealthily and smartly, out of respect for the club and teeth. In short, the things he did were simply because it was easier to do them than not to do them.
His development (or retrogression) was rapid. His muscles became hard as iron, and he grew callous to all ordinary pain. He achieved an internal as well as external economy. He could eat anything, no matter how loathsome or indigestible; and, once eaten, the juices of his stomach extracted the last least particle of nutriment; and his blood carried it to the farthest reaches of his body, building it into the toughest and stoutest of tissues. Sight and scent became remarkably keen, while his hearing developed such acuteness that in his sleep he heard the faintest sound and knew whether it heralded peace or peril. He learned to bite the ice out with his teeth when it collected between his toes; and when he was thirsty and there was a thick scum of ice over the water hole, he would break it by rearing and striking it with stiff fore legs. His most conspicuous trait was an ability to scent the wind and forecast it a night in advance. No matter how breathless the air when he dug his nest by tree or bank, the wind that later blew inevitably found him to leeward, sheltered and snug.
His development (or decline) was quick. His muscles became as tough as iron, and he grew numb to all ordinary pain. He mastered both internal and external efficiency. He could eat anything, no matter how unpleasant or hard to digest; and once consumed, the acids in his stomach extracted every last bit of nutrition, which his blood carried to the farthest parts of his body, forming the strongest and most durable tissues. His sight and smell became incredibly sharp, while his hearing became so sensitive that even while he slept, he could detect the faintest sound and discern whether it signaled safety or danger. He learned to bite the ice out from between his toes when it built up; and when he was thirsty and a thick layer of ice covered the water hole, he would break it by rearing back and striking it with his strong front legs. His most notable trait was his ability to sense the wind and predict it a night ahead. No matter how still the air was when he dug his nest by a tree or riverbank, the wind that eventually blew always found him sheltered and comfortable.
And not only did he learn by experience, but instincts long dead became alive again. The domesticated generations fell from him. In vague ways he remembered back to the youth of the breed, to the time the wild dogs ranged in packs through the primeval forest and killed their meat as they ran it down. It was no task for him to learn to fight with cut and slash and the quick wolf snap. In this manner had fought forgotten ancestors. They quickened the old life within him, and the old tricks which they had stamped into the heredity of the breed were his tricks. They came to him without effort or discovery, as though they had been his always. And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at a star and howled long and wolflike, it was his ancestors, dead and dust, pointing nose at star and howling down through the centuries and through him. And his cadences were their cadences, the cadences which voiced their woe and what to them was the meaning of the stiffness, and the cold, and dark.
And not only did he learn from experience, but instincts that had been dormant came to life again. The domesticated generations faded away from him. He vaguely remembered the early days of the breed, when wild dogs roamed in packs through ancient forests and hunted their prey as they chased it down. It was easy for him to learn to fight with slashes and quick wolf snaps. That was how his forgotten ancestors had fought. They revived the old life within him, and the ancient skills they had imprinted on the breed’s genetics became his. They came to him effortlessly, as if they had always been a part of him. And when, on the still, cold nights, he raised his nose to a star and howled long and wolf-like, it was his ancestors, long gone and turned to dust, raising their noses to the stars and howling down through the ages and through him. His rhythms were their rhythms, the rhythms that expressed their sorrow and what, for them, represented the harshness of the cold, the stiffness, and the darkness.
Thus, as token of what a puppet thing life is, the ancient song surged through him and he came into his own again; and he came because men had found a yellow metal in the North, and because Manuel was a gardener’s helper whose wages did not lap over the needs of his wife and divers small copies of himself.
Thus, as a reminder of how puppet-like life is, the old song flowed through him and he rediscovered himself; he returned because people had discovered gold in the North, and because Manuel was a gardener's assistant whose pay didn’t quite meet the needs of his wife and their several small children.
Chapter III.
The Dominant Primordial Beast
The dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce conditions of trail life it grew and grew. Yet it was a secret growth. His newborn cunning gave him poise and control. He was too busy adjusting himself to the new life to feel at ease, and not only did he not pick fights, but he avoided them whenever possible. A certain deliberateness characterized his attitude. He was not prone to rashness and precipitate action; and in the bitter hatred between him and Spitz he betrayed no impatience, shunned all offensive acts.
The primal instinct was strong in Buck, and in the harsh realities of life on the trail, it developed more and more. But this growth was subtle. His newfound cleverness gave him confidence and self-control. He was too occupied with adapting to his new environment to feel comfortable, and instead of looking for fights, he steered clear of them whenever he could. He approached situations with a certain level of thoughtfulness. He wasn't quick to act recklessly; and even with the intense animosity between him and Spitz, he showed no impatience and avoided any aggressive behavior.
On the other hand, possibly because he divined in Buck a dangerous rival, Spitz never lost an opportunity of showing his teeth. He even went out of his way to bully Buck, striving constantly to start the fight which could end only in the death of one or the other. Early in the trip this might have taken place had it not been for an unwonted accident. At the end of this day they made a bleak and miserable camp on the shore of Lake Le Barge. Driving snow, a wind that cut like a white-hot knife, and darkness had forced them to grope for a camping place. They could hardly have fared worse. At their backs rose a perpendicular wall of rock, and Perrault and François were compelled to make their fire and spread their sleeping robes on the ice of the lake itself. The tent they had discarded at Dyea in order to travel light. A few sticks of driftwood furnished them with a fire that thawed down through the ice and left them to eat supper in the dark.
On the other hand, maybe because he sensed that Buck was a serious rival, Spitz never missed a chance to show his teeth. He even went out of his way to bully Buck, always trying to provoke a fight that could only end with one of them dead. Early in the journey, this might have happened if it hadn't been for an unusual accident. By the end of that day, they set up a bleak and miserable camp on the shore of Lake Le Barge. Blowing snow, a biting wind, and darkness forced them to search for a camping spot. They couldn't have ended up in a worse situation. Behind them was a sheer rock wall, and Perrault and François had no choice but to make their fire and spread their sleeping bags on the ice of the lake itself. They had abandoned the tent they had at Dyea to travel light. A few pieces of driftwood gave them a fire that melted the ice beneath and left them to have dinner in the dark.
Close in under the sheltering rock Buck made his nest. So snug and warm was it, that he was loath to leave it when François distributed the fish which he had first thawed over the fire. But when Buck finished his ration and returned, he found his nest occupied. A warning snarl told him that the trespasser was Spitz. Till now Buck had avoided trouble with his enemy, but this was too much. The beast in him roared. He sprang upon Spitz with a fury which surprised them both, and Spitz particularly, for his whole experience with Buck had gone to teach him that his rival was an unusually timid dog, who managed to hold his own only because of his great weight and size.
Close under the sheltering rock, Buck made his nest. It was so snug and warm that he was reluctant to leave it when François started handing out the fish he had thawed over the fire. But when Buck finished his share and returned, he found his nest occupied. A warning snarl told him that the intruder was Spitz. Until now, Buck had avoided trouble with his enemy, but this was too much. The beast inside him roared. He leaped at Spitz with a fury that surprised them both, especially Spitz, since all his experience with Buck had taught him that his rival was an unusually timid dog, who only managed to hold his own because of his great weight and size.
François was surprised, too, when they shot out in a tangle from the disrupted nest and he divined the cause of the trouble. “A-a-ah!” he cried to Buck. “Gif it to heem, by Gar! Gif it to heem, the dirty t’eef!”
François was shocked, too, when they burst out in a mess from the broken nest and he figured out what was going on. “A-a-ah!” he yelled to Buck. “Give it to him, for sure! Give it to him, the dirty thief!”
Spitz was equally willing. He was crying with sheer rage and eagerness as he circled back and forth for a chance to spring in. Buck was no less eager, and no less cautious, as he likewise circled back and forth for the advantage. But it was then that the unexpected happened, the thing which projected their struggle for supremacy far into the future, past many a weary mile of trail and toil.
Spitz was just as ready. He was crying out of pure anger and excitement as he paced back and forth, looking for a chance to attack. Buck was just as eager and careful, also circling back and forth to find an advantage. But then something unexpected happened, a moment that would extend their battle for dominance far into the future, over many exhausting miles of trail and hard work.
An oath from Perrault, the resounding impact of a club upon a bony frame, and a shrill yelp of pain, heralded the breaking forth of pandemonium. The camp was suddenly discovered to be alive with skulking furry forms,—starving huskies, four or five score of them, who had scented the camp from some Indian village. They had crept in while Buck and Spitz were fighting, and when the two men sprang among them with stout clubs they showed their teeth and fought back. They were crazed by the smell of the food. Perrault found one with head buried in the grub-box. His club landed heavily on the gaunt ribs, and the grub-box was capsized on the ground. On the instant a score of the famished brutes were scrambling for the bread and bacon. The clubs fell upon them unheeded. They yelped and howled under the rain of blows, but struggled none the less madly till the last crumb had been devoured.
An oath from Perrault, the loud thud of a club hitting a bony body, and a sharp yelp of pain marked the start of chaos. Suddenly, the camp was filled with sneaky furry figures—starving huskies, four or five dozen of them, who had picked up the scent of food from some nearby Indian village. They had snuck in while Buck and Spitz were fighting, and when the two men charged at them with strong clubs, the dogs showed their teeth and fought back. They were driven wild by the smell of food. Perrault spotted one with its head buried in the food box. His club came down hard on the skinny ribs, and the food box tipped over onto the ground. In an instant, a score of the starving animals were scrambling for the bread and bacon. The clubs came down on them without them noticing. They yelped and howled under the barrage of blows, but still fought madly until every last crumb was gone.
In the meantime the astonished team-dogs had burst out of their nests only to be set upon by the fierce invaders. Never had Buck seen such dogs. It seemed as though their bones would burst through their skins. They were mere skeletons, draped loosely in draggled hides, with blazing eyes and slavered fangs. But the hunger-madness made them terrifying, irresistible. There was no opposing them. The team-dogs were swept back against the cliff at the first onset. Buck was beset by three huskies, and in a trice his head and shoulders were ripped and slashed. The din was frightful. Billee was crying as usual. Dave and Sol-leks, dripping blood from a score of wounds, were fighting bravely side by side. Joe was snapping like a demon. Once, his teeth closed on the fore leg of a husky, and he crunched down through the bone. Pike, the malingerer, leaped upon the crippled animal, breaking its neck with a quick flash of teeth and a jerk, Buck got a frothing adversary by the throat, and was sprayed with blood when his teeth sank through the jugular. The warm taste of it in his mouth goaded him to greater fierceness. He flung himself upon another, and at the same time felt teeth sink into his own throat. It was Spitz, treacherously attacking from the side.
In the meantime, the shocked team dogs had jumped out of their nests only to be attacked by the fierce intruders. Buck had never seen dogs like this. They looked like their bones were about to break through their skin. They were nothing but skeletons wrapped in ragged hides, with glowing eyes and dripping fangs. But their hunger made them terrifying and impossible to resist. There was no way to stand against them. The team dogs were pushed back against the cliff at the first assault. Buck was surrounded by three huskies, and in an instant, his head and shoulders were torn and slashed. The noise was horrendous. Billee was crying as usual. Dave and Sol-leks, covered in blood from numerous wounds, were fighting bravely side by side. Joe was snapping like a monster. Once, his teeth clamped down on the foreleg of a husky, and he crunched through the bone. Pike, the slacker, jumped on the injured animal, breaking its neck with a swift snap of his teeth and a jerk. Buck got a frothing opponent by the throat and was splattered with blood when his teeth sunk into the jugular. The warm taste spurred him on to be even fiercer. He lunged at another dog, and at the same time, he felt teeth sink into his own throat. It was Spitz, sneakily attacking from the side.
Perrault and François, having cleaned out their part of the camp, hurried to save their sled-dogs. The wild wave of famished beasts rolled back before them, and Buck shook himself free. But it was only for a moment. The two men were compelled to run back to save the grub, upon which the huskies returned to the attack on the team. Billee, terrified into bravery, sprang through the savage circle and fled away over the ice. Pike and Dub followed on his heels, with the rest of the team behind. As Buck drew himself together to spring after them, out of the tail of his eye he saw Spitz rush upon him with the evident intention of overthrowing him. Once off his feet and under that mass of huskies, there was no hope for him. But he braced himself to the shock of Spitz’s charge, then joined the flight out on the lake.
Perrault and François, having cleared their part of the camp, rushed to save their sled dogs. A wild wave of starving animals pressed in on them, and Buck managed to shake himself free, but only for a moment. The two men had to run back to save the food, which allowed the huskies to attack the team again. Billee, scared yet brave, darted through the savage circle and ran away across the ice. Pike and Dub followed closely behind him, with the rest of the team trailing. As Buck readied himself to leap after them, he caught a glimpse of Spitz charging at him, clearly intent on taking him down. If Buck fell and got trapped under that mass of huskies, he knew he’d be doomed. But he steeled himself for Spitz’s impact and then joined the escape onto the lake.
Later, the nine team-dogs gathered together and sought shelter in the forest. Though unpursued, they were in a sorry plight. There was not one who was not wounded in four or five places, while some were wounded grievously. Dub was badly injured in a hind leg; Dolly, the last husky added to the team at Dyea, had a badly torn throat; Joe had lost an eye; while Billee, the good-natured, with an ear chewed and rent to ribbons, cried and whimpered throughout the night. At daybreak they limped warily back to camp, to find the marauders gone and the two men in bad tempers. Fully half their grub supply was gone. The huskies had chewed through the sled lashings and canvas coverings. In fact, nothing, no matter how remotely eatable, had escaped them. They had eaten a pair of Perrault’s moose-hide moccasins, chunks out of the leather traces, and even two feet of lash from the end of François’s whip. He broke from a mournful contemplation of it to look over his wounded dogs.
Later, the nine team dogs gathered and sought shelter in the forest. Even though they weren’t being chased, they were in rough shape. Every single one of them was hurt in four or five places, with some injuries being severe. Dub had a bad injury on his hind leg; Dolly, the last husky brought into the team at Dyea, had a badly torn throat; Joe had lost an eye; and Billee, the easygoing one, whimpered and cried throughout the night with a chewed-up ear. At daybreak, they limped cautiously back to camp, only to find the marauders gone and the two men in bad moods. Half of their food supply was missing. The huskies had torn through the sled lashings and coverings made of canvas. In fact, nothing that could even be remotely eaten had been spared. They had chewed up a pair of Perrault’s moose-hide moccasins, chunks of the leather traces, and even two feet of lash from the end of François’s whip. He broke away from his sorrowful thoughts to check on his injured dogs.
“Ah, my frien’s,” he said softly, “mebbe it mek you mad dog, dose many bites. Mebbe all mad dog, sacredam! Wot you t’ink, eh, Perrault?”
“Ah, my friends,” he said softly, “maybe it makes you mad dog, those many bites. Maybe all mad dog, for goodness' sake! What do you think, eh, Perrault?”
The courier shook his head dubiously. With four hundred miles of trail still between him and Dawson, he could ill afford to have madness break out among his dogs. Two hours of cursing and exertion got the harnesses into shape, and the wound-stiffened team was under way, struggling painfully over the hardest part of the trail they had yet encountered, and for that matter, the hardest between them and Dawson.
The courier shook his head skeptically. With four hundred miles of trail still ahead of him to Dawson, he couldn’t risk having chaos erupt among his dogs. After two hours of cursing and effort, the harnesses were ready, and the weary team was on the move, struggling painfully over the toughest section of the trail they had faced so far, and indeed, the toughest between them and Dawson.
The Thirty Mile River was wide open. Its wild water defied the frost, and it was in the eddies only and in the quiet places that the ice held at all. Six days of exhausting toil were required to cover those thirty terrible miles. And terrible they were, for every foot of them was accomplished at the risk of life to dog and man. A dozen times, Perrault, nosing the way broke through the ice bridges, being saved by the long pole he carried, which he so held that it fell each time across the hole made by his body. But a cold snap was on, the thermometer registering fifty below zero, and each time he broke through he was compelled for very life to build a fire and dry his garments.
The Thirty Mile River was completely open. Its wild waters pushed back against the frost, and only in the calm spots and eddies did ice manage to cling. It took six days of tiring work to cover those thirty awful miles. And they were awful, as every step was a matter of life and death for both dog and human. A dozen times, Perrault, leading the way, broke through the ice bridges, saved each time by the long pole he carried, which he held in such a way that it fell across the hole created by his body. However, a cold snap was setting in, the thermometer reading fifty below zero, and every time he fell through, he had to build a fire and dry his clothes just to stay alive.
Nothing daunted him. It was because nothing daunted him that he had been chosen for government courier. He took all manner of risks, resolutely thrusting his little weazened face into the frost and struggling on from dim dawn to dark. He skirted the frowning shores on rim ice that bent and crackled under foot and upon which they dared not halt. Once, the sled broke through, with Dave and Buck, and they were half-frozen and all but drowned by the time they were dragged out. The usual fire was necessary to save them. They were coated solidly with ice, and the two men kept them on the run around the fire, sweating and thawing, so close that they were singed by the flames.
Nothing scared him. It was because nothing scared him that he had been picked for government courier. He took all kinds of risks, bravely pushing his little wrinkled face into the cold and trudging on from early dawn to dark. He edged along the intimidating shores on thin ice that bent and cracked underfoot and on which they couldn't afford to stop. Once, the sled broke through, with Dave and Buck, and they were nearly frozen and almost drowned by the time they were pulled out. The usual fire was needed to save them. They were completely covered in ice, and the two men made them keep moving around the fire, sweating and thawing, so close that they got singed by the flames.
At another time Spitz went through, dragging the whole team after him up to Buck, who strained backward with all his strength, his fore paws on the slippery edge and the ice quivering and snapping all around. But behind him was Dave, likewise straining backward, and behind the sled was François, pulling till his tendons cracked.
At another time, Spitz went through, dragging the whole team behind him towards Buck, who was straining backward with all his strength, his front paws on the slippery edge while the ice quivered and snapped all around. But behind him was Dave, also pulling back, and behind the sled was François, pulling until his tendons felt like they might snap.
Again, the rim ice broke away before and behind, and there was no escape except up the cliff. Perrault scaled it by a miracle, while François prayed for just that miracle; and with every thong and sled lashing and the last bit of harness rove into a long rope, the dogs were hoisted, one by one, to the cliff crest. François came up last, after the sled and load. Then came the search for a place to descend, which descent was ultimately made by the aid of the rope, and night found them back on the river with a quarter of a mile to the day’s credit.
Again, the ice around the edge cracked away in front and behind, leaving no way out except up the cliff. Perrault climbed it miraculously, while François hoped for that very miracle; and with every strap and sled attachment and the last bit of harness tied into a long rope, the dogs were lifted, one by one, to the top of the cliff. François was the last to make it up, after the sled and load. Then they had to look for a way down, which they eventually accomplished using the rope, and by nightfall they were back on the river with a quarter of a mile to show for the day’s effort.
By the time they made the Hootalinqua and good ice, Buck was played out. The rest of the dogs were in like condition; but Perrault, to make up lost time, pushed them late and early. The first day they covered thirty-five miles to the Big Salmon; the next day thirty-five more to the Little Salmon; the third day forty miles, which brought them well up toward the Five Fingers.
By the time they reached Hootalinqua and good ice, Buck was exhausted. The other dogs were in the same state; however, Perrault, trying to make up for lost time, pushed them hard both day and night. On the first day, they traveled thirty-five miles to Big Salmon; the next day, another thirty-five miles to Little Salmon; and on the third day, they managed forty miles, getting them close to the Five Fingers.
Buck’s feet were not so compact and hard as the feet of the huskies. His had softened during the many generations since the day his last wild ancestor was tamed by a cave-dweller or river man. All day long he limped in agony, and camp once made, lay down like a dead dog. Hungry as he was, he would not move to receive his ration of fish, which François had to bring to him. Also, the dog-driver rubbed Buck’s feet for half an hour each night after supper, and sacrificed the tops of his own moccasins to make four moccasins for Buck. This was a great relief, and Buck caused even the weazened face of Perrault to twist itself into a grin one morning, when François forgot the moccasins and Buck lay on his back, his four feet waving appealingly in the air, and refused to budge without them. Later his feet grew hard to the trail, and the worn-out foot-gear was thrown away.
Buck’s feet weren’t as tough and compact as the huskies' feet. His had softened over many generations since his last wild ancestor was tamed by a cave dweller or river person. All day long he limped in pain, and when the camp was set up, he lay down like a lifeless dog. Hungry as he was, he wouldn’t get up to take his share of fish, which François had to bring to him. The dog driver also rubbed Buck’s feet for half an hour each night after dinner and sacrificed the tops of his own moccasins to make four for Buck. This was a huge relief, and one morning, François forgot the moccasins, making even Perrault's weathered face break into a grin when Buck lay on his back, his four feet waving helplessly in the air, refusing to move without them. Later, Buck's feet toughened up for the trail, and the worn-out gear was tossed away.
At the Pelly one morning, as they were harnessing up, Dolly, who had never been conspicuous for anything, went suddenly mad. She announced her condition by a long, heartbreaking wolf howl that sent every dog bristling with fear, then sprang straight for Buck. He had never seen a dog go mad, nor did he have any reason to fear madness; yet he knew that here was horror, and fled away from it in a panic. Straight away he raced, with Dolly, panting and frothing, one leap behind; nor could she gain on him, so great was his terror, nor could he leave her, so great was her madness. He plunged through the wooded breast of the island, flew down to the lower end, crossed a back channel filled with rough ice to another island, gained a third island, curved back to the main river, and in desperation started to cross it. And all the time, though he did not look, he could hear her snarling just one leap behind. François called to him a quarter of a mile away and he doubled back, still one leap ahead, gasping painfully for air and putting all his faith in that François would save him. The dog-driver held the axe poised in his hand, and as Buck shot past him the axe crashed down upon mad Dolly’s head.
One morning at the Pelly, while they were getting the harness ready, Dolly, who had never stood out for anything, suddenly went crazy. She announced her state with a long, heartbreaking wolf howl that made every dog bristle with fear, then darted straight for Buck. He had never seen a dog lose its mind, nor did he have any reason to be afraid of madness; yet he sensed the horror and ran from it in a panic. He raced forward with Dolly, panting and frothing, just a leap behind him. Neither could she catch up to him, so intense was his fear, nor could he escape her, so fierce was her madness. He dashed through the wooded part of the island, sped down to the lower end, crossed a back channel filled with rough ice to another island, reached a third island, curved back to the main river, and in desperation began to cross it. All the while, even though he didn’t look back, he could hear her snarling just one leap behind. François called to him from a quarter of a mile away, and he turned back, still one leap ahead, gasping for air and relying completely on François to save him. The dog-driver held the axe ready in his hand, and as Buck shot past him, the axe came crashing down on mad Dolly’s head.
Buck staggered over against the sled, exhausted, sobbing for breath, helpless. This was Spitz’s opportunity. He sprang upon Buck, and twice his teeth sank into his unresisting foe and ripped and tore the flesh to the bone. Then François’s lash descended, and Buck had the satisfaction of watching Spitz receive the worst whipping as yet administered to any of the teams.
Buck stumbled against the sled, worn out, gasping for air, and powerless. This was Spitz’s chance. He lunged at Buck, and twice his teeth sunk into his defenseless opponent, ripping and tearing the flesh down to the bone. Then François’s whip came down, and Buck felt satisfaction as he watched Spitz get the worst beating given to any of the teams so far.
“One devil, dat Spitz,” remarked Perrault. “Some dam day heem keel dat Buck.”
“One devil, that Spitz,” said Perrault. “Some damn day he’ll kill that Buck.”
“Dat Buck two devils,” was François’s rejoinder. “All de tam I watch dat Buck I know for sure. Lissen: some dam fine day heem get mad lak hell an’ den heem chew dat Spitz all up an’ spit heem out on de snow. Sure. I know.”
“Those two are trouble,” François replied. “All the time I watch that Buck, I know for sure. Listen: some damn fine day he’s going to get mad as hell and then he’ll chew that Spitz all up and spit him out on the snow. For sure. I know.”
From then on it was war between them. Spitz, as lead-dog and acknowledged master of the team, felt his supremacy threatened by this strange Southland dog. And strange Buck was to him, for of the many Southland dogs he had known, not one had shown up worthily in camp and on trail. They were all too soft, dying under the toil, the frost, and starvation. Buck was the exception. He alone endured and prospered, matching the husky in strength, savagery, and cunning. Then he was a masterful dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that the club of the man in the red sweater had knocked all blind pluck and rashness out of his desire for mastery. He was preeminently cunning, and could bide his time with a patience that was nothing less than primitive.
From that point on, it was war between them. Spitz, as the lead dog and recognized leader of the team, felt his dominance challenged by this unusual Southland dog. And Buck was unusual to him because of the many Southland dogs he had encountered, none had performed well in the camp or on the trail. They were all too soft, succumbing to the hard work, the cold, and hunger. Buck was the exception. He alone endured and thrived, matching the husky in strength, ferocity, and cleverness. He was a powerful dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that the man in the red sweater had beaten all the blind courage and recklessness out of his desire for dominance. He was incredibly clever and could wait patiently in a way that was almost instinctual.
It was inevitable that the clash for leadership should come. Buck wanted it. He wanted it because it was his nature, because he had been gripped tight by that nameless, incomprehensible pride of the trail and trace—that pride which holds dogs in the toil to the last gasp, which lures them to die joyfully in the harness, and breaks their hearts if they are cut out of the harness. This was the pride of Dave as wheel-dog, of Sol-leks as he pulled with all his strength; the pride that laid hold of them at break of camp, transforming them from sour and sullen brutes into straining, eager, ambitious creatures; the pride that spurred them on all day and dropped them at pitch of camp at night, letting them fall back into gloomy unrest and uncontent. This was the pride that bore up Spitz and made him thrash the sled-dogs who blundered and shirked in the traces or hid away at harness-up time in the morning. Likewise it was this pride that made him fear Buck as a possible lead-dog. And this was Buck’s pride, too.
It was bound to happen that the struggle for leadership would arise. Buck wanted it. He wanted it because that was just who he was, because he felt a deep, unnameable pride from the trail and the challenge—that pride that drives dogs to work until they collapse, that beckons them to die happily in their harness, and breaks their hearts if they are released from it. This was the pride that fueled Dave as the wheel-dog and Sol-leks as he pulled with all his might; the pride that gripped them at the break of camp, turning them from grumpy, unhappy animals into eager, ambitious beings; the pride that pushed them throughout the day and then let them fall back into restless gloom each night at camp. This was the pride that lifted Spitz and made him punish the sled-dogs who stumbled or slacked off in the traces or tried to hide during harness-up in the mornings. It was also this pride that made him wary of Buck as a potential lead-dog. And this was Buck’s pride, too.
He openly threatened the other’s leadership. He came between him and the shirks he should have punished. And he did it deliberately. One night there was a heavy snowfall, and in the morning Pike, the malingerer, did not appear. He was securely hidden in his nest under a foot of snow. François called him and sought him in vain. Spitz was wild with wrath. He raged through the camp, smelling and digging in every likely place, snarling so frightfully that Pike heard and shivered in his hiding-place.
He openly threatened the other leader. He stood between him and the slackers he should have punished. And he did it on purpose. One night there was a heavy snowfall, and in the morning, Pike, the slacker, didn’t show up. He was snugly hidden in his spot under a foot of snow. François called for him and searched in vain. Spitz was furious. He stormed through the camp, sniffing and digging in every plausible spot, growling so menacingly that Pike heard and trembled in his hiding place.
But when he was at last unearthed, and Spitz flew at him to punish him, Buck flew, with equal rage, in between. So unexpected was it, and so shrewdly managed, that Spitz was hurled backward and off his feet. Pike, who had been trembling abjectly, took heart at this open mutiny, and sprang upon his overthrown leader. Buck, to whom fair play was a forgotten code, likewise sprang upon Spitz. But François, chuckling at the incident while unswerving in the administration of justice, brought his lash down upon Buck with all his might. This failed to drive Buck from his prostrate rival, and the butt of the whip was brought into play. Half-stunned by the blow, Buck was knocked backward and the lash laid upon him again and again, while Spitz soundly punished the many times offending Pike.
But when he was finally found, and Spitz charged at him to punish him, Buck jumped in front with just as much fury. It was so unexpected and so cleverly done that Spitz was thrown back and knocked off his feet. Pike, who had been shaking in fear, gained courage from this open rebellion and jumped on his fallen leader. Buck, who had long forgotten the idea of fair play, also attacked Spitz. But François, laughing at the scene while still enforcing the rules, swung his whip down on Buck with all his strength. This didn’t make Buck leave his downed opponent, so he used the handle of the whip. Dazed from the blow, Buck was knocked back as the whip struck him again and again, while Spitz brutally punished the often offending Pike.
In the days that followed, as Dawson grew closer and closer, Buck still continued to interfere between Spitz and the culprits; but he did it craftily, when François was not around, With the covert mutiny of Buck, a general insubordination sprang up and increased. Dave and Sol-leks were unaffected, but the rest of the team went from bad to worse. Things no longer went right. There was continual bickering and jangling. Trouble was always afoot, and at the bottom of it was Buck. He kept François busy, for the dog-driver was in constant apprehension of the life-and-death struggle between the two which he knew must take place sooner or later; and on more than one night the sounds of quarrelling and strife among the other dogs turned him out of his sleeping robe, fearful that Buck and Spitz were at it.
In the days that followed, as Dawson got closer and closer, Buck still kept intervening between Spitz and the troublemakers, but he was sneaky about it, doing it when François wasn't around. With Buck's hidden rebellion, overall disobedience grew and spread. Dave and Sol-leks were unaffected, but the rest of the team got worse and worse. Things just weren't going well anymore. There was constant arguing and tension. Trouble was always brewing, and Buck was behind it all. He kept François on his toes since the dog-driver was always worried about the inevitable showdown between the two that he knew would happen sooner or later; and on more than one night, the sounds of fighting and chaos among the other dogs woke him from his sleep, afraid that Buck and Spitz were at it again.
But the opportunity did not present itself, and they pulled into Dawson one dreary afternoon with the great fight still to come. Here were many men, and countless dogs, and Buck found them all at work. It seemed the ordained order of things that dogs should work. All day they swung up and down the main street in long teams, and in the night their jingling bells still went by. They hauled cabin logs and firewood, freighted up to the mines, and did all manner of work that horses did in the Santa Clara Valley. Here and there Buck met Southland dogs, but in the main they were the wild wolf husky breed. Every night, regularly, at nine, at twelve, at three, they lifted a nocturnal song, a weird and eerie chant, in which it was Buck’s delight to join.
But the chance didn’t come, and they rolled into Dawson one gloomy afternoon with the big fight still ahead. There were lots of men and a ton of dogs, and Buck saw them all hard at work. It felt like it was just how things were meant to be that dogs should work. All day, they moved up and down the main street in long teams, and at night their jingling bells could still be heard. They pulled cabin logs and firewood, hauling supplies to the mines, doing all the jobs that horses handled back in the Santa Clara Valley. Here and there, Buck encountered Southern dogs, but mostly they were the wild wolf husky type. Every night, right on time at nine, at midnight, and at three, they sang a nighttime song, a weird and spooky chant, and Buck loved to join in.
With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself—one of the first songs of the younger world in a day when songs were sad. It was invested with the woe of unnumbered generations, this plaint by which Buck was so strangely stirred. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with the pain of living that was of old the pain of his wild fathers, and the fear and mystery of the cold and dark that was to them fear and mystery. And that he should be stirred by it marked the completeness with which he harked back through the ages of fire and roof to the raw beginnings of life in the howling ages.
With the northern lights glowing coldly overhead, or the stars dancing in the frost, and the land numb and frozen under its blanket of snow, this song of the huskies seemed to defy life, but it was sung in a minor key, filled with long, drawn-out wails and half-sobs, more like a plea for life, the expressive struggle of existence. It was an ancient song, as old as the breed itself—one of the first songs in the younger world from a time when songs were sorrowful. It carried the sorrow of countless generations, this lament that stirred Buck so deeply. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with the pain of living that echoed the pain of his wild ancestors, and the fear and mystery of the cold and darkness that was also their fear and mystery. The fact that he was moved by it showed how completely he connected back through the ages of fire and shelter to the raw beginnings of life in the howling times.
Seven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the steep bank by the Barracks to the Yukon Trail, and pulled for Dyea and Salt Water. Perrault was carrying despatches if anything more urgent than those he had brought in; also, the travel pride had gripped him, and he purposed to make the record trip of the year. Several things favored him in this. The week’s rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further, the police had arranged in two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was travelling light.
Seven days after they arrived in Dawson, they went down the steep bank by the Barracks to the Yukon Trail and headed for Dyea and Salt Water. Perrault was carrying messages that were even more urgent than what he had brought in; he was also motivated by a sense of pride in his travel and aimed to set the record for the year. Several factors worked in his favor. The week of rest had revitalized the dogs and got them in excellent shape. The trail they had created into the country was packed hard by other travelers. Additionally, the police had set up supplies for both dogs and humans at two or three locations, allowing him to travel light.
They made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and the second day saw them booming up the Yukon well on their way to Pelly. But such splendid running was achieved not without great trouble and vexation on the part of François. The insidious revolt led by Buck had destroyed the solidarity of the team. It no longer was as one dog leaping in the traces. The encouragement Buck gave the rebels led them into all kinds of petty misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader greatly to be feared. The old awe departed, and they grew equal to challenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night, and gulped it down under the protection of Buck. Another night Dub and Joe fought Spitz and made him forego the punishment they deserved. And even Billee, the good-natured, was less good-natured, and whined not half so placatingly as in former days. Buck never came near Spitz without snarling and bristling menacingly. In fact, his conduct approached that of a bully, and he was given to swaggering up and down before Spitz’s very nose.
They made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and by the second day, they were speeding up the Yukon, well on their way to Pelly. But such impressive progress came with a lot of trouble and frustration for François. The sneaky rebellion led by Buck had broken the team's unity. They no longer moved as one dog pulling together. The support Buck gave the rebels encouraged them to engage in all sorts of minor troublemaking. Spitz was no longer a feared leader. The old fear faded, and the others felt empowered to challenge his authority. Pike snatched half a fish from him one night and gulped it down with Buck standing guard. Another night, Dub and Joe fought Spitz, forcing him to back off from punishing them. Even Billee, who was usually easygoing, was less friendly and didn’t whine as appeasingly as before. Buck always approached Spitz with a snarl and a threatening posture. In fact, his behavior resembled that of a bully, and he often strutted around right in front of Spitz.
The breaking down of discipline likewise affected the dogs in their relations with one another. They quarrelled and bickered more than ever among themselves, till at times the camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and Sol-leks alone were unaltered, though they were made irritable by the unending squabbling. François swore strange barbarous oaths, and stamped the snow in futile rage, and tore his hair. His lash was always singing among the dogs, but it was of small avail. Directly his back was turned they were at it again. He backed up Spitz with his whip, while Buck backed up the remainder of the team. François knew he was behind all the trouble, and Buck knew he knew; but Buck was too clever ever again to be caught red-handed. He worked faithfully in the harness, for the toil had become a delight to him; yet it was a greater delight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the traces.
The breakdown of discipline also impacted the dogs’ relationships with each other. They squabbled and argued more than ever, turning the camp into a chaotic scene. Only Dave and Sol-leks remained unchanged, although they were increasingly irritable due to the constant bickering. François shouted strange, harsh curses, stomped the snow in frustration, and tore at his hair. His whip was always cracking among the dogs, but it didn't do much good. As soon as his back was turned, they started fighting again. He used his whip to support Spitz, while Buck backed up the rest of the team. François knew Buck was behind all the trouble, and Buck knew that François knew; but Buck was too smart to ever get caught. He worked hard in the harness because he found joy in it; yet it was even more satisfying to secretly stir up a fight among his teammates and tangle the traces.
At the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after supper, Dub turned up a snowshoe rabbit, blundered it, and missed. In a second the whole team was in full cry. A hundred yards away was a camp of the Northwest Police, with fifty dogs, huskies all, who joined the chase. The rabbit sped down the river, turned off into a small creek, up the frozen bed of which it held steadily. It ran lightly on the surface of the snow, while the dogs ploughed through by main strength. Buck led the pack, sixty strong, around bend after bend, but he could not gain. He lay down low to the race, whining eagerly, his splendid body flashing forward, leap by leap, in the wan white moonlight. And leap by leap, like some pale frost wraith, the snowshoe rabbit flashed on ahead.
At the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after dinner, Dub spotted a snowshoe rabbit, took a shot, and missed. In an instant, the whole team was in hot pursuit. A hundred yards away was a camp of the Northwest Police, with fifty huskies, who joined in the chase. The rabbit dashed down the river, veered into a small creek, and maintained its speed up the frozen stream bed. It glided lightly over the surface of the snow, while the dogs struggled through with brute force. Buck led the pack of sixty, rounding bend after bend, but he couldn’t catch up. He crouched low, whining eagerly, his impressive body flashing forward, leap by leap, in the dim white moonlight. And leap by leap, like some ghostly figure made of frost, the snowshoe rabbit sped ahead.
All that stirring of old instincts which at stated periods drives men out from the sounding cities to forest and plain to kill things by chemically propelled leaden pellets, the blood lust, the joy to kill—all this was Buck’s, only it was infinitely more intimate. He was ranging at the head of the pack, running the wild thing down, the living meat, to kill with his own teeth and wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood.
All that stirring of old instincts that regularly drives people away from busy cities to the woods and fields to hunt things with metal pellets, the bloodlust, the thrill of the kill—all of this was Buck's, but it was much more personal. He was leading the pack, chasing down the wild creature, the living prey, to kill with his own teeth and soak his muzzle in warm blood.
There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.
There’s a rush that defines the peak of life, beyond which life can’t go. And such is the irony of living—this rush happens when you feel most alive, and it comes as a total loss of awareness that you’re alive. This rush, this forgetfulness of existence, hits the artist, lost in their craft and consumed by passion; it hits the soldier, crazed by battle on a devastated field, refusing to give in; and it hit Buck, leading the pack, howling the old wolf-call, chasing after the living prey that swiftly escaped him through the moonlight. He was tapping into the depths of his nature, and to parts of himself that were deeper than he was, reaching back into the origins of time. He was overtaken by the sheer intensity of life, the wave of existence, the pure joy of every muscle, joint, and sinew, feeling everything that wasn’t death, vibrant and wild, expressing itself in movement, joyfully racing under the stars and across the surface of the lifeless matter that stood still.
But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a narrow neck of land where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the frost wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the white teeth broke its back in mid air it shrieked as loudly as a stricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of Life plunging down from Life’s apex in the grip of Death, the full pack at Buck’s heels raised a hell’s chorus of delight.
But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his most triumphant moments, left the pack and crossed a narrow strip of land where the creek made a long curve. Buck didn’t know this, and as he rounded the bend, the ghostly figure of a rabbit still darting ahead of him, he saw another, larger ghostly figure jump from the overhanging bank right into the rabbit's path. It was Spitz. The rabbit couldn’t turn, and as Spitz's white teeth broke its back in mid-air, it shrieked as loudly as a wounded man can scream. At the sound of this, the cry of life plunging from its peak in the grip of death, the entire pack trailing behind Buck erupted into a chaotic chorus of excitement.
Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost as though he had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he backed away for better footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled.
Buck didn’t cry out. He didn’t hold back but charged at Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so forcefully that he missed his throat. They tumbled over and over in the soft snow. Spitz got back on his feet as if he hadn’t even been knocked down, slashing at Buck's shoulder and jumping away. Twice, his jaws snapped shut, like the steel jaws of a trap, as he pulled back for better footing, with thin, raised lips that twisted and snarled.
In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, ears laid back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all,—the white woods, and earth, and moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness and silence brooded a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air—nothing moved, not a leaf quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air. They had made short work of the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in an expectant circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of things.
In an instant, Buck realized it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled each other, snarling, ears pinned back, fully alert for an opening, the scene struck Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to remember it all—the white woods, the ground, the moonlight, and the excitement of battle. A ghostly calm hung over the whiteness and silence. There was not even the slightest whisper of wind—nothing moved, not a leaf stirred, and the visible breaths of the dogs rose slowly and hung in the chilly air. They had quickly taken down the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were like untamed wolves; now they were gathered in an expectant circle. They were silent as well, their eyes gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck, this scene was nothing new or strange. It was as if it had always existed, the usual way of things.
Spitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never forgot that his enemy was in like passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he had first defended that attack.
Spitz was an experienced fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada and the Barrens, he had competed with all kinds of dogs and mastered them. He was filled with bitter anger, but never blindly angry. In his desire to tear and destroy, he never lost sight of the fact that his enemy felt the same way. He never charged unless he was ready to take a hit; never attacked before he had first defended against that attack.
In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs struck for the softer flesh, they were countered by the fangs of Spitz. Fang clashed fang, and lips were cut and bleeding, but Buck could not penetrate his enemy’s guard. Then he warmed up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of rushes. Time and time again he tried for the snow-white throat, where life bubbled near to the surface, and each time and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Then Buck took to rushing, as though for the throat, when, suddenly drawing back his head and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder at the shoulder of Spitz, as a ram by which to overthrow him. But instead, Buck’s shoulder was slashed down each time as Spitz leaped lightly away.
In vain, Buck tried to sink his teeth into the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs aimed for the softer flesh, they were met by Spitz's own fangs. They clashed, lips cut and bleeding, but Buck couldn’t break through his enemy’s defense. Then he got fired up and surrounded Spitz with a whirlwind of attacks. Time after time, he aimed for the snow-white throat, where life was close to the surface, but every time Spitz slashed at him and escaped. Buck then started rushing in, pretending to aim for the throat, when suddenly he would pull back his head and come in from the side, trying to ram shoulder-first into Spitz to knock him down. But instead, each time Buck's shoulder was sliced as Spitz jumped away effortlessly.
Spitz was untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting hard. The fight was growing desperate. And all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down. As Buck grew winded, Spitz took to rushing, and he kept him staggering for footing. Once Buck went over, and the whole circle of sixty dogs started up; but he recovered himself, almost in mid air, and the circle sank down again and waited.
Spitz was unscathed, while Buck was bleeding heavily and panting hard. The fight was becoming increasingly desperate. All the while, the silent, wolf-like circle of dogs waited to finish off whichever one fell. As Buck started to tire, Spitz began rushing him, keeping Buck off balance. Once, Buck nearly went down, and the entire circle of sixty dogs stirred in anticipation, but he managed to catch himself almost in mid-air, and the circle settled back down to wait.
But Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness—imagination. He fought by instinct, but he could fight by head as well. He rushed, as though attempting the old shoulder trick, but at the last instant swept low to the snow and in. His teeth closed on Spitz’s left fore leg. There was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him on three legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke the right fore leg. Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with gleaming eyes, lolling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he had seen similar circles close in upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten.
But Buck had a quality that set him apart—imagination. He fought on instinct, but he could also strategize. He charged forward, as if about to use an old shoulder trick, but at the last moment he crouched low to the snow and lunged in. His teeth clamped onto Spitz’s left front leg. There was a crunch as the bone broke, and the white dog faced him on three legs. He tried to knock Buck over three times, then used the same move and broke the right front leg. Despite the pain and his inability to stand, Spitz struggled desperately to keep up. He saw the silent circle forming around him, with gleaming eyes, panting tongues, and frosty breaths rising into the air, closing in on him just like he’d seen happen to defeated rivals in the past. This time, though, he was the one who had been beaten.
There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes. He manœuvred for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks. He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to fall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with horrible menace, as though to frighten off impending death. Then Buck sprang in and out; but while he was in, shoulder had at last squarely met shoulder. The dark circle became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as Spitz disappeared from view. Buck stood and looked on, the successful champion, the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill and found it good.
There was no hope for him. Buck was relentless. Mercy was something meant for kinder places. He prepared for the final rush. The circle had closed in so tight that he could feel the breaths of the huskies against his sides. He could see them, beyond Spitz and on either side, half-crouched and ready to spring, their eyes fixed on him. A pause seemed to settle over everything. Every animal was motionless as if turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with a terrible threat, trying to ward off the coming death. Then Buck lunged in and out; but while he was in, his shoulder finally met Spitz's shoulder head-on. The dark circle shrank to a dot on the moonlit snow as Spitz vanished from sight. Buck stood and watched, the victorious champion, the dominant primal beast who had made his kill and found it satisfying.
Chapter IV.
Who Has Won to Mastership
“Eh? Wot I say? I spik true w’en I say dat Buck two devils.” This was François’s speech next morning when he discovered Spitz missing and Buck covered with wounds. He drew him to the fire and by its light pointed them out.
“Eh? What did I say? I speak the truth when I say that Buck has two devils.” This was François’s speech the next morning when he discovered Spitz was missing and Buck was covered in wounds. He pulled him to the fire and, by its light, pointed them out.
“Dat Spitz fight lak hell,” said Perrault, as he surveyed the gaping rips and cuts.
“Dat Spitz fight like hell,” said Perrault, as he looked over the gaping rips and cuts.
“An’ dat Buck fight lak two hells,” was François’s answer. “An’ now we make good time. No more Spitz, no more trouble, sure.”
“Buck fights like crazy,” was François’s answer. “And now we’re making good progress. No more Spitz, no more trouble, for sure.”
While Perrault packed the camp outfit and loaded the sled, the dog-driver proceeded to harness the dogs. Buck trotted up to the place Spitz would have occupied as leader; but François, not noticing him, brought Sol-leks to the coveted position. In his judgment, Sol-leks was the best lead-dog left. Buck sprang upon Sol-leks in a fury, driving him back and standing in his place.
While Perrault packed up the camp gear and loaded the sled, the dog-driver went about harnessing the dogs. Buck trotted over to where Spitz would have stood as leader, but François, not seeing him, brought Sol-leks to the prized spot. He thought Sol-leks was the best lead dog available. Buck jumped on Sol-leks in a fit of rage, pushing him back and taking his position.
“Eh? eh?” François cried, slapping his thighs gleefully. “Look at dat Buck. Heem keel dat Spitz, heem t’ink to take de job.”
“Eh? eh?” François exclaimed, slapping his thighs with joy. “Look at that Buck. He killed that Spitz; he thinks he can take the job.”
“Go ’way, Chook!” he cried, but Buck refused to budge.
“Go away, Chook!” he shouted, but Buck wouldn't move.
He took Buck by the scruff of the neck, and though the dog growled threateningly, dragged him to one side and replaced Sol-leks. The old dog did not like it, and showed plainly that he was afraid of Buck. François was obdurate, but when he turned his back Buck again displaced Sol-leks, who was not at all unwilling to go.
He grabbed Buck by the scruff of the neck, and even though the dog growled menacingly, he pulled him to the side and put Sol-leks back in place. The old dog didn’t like it and clearly showed he was scared of Buck. François was stubborn, but when he turned his back, Buck once again pushed Sol-leks out, who was more than happy to leave.
François was angry. “Now, by Gar, I feex you!” he cried, coming back with a heavy club in his hand.
François was furious. “Now, by God, I’ll fix you!” he shouted, returning with a heavy club in his hand.
Buck remembered the man in the red sweater, and retreated slowly; nor did he attempt to charge in when Sol-leks was once more brought forward. But he circled just beyond the range of the club, snarling with bitterness and rage; and while he circled he watched the club so as to dodge it if thrown by François, for he was become wise in the way of clubs. The driver went about his work, and he called to Buck when he was ready to put him in his old place in front of Dave. Buck retreated two or three steps. François followed him up, whereupon he again retreated. After some time of this, François threw down the club, thinking that Buck feared a thrashing. But Buck was in open revolt. He wanted, not to escape a clubbing, but to have the leadership. It was his by right. He had earned it, and he would not be content with less.
Buck remembered the man in the red sweater and backed off slowly; he didn't try to charge when Sol-leks was brought forward again. Instead, he circled just out of reach of the club, growling with anger and bitterness. As he circled, he kept an eye on the club, ready to dodge if François threw it, since he had learned about clubs the hard way. The driver went about his work and called to Buck when he was ready to put him back in his old spot in front of Dave. Buck stepped back a couple of paces. François came closer, and Buck retreated again. After a while of this back-and-forth, François dropped the club, thinking that Buck was scared of getting hit. But Buck was in full revolt. He didn’t want to avoid a beating; he wanted to take charge. It was rightfully his. He had earned it, and he wasn’t going to settle for anything less.
Perrault took a hand. Between them they ran him about for the better part of an hour. They threw clubs at him. He dodged. They cursed him, and his fathers and mothers before him, and all his seed to come after him down to the remotest generation, and every hair on his body and drop of blood in his veins; and he answered curse with snarl and kept out of their reach. He did not try to run away, but retreated around and around the camp, advertising plainly that when his desire was met, he would come in and be good.
Perrault got involved. Together, they chased him for almost an hour. They threw sticks at him. He dodged. They hurled insults at him, his ancestors, and all his future descendants, as well as every hair on his body and drop of blood in his veins; he responded with snarls and stayed just out of their reach. He didn’t attempt to escape, but circled around the camp, clearly showing that once his needs were met, he would come in and behave.
François sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch and swore. Time was flying, and they should have been on the trail an hour gone. François scratched his head again. He shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier, who shrugged his shoulders in sign that they were beaten. Then François went up to where Sol-leks stood and called to Buck. Buck laughed, as dogs laugh, yet kept his distance. François unfastened Sol-leks’s traces and put him back in his old place. The team stood harnessed to the sled in an unbroken line, ready for the trail. There was no place for Buck save at the front. Once more François called, and once more Buck laughed and kept away.
François sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch and swore. Time was flying, and they should have been on the trail an hour ago. François scratched his head again. He shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier, who shrugged to show they were out of luck. Then François walked over to where Sol-leks stood and called for Buck. Buck laughed, like dogs do, but stayed back. François unhitched Sol-leks’s traces and returned him to his old spot. The team was all harnessed to the sled in a straight line, ready to hit the trail. There was no spot for Buck except at the front. Once more François called, and once again Buck laughed and kept his distance.
“T’row down de club,” Perrault commanded.
“Throw down the club,” Perrault commanded.
François complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly, and swung around into position at the head of the team. His traces were fastened, the sled broken out, and with both men running they dashed out on to the river trail.
François agreed, and Buck trotted in, laughing with pride, then swung into position at the front of the team. His harness was secured, the sled was ready, and with both men running, they raced out onto the river trail.
Highly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he found, while the day was yet young, that he had undervalued. At a bound Buck took up the duties of leadership; and where judgment was required, and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior even of Spitz, of whom François had never seen an equal.
As much as the dog driver had initially valued Buck, along with his two devils, he realized early in the day that he had underestimated him. With a single leap, Buck stepped up to take on the responsibilities of leading the team; when quick judgment and action were needed, he proved to be even better than Spitz, who François had always considered unmatched.
But it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that Buck excelled. Dave and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership. It was none of their business. Their business was to toil, and toil mightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with, they did not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for all they cared, so long as he kept order. The rest of the team, however, had grown unruly during the last days of Spitz, and their surprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape.
But Buck really stood out when it came to enforcing the rules and making his teammates stick to them. Dave and Sol-leks didn’t mind the change in leadership; it wasn't their concern. Their job was to work hard in the harness. As long as that wasn’t disrupted, they didn’t care what else went on. Billee, the easygoing one, could lead as far as they were concerned, as long as he maintained order. However, the rest of the team had become quite rebellious during the last days of Spitz, so they were very surprised when Buck started to whip them into shape.
Pike, who pulled at Buck’s heels, and who never put an ounce more of his weight against the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was swiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing; and ere the first day was done he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night in camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly—a thing that Spitz had never succeeded in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of superior weight, and cut him up till he ceased snapping and began to whine for mercy.
Pike, who nipped at Buck's heels and never put any more weight against the breast-band than necessary, was quickly and repeatedly shaken down for slacking off; by the end of the first day, he was pulling harder than he ever had in his life. That first night in camp, Joe, the moody one, got a serious beating—a feat that Spitz had never managed. Buck just overpowered him with his greater weight and beat him up until he stopped snapping and started whining for mercy.
The general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its old-time solidarity, and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the traces. At the Rink Rapids two native huskies, Teek and Koona, were added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away François’s breath.
The overall mood of the team improved right away. It regained its previous unity, and once again the dogs moved in sync like one dog in the harness. At the Rink Rapids, two local huskies, Teek and Koona, joined the team, and Buck's speed in training them left François speechless.
“Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!” he cried. “No, nevaire! Heem worth one t’ousan’ dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, Perrault?”
“Never such a dog as that Buck!” he shouted. “No, never! He's worth one thousand dollars, for sure! Huh? What do you say, Perrault?”
And Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the record then, and gaining day by day. The trail was in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and there was no new-fallen snow with which to contend. It was not too cold. The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained there the whole trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on the jump, with but infrequent stoppages.
And Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the schedule then, and getting better every day. The trail was in great shape, well packed and solid, and there was no new snow to deal with. It wasn't too cold. The temperature dropped to fifty degrees below zero and stayed there the whole trip. The men took turns riding and running, and the dogs were kept moving, with only a few breaks.
The Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they covered in one day going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In one run they made a sixty-mile dash from the foot of Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish, and Bennett (seventy miles of lakes), they flew so fast that the man whose turn it was to run towed behind the sled at the end of a rope. And on the last night of the second week they topped White Pass and dropped down the sea slope with the lights of Skaguay and of the shipping at their feet.
The Thirty Mile River was mostly frozen over, and they made the trip out in one day that had taken them ten days to come in. In one go, they covered sixty miles from the foot of Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Over Marsh, Tagish, and Bennett (seventy miles of lakes), they moved so quickly that the guy whose turn it was to run was being towed behind the sled on a rope. And on the last night of the second week, they reached the top of White Pass and descended the slope towards the sea, with the lights of Skaguay and the ships shining below them.
It was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged forty miles. For three days Perrault and François threw chests up and down the main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink, while the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd of dog-busters and mushers. Then three or four western bad men aspired to clean out the town, were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and public interest turned to other idols. Next came official orders. François called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over him. And that was the last of François and Perrault. Like other men, they passed out of Buck’s life for good.
It was a record run. For fourteen days, they averaged forty miles each day. For three days, Perrault and François carried chests back and forth on the main street of Skaguay and were showered with invitations to drink, while the team was the constant focus of an adoring crowd of dog handlers and mushers. Then a few rough characters from the West tried to take over the town but got shot up like they were in a shooting gallery for their trouble, and public attention shifted to other local heroes. After that, the official orders came in. François called Buck over, wrapped his arms around him, and cried. And that was the last Buck saw of François and Perrault. Like others before them, they faded from Buck’s life for good.
A Scotch half-breed took charge of him and his mates, and in company with a dozen other dog-teams he started back over the weary trail to Dawson. It was no light running now, nor record time, but heavy toil each day, with a heavy load behind; for this was the mail train, carrying word from the world to the men who sought gold under the shadow of the Pole.
A Scottish half-breed took charge of him and his friends, and along with a dozen other dog teams, he headed back over the exhausting trail to Dawson. It wasn’t easy running anymore, nor was it a race, but hard work every day, dragging a heavy load behind; because this was the mail train, delivering news from the world to the men who were looking for gold under the shadow of the Pole.
Buck did not like it, but he bore up well to the work, taking pride in it after the manner of Dave and Sol-leks, and seeing that his mates, whether they prided in it or not, did their fair share. It was a monotonous life, operating with machine-like regularity. One day was very like another. At a certain time each morning the cooks turned out, fires were built, and breakfast was eaten. Then, while some broke camp, others harnessed the dogs, and they were under way an hour or so before the darkness fell which gave warning of dawn. At night, camp was made. Some pitched the flies, others cut firewood and pine boughs for the beds, and still others carried water or ice for the cooks. Also, the dogs were fed. To them, this was the one feature of the day, though it was good to loaf around, after the fish was eaten, for an hour or so with the other dogs, of which there were fivescore and odd. There were fierce fighters among them, but three battles with the fiercest brought Buck to mastery, so that when he bristled and showed his teeth they got out of his way.
Buck didn’t enjoy it, but he handled the work well, taking pride in it like Dave and Sol-leks, and making sure his teammates, whether they took pride in it or not, did their part. It was a monotonous lifestyle, running with a machine-like routine. Each day was pretty much the same. Every morning at a certain time, the cooks woke up, fires were lit, and breakfast was served. Then, while some packed up camp, others harnessed the dogs, and they were on the move about an hour before the darkness fell, which signaled dawn. At night, they set up camp. Some set up the tents, others collected firewood and pine branches for the beds, while still others fetched water or ice for the cooks. The dogs were also fed. For them, this was the highlight of the day, although it was nice to hang out for an hour or so after the fish was eaten with the other dogs, of which there were about a hundred. There were fierce fighters among them, but after three battles with the toughest, Buck gained the upper hand, so that when he bristled and bared his teeth, they all gave him space.
Best of all, perhaps, he loved to lie near the fire, hind legs crouched under him, fore legs stretched out in front, head raised, and eyes blinking dreamily at the flames. Sometimes he thought of Judge Miller’s big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley, and of the cement swimming-tank, and Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, and Toots, the Japanese pug; but oftener he remembered the man in the red sweater, the death of Curly, the great fight with Spitz, and the good things he had eaten or would like to eat. He was not homesick. The Sunland was very dim and distant, and such memories had no power over him. Far more potent were the memories of his heredity that gave things he had never seen before a seeming familiarity; the instincts (which were but the memories of his ancestors become habits) which had lapsed in later days, and still later, in him, quickened and become alive again.
Best of all, maybe, he loved to lie near the fire, his back legs curled under him, front legs stretched out in front, head raised, and eyes blinking dreamily at the flames. Sometimes he thought about Judge Miller’s big house in the sunlit Santa Clara Valley, the cement swimming pool, and Ysabel, the Mexican hairless dog, and Toots, the Japanese pug; but more often he remembered the guy in the red sweater, Curly’s death, the big fight with Spitz, and the tasty food he had eaten or wanted to eat. He wasn’t homesick. The Sunland felt very faint and far away, and those memories didn’t affect him much. Much stronger were the memories of his heritage that made things he had never seen before feel familiar; the instincts (which were just the memories of his ancestors turned into habits) that had faded over time, and even more so in him, had reawakened and come alive again.
Sometimes as he crouched there, blinking dreamily at the flames, it seemed that the flames were of another fire, and that as he crouched by this other fire he saw another and different man from the half-breed cook before him. This other man was shorter of leg and longer of arm, with muscles that were stringy and knotty rather than rounded and swelling. The hair of this man was long and matted, and his head slanted back under it from the eyes. He uttered strange sounds, and seemed very much afraid of the darkness, into which he peered continually, clutching in his hand, which hung midway between knee and foot, a stick with a heavy stone made fast to the end. He was all but naked, a ragged and fire-scorched skin hanging part way down his back, but on his body there was much hair. In some places, across the chest and shoulders and down the outside of the arms and thighs, it was matted into almost a thick fur. He did not stand erect, but with trunk inclined forward from the hips, on legs that bent at the knees. About his body there was a peculiar springiness, or resiliency, almost catlike, and a quick alertness as of one who lived in perpetual fear of things seen and unseen.
Sometimes, as he crouched there, blinking dreamily at the flames, it felt like the fire belonged to someone else, and while he crouched by this other fire, he saw a different man from the half-breed cook in front of him. This other man was shorter in the legs and longer in the arms, with muscles that were stringy and knotted instead of rounded and swollen. His hair was long and tangled, and his head slanted back underneath it from his eyes. He made strange sounds and seemed very afraid of the darkness, which he peered into constantly, gripping a stick with a heavy stone tied to the end in his hand, hanging midway between his knee and foot. He was almost naked, with a ragged and fire-scorched piece of skin hanging partway down his back, but he had a lot of hair on his body. In some areas—across his chest and shoulders and down the outside of his arms and thighs—it was matted into almost a thick fur. He didn't stand upright but leaned forward from the hips, on legs that bent at the knees. There was a peculiar springiness or resilience about him, almost catlike, with a quick alertness as if he lived in constant fear of things seen and unseen.
At other times this hairy man squatted by the fire with head between his legs and slept. On such occasions his elbows were on his knees, his hands clasped above his head as though to shed rain by the hairy arms. And beyond that fire, in the circling darkness, Buck could see many gleaming coals, two by two, always two by two, which he knew to be the eyes of great beasts of prey. And he could hear the crashing of their bodies through the undergrowth, and the noises they made in the night. And dreaming there by the Yukon bank, with lazy eyes blinking at the fire, these sounds and sights of another world would make the hair to rise along his back and stand on end across his shoulders and up his neck, till he whimpered low and suppressedly, or growled softly, and the half-breed cook shouted at him, “Hey, you Buck, wake up!” Whereupon the other world would vanish and the real world come into his eyes, and he would get up and yawn and stretch as though he had been asleep.
At other times, this hairy man squatted by the fire with his head between his legs and slept. In those moments, his elbows rested on his knees, and his hands were clasped above his head, as if to shed rain with his hairy arms. Beyond the fire, in the surrounding darkness, Buck could see many gleaming coals, two by two, always two by two, which he recognized as the eyes of great predatory beasts. He could hear the crashing of their bodies through the underbrush and the sounds they made in the night. Dreaming there by the Yukon bank, with lazy eyes blinking at the fire, these sights and sounds from another world would make the hair rise along his back and stand up along his shoulders and neck until he whimpered softly or growled quietly, prompting the half-breed cook to shout at him, “Hey, you Buck, wake up!” At that, the other world would disappear, and the real one would come into focus, and he would get up, yawn, and stretch as if he had been asleep.
It was a hard trip, with the mail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down. They were short of weight and in poor condition when they made Dawson, and should have had a ten days’ or a week’s rest at least. But in two days’ time they dropped down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside. The dogs were tired, the drivers grumbling, and to make matters worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, greater friction on the runners, and heavier pulling for the dogs; yet the drivers were fair through it all, and did their best for the animals.
It was a tough journey, with the mail trailing behind them, and the heavy work really took a toll. They were underweight and in bad shape when they reached Dawson and really needed at least a week or ten days to rest. But within two days, they headed down the Yukon bank from the Barracks, loaded with letters for the outside world. The dogs were exhausted, the drivers were complaining, and to make things worse, it snowed every day. This meant a soft trail, more friction on the sled runners, and tougher pulling for the dogs; still, the drivers were fair throughout it all and did their best for the animals.
Each night the dogs were attended to first. They ate before the drivers ate, and no man sought his sleeping-robe till he had seen to the feet of the dogs he drove. Still, their strength went down. Since the beginning of the winter they had travelled eighteen hundred miles, dragging sleds the whole weary distance; and eighteen hundred miles will tell upon life of the toughest. Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline, though he, too, was very tired. Billee cried and whimpered regularly in his sleep each night. Joe was sourer than ever, and Sol-leks was unapproachable, blind side or other side.
Each night, the dogs were taken care of first. They ate before the drivers did, and no man grabbed his sleeping robe until he had checked on the dogs' feet. Still, their strength started to fade. Since the winter began, they had traveled eighteen hundred miles, pulling sleds the entire exhausting length; and eighteen hundred miles takes a toll on even the toughest. Buck kept it together, pushing his teammates to stay on task and keeping order, even though he was also very tired. Billee cried and whined in his sleep every night. Joe was more bitter than ever, and Sol-leks was unreachable, whether you approached him from his blind side or his good side.
But it was Dave who suffered most of all. Something had gone wrong with him. He became more morose and irritable, and when camp was pitched at once made his nest, where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he did not get on his feet again till harness-up time in the morning. Sometimes, in the traces, when jerked by a sudden stoppage of the sled, or by straining to start it, he would cry out with pain. The driver examined him, but could find nothing. All the drivers became interested in his case. They talked it over at meal-time, and over their last pipes before going to bed, and one night they held a consultation. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was pressed and prodded till he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside, but they could locate no broken bones, could not make it out.
But it was Dave who suffered the most. Something was off with him. He became more withdrawn and irritable, and as soon as the camp was set up, he made his nest where his driver fed him. Once out of the harness and down, he didn’t get back on his feet until it was time to be harnessed up again in the morning. Sometimes, when jolted by a sudden stop of the sled or straining to start it, he would cry out in pain. The driver checked him but couldn’t find anything wrong. All the drivers became concerned about his situation. They discussed it during meals and over their last cigarettes before bedtime, and one night they had a meeting about it. He was brought from his nest to the fire and was poked and prodded until he cried out many times. Something was wrong inside, but they couldn’t find any broken bones and couldn’t figure it out.
By the time Cassiar Bar was reached, he was so weak that he was falling repeatedly in the traces. The Scotch half-breed called a halt and took him out of the team, making the next dog, Sol-leks, fast to the sled. His intention was to rest Dave, letting him run free behind the sled. Sick as he was, Dave resented being taken out, grunting and growling while the traces were unfastened, and whimpering broken-heartedly when he saw Sol-leks in the position he had held and served so long. For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his work.
By the time they made it to Cassiar Bar, he was so weak that he kept falling in the harness. The Scotch half-breed called for a break and took him out of the team, securing the next dog, Sol-leks, to the sled. He intended to let Dave rest by allowing him to run free behind the sled. Despite being so sick, Dave didn’t like being taken out, grunting and growling as the harness was removed, and whimpering sadly when he saw Sol-leks in the spot he had held and served for so long. The pride of pulling the sled was his, and even at death’s door, he couldn’t stand the thought of another dog doing his job.
When the sled started, he floundered in the soft snow alongside the beaten trail, attacking Sol-leks with his teeth, rushing against him and trying to thrust him off into the soft snow on the other side, striving to leap inside his traces and get between him and the sled, and all the while whining and yelping and crying with grief and pain. The half-breed tried to drive him away with the whip; but he paid no heed to the stinging lash, and the man had not the heart to strike harder. Dave refused to run quietly on the trail behind the sled, where the going was easy, but continued to flounder alongside in the soft snow, where the going was most difficult, till exhausted. Then he fell, and lay where he fell, howling lugubriously as the long train of sleds churned by.
When the sled took off, he struggled in the soft snow next to the worn path, lunging at Sol-leks with his teeth, barreling into him and trying to push him into the soft snow on the other side, trying to jump into his harness and get between him and the sled, all while whimpering and yelping in grief and pain. The half-breed tried to drive him away with the whip; but he ignored the stinging lash, and the man couldn’t bring himself to hit him harder. Dave wouldn’t just run quietly on the easier trail behind the sled, but kept floundering beside it in the soft snow, where it was much harder, until he exhausted himself. Then he collapsed and lay where he fell, howling mournfully as the long line of sleds passed by.
With the last remnant of his strength he managed to stagger along behind till the train made another stop, when he floundered past the sleds to his own, where he stood alongside Sol-leks. His driver lingered a moment to get a light for his pipe from the man behind. Then he returned and started his dogs. They swung out on the trail with remarkable lack of exertion, turned their heads uneasily, and stopped in surprise. The driver was surprised, too; the sled had not moved. He called his comrades to witness the sight. Dave had bitten through both of Sol-leks’s traces, and was standing directly in front of the sled in his proper place.
With the last bit of his strength, he managed to stumble along behind until the train stopped again. He pushed past the sleds to get to his own, where he stood next to Sol-leks. His driver paused for a moment to light his pipe using a flame from the man behind him. Then he came back and started the dogs. They headed out on the trail with surprisingly little effort, turned their heads nervously, and stopped in confusion. The driver was taken aback, too; the sled hadn't moved. He called his friends over to see what was happening. Dave had chewed through both of Sol-leks’s traces and was standing right in front of the sled in his usual spot.
He pleaded with his eyes to remain there. The driver was perplexed. His comrades talked of how a dog could break its heart through being denied the work that killed it, and recalled instances they had known, where dogs, too old for the toil, or injured, had died because they were cut out of the traces. Also, they held it a mercy, since Dave was to die anyway, that he should die in the traces, heart-easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled as of old, though more than once he cried out involuntarily from the bite of his inward hurt. Several times he fell down and was dragged in the traces, and once the sled ran upon him so that he limped thereafter in one of his hind legs.
He begged with his eyes to stay there. The driver was confused. His friends talked about how a dog could be heartbroken from being denied the work that killed it, and remembered times they had seen dogs, too old for the labor or injured, die because they were taken out of the harness. They also thought it was a mercy, since Dave was going to die anyway, that he should die working, feeling easy and content. So he was harnessed in again, and proudly he pulled like before, even though he cried out involuntarily from the pain inside him. Several times he fell and was dragged in the harness, and once the sled ran over him, making him limp afterward in one of his back legs.
But he held out till camp was reached, when his driver made a place for him by the fire. Morning found him too weak to travel. At harness-up time he tried to crawl to his driver. By convulsive efforts he got on his feet, staggered, and fell. Then he wormed his way forward slowly toward where the harnesses were being put on his mates. He would advance his fore legs and drag up his body with a sort of hitching movement, when he would advance his fore legs and hitch ahead again for a few more inches. His strength left him, and the last his mates saw of him he lay gasping in the snow and yearning toward them. But they could hear him mournfully howling till they passed out of sight behind a belt of river timber.
But he held on until they reached camp, where his driver made a spot for him by the fire. In the morning, he was too weak to travel. When it was time to harness up, he tried to crawl to his driver. With a lot of effort, he managed to stand, staggered, and fell. Then he slowly inched his way forward toward where his mates were getting their harnesses on. He would move his front legs and drag his body forward with a sort of hitching motion, then move his front legs again and drag himself a little more. His strength gave out, and the last thing his mates saw was him gasping in the snow, reaching out toward them. But they could hear him sorrowfully howling until they disappeared from view behind a line of river trees.
Here the train was halted. The Scotch half-breed slowly retraced his steps to the camp they had left. The men ceased talking. A revolver-shot rang out. The man came back hurriedly. The whips snapped, the bells tinkled merrily, the sleds churned along the trail; but Buck knew, and every dog knew, what had taken place behind the belt of river trees.
Here the train stopped. The Scottish half-breed slowly walked back to the camp they had just left. The men stopped talking. A gunshot rang out. The man hurried back. The whips cracked, the bells jingled happily, the sleds moved along the trail; but Buck knew, and every dog knew, what had happened behind the line of river trees.
Chapter V.
The Toil of Trace and Trail
Thirty days from the time it left Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with Buck and his mates at the fore, arrived at Skaguay. They were in a wretched state, worn out and worn down. Buck’s one hundred and forty pounds had dwindled to one hundred and fifteen. The rest of his mates, though lighter dogs, had relatively lost more weight than he. Pike, the malingerer, who, in his lifetime of deceit, had often successfully feigned a hurt leg, was now limping in earnest. Sol-leks was limping, and Dub was suffering from a wrenched shoulder-blade.
Thirty days after leaving Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with Buck and his companions at the front, arrived in Skaguay. They were in terrible shape, completely exhausted. Buck’s weight had dropped from one hundred forty pounds to one hundred fifteen. His fellow dogs, although lighter, had lost even more weight than he had. Pike, the slacker who had often pretended to be injured to avoid work, was now genuinely limping. Sol-leks was limping too, and Dub had a sore shoulder.
They were all terribly footsore. No spring or rebound was left in them. Their feet fell heavily on the trail, jarring their bodies and doubling the fatigue of a day’s travel. There was nothing the matter with them except that they were dead tired. It was not the dead-tiredness that comes through brief and excessive effort, from which recovery is a matter of hours; but it was the dead-tiredness that comes through the slow and prolonged strength drainage of months of toil. There was no power of recuperation left, no reserve strength to call upon. It had been all used, the last least bit of it. Every muscle, every fibre, every cell, was tired, dead tired. And there was reason for it. In less than five months they had travelled twenty-five hundred miles, during the last eighteen hundred of which they had had but five days’ rest. When they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their last legs. They could barely keep the traces taut, and on the down grades just managed to keep out of the way of the sled.
They were all extremely exhausted. They had no energy left. Their feet pounded heavily on the trail, jarring their bodies and doubling the fatigue of a long day's journey. The only issue was that they were completely worn out. It wasn't the kind of exhaustion that comes from a quick burst of intense effort, which you can recover from in just a few hours; it was the deep fatigue that builds up from months of hard work. They had no energy to bounce back, no strength left to draw upon. Every last bit had been used up. Every muscle, every fiber, every cell was tired, completely drained. And there was a good reason for it. In less than five months, they had traveled two thousand five hundred miles, with only five days of rest during the last eighteen hundred miles. By the time they reached Skaguay, they were clearly at the end of their rope. They could barely keep the harness tight, and on the downhill slopes, they just managed to stay out of the way of the sled.
“Mush on, poor sore feets,” the driver encouraged them as they tottered down the main street of Skaguay. “Dis is de las’. Den we get one long res’. Eh? For sure. One bully long res’.”
“Mush on, poor sore feet,” the driver encouraged them as they wobbled down the main street of Skaguay. “This is the last one. Then we get a long rest. Right? For sure. A really long rest.”
The drivers confidently expected a long stopover. Themselves, they had covered twelve hundred miles with two days’ rest, and in the nature of reason and common justice they deserved an interval of loafing. But so many were the men who had rushed into the Klondike, and so many were the sweethearts, wives, and kin that had not rushed in, that the congested mail was taking on Alpine proportions; also, there were official orders. Fresh batches of Hudson Bay dogs were to take the places of those worthless for the trail. The worthless ones were to be got rid of, and, since dogs count for little against dollars, they were to be sold.
The drivers expected a long wait with full confidence. They had already traveled twelve hundred miles with only two days’ rest, and it was only fair and reasonable that they deserved some time to relax. However, so many people had rushed into the Klondike, and so many sweethearts, wives, and family members had stayed behind, that the amount of mail piling up was reaching overwhelming levels; there were also official orders to consider. New teams of Hudson Bay dogs were set to replace the dogs that were no longer fit for the trail. The unfit dogs needed to be disposed of, and since dogs don’t hold much value compared to money, they were going to be sold.
Three days passed, by which time Buck and his mates found how really tired and weak they were. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, two men from the States came along and bought them, harness and all, for a song. The men addressed each other as “Hal” and “Charles.” Charles was a middle-aged, lightish-colored man, with weak and watery eyes and a mustache that twisted fiercely and vigorously up, giving the lie to the limply drooping lip it concealed. Hal was a youngster of nineteen or twenty, with a big Colt’s revolver and a hunting-knife strapped about him on a belt that fairly bristled with cartridges. This belt was the most salient thing about him. It advertised his callowness—a callowness sheer and unutterable. Both men were manifestly out of place, and why such as they should adventure the North is part of the mystery of things that passes understanding.
Three days went by, during which Buck and his friends realized just how exhausted and weak they really were. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, two men from the States showed up and bought them, harness and all, for a surprisingly low price. The men called each other “Hal” and “Charles.” Charles was a middle-aged man with light skin, watery eyes, and a mustache that curled up fiercely, contrasting with the drooping lip it covered. Hal was a young guy, around nineteen or twenty, sporting a large Colt revolver and a hunting knife strapped to his belt, which was loaded with cartridges. This belt was his most noticeable feature, highlighting his inexperience—an inexperience that was glaringly obvious. Both men clearly didn’t belong there, and why they decided to venture into the North is one of those mysteries that’s hard to understand.
Buck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the Government agent, and knew that the Scotch half-breed and the mail-train drivers were passing out of his life on the heels of Perrault and François and the others who had gone before. When driven with his mates to the new owners’ camp, Buck saw a slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in disorder; also, he saw a woman. “Mercedes” the men called her. She was Charles’s wife and Hal’s sister—a nice family party.
Buck heard the bargaining, saw the money changing hands between the man and the government agent, and realized that the Scotch half-breed and the mail train drivers were leaving his life just like Perrault, François, and the others who had gone before. When he was taken with his mates to the new owners’ camp, Buck noticed it was a messy and careless setup, with a half-pitched tent, unwashed dishes, and everything in disarray; he also saw a woman. “Mercedes,” the men called her. She was Charles’s wife and Hal’s sister—a nice family gathering.
Buck watched them apprehensively as they proceeded to take down the tent and load the sled. There was a great deal of effort about their manner, but no businesslike method. The tent was rolled into an awkward bundle three times as large as it should have been. The tin dishes were packed away unwashed. Mercedes continually fluttered in the way of her men and kept up an unbroken chattering of remonstrance and advice. When they put a clothes-sack on the front of the sled, she suggested it should go on the back; and when they had put it on the back, and covered it over with a couple of other bundles, she discovered overlooked articles which could abide nowhere else but in that very sack, and they unloaded again.
Buck watched them nervously as they took down the tent and loaded the sled. They were putting in a lot of effort, but it wasn't organized at all. The tent ended up rolled into a clumsy bundle three times bigger than it needed to be. The tin dishes were packed without being washed. Mercedes kept getting in the way of her men and chattered nonstop with complaints and suggestions. When they put a clothes sack on the front of the sled, she suggested it should go on the back; and when they moved it to the back and covered it with a couple of other bundles, she found things they had missed that could only fit in that exact sack, so they unloaded it again.
Three men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning and winking at one another.
Three guys from a nearby tent came out and watched, grinning and winking at each other.
“You’ve got a right smart load as it is,” said one of them; “and it’s not me should tell you your business, but I wouldn’t tote that tent along if I was you.”
“You’ve got a pretty heavy load as it is,” said one of them; “and it’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I wouldn’t carry that tent along if I were you.”
“Undreamed of!” cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty dismay. “However in the world could I manage without a tent?”
“Unbelievable!” cried Mercedes, throwing her hands up in delicate dismay. “How in the world could I manage without a tent?”
“It’s springtime, and you won’t get any more cold weather,” the man replied.
“It’s spring now, and you won’t have to deal with any more cold weather,” the man replied.
She shook her head decidedly, and Charles and Hal put the last odds and ends on top the mountainous load.
She shook her head firmly, and Charles and Hal placed the last bits and pieces on top of the huge load.
“Think it’ll ride?” one of the men asked.
“Do you think it will be able to ride?” one of the men asked.
“Why shouldn’t it?” Charles demanded rather shortly.
“Why shouldn’t it?” Charles asked sharply.
“Oh, that’s all right, that’s all right,” the man hastened meekly to say. “I was just a-wonderin’, that is all. It seemed a mite top-heavy.”
“Oh, that’s fine, that’s fine,” the man quickly said, trying to sound humble. “I was just curious, that’s all. It seemed a bit unsteady.”
Charles turned his back and drew the lashings down as well as he could, which was not in the least well.
Charles turned away and tightened the bindings as best as he could, which wasn't very good at all.
“An’ of course the dogs can hike along all day with that contraption behind them,” affirmed a second of the men.
“Of course the dogs can hike all day with that thing behind them,” agreed another man.
“Certainly,” said Hal, with freezing politeness, taking hold of the gee-pole with one hand and swinging his whip from the other. “Mush!” he shouted. “Mush on there!”
“Sure,” said Hal, with icy politeness, gripping the gee-pole with one hand and swinging his whip with the other. “Mush!” he shouted. “Mush on!”
The dogs sprang against the breast-bands, strained hard for a few moments, then relaxed. They were unable to move the sled.
The dogs lunged against the harnesses, pulled hard for a moment, then eased up. They couldn't move the sled.
“The lazy brutes, I’ll show them,” he cried, preparing to lash out at them with the whip.
“The lazy brutes, I’ll show them,” he shouted, getting ready to hit them with the whip.
But Mercedes interfered, crying, “Oh, Hal, you mustn’t,” as she caught hold of the whip and wrenched it from him. “The poor dears! Now you must promise you won’t be harsh with them for the rest of the trip, or I won’t go a step.”
But Mercedes interrupted, crying, “Oh, Hal, you can’t,” as she grabbed the whip and yanked it away from him. “Those poor things! Now you have to promise you won’t be mean to them for the rest of the trip, or I won’t go another step.”
“Precious lot you know about dogs,” her brother sneered; “and I wish you’d leave me alone. They’re lazy, I tell you, and you’ve got to whip them to get anything out of them. That’s their way. You ask any one. Ask one of those men.”
“Precious little you know about dogs,” her brother mocked; “and I wish you’d just leave me alone. They’re lazy, I’m telling you, and you have to whip them to get anything out of them. That’s just how they are. Ask anyone. Ask one of those guys.”
Mercedes looked at them imploringly, untold repugnance at sight of pain written in her pretty face.
Mercedes looked at them with pleading eyes, a deep distaste for the sight of pain etched on her lovely face.
“They’re weak as water, if you want to know,” came the reply from one of the men. “Plum tuckered out, that’s what’s the matter. They need a rest.”
“They're as weak as water, if you want to know,” one of the men replied. “Totally worn out, that's what's going on. They need a break.”
“Rest be blanked,” said Hal, with his beardless lips; and Mercedes said, “Oh!” in pain and sorrow at the oath.
“Rest be blanked,” said Hal, with his smooth lips; and Mercedes said, “Oh!” in pain and sorrow at the curse.
But she was a clannish creature, and rushed at once to the defence of her brother. “Never mind that man,” she said pointedly. “You’re driving our dogs, and you do what you think best with them.”
But she was protective of her family and immediately jumped to her brother's defense. “Forget about that guy,” she said sharply. “You’re handling our dogs, so do what you think is right with them.”
Again Hal’s whip fell upon the dogs. They threw themselves against the breast-bands, dug their feet into the packed snow, got down low to it, and put forth all their strength. The sled held as though it were an anchor. After two efforts, they stood still, panting. The whip was whistling savagely, when once more Mercedes interfered. She dropped on her knees before Buck, with tears in her eyes, and put her arms around his neck.
Again, Hal's whip struck the dogs. They pressed against the harnesses, dug their paws into the packed snow, lowered themselves, and exerted every ounce of their strength. The sled remained steady as if it were anchored. After two attempts, they paused, breathing heavily. The whip was cracking fiercely when Mercedes intervened again. She knelt in front of Buck, tears in her eyes, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“You poor, poor dears,” she cried sympathetically, “why don’t you pull hard?—then you wouldn’t be whipped.” Buck did not like her, but he was feeling too miserable to resist her, taking it as part of the day’s miserable work.
“You poor, poor things,” she said with sympathy, “why don’t you pull harder?—then you wouldn’t get whipped.” Buck didn’t like her, but he felt too miserable to push back, accepting it as part of the day’s sad routine.
One of the onlookers, who had been clenching his teeth to suppress hot speech, now spoke up:—
One of the bystanders, who had been gritting his teeth to hold back angry words, finally said:—
“It’s not that I care a whoop what becomes of you, but for the dogs’ sakes I just want to tell you, you can help them a mighty lot by breaking out that sled. The runners are froze fast. Throw your weight against the gee-pole, right and left, and break it out.”
“It’s not that I care at all what happens to you, but for the dogs’ sake I just want to tell you that you can really help them by getting that sled loose. The runners are frozen solid. Lean against the gee-pole, both sides, and break it free.”
A third time the attempt was made, but this time, following the advice, Hal broke out the runners which had been frozen to the snow. The overloaded and unwieldy sled forged ahead, Buck and his mates struggling frantically under the rain of blows. A hundred yards ahead the path turned and sloped steeply into the main street. It would have required an experienced man to keep the top-heavy sled upright, and Hal was not such a man. As they swung on the turn the sled went over, spilling half its load through the loose lashings. The dogs never stopped. The lightened sled bounded on its side behind them. They were angry because of the ill treatment they had received and the unjust load. Buck was raging. He broke into a run, the team following his lead. Hal cried “Whoa! whoa!” but they gave no heed. He tripped and was pulled off his feet. The capsized sled ground over him, and the dogs dashed on up the street, adding to the gayety of Skaguay as they scattered the remainder of the outfit along its chief thoroughfare.
A third attempt was made, but this time, following the advice, Hal managed to free the runners that had frozen to the snow. The overloaded and clumsy sled pushed forward, while Buck and his teammates struggled desperately under the blows. A hundred yards ahead, the path curved and sloped steeply into the main street. It would have taken an experienced person to keep the top-heavy sled upright, and Hal was not that person. As they turned the corner, the sled tipped over, spilling half its load due to the loose lashings. The dogs didn’t stop. The lighter sled bounced on its side behind them. They were furious about the mistreatment they had endured and the unfair load. Buck was livid. He took off running, and the team followed his lead. Hal shouted, “Whoa! Whoa!” but they ignored him. He stumbled and was yanked off his feet. The overturned sled rolled over him, and the dogs raced up the street, adding to the chaos of Skaguay as they scattered the rest of the gear along its main thoroughfare.
Kind-hearted citizens caught the dogs and gathered up the scattered belongings. Also, they gave advice. Half the load and twice the dogs, if they ever expected to reach Dawson, was what was said. Hal and his sister and brother-in-law listened unwillingly, pitched tent, and overhauled the outfit. Canned goods were turned out that made men laugh, for canned goods on the Long Trail is a thing to dream about. “Blankets for a hotel” quoth one of the men who laughed and helped. “Half as many is too much; get rid of them. Throw away that tent, and all those dishes,—who’s going to wash them, anyway? Good Lord, do you think you’re travelling on a Pullman?”
Kind-hearted locals caught the dogs and picked up the scattered belongings. They also offered advice. It was said that with half the load and twice the dogs, they'd have a chance to reach Dawson. Hal, along with his sister and brother-in-law, listened reluctantly, set up their tent, and went through their gear. They pulled out canned goods that made people laugh because canned goods on the Long Trail are something to daydream about. "Blankets for a hotel," one of the men joked while helping out. "Even half as many is too much; just get rid of them. Toss that tent and all those dishes—who's going to wash them anyway? Good Lord, do you think you’re traveling on a Pullman?”
And so it went, the inexorable elimination of the superfluous. Mercedes cried when her clothes-bags were dumped on the ground and article after article was thrown out. She cried in general, and she cried in particular over each discarded thing. She clasped hands about knees, rocking back and forth broken-heartedly. She averred she would not go an inch, not for a dozen Charleses. She appealed to everybody and to everything, finally wiping her eyes and proceeding to cast out even articles of apparel that were imperative necessaries. And in her zeal, when she had finished with her own, she attacked the belongings of her men and went through them like a tornado.
And so it happened, the unavoidable elimination of the unnecessary. Mercedes cried when her bags of clothes were dumped on the ground, and one by one, her things were tossed aside. She sobbed in general, and specifically over each discarded item. She hugged her knees, rocking back and forth, heartbroken. She insisted she wouldn’t move an inch, not even for a dozen Charleses. She begged everyone and everything, eventually wiping her eyes and continuing to get rid of even the things she really needed. And in her enthusiasm, after she finished with her own stuff, she went after the belongings of the men around her and tore through them like a tornado.
This accomplished, the outfit, though cut in half, was still a formidable bulk. Charles and Hal went out in the evening and bought six Outside dogs. These, added to the six of the original team, and Teek and Koona, the huskies obtained at the Rink Rapids on the record trip, brought the team up to fourteen. But the Outside dogs, though practically broken in since their landing, did not amount to much. Three were short-haired pointers, one was a Newfoundland, and the other two were mongrels of indeterminate breed. They did not seem to know anything, these newcomers. Buck and his comrades looked upon them with disgust, and though he speedily taught them their places and what not to do, he could not teach them what to do. They did not take kindly to trace and trail. With the exception of the two mongrels, they were bewildered and spirit-broken by the strange savage environment in which they found themselves and by the ill treatment they had received. The two mongrels were without spirit at all; bones were the only things breakable about them.
Once this was done, the outfit, even though it was halved, remained a strong presence. Charles and Hal went out one evening and bought six outside dogs. This, combined with the six from the original team and Teek and Koona, the huskies they got at Rink Rapids during the record trip, brought the team total to fourteen. However, the outside dogs, while almost trained since they arrived, were not much use. Three were short-haired pointers, one was a Newfoundland, and the other two were mixed-breed mongrels. These newcomers seemed to know nothing. Buck and his fellow dogs looked at them with disdain, and while he quickly showed them their roles and what not to do, he couldn't teach them what they should do. They weren’t suited to trace and trail. Except for the two mongrels, they were confused and beaten down by the harsh, wild environment they found themselves in and by the poor treatment they had endured. The two mongrels had no spirit at all; bones were the only things they seemed capable of breaking.
With the newcomers hopeless and forlorn, and the old team worn out by twenty-five hundred miles of continuous trail, the outlook was anything but bright. The two men, however, were quite cheerful. And they were proud, too. They were doing the thing in style, with fourteen dogs. They had seen other sleds depart over the Pass for Dawson, or come in from Dawson, but never had they seen a sled with so many as fourteen dogs. In the nature of Arctic travel there was a reason why fourteen dogs should not drag one sled, and that was that one sled could not carry the food for fourteen dogs. But Charles and Hal did not know this. They had worked the trip out with a pencil, so much to a dog, so many dogs, so many days, Q.E.D. Mercedes looked over their shoulders and nodded comprehensively, it was all so very simple.
With the newcomers feeling hopeless and down, and the old team exhausted from twenty-five hundred miles of nonstop travel, the situation was far from promising. However, the two men were quite upbeat. They were also proud. They were doing it in style, with fourteen dogs. They had seen other sleds leave over the Pass for Dawson or arrive from Dawson, but they had never seen a sled with as many as fourteen dogs. In terms of Arctic travel, there was a reason why fourteen dogs shouldn’t pull one sled: one sled couldn’t carry enough food for fourteen dogs. But Charles and Hal didn’t know this. They had calculated everything with a pencil—how much food per dog, how many dogs, how many days, Q.E.D. Mercedes looked over their shoulders and nodded approvingly; it all seemed so simple.
Late next morning Buck led the long team up the street. There was nothing lively about it, no snap or go in him and his fellows. They were starting dead weary. Four times he had covered the distance between Salt Water and Dawson, and the knowledge that, jaded and tired, he was facing the same trail once more, made him bitter. His heart was not in the work, nor was the heart of any dog. The Outsides were timid and frightened, the Insides without confidence in their masters.
Late the next morning, Buck led the long team up the street. There was nothing lively about it; he and his fellow dogs had no energy or enthusiasm. They were completely exhausted. Buck had already traveled the distance between Salt Water and Dawson four times, and the thought of facing the same trail again, feeling worn out and tired, filled him with bitterness. He had no heart for the work, and neither did any of the other dogs. The Outsides were scared and timid, while the Insides lacked confidence in their handlers.
Buck felt vaguely that there was no depending upon these two men and the woman. They did not know how to do anything, and as the days went by it became apparent that they could not learn. They were slack in all things, without order or discipline. It took them half the night to pitch a slovenly camp, and half the morning to break that camp and get the sled loaded in fashion so slovenly that for the rest of the day they were occupied in stopping and rearranging the load. Some days they did not make ten miles. On other days they were unable to get started at all. And on no day did they succeed in making more than half the distance used by the men as a basis in their dog-food computation.
Buck felt a sense that he couldn't rely on these two men and the woman. They were completely clueless and, as time passed, it became clear they couldn't learn. They were lazy in everything, lacking any sense of order or discipline. It took them half the night to set up a messy camp, and half the morning to tear it down and load the sled in such a disorganized way that they spent the rest of the day stopping to fix the load. Some days they hardly covered ten miles. Other days, they couldn’t get going at all. And on no day did they manage to travel more than half the distance that the men used to calculate their dog food supply.
It was inevitable that they should go short on dog-food. But they hastened it by overfeeding, bringing the day nearer when underfeeding would commence. The Outside dogs, whose digestions had not been trained by chronic famine to make the most of little, had voracious appetites. And when, in addition to this, the worn-out huskies pulled weakly, Hal decided that the orthodox ration was too small. He doubled it. And to cap it all, when Mercedes, with tears in her pretty eyes and a quaver in her throat, could not cajole him into giving the dogs still more, she stole from the fish-sacks and fed them slyly. But it was not food that Buck and the huskies needed, but rest. And though they were making poor time, the heavy load they dragged sapped their strength severely.
It was unavoidable that they would run low on dog food. But they sped that up by overfeeding, bringing the day closer when they would have to underfeed. The outside dogs, whose stomachs hadn’t been trained by constant hunger to make the most of little, had huge appetites. And when, on top of that, the exhausted huskies pulled weakly, Hal decided the standard ration was too small. He doubled it. To top it off, when Mercedes, with tears in her beautiful eyes and a shake in her voice, couldn’t persuade him to give the dogs even more, she snuck food from the fish sacks and fed them in secret. But what Buck and the huskies really needed was rest. And even though they were making little progress, the heavy load they were dragging drained their strength significantly.
Then came the underfeeding. Hal awoke one day to the fact that his dog-food was half gone and the distance only quarter covered; further, that for love or money no additional dog-food was to be obtained. So he cut down even the orthodox ration and tried to increase the day’s travel. His sister and brother-in-law seconded him; but they were frustrated by their heavy outfit and their own incompetence. It was a simple matter to give the dogs less food; but it was impossible to make the dogs travel faster, while their own inability to get under way earlier in the morning prevented them from travelling longer hours. Not only did they not know how to work dogs, but they did not know how to work themselves.
Then came the underfeeding. Hal woke up one day to realize that his dog food was half gone and they had only covered a quarter of the distance; on top of that, there was no way to get more dog food, no matter how much money or love he offered. So, he cut back even more on the standard ration and tried to increase their travel for the day. His sister and brother-in-law supported him, but they were held back by their heavy gear and their own lack of skills. Giving the dogs less food was straightforward, but getting them to travel faster was impossible, and their inability to get moving earlier in the morning kept them from traveling longer hours. They not only didn’t know how to handle the dogs, but they also didn’t know how to manage themselves.
The first to go was Dub. Poor blundering thief that he was, always getting caught and punished, he had none the less been a faithful worker. His wrenched shoulder-blade, untreated and unrested, went from bad to worse, till finally Hal shot him with the big Colt’s revolver. It is a saying of the country that an Outside dog starves to death on the ration of the husky, so the six Outside dogs under Buck could do no less than die on half the ration of the husky. The Newfoundland went first, followed by the three short-haired pointers, the two mongrels hanging more grittily on to life, but going in the end.
The first to go was Dub. Poor, clumsy thief that he was, always getting caught and punished, he had still been a loyal worker. His injured shoulder, untreated and overworked, kept getting worse until Hal finally shot him with the big Colt revolver. It's a saying in the area that an Outside dog starves to death on half the food of a husky, so the six Outside dogs under Buck couldn’t do anything but die on half the rations of the husky. The Newfoundland went first, followed by the three short-haired pointers, while the two mongrels held on a bit longer, but they eventually succumbed too.
By this time all the amenities and gentlenesses of the Southland had fallen away from the three people. Shorn of its glamour and romance, Arctic travel became to them a reality too harsh for their manhood and womanhood. Mercedes ceased weeping over the dogs, being too occupied with weeping over herself and with quarrelling with her husband and brother. To quarrel was the one thing they were never too weary to do. Their irritability arose out of their misery, increased with it, doubled upon it, outdistanced it. The wonderful patience of the trail which comes to men who toil hard and suffer sore, and remain sweet of speech and kindly, did not come to these two men and the woman. They had no inkling of such a patience. They were stiff and in pain; their muscles ached, their bones ached, their very hearts ached; and because of this they became sharp of speech, and hard words were first on their lips in the morning and last at night.
By this point, all the comforts and kindnesses of the South had disappeared for the three of them. Stripped of its charm and adventure, traveling through the Arctic became a reality too harsh for their strength as men and women. Mercedes stopped crying over the dogs and focused more on crying over herself, as well as arguing with her husband and brother. Arguing was the one thing they were never too tired to do. Their irritability came from their misery, grew with it, and only intensified. The amazing patience that usually develops in those who work hard and endure suffering, while still being kind and gentle, didn’t come to these two men and the woman. They had no understanding of this kind of patience. They were stiff and in pain; their muscles hurt, their bones hurt, their very hearts hurt; and because of this, they became sharp with their words, with harsh remarks being the first things they said in the morning and the last at night.
Charles and Hal wrangled whenever Mercedes gave them a chance. It was the cherished belief of each that he did more than his share of the work, and neither forbore to speak this belief at every opportunity. Sometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, sometimes with her brother. The result was a beautiful and unending family quarrel. Starting from a dispute as to which should chop a few sticks for the fire (a dispute which concerned only Charles and Hal), presently would be lugged in the rest of the family, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people thousands of miles away, and some of them dead. That Hal’s views on art, or the sort of society plays his mother’s brother wrote, should have anything to do with the chopping of a few sticks of firewood, passes comprehension; nevertheless the quarrel was as likely to tend in that direction as in the direction of Charles’s political prejudices. And that Charles’s sister’s tale-bearing tongue should be relevant to the building of a Yukon fire, was apparent only to Mercedes, who disburdened herself of copious opinions upon that topic, and incidentally upon a few other traits unpleasantly peculiar to her husband’s family. In the meantime the fire remained unbuilt, the camp half pitched, and the dogs unfed.
Charles and Hal argued whenever Mercedes gave them the chance. Each one believed he did more than his fair share of the work and wasn’t shy about expressing that belief whenever he could. Sometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, and sometimes with her brother. The result was a never-ending family feud. What began as a disagreement about who should chop a few sticks for the fire (a matter that only concerned Charles and Hal) would eventually involve the rest of the family — fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people thousands of miles away, and even some who had passed away. It was hard to understand how Hal’s opinions on art, or the kinds of society plays his mother’s brother wrote, could be related to chopping a few sticks of firewood; nonetheless, the argument often drifted toward that topic as much as it did to Charles’s political views. And that Charles’s sister’s gossiping would be relevant to building a Yukon fire was clear only to Mercedes, who freely shared her lengthy opinions on that subject and incidentally on a few other unpleasant traits specific to her husband’s family. Meanwhile, the fire remained unbuilt, the camp half set up, and the dogs unfed.
Mercedes nursed a special grievance—the grievance of sex. She was pretty and soft, and had been chivalrously treated all her days. But the present treatment by her husband and brother was everything save chivalrous. It was her custom to be helpless. They complained. Upon which impeachment of what to her was her most essential sex-prerogative, she made their lives unendurable. She no longer considered the dogs, and because she was sore and tired, she persisted in riding on the sled. She was pretty and soft, but she weighed one hundred and twenty pounds—a lusty last straw to the load dragged by the weak and starving animals. She rode for days, till they fell in the traces and the sled stood still. Charles and Hal begged her to get off and walk, pleaded with her, entreated, the while she wept and importuned Heaven with a recital of their brutality.
Mercedes held a unique grievance—the grievance of being a woman. She was attractive and fragile, and had always been treated with care. But how her husband and brother treated her now was anything but caring. She was used to being helpless. They complained. In response to what she saw as an attack on her fundamental feminine privilege, she made their lives unbearable. She no longer thought about the dogs, and because she was exhausted and hurt, she insisted on staying on the sled. She was attractive and delicate, but she weighed one hundred and twenty pounds—a hefty last straw on the burden being pulled by the weak and starving animals. She stayed on the sled for days until they collapsed, and the sled came to a halt. Charles and Hal begged her to get off and walk, pleaded with her, and begged her, while she cried and pleaded with Heaven about their cruelty.
On one occasion they took her off the sled by main strength. They never did it again. She let her legs go limp like a spoiled child, and sat down on the trail. They went on their way, but she did not move. After they had travelled three miles they unloaded the sled, came back for her, and by main strength put her on the sled again.
On one occasion, they pulled her off the sled using sheer strength. They didn’t do it again. She let her legs go limp like a spoiled child and just sat down on the trail. They continued on their way, but she stayed put. After they had traveled three miles, they unloaded the sled, came back for her, and used their strength to put her back on the sled again.
In the excess of their own misery they were callous to the suffering of their animals. Hal’s theory, which he practised on others, was that one must get hardened. He had started out preaching it to his sister and brother-in-law. Failing there, he hammered it into the dogs with a club. At the Five Fingers the dog-food gave out, and a toothless old squaw offered to trade them a few pounds of frozen horse-hide for the Colt’s revolver that kept the big hunting-knife company at Hal’s hip. A poor substitute for food was this hide, just as it had been stripped from the starved horses of the cattlemen six months back. In its frozen state it was more like strips of galvanized iron, and when a dog wrestled it into his stomach it thawed into thin and innutritious leathery strings and into a mass of short hair, irritating and indigestible.
In their own suffering, they were indifferent to the pain of their animals. Hal’s theory, which he applied to others, was that one needed to toughen up. He had started lecturing his sister and brother-in-law about it. When that didn’t work, he beat it into the dogs with a club. At the Five Fingers, they ran out of dog food, and a toothless old woman offered to trade them a few pounds of frozen horse-hide for the Colt revolver that hung at Hal’s hip alongside his big hunting knife. This hide was a poor substitute for food, just like it had been taken from the starved horses of the cattle ranchers six months earlier. In its frozen state, it resembled strips of galvanized iron, and when a dog managed to swallow it, it thawed into thin, unnutritious leathery strings mixed with a mass of short hair that was annoying and hard to digest.
And through it all Buck staggered along at the head of the team as in a nightmare. He pulled when he could; when he could no longer pull, he fell down and remained down till blows from whip or club drove him to his feet again. All the stiffness and gloss had gone out of his beautiful furry coat. The hair hung down, limp and draggled, or matted with dried blood where Hal’s club had bruised him. His muscles had wasted away to knotty strings, and the flesh pads had disappeared, so that each rib and every bone in his frame were outlined cleanly through the loose hide that was wrinkled in folds of emptiness. It was heartbreaking, only Buck’s heart was unbreakable. The man in the red sweater had proved that.
And through it all, Buck staggered at the front of the team like he was in a nightmare. He pulled when he could; when he couldn't pull anymore, he collapsed and stayed down until he was forced to his feet again by blows from a whip or a club. All the stiffness and shine were gone from his beautiful furry coat. The hair hung down, limp and matted, or stuck together with dried blood where Hal’s club had hit him. His muscles had shrunk to knotted strings, and the flesh pads had vanished, so every rib and bone in his body showed clearly through the loose skin that hung in empty folds. It was heartbreaking, though Buck’s heart was unbreakable. The man in the red sweater had shown that.
As it was with Buck, so was it with his mates. They were perambulating skeletons. There were seven all together, including him. In their very great misery they had become insensible to the bite of the lash or the bruise of the club. The pain of the beating was dull and distant, just as the things their eyes saw and their ears heard seemed dull and distant. They were not half living, or quarter living. They were simply so many bags of bones in which sparks of life fluttered faintly. When a halt was made, they dropped down in the traces like dead dogs, and the spark dimmed and paled and seemed to go out. And when the club or whip fell upon them, the spark fluttered feebly up, and they tottered to their feet and staggered on.
Just like Buck, his companions were also barely hanging on. They looked like walking skeletons. There were seven of them in total, including him. In their immense suffering, they had become numb to the lash and the club. The pain from the beatings felt distant and dull, just as everything their eyes saw and ears heard seemed to fade into the background. They weren't half alive or even a quarter alive. They were just bags of bones with faint sparks of life flickering inside. When they stopped moving, they collapsed in their traces like dead dogs, and the spark within them faded and almost disappeared. But when the club or whip struck them, that spark would flicker weakly back to life, and they would rise to their feet and stumble on.
There came a day when Billee, the good-natured, fell and could not rise. Hal had traded off his revolver, so he took the axe and knocked Billee on the head as he lay in the traces, then cut the carcass out of the harness and dragged it to one side. Buck saw, and his mates saw, and they knew that this thing was very close to them. On the next day Koona went, and but five of them remained: Joe, too far gone to be malignant; Pike, crippled and limping, only half conscious and not conscious enough longer to malinger; Sol-leks, the one-eyed, still faithful to the toil of trace and trail, and mournful in that he had so little strength with which to pull; Teek, who had not travelled so far that winter and who was now beaten more than the others because he was fresher; and Buck, still at the head of the team, but no longer enforcing discipline or striving to enforce it, blind with weakness half the time and keeping the trail by the loom of it and by the dim feel of his feet.
There came a day when Billee, the good-natured one, fell and couldn't get up. Hal had traded his revolver, so he grabbed the axe and hit Billee on the head while he lay in the traces, then cut the body out of the harness and dragged it to the side. Buck saw this, and so did his teammates, and they understood that something terrible was happening to them. The next day Koona left, leaving only five behind: Joe, too far gone to be a threat; Pike, crippled and limping, barely aware of his surroundings and not conscious enough to fake it anymore; Sol-leks, the one-eyed dog, still loyal to the hard work of pulling the sled, but sad that he lacked the strength to do more; Teek, who hadn’t traveled as much that winter and was now suffering more than the others because he was fresher; and Buck, still leading the team, but no longer focused on discipline or trying to maintain it, dazed with weakness half the time and following the trail by feel and the dim sense of his feet.
It was beautiful spring weather, but neither dogs nor humans were aware of it. Each day the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The whole long day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life. This murmur arose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living. It came from the things that lived and moved again, things which had been as dead and which had not moved during the long months of frost. The sap was rising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting out in young buds. Shrubs and vines were putting on fresh garbs of green. Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were booming and knocking in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air.
It was a beautiful spring day, but neither dogs nor people noticed it. Each day, the sun rose earlier and set later. It was light by three in the morning, and dusk lasted until nine at night. The whole long day was filled with sunlight. The silent winter had given way to the vibrant spring sounds of life waking up. This sound came from everywhere, filled with the joy of living. It emerged from the things that were alive and moving again, things that had been still and lifeless during the long months of cold. The sap was rising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting with new buds. Shrubs and vines were putting on fresh green coats. Crickets sang at night, and during the day, all sorts of crawling creatures came out into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were making noise in the forest. Squirrels were chattering, birds were singing, and above, the wildfowl honked as they flew north in clever formations that cut through the air.
From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and the huskies.
From every hillside came the sound of running water, the music of hidden fountains. Everything was melting, bending, and snapping. The Yukon was straining to break free from the ice that held it back. It was eroding from underneath; the sun was melting it from above. Air holes formed, cracks appeared and widened, while thin pieces of ice collapsed into the river. And amid all this breaking, tearing, and pulsing of new life, under the blazing sun and gentle breezes, the two men, the woman, and the huskies staggered along like travelers heading toward their end.
With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and Charles’s eyes wistfully watering, they staggered into John Thornton’s camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the dogs dropped down as though they had all been struck dead. Mercedes dried her eyes and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log to rest. He sat down very slowly and painstakingly what of his great stiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was whittling the last touches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of birch. He whittled and listened, gave monosyllabic replies, and, when it was asked, terse advice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that it would not be followed.
With the dogs collapsing, Mercedes crying and riding, Hal casually swearing, and Charles’s eyes misty with emotion, they stumbled into John Thornton’s camp at the mouth of White River. When they stopped, the dogs fell as if they had all been struck dead. Mercedes wiped her tears and looked at John Thornton. Charles sat down on a log to rest. He sat down very slowly and carefully due to his stiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was carving the finishing touches on an axe handle he had made from a birch stick. He carved and listened, gave short replies, and offered brief advice when asked. He knew the type and gave his advice knowing it wouldn’t be followed.
“They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail and that the best thing for us to do was to lay over,” Hal said in response to Thornton’s warning to take no more chances on the rotten ice. “They told us we couldn’t make White River, and here we are.” This last with a sneering ring of triumph in it.
“They told us up there that the trail was falling apart and that the best thing for us to do was to stay put,” Hal said in response to Thornton’s warning not to take any more risks on the dangerous ice. “They told us we couldn’t make it to White River, and look at us now.” This last part came out with a mocking tone of victory.
“And they told you true,” John Thornton answered. “The bottom’s likely to drop out at any moment. Only fools, with the blind luck of fools, could have made it. I tell you straight, I wouldn’t risk my carcass on that ice for all the gold in Alaska.”
“And they told you the truth,” John Thornton replied. “The bottom could give way at any moment. Only fools, relying on sheer luck, could have made it. I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t put my life at risk on that ice for all the gold in Alaska.”
“That’s because you’re not a fool, I suppose,” said Hal. “All the same, we’ll go on to Dawson.” He uncoiled his whip. “Get up there, Buck! Hi! Get up there! Mush on!”
"That’s because you’re not an idiot, I guess," said Hal. "Still, we’ll head to Dawson." He cracked his whip. "Get up there, Buck! Hey! Move it! Let’s go!"
Thornton went on whittling. It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool and his folly; while two or three fools more or less would not alter the scheme of things.
Thornton kept on whittling. He knew it was pointless to get in the way of a fool and their foolishness; a few more fools wouldn’t change the way things are.
But the team did not get up at the command. It had long since passed into the stage where blows were required to rouse it. The whip flashed out, here and there, on its merciless errands. John Thornton compressed his lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek followed. Joe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made painful efforts. Twice he fell over, when half up, and on the third attempt managed to rise. Buck made no effort. He lay quietly where he had fallen. The lash bit into him again and again, but he neither whined nor struggled. Several times Thornton started, as though to speak, but changed his mind. A moisture came into his eyes, and, as the whipping continued, he arose and walked irresolutely up and down.
But the team didn’t get up at the command. It had long passed the point where just calling them would work. The whip cracked out, striking here and there without mercy. John Thornton pressed his lips together. Sol-leks was the first to struggle to his feet. Teek followed. Joe came next, yelping in pain. Pike tried hard, falling over twice while trying to get up, and on his third attempt, he finally managed to stand. Buck made no effort. He lay still where he had fallen. The whip hit him again and again, but he didn’t whine or struggle. Several times Thornton seemed about to speak but changed his mind. Tears welled up in his eyes, and as the whipping went on, he stood up and walked nervously back and forth.
This was the first time Buck had failed, in itself a sufficient reason to drive Hal into a rage. He exchanged the whip for the customary club. Buck refused to move under the rain of heavier blows which now fell upon him. Like his mates, he was barely able to get up, but, unlike them, he had made up his mind not to get up. He had a vague feeling of impending doom. This had been strong upon him when he pulled in to the bank, and it had not departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away.
This was the first time Buck had ever failed, which alone was enough to drive Hal into a rage. He traded the whip for the usual club. Buck refused to move under the heavy blows that now rained down on him. Like his fellow dogs, he could barely get up, but unlike them, he had decided not to stand. He had a vague sense of impending doom. This feeling had been strong when he reached the bank, and it hadn’t left him since. What about the thin, rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day? It seemed he sensed disaster looming ahead on the ice where his master was trying to force him. He refused to budge. He had suffered so much, and was so far gone, that the blows didn’t hurt much anymore. As they kept coming down on him, the spark of life within him flickered and dimmed. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. From what felt like a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last feelings of pain faded away. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the sound of the club hitting his body. But it no longer felt like his body; it seemed so far away.
And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though struck by a falling tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his stiffness.
And then, suddenly, without any warning, letting out a cry that was more like an animal's than a human’s, John Thornton lunged at the guy with the club. Hal was thrown back, as if he had been hit by a falling tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles watched sadly, wiped his watery eyes, but stayed seated because he was too stiff to get up.
John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak.
John Thornton stood over Buck, trying to hold himself together, too overwhelmed with anger to say anything.
“If you strike that dog again, I’ll kill you,” he at last managed to say in a choking voice.
“If you hit that dog again, I’ll kill you,” he finally managed to say in a strained voice.
“It’s my dog,” Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. “Get out of my way, or I’ll fix you. I’m going to Dawson.”
“It’s my dog,” Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he returned. “Get out of my way, or I’ll take care of you. I’m heading to Dawson.”
Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed, cried, laughed, and manifested the chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal’s knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to pick it up. Then he stooped, picked it up himself, and with two strokes cut Buck’s traces.
Thornton stood between him and Buck, showing no signs of moving aside. Hal pulled out his long hunting knife. Mercedes screamed, cried, laughed, and displayed the wild abandon of hysteria. Thornton tapped Hal’s knuckles with the axe handle, knocking the knife to the ground. He tapped his knuckles again when Hal tried to pick it up. Then he bent down, grabbed it himself, and with two quick cuts, freed Buck from his traces.
Hal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his sister, or his arms, rather; while Buck was too near dead to be of further use in hauling the sled. A few minutes later they pulled out from the bank and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his head to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the wheel, and between were Joe and Teek. They were limping and staggering. Mercedes was riding the loaded sled. Hal guided at the gee-pole, and Charles stumbled along in the rear.
Hal was all out of energy. Besides, he was busy holding his sister, or rather, cradling her in his arms, while Buck was too close to collapse to help pull the sled anymore. A few minutes later, they broke away from the bank and started down the river. Buck heard them leave and lifted his head to look; Pike was in front, Sol-leks was driving, and in between were Joe and Teek. They were limping and struggling to keep up. Mercedes was perched on the loaded sled. Hal was steering with the gee-pole, and Charles was stumbling along at the back.
As Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and with rough, kindly hands searched for broken bones. By the time his search had disclosed nothing more than many bruises and a state of terrible starvation, the sled was a quarter of a mile away. Dog and man watched it crawling along over the ice. Suddenly, they saw its back end drop down, as into a rut, and the gee-pole, with Hal clinging to it, jerk into the air. Mercedes’s scream came to their ears. They saw Charles turn and make one step to run back, and then a whole section of ice give way and dogs and humans disappear. A yawning hole was all that was to be seen. The bottom had dropped out of the trail.
As Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and gently searched for broken bones with his rough but kind hands. By the time he finished checking, he found nothing more than a lot of bruises and a state of severe starvation; the sled was a quarter of a mile away. Dog and man watched it moving slowly across the ice. Suddenly, they saw the back end drop down as if into a rut, and the gee-pole, with Hal hanging onto it, jerk up into the air. Mercedes’s scream reached their ears. They saw Charles turn and take a step to run back, and then a whole section of ice gave way, causing both dogs and humans to disappear. All that was left to see was a gaping hole. The bottom had dropped out of the trail.
John Thornton and Buck looked at each other.
John Thornton and Buck exchanged glances.
“You poor devil,” said John Thornton, and Buck licked his hand.
“You poor guy,” said John Thornton, and Buck licked his hand.
Chapter VI.
For the Love of a Man
When John Thornton froze his feet in the previous December his partners had made him comfortable and left him to get well, going on themselves up the river to get out a raft of saw-logs for Dawson. He was still limping slightly at the time he rescued Buck, but with the continued warm weather even the slight limp left him. And here, lying by the river bank through the long spring days, watching the running water, listening lazily to the songs of birds and the hum of nature, Buck slowly won back his strength.
When John Thornton froze his feet the previous December, his partners made sure he was comfortable and then left him to recover while they went up the river to collect a raft of saw-logs for Dawson. He was still limping a bit when he rescued Buck, but with the warm weather, even that minor limp disappeared. Now, lying by the riverbank during the long spring days, watching the flowing water, and lazily listening to the songs of the birds and the buzz of nature, Buck gradually regained his strength.
A rest comes very good after one has travelled three thousand miles, and it must be confessed that Buck waxed lazy as his wounds healed, his muscles swelled out, and the flesh came back to cover his bones. For that matter, they were all loafing,—Buck, John Thornton, and Skeet and Nig,—waiting for the raft to come that was to carry them down to Dawson. Skeet was a little Irish setter who early made friends with Buck, who, in a dying condition, was unable to resent her first advances. She had the doctor trait which some dogs possess; and as a mother cat washes her kittens, so she washed and cleansed Buck’s wounds. Regularly, each morning after he had finished his breakfast, she performed her self-appointed task, till he came to look for her ministrations as much as he did for Thornton’s. Nig, equally friendly, though less demonstrative, was a huge black dog, half bloodhound and half deerhound, with eyes that laughed and a boundless good nature.
A rest feels great after traveling three thousand miles, and it has to be admitted that Buck got lazy as his wounds healed, his muscles grew strong, and the flesh returned to cover his bones. In fact, they were all just hanging out—Buck, John Thornton, and Skeet and Nig—waiting for the raft that would take them down to Dawson. Skeet was a little Irish setter who quickly became friends with Buck, who, in a weak state, couldn't push her away when she first approached him. She had the nurturing instinct that some dogs have; just like a mother cat cleans her kittens, she washed and tended to Buck's wounds. Every morning after he finished his breakfast, she carried out her self-appointed duty until he looked forward to her care just as much as Thornton’s. Nig, equally friendly but less expressive, was a big black dog, part bloodhound and part deerhound, with cheerful eyes and a wonderfully easygoing nature.
To Buck’s surprise these dogs manifested no jealousy toward him. They seemed to share the kindliness and largeness of John Thornton. As Buck grew stronger they enticed him into all sorts of ridiculous games, in which Thornton himself could not forbear to join; and in this fashion Buck romped through his convalescence and into a new existence. Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time. This he had never experienced at Judge Miller’s down in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. With the Judge’s sons, hunting and tramping, it had been a working partnership; with the Judge’s grandsons, a sort of pompous guardianship; and with the Judge himself, a stately and dignified friendship. But love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton to arouse.
To Buck’s surprise, these dogs showed no jealousy toward him. They seemed to share the kindness and generosity of John Thornton. As Buck grew stronger, they drew him into all sorts of silly games, which Thornton himself couldn't resist joining; and this way, Buck played his way through recovery and into a new life. For the first time, he experienced genuine, passionate love. He had never felt this at Judge Miller’s place in the sun-drenched Santa Clara Valley. With the Judge’s sons, it was a working partnership during hunts and hikes; with the Judge’s grandsons, it was more of a pompous guardianship; and with the Judge himself, it was a formal and dignified friendship. But the love that was intense and overwhelming, that was adoration, that was madness, was sparked by John Thornton.
This man had saved his life, which was something; but, further, he was the ideal master. Other men saw to the welfare of their dogs from a sense of duty and business expediency; he saw to the welfare of his as if they were his own children, because he could not help it. And he saw further. He never forgot a kindly greeting or a cheering word, and to sit down for a long talk with them (“gas” he called it) was as much his delight as theirs. He had a way of taking Buck’s head roughly between his hands, and resting his own head upon Buck’s, of shaking him back and forth, the while calling him ill names that to Buck were love names. Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of murmured oaths, and at each jerk back and forth it seemed that his heart would be shaken out of his body so great was its ecstasy. And when, released, he sprang to his feet, his mouth laughing, his eyes eloquent, his throat vibrant with unuttered sound, and in that fashion remained without movement, John Thornton would reverently exclaim, “God! you can all but speak!”
This guy had saved his life, which was something; but even more, he was the perfect owner. Other men looked out for their dogs out of duty or for business reasons; he took care of his like they were his own kids because he just couldn't help it. And he understood even more. He never forgot a friendly greeting or an encouraging word, and sitting down for a long chat with them (he called it “gas”) was just as enjoyable for him as it was for them. He had a way of taking Buck’s head roughly in his hands and resting his own head on Buck’s, shaking him back and forth while calling him names that to Buck felt like terms of endearment. Buck knew no greater joy than that rough embrace and the sound of whispered curses, and with each shake, it felt like his heart would leap out of his body, it was that overwhelming. And when he finally let go, Buck sprang to his feet, grinning, his eyes shining, his throat buzzing with unspoken sounds, and in that moment of stillness, John Thornton would reverently say, “God! You can almost talk!”
Buck had a trick of love expression that was akin to hurt. He would often seize Thornton’s hand in his mouth and close so fiercely that the flesh bore the impress of his teeth for some time afterward. And as Buck understood the oaths to be love words, so the man understood this feigned bite for a caress.
Buck had a way of showing love that felt a bit painful. He would often take Thornton’s hand in his mouth and grip it so tightly that it left an impression of his teeth for a while afterward. Just as Buck interpreted the oaths as words of love, the man saw this playful bite as a form of affection.
For the most part, however, Buck’s love was expressed in adoration. While he went wild with happiness when Thornton touched him or spoke to him, he did not seek these tokens. Unlike Skeet, who was wont to shove her nose under Thornton’s hand and nudge and nudge till petted, or Nig, who would stalk up and rest his great head on Thornton’s knee, Buck was content to adore at a distance. He would lie by the hour, eager, alert, at Thornton’s feet, looking up into his face, dwelling upon it, studying it, following with keenest interest each fleeting expression, every movement or change of feature. Or, as chance might have it, he would lie farther away, to the side or rear, watching the outlines of the man and the occasional movements of his body. And often, such was the communion in which they lived, the strength of Buck’s gaze would draw John Thornton’s head around, and he would return the gaze, without speech, his heart shining out of his eyes as Buck’s heart shone out.
For the most part, though, Buck’s love showed itself in adoration. He went wild with happiness when Thornton touched him or spoke to him, but he didn't actively seek these moments. Unlike Skeet, who would push her nose under Thornton’s hand and nudge until she got petted, or Nig, who would come up and rest his big head on Thornton’s knee, Buck was happy to admire from a distance. He would lie there for hours, eager and alert, at Thornton’s feet, looking up into his face, focusing on it, studying it, and following with keen interest every fleeting expression, every movement or change in his features. Or, depending on the situation, he would lie a little farther away, to the side or behind, watching the outline of the man and the occasional movements of his body. And often, because of the connection they shared, Buck’s intense gaze would cause John Thornton to turn his head, returning the gaze in silence, his heart shining through his eyes just as Buck’s heart shone through his.
For a long time after his rescue, Buck did not like Thornton to get out of his sight. From the moment he left the tent to when he entered it again, Buck would follow at his heels. His transient masters since he had come into the Northland had bred in him a fear that no master could be permanent. He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life as Perrault and François and the Scotch half-breed had passed out. Even in the night, in his dreams, he was haunted by this fear. At such times he would shake off sleep and creep through the chill to the flap of the tent, where he would stand and listen to the sound of his master’s breathing.
For a long time after he was rescued, Buck didn’t want Thornton to be out of his sight. From the moment he left the tent until he came back, Buck would follow right behind him. The temporary masters he had since arriving in the North had instilled in him a fear that no master would last. He was scared that Thornton would disappear from his life just like Perrault and François and the Scottish half-breed had. Even at night, in his dreams, he was tormented by this fear. During those moments, he would shake off sleep and creep through the cold to the tent flap, where he would stand and listen to the sound of his master’s breathing.
But in spite of this great love he bore John Thornton, which seemed to bespeak the soft civilizing influence, the strain of the primitive, which the Northland had aroused in him, remained alive and active. Faithfulness and devotion, things born of fire and roof, were his; yet he retained his wildness and wiliness. He was a thing of the wild, come in from the wild to sit by John Thornton’s fire, rather than a dog of the soft Southland stamped with the marks of generations of civilization. Because of his very great love, he could not steal from this man, but from any other man, in any other camp, he did not hesitate an instant; while the cunning with which he stole enabled him to escape detection.
But despite the deep love he had for John Thornton, which seemed to reflect the gentle, civilizing influence, the primitive instincts stirred by the Northland remained strong within him. Loyalty and devotion, forged from hardship and home, were his; yet he retained his wildness and cleverness. He was a creature of the wild who had come in from the wilderness to warm himself by John Thornton’s fire, rather than a domesticated dog from the soft Southland shaped by generations of civilization. Because of his profound love, he couldn’t bring himself to steal from this man, but from any other man in any other camp, he wouldn’t hesitate for a moment; his cleverness in stealing allowed him to avoid getting caught.
His face and body were scored by the teeth of many dogs, and he fought as fiercely as ever and more shrewdly. Skeet and Nig were too good-natured for quarrelling,—besides, they belonged to John Thornton; but the strange dog, no matter what the breed or valor, swiftly acknowledged Buck’s supremacy or found himself struggling for life with a terrible antagonist. And Buck was merciless. He had learned well the law of club and fang, and he never forewent an advantage or drew back from a foe he had started on the way to Death. He had lessoned from Spitz, and from the chief fighting dogs of the police and mail, and knew there was no middle course. He must master or be mastered; while to show mercy was a weakness. Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed.
His face and body were marked by the bites of many dogs, and he fought as fiercely as ever, but with more cunning. Skeet and Nig were too friendly to pick fights—plus, they belonged to John Thornton; but any strange dog, regardless of its breed or courage, quickly acknowledged Buck’s dominance or found itself battling for its life against a formidable opponent. And Buck was ruthless. He had learned the harsh reality of survival, and he never passed up an opportunity or backed down from an enemy he had started toward death. He had learned from Spitz and from the top fighting dogs of the police and mail, understanding that there was no middle ground. He had to conquer or be conquered; showing mercy was a sign of weakness. Mercy didn’t exist in the primitive life. It was often mistaken for fear, and such mistakes led to death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the rule; and this command, echoing through the ages, he followed.
He was older than the days he had seen and the breaths he had drawn. He linked the past with the present, and the eternity behind him throbbed through him in a mighty rhythm to which he swayed as the tides and seasons swayed. He sat by John Thornton’s fire, a broad-breasted dog, white-fanged and long-furred; but behind him were the shades of all manner of dogs, half-wolves and wild wolves, urgent and prompting, tasting the savor of the meat he ate, thirsting for the water he drank, scenting the wind with him, listening with him and telling him the sounds made by the wild life in the forest, dictating his moods, directing his actions, lying down to sleep with him when he lay down, and dreaming with him and beyond him and becoming themselves the stuff of his dreams.
He was older than the days he had experienced and the breaths he had taken. He connected the past with the present, and the eternity behind him pulsed through him in a powerful rhythm to which he moved as the tides and seasons did. He sat by John Thornton’s fire, a big, muscular dog with white fangs and long fur; but behind him were the spirits of all kinds of dogs, half-wolves and wild wolves, eager and urging, savoring the meat he ate, craving the water he drank, smelling the wind with him, listening alongside him and sharing the sounds of wildlife in the forest, influencing his moods, guiding his actions, lying down to sleep with him when he rested, dreaming with him and beyond him, becoming the very essence of his dreams.
So peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest. But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John Thornton drew him back to the fire again.
So insistently did these shadows summon him that every day, humanity and its demands slipped further away from him. Deep in the forest, a call was echoing, and each time he heard this call—mysterious, thrilling, and enticing—he felt an overwhelming urge to turn away from the fire and the worn ground around it, plunging into the forest, onward, he didn't know where or why; nor did he question where or why, the call resonating authoritatively, deep in the woods. But whenever he reached the soft, untouched earth and the lush shade, his love for John Thornton pulled him back to the fire once more.
Thornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was as nothing. Chance travellers might praise or pet him; but he was cold under it all, and from a too demonstrative man he would get up and walk away. When Thornton’s partners, Hans and Pete, arrived on the long-expected raft, Buck refused to notice them till he learned they were close to Thornton; after that he tolerated them in a passive sort of way, accepting favors from them as though he favored them by accepting. They were of the same large type as Thornton, living close to the earth, thinking simply and seeing clearly; and ere they swung the raft into the big eddy by the saw-mill at Dawson, they understood Buck and his ways, and did not insist upon an intimacy such as obtained with Skeet and Nig.
Thornton was the only one who truly had his loyalty. Everyone else meant nothing to him. Random travelers might compliment or pet him, but that didn’t affect him; if someone was too affectionate, he would just get up and walk away. When Thornton’s partners, Hans and Pete, finally arrived on the much-anticipated raft, Buck ignored them until he realized they were close to Thornton. After that, he tolerated them in a laid-back way, accepting their kindness as if he was doing them a favor. They were similar in nature to Thornton, living simply and clearly. By the time they steered the raft into the big eddy near the sawmill in Dawson, they understood Buck and how he operated, and they didn’t push for the kind of closeness he had with Skeet and Nig.
For Thornton, however, his love seemed to grow and grow. He, alone among men, could put a pack upon Buck’s back in the summer travelling. Nothing was too great for Buck to do, when Thornton commanded. One day (they had grub-staked themselves from the proceeds of the raft and left Dawson for the head-waters of the Tanana) the men and dogs were sitting on the crest of a cliff which fell away, straight down, to naked bed-rock three hundred feet below. John Thornton was sitting near the edge, Buck at his shoulder. A thoughtless whim seized Thornton, and he drew the attention of Hans and Pete to the experiment he had in mind. “Jump, Buck!” he commanded, sweeping his arm out and over the chasm. The next instant he was grappling with Buck on the extreme edge, while Hans and Pete were dragging them back into safety.
For Thornton, though, his love just kept growing. He was the only one who could load a pack onto Buck’s back during their summer travels. Buck would do anything for Thornton when he gave the command. One day (after they had used their earnings from the raft to stock up and had left Dawson for the headwaters of the Tanana) the men and dogs were perched on the edge of a cliff that dropped straight down to bare bedrock three hundred feet below. John Thornton was sitting close to the edge, with Buck by his side. A reckless idea struck Thornton, and he called Hans and Pete over to show them what he had in mind. “Jump, Buck!” he shouted, gesturing over the chasm. In an instant, he found himself struggling with Buck at the very edge, while Hans and Pete were pulling them back to safety.
“It’s uncanny,” Pete said, after it was over and they had caught their speech.
“It’s weird,” Pete said, after it was over and they had regained their composure.
Thornton shook his head. “No, it is splendid, and it is terrible, too. Do you know, it sometimes makes me afraid.”
Thornton shook his head. “No, it’s amazing, and it’s awful, too. You know, it sometimes scares me.”
“I’m not hankering to be the man that lays hands on you while he’s around,” Pete announced conclusively, nodding his head toward Buck.
“I don’t want to be the guy who touches you while he’s here,” Pete said decisively, nodding his head toward Buck.
“Py Jingo!” was Hans’s contribution. “Not mineself either.”
“Wow!” was Hans’s contribution. “Not me either.”
It was at Circle City, ere the year was out, that Pete’s apprehensions were realized. “Black” Burton, a man evil-tempered and malicious, had been picking a quarrel with a tenderfoot at the bar, when Thornton stepped good-naturedly between. Buck, as was his custom, was lying in a corner, head on paws, watching his master’s every action. Burton struck out, without warning, straight from the shoulder. Thornton was sent spinning, and saved himself from falling only by clutching the rail of the bar.
It was in Circle City, before the year was over, that Pete's fears came true. "Black" Burton, a nasty and spiteful man, had started a fight with a newcomer at the bar when Thornton stepped in with good intentions. Buck, as usual, was lying in a corner with his head on his paws, keeping an eye on his master's every move. Burton swung out of nowhere, hitting Thornton hard. Thornton was sent reeling and only managed to avoid falling by grabbing onto the bar railing.
Those who were looking on heard what was neither bark nor yelp, but a something which is best described as a roar, and they saw Buck’s body rise up in the air as he left the floor for Burton’s throat. The man saved his life by instinctively throwing out his arm, but was hurled backward to the floor with Buck on top of him. Buck loosed his teeth from the flesh of the arm and drove in again for the throat. This time the man succeeded only in partly blocking, and his throat was torn open. Then the crowd was upon Buck, and he was driven off; but while a surgeon checked the bleeding, he prowled up and down, growling furiously, attempting to rush in, and being forced back by an array of hostile clubs. A “miners’ meeting,” called on the spot, decided that the dog had sufficient provocation, and Buck was discharged. But his reputation was made, and from that day his name spread through every camp in Alaska.
Those who were watching heard a sound that was neither a bark nor a yelp, but something that could best be described as a roar. They saw Buck leap into the air as he lunged for Burton's throat. The man narrowly saved himself by instinctively raising his arm, but he was knocked backward to the ground with Buck on top of him. Buck bit down on the man's arm and then went for his throat. This time, the man only managed to partially block the attack, and his throat was torn open. Then the crowd rushed in on Buck, forcing him away; but while a surgeon tended to the bleeding, Buck paced back and forth, growling furiously, trying to rush back in while being held back by a lineup of raised clubs. A "miners' meeting," called on the spot, determined that the dog had enough reason to attack, and Buck was let go. But his reputation was solidified, and from that day on, his name spread through every camp in Alaska.
Later on, in the fall of the year, he saved John Thornton’s life in quite another fashion. The three partners were lining a long and narrow poling-boat down a bad stretch of rapids on the Forty-Mile Creek. Hans and Pete moved along the bank, snubbing with a thin Manila rope from tree to tree, while Thornton remained in the boat, helping its descent by means of a pole, and shouting directions to the shore. Buck, on the bank, worried and anxious, kept abreast of the boat, his eyes never off his master.
Later that fall, he saved John Thornton's life in a completely different way. The three partners were guiding a long, narrow poling boat down a rough stretch of rapids on Forty-Mile Creek. Hans and Pete worked along the bank, using a thin Manila rope to secure themselves from tree to tree, while Thornton stayed in the boat, helping it navigate with a pole and shouting directions to the shore. Buck, on the bank, was worried and anxious, staying close to the boat, his eyes focused on his master.
At a particularly bad spot, where a ledge of barely submerged rocks jutted out into the river, Hans cast off the rope, and, while Thornton poled the boat out into the stream, ran down the bank with the end in his hand to snub the boat when it had cleared the ledge. This it did, and was flying down-stream in a current as swift as a mill-race, when Hans checked it with the rope and checked too suddenly. The boat flirted over and snubbed in to the bank bottom up, while Thornton, flung sheer out of it, was carried down-stream toward the worst part of the rapids, a stretch of wild water in which no swimmer could live.
At a particularly bad spot, where a ledge of barely submerged rocks stuck out into the river, Hans let go of the rope, and while Thornton steered the boat out into the current, he dashed down the bank with the end in his hand to catch the boat once it cleared the ledge. It did clear, and was racing down-stream in a current as fast as a mill race, when Hans pulled on the rope and did so too suddenly. The boat flipped over and crashed into the bank, upside down, while Thornton was thrown clear and was swept downstream toward the worst part of the rapids, an area of wild water where no swimmer could survive.
Buck had sprung in on the instant; and at the end of three hundred yards, amid a mad swirl of water, he overhauled Thornton. When he felt him grasp his tail, Buck headed for the bank, swimming with all his splendid strength. But the progress shoreward was slow; the progress down-stream amazingly rapid. From below came the fatal roaring where the wild current went wilder and was rent in shreds and spray by the rocks which thrust through like the teeth of an enormous comb. The suck of the water as it took the beginning of the last steep pitch was frightful, and Thornton knew that the shore was impossible. He scraped furiously over a rock, bruised across a second, and struck a third with crushing force. He clutched its slippery top with both hands, releasing Buck, and above the roar of the churning water shouted: “Go, Buck! Go!”
Buck had jumped in immediately; and after three hundred yards, in a chaotic swirl of water, he caught up to Thornton. When he felt Thornton grab his tail, Buck swam toward the bank, using all his incredible strength. But getting to the shore was slow; drifting downstream was shockingly fast. From below came the terrifying roar of the wild current growing even more fierce, splintering into shreds and spray from the rocks that jutted out like the teeth of a massive comb. The pull of the water at the start of the final steep drop was horrifying, and Thornton realized that reaching the shore was impossible. He scraped fiercely over one rock, bruised himself on another, and struck a third one with tremendous force. He grabbed its slippery top with both hands, letting go of Buck, and above the roar of the rushing water yelled: “Go, Buck! Go!”
Buck could not hold his own, and swept on down-stream, struggling desperately, but unable to win back. When he heard Thornton’s command repeated, he partly reared out of the water, throwing his head high, as though for a last look, then turned obediently toward the bank. He swam powerfully and was dragged ashore by Pete and Hans at the very point where swimming ceased to be possible and destruction began.
Buck couldn't keep up and was carried downstream, fighting hard but unable to regain his position. When he heard Thornton's command repeated, he partially lifted out of the water, raising his head as if for one last look, then turned obediently toward the shore. He swam with power and was pulled ashore by Pete and Hans at the exact spot where swimming stopped being an option and danger began.
They knew that the time a man could cling to a slippery rock in the face of that driving current was a matter of minutes, and they ran as fast as they could up the bank to a point far above where Thornton was hanging on. They attached the line with which they had been snubbing the boat to Buck’s neck and shoulders, being careful that it should neither strangle him nor impede his swimming, and launched him into the stream. He struck out boldly, but not straight enough into the stream. He discovered the mistake too late, when Thornton was abreast of him and a bare half-dozen strokes away while he was being carried helplessly past.
They realized that a man could only hold onto a slippery rock against that strong current for a few minutes, so they ran as fast as they could up the bank to a point well above where Thornton was hanging on. They secured the line they had been using to hold the boat to Buck’s neck and shoulders, making sure it wouldn’t strangle him or slow down his swimming, and launched him into the water. He swam out confidently, but not directly enough into the current. He realized the mistake too late, when Thornton was right next to him and just a few strokes away, while he was being swept away helplessly.
Hans promptly snubbed with the rope, as though Buck were a boat. The rope thus tightening on him in the sweep of the current, he was jerked under the surface, and under the surface he remained till his body struck against the bank and he was hauled out. He was half drowned, and Hans and Pete threw themselves upon him, pounding the breath into him and the water out of him. He staggered to his feet and fell down. The faint sound of Thornton’s voice came to them, and though they could not make out the words of it, they knew that he was in his extremity. His master’s voice acted on Buck like an electric shock. He sprang to his feet and ran up the bank ahead of the men to the point of his previous departure.
Hans quickly pulled with the rope, as if Buck were a boat. The rope tightened around him in the current, pulling him under the surface, and he stayed underwater until his body hit the bank and he was pulled out. He was half-drowned, and Hans and Pete threw themselves on him, trying to pump the breath back into him and get the water out. He staggered to his feet and collapsed again. They faintly heard Thornton’s voice, and even though they couldn't make out the words, they knew he was in trouble. Buck reacted to his master's voice like a jolt of electricity. He jumped to his feet and ran up the bank ahead of the men to where he had left before.
Again the rope was attached and he was launched, and again he struck out, but this time straight into the stream. He had miscalculated once, but he would not be guilty of it a second time. Hans paid out the rope, permitting no slack, while Pete kept it clear of coils. Buck held on till he was on a line straight above Thornton; then he turned, and with the speed of an express train headed down upon him. Thornton saw him coming, and, as Buck struck him like a battering ram, with the whole force of the current behind him, he reached up and closed with both arms around the shaggy neck. Hans snubbed the rope around the tree, and Buck and Thornton were jerked under the water. Strangling, suffocating, sometimes one uppermost and sometimes the other, dragging over the jagged bottom, smashing against rocks and snags, they veered in to the bank.
Again, the rope was attached and he was launched, and once more he struck out, but this time directly into the stream. He had miscalculated before, but he wouldn't do it again. Hans paid out the rope, keeping it tight, while Pete ensured it was clear of coils. Buck held on until he was directly above Thornton; then he turned and, with the speed of an express train, charged down toward him. Thornton saw him coming, and as Buck hit him like a battering ram, with the full force of the current behind him, he reached up and wrapped both arms around Buck's shaggy neck. Hans secured the rope around the tree, and Buck and Thornton were pulled under the water. Struggling, gasping for air, sometimes one on top and sometimes the other, dragged over the jagged bottom, crashing against rocks and debris, they drifted toward the bank.
Thornton came to, belly downward and being violently propelled back and forth across a drift log by Hans and Pete. His first glance was for Buck, over whose limp and apparently lifeless body Nig was setting up a howl, while Skeet was licking the wet face and closed eyes. Thornton was himself bruised and battered, and he went carefully over Buck’s body, when he had been brought around, finding three broken ribs.
Thornton regained consciousness, lying on his stomach and being roughly shoved back and forth on a drift log by Hans and Pete. His first look was for Buck, whose limp and seemingly lifeless body Nig was howling over, while Skeet was licking Buck's wet face and closed eyes. Thornton was bruised and battered himself, and he carefully examined Buck’s body after he was revived, discovering three broken ribs.
“That settles it,” he announced. “We camp right here.” And camp they did, till Buck’s ribs knitted and he was able to travel.
“That settles it,” he said. “We’re camping right here.” And they camped there until Buck’s ribs healed and he could travel.
That winter, at Dawson, Buck performed another exploit, not so heroic, perhaps, but one that put his name many notches higher on the totem-pole of Alaskan fame. This exploit was particularly gratifying to the three men; for they stood in need of the outfit which it furnished, and were enabled to make a long-desired trip into the virgin East, where miners had not yet appeared. It was brought about by a conversation in the Eldorado Saloon, in which men waxed boastful of their favorite dogs. Buck, because of his record, was the target for these men, and Thornton was driven stoutly to defend him. At the end of half an hour one man stated that his dog could start a sled with five hundred pounds and walk off with it; a second bragged six hundred for his dog; and a third, seven hundred.
That winter, in Dawson, Buck pulled off another feat, maybe not as heroic, but one that boosted his reputation in Alaskan lore. This achievement was especially satisfying for the three men, as they needed the resources it provided and were able to take a long-desired trip into the untouched East, where no miners had yet ventured. It all started with a conversation in the Eldorado Saloon, where men proudly boasted about their favorite dogs. Buck, thanks to his achievements, became the focus of their attention, and Thornton had to defend him fiercely. After half an hour, one man claimed his dog could start a sled with five hundred pounds and walk away with it; another boasted that his dog could handle six hundred; and a third guy claimed seven hundred.
“Pooh! pooh!” said John Thornton; “Buck can start a thousand pounds.”
“Pooh! poo!” said John Thornton; “Buck can pull a thousand pounds.”
“And break it out? and walk off with it for a hundred yards?” demanded Matthewson, a Bonanza King, he of the seven hundred vaunt.
“And break it out? And walk off with it for a hundred yards?” demanded Matthewson, a Bonanza King, known for his seven hundred boast.
“And break it out, and walk off with it for a hundred yards,” John Thornton said coolly.
“And break it out, then walk off with it for a hundred yards,” John Thornton said calmly.
“Well,” Matthewson said, slowly and deliberately, so that all could hear, “I’ve got a thousand dollars that says he can’t. And there it is.” So saying, he slammed a sack of gold dust of the size of a bologna sausage down upon the bar.
“Well,” Matthewson said, slowly and deliberately, so that everyone could hear, “I’ve got a thousand dollars that says he can’t. And there it is.” With that, he slammed a sack of gold dust the size of a bologna sausage down on the bar.
Nobody spoke. Thornton’s bluff, if bluff it was, had been called. He could feel a flush of warm blood creeping up his face. His tongue had tricked him. He did not know whether Buck could start a thousand pounds. Half a ton! The enormousness of it appalled him. He had great faith in Buck’s strength and had often thought him capable of starting such a load; but never, as now, had he faced the possibility of it, the eyes of a dozen men fixed upon him, silent and waiting. Further, he had no thousand dollars; nor had Hans or Pete.
Nobody said anything. Thornton’s bluff, if it even was a bluff, had been called. He could feel his face turning warm with embarrassment. His tongue had betrayed him. He didn’t know if Buck could pull a thousand pounds. Half a ton! The sheer enormity of it shocked him. He had a lot of faith in Buck's strength and often believed he could handle such a load; but never before had he been confronted with the possibility of it, with a dozen men watching him, silent and waiting. Plus, he didn’t have a thousand dollars, and neither did Hans or Pete.
“I’ve got a sled standing outside now, with twenty fiftypound sacks of flour on it,” Matthewson went on with brutal directness; “so don’t let that hinder you.”
“I’ve got a sled outside now, loaded with twenty fifty-pound sacks of flour,” Matthewson continued bluntly; “so don’t let that hold you back.”
Thornton did not reply. He did not know what to say. He glanced from face to face in the absent way of a man who has lost the power of thought and is seeking somewhere to find the thing that will start it going again. The face of Jim O’Brien, a Mastodon King and old-time comrade, caught his eyes. It was as a cue to him, seeming to rouse him to do what he would never have dreamed of doing.
Thornton didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what to say. He looked around at everyone, like someone who’s lost his ability to think and is searching for something to kickstart his brain. His eyes landed on Jim O’Brien, a Mastodon King and an old friend. That sight seemed to trigger something in him, pushing him to take actions he never would have imagined.
“Can you lend me a thousand?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Can you loan me a thousand?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Sure,” answered O’Brien, thumping down a plethoric sack by the side of Matthewson’s. “Though it’s little faith I’m having, John, that the beast can do the trick.”
“Sure,” replied O’Brien, dropping a heavy sack next to Matthewson’s. “But I’m not really confident, John, that the beast can pull it off.”
The Eldorado emptied its occupants into the street to see the test. The tables were deserted, and the dealers and gamekeepers came forth to see the outcome of the wager and to lay odds. Several hundred men, furred and mittened, banked around the sled within easy distance. Matthewson’s sled, loaded with a thousand pounds of flour, had been standing for a couple of hours, and in the intense cold (it was sixty below zero) the runners had frozen fast to the hard-packed snow. Men offered odds of two to one that Buck could not budge the sled. A quibble arose concerning the phrase “break out.” O’Brien contended it was Thornton’s privilege to knock the runners loose, leaving Buck to “break it out” from a dead standstill. Matthewson insisted that the phrase included breaking the runners from the frozen grip of the snow. A majority of the men who had witnessed the making of the bet decided in his favor, whereat the odds went up to three to one against Buck.
The Eldorado emptied its patrons onto the street to witness the test. The tables were empty, and the dealers and gamekeepers stepped forward to see the outcome of the wager and to place their bets. Several hundred men, wrapped in fur and wearing mittens, gathered around the sled at a close distance. Matthewson’s sled, loaded with a thousand pounds of flour, had been sitting there for a couple of hours, and in the extreme cold (it was sixty below zero), the runners had frozen solid to the hard-packed snow. Men were offering odds of two to one that Buck couldn’t move the sled. A disagreement arose over the term “break out.” O’Brien argued that it was Thornton’s right to free the runners, leaving Buck to “break it out” from a complete stop. Matthewson insisted that the term included getting the runners free from the frozen grip of the snow. The majority of the men who had seen the bet made sided with him, causing the odds to shift to three to one against Buck.
There were no takers. Not a man believed him capable of the feat. Thornton had been hurried into the wager, heavy with doubt; and now that he looked at the sled itself, the concrete fact, with the regular team of ten dogs curled up in the snow before it, the more impossible the task appeared. Matthewson waxed jubilant.
There were no takers. Not a single person believed he could pull it off. Thornton had rushed into the bet, filled with uncertainty; and now that he stared at the sled, the hard evidence, with the usual team of ten dogs curled up in the snow in front of it, the task seemed even more impossible. Matthewson was thrilled.
“Three to one!” he proclaimed. “I’ll lay you another thousand at that figure, Thornton. What d’ye say?”
“Three to one!” he announced. “I’ll bet you another thousand at that odds, Thornton. What do you think?”
Thornton’s doubt was strong in his face, but his fighting spirit was aroused—the fighting spirit that soars above odds, fails to recognize the impossible, and is deaf to all save the clamor for battle. He called Hans and Pete to him. Their sacks were slim, and with his own the three partners could rake together only two hundred dollars. In the ebb of their fortunes, this sum was their total capital; yet they laid it unhesitatingly against Matthewson’s six hundred.
Thornton's uncertainty was clear on his face, but his determination kicked in—the kind of determination that rises above challenges, doesn’t see the impossible, and only hears the call to fight. He called Hans and Pete over to him. Their sacks were light, and with his own, the three of them had only two hundred dollars. In the downturn of their fortunes, this amount was their entire capital; yet they placed it boldly against Matthewson’s six hundred.
The team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, with his own harness, was put into the sled. He had caught the contagion of the excitement, and he felt that in some way he must do a great thing for John Thornton. Murmurs of admiration at his splendid appearance went up. He was in perfect condition, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, and the one hundred and fifty pounds that he weighed were so many pounds of grit and virility. His furry coat shone with the sheen of silk. Down the neck and across the shoulders, his mane, in repose as it was, half bristled and seemed to lift with every movement, as though excess of vigor made each particular hair alive and active. The great breast and heavy fore legs were no more than in proportion with the rest of the body, where the muscles showed in tight rolls underneath the skin. Men felt these muscles and proclaimed them hard as iron, and the odds went down to two to one.
The team of ten dogs was unhitched, and Buck, wearing his own harness, was put into the sled. He caught the excitement and felt like he had to do something great for John Thornton. People murmured in admiration at his impressive appearance. He was in perfect shape, without an ounce of extra fat, and the one hundred and fifty pounds he weighed were pure grit and strength. His furry coat gleamed like silk. Down his neck and across his shoulders, his mane, although relaxed, seemed to lift with every movement, as if his excess energy made every single hair come alive. His broad chest and strong front legs were perfectly proportionate to the rest of his body, where the muscles formed tight rolls under his skin. Men felt those muscles and called them as hard as iron, and the odds dropped to two to one.
“Gad, sir! Gad, sir!” stuttered a member of the latest dynasty, a king of the Skookum Benches. “I offer you eight hundred for him, sir, before the test, sir; eight hundred just as he stands.”
“Wow, sir! Wow, sir!” stammered a member of the newest dynasty, a king of the Skookum Benches. “I’ll give you eight hundred for him, sir, before the test, sir; eight hundred just as he is.”
Thornton shook his head and stepped to Buck’s side.
Thornton shook his head and walked over to Buck's side.
“You must stand off from him,” Matthewson protested. “Free play and plenty of room.”
“You need to keep your distance from him,” Matthewson protested. “Let the game flow and give everyone space.”
The crowd fell silent; only could be heard the voices of the gamblers vainly offering two to one. Everybody acknowledged Buck a magnificent animal, but twenty fifty-pound sacks of flour bulked too large in their eyes for them to loosen their pouch-strings.
The crowd went quiet; the only sounds were the gamblers desperately shouting two to one. Everyone agreed that Buck was an impressive creature, but the twenty fifty-pound sacks of flour seemed too big for them to open their wallets.
Thornton knelt down by Buck’s side. He took his head in his two hands and rested cheek on cheek. He did not playfully shake him, as was his wont, or murmur soft love curses; but he whispered in his ear. “As you love me, Buck. As you love me,” was what he whispered. Buck whined with suppressed eagerness.
Thornton knelt by Buck’s side. He took Buck’s head in his hands and rested his cheek against Buck's. He didn’t playfully shake him like he usually did, or whisper sweet nothings; instead, he quietly said in his ear, “As you love me, Buck. As you love me.” Buck whined with barely contained excitement.
The crowd was watching curiously. The affair was growing mysterious. It seemed like a conjuration. As Thornton got to his feet, Buck seized his mittened hand between his jaws, pressing in with his teeth and releasing slowly, half-reluctantly. It was the answer, in terms, not of speech, but of love. Thornton stepped well back.
The crowd was watching with curiosity. The situation was becoming mysterious. It felt like magic. As Thornton stood up, Buck grabbed his mittened hand with his jaws, biting down gently and then letting go slowly, almost hesitantly. It was the answer, not in words, but in love. Thornton took a significant step back.
“Now, Buck,” he said.
“Now, Buck,” he said.
Buck tightened the traces, then slacked them for a matter of several inches. It was the way he had learned.
Buck tightened the traces, then loosened them by a few inches. It was how he had learned.
“Gee!” Thornton’s voice rang out, sharp in the tense silence.
“Wow!” Thornton’s voice broke the tense silence.
Buck swung to the right, ending the movement in a plunge that took up the slack and with a sudden jerk arrested his one hundred and fifty pounds. The load quivered, and from under the runners arose a crisp crackling.
Buck swung to the right, finishing the movement with a plunge that took up the slack and suddenly stopped his one hundred fifty pounds. The load shook, and a sharp crackling sound came from under the runners.
“Haw!” Thornton commanded.
“Haw!” Thornton ordered.
Buck duplicated the manœuvre, this time to the left. The crackling turned into a snapping, the sled pivoting and the runners slipping and grating several inches to the side. The sled was broken out. Men were holding their breaths, intensely unconscious of the fact.
Buck repeated the move, this time to the left. The crackling became a snapping sound as the sled turned and the runners slipped and scraped a few inches to the side. The sled was freed. The men were holding their breaths, completely unaware of it.
“Now, MUSH!”
“Now, go!”
Thornton’s command cracked out like a pistol-shot. Buck threw himself forward, tightening the traces with a jarring lunge. His whole body was gathered compactly together in the tremendous effort, the muscles writhing and knotting like live things under the silky fur. His great chest was low to the ground, his head forward and down, while his feet were flying like mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in parallel grooves. The sled swayed and trembled, half-started forward. One of his feet slipped, and one man groaned aloud. Then the sled lurched ahead in what appeared a rapid succession of jerks, though it never really came to a dead stop again...half an inch...an inch... two inches... The jerks perceptibly diminished; as the sled gained momentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along.
Thornton’s command rang out like a gunshot. Buck lunged forward, tightening the traces with a jarring effort. His entire body was tensed up, muscles twisting and knotting under his silky fur. His broad chest was low to the ground, his head pushed forward and down, while his feet were moving frantically, claws digging into the hard-packed snow in parallel tracks. The sled swayed and shook, half-starting forward. One of his feet slipped, and a man groaned loudly. Then the sled lurched ahead in what felt like a rapid series of jerks, though it never completely stopped again... half an inch... an inch... two inches... The jerks gradually lessened; as the sled picked up speed, he caught up with them, until it was moving smoothly forward.
Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they had ceased to breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air. Men were shaking hands, it did not matter with whom, and bubbling over in a general incoherent babel.
Men gasped and started breathing again, not realizing they had momentarily stopped. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheerful words. The distance had been measured, and as he got closer to the pile of firewood that marked the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to build and erupted into a roar as he passed the firewood and stopped at command. Every man was breaking free, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying through the air. Men were shaking hands, it didn’t matter with whom, and overflowing with a general, joyful chatter.
But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and he was shaking him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck, and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and lovingly.
But Thornton dropped to his knees next to Buck. Their heads were touching as he shook him back and forth. Those who rushed over heard him cursing Buck, and he cursed him both intensely and tenderly, softly and affectionately.
“Gad, sir! Gad, sir!” spluttered the Skookum Bench king. “I’ll give you a thousand for him, sir, a thousand, sir—twelve hundred, sir.”
“Wow, sir! Wow, sir!” stammered the Skookum Bench king. “I’ll pay you a thousand for him, sir, a thousand, sir—twelve hundred, sir.”
Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming frankly down his cheeks. “Sir,” he said to the Skookum Bench king, “no, sir. You can go to hell, sir. It’s the best I can do for you, sir.”
Thornton stood up. His eyes were filled with tears. They flowed freely down his cheeks. “Sir,” he said to the Skookum Bench king, “no, sir. You can go to hell, sir. That’s the best I can do for you, sir.”
Buck seized Thornton’s hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and forth. As though animated by a common impulse, the onlookers drew back to a respectful distance; nor were they again indiscreet enough to interrupt.
Buck grabbed Thornton’s hand with his teeth. Thornton shook him back and forth. As if moved by a shared instinct, the onlookers stepped back to a respectful distance; and they didn’t make the mistake of interrupting again.
Chapter VII.
The Sounding of the Call
When Buck earned sixteen hundred dollars in five minutes for John Thornton, he made it possible for his master to pay off certain debts and to journey with his partners into the East after a fabled lost mine, the history of which was as old as the history of the country. Many men had sought it; few had found it; and more than a few there were who had never returned from the quest. This lost mine was steeped in tragedy and shrouded in mystery. No one knew of the first man. The oldest tradition stopped before it got back to him. From the beginning there had been an ancient and ramshackle cabin. Dying men had sworn to it, and to the mine the site of which it marked, clinching their testimony with nuggets that were unlike any known grade of gold in the Northland.
When Buck earned sixteen hundred dollars in five minutes for John Thornton, he enabled his master to pay off some debts and to travel with his partners into the East in search of a legendary lost mine, the story of which was as old as the country itself. Many men had searched for it; few had found it; and quite a number had never returned from the pursuit. This lost mine was filled with tragedy and surrounded by mystery. No one knew who the first man was. The oldest tales didn’t reach back far enough to name him. From the start, there had been an old, dilapidated cabin. Dying men had sworn it was real, and to the mine that it marked, backing up their claims with nuggets that were unlike any gold known in the North.
But no living man had looted this treasure house, and the dead were dead; wherefore John Thornton and Pete and Hans, with Buck and half a dozen other dogs, faced into the East on an unknown trail to achieve where men and dogs as good as themselves had failed. They sledded seventy miles up the Yukon, swung to the left into the Stewart River, passed the Mayo and the McQuestion, and held on until the Stewart itself became a streamlet, threading the upstanding peaks which marked the backbone of the continent.
But no living person had robbed this treasure house, and the dead were gone; so John Thornton, Pete, and Hans, along with Buck and a few other dogs, headed east on an unknown trail to succeed where others had failed. They traveled seventy miles up the Yukon, turned left into the Stewart River, passed the Mayo and the McQuestion, and continued until the Stewart itself became a small stream, weaving through the towering peaks that marked the backbone of the continent.
John Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was unafraid of the wild. With a handful of salt and a rifle he could plunge into the wilderness and fare wherever he pleased and as long as he pleased. Being in no haste, Indian fashion, he hunted his dinner in the course of the day’s travel; and if he failed to find it, like the Indian, he kept on travelling, secure in the knowledge that sooner or later he would come to it. So, on this great journey into the East, straight meat was the bill of fare, ammunition and tools principally made up the load on the sled, and the time-card was drawn upon the limitless future.
John Thornton asked for little from people or nature. He wasn’t afraid of the wilderness. With just some salt and a rifle, he could dive into the wild and go wherever he wanted for as long as he wanted. Taking his time like the Indians, he hunted his dinner throughout the day’s journey; and if he didn’t catch anything, he kept moving, confident that he would find food eventually. So, on this big journey east, straight meat was the main course, and his sled was mainly loaded with ammunition and tools, with no strict schedule, just an open-ended future ahead.
To Buck it was boundless delight, this hunting, fishing, and indefinite wandering through strange places. For weeks at a time they would hold on steadily, day after day; and for weeks upon end they would camp, here and there, the dogs loafing and the men burning holes through frozen muck and gravel and washing countless pans of dirt by the heat of the fire. Sometimes they went hungry, sometimes they feasted riotously, all according to the abundance of game and the fortune of hunting. Summer arrived, and dogs and men packed on their backs, rafted across blue mountain lakes, and descended or ascended unknown rivers in slender boats whipsawed from the standing forest.
To Buck, this hunting, fishing, and endless wandering through unfamiliar places was pure joy. For weeks at a time, they would keep going, day after day; and for weeks on end, they would camp all over the place, with the dogs lounging around and the men digging through frozen muck and gravel and washing countless pans of dirt by the warmth of the fire. Sometimes they went hungry, and other times they feasted heartily, depending on how much game they found and their luck while hunting. Summer came, and with dogs and gear on their backs, they rafted across blue mountain lakes and navigated unknown rivers in narrow boats made from trees cut from the forest.
The months came and went, and back and forth they twisted through the uncharted vastness, where no men were and yet where men had been if the Lost Cabin were true. They went across divides in summer blizzards, shivered under the midnight sun on naked mountains between the timber line and the eternal snows, dropped into summer valleys amid swarming gnats and flies, and in the shadows of glaciers picked strawberries and flowers as ripe and fair as any the Southland could boast. In the fall of the year they penetrated a weird lake country, sad and silent, where wildfowl had been, but where then there was no life nor sign of life—only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered places, and the melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches.
The months passed by, twisting and turning through the empty expanse, where no people were, but where they might have been if the Lost Cabin were real. They crossed divides during summer snowstorms, shivered under the midnight sun on bare mountains between the tree line and the everlasting snow, dropped into summer valleys filled with swarming gnats and flies, and in the shadows of glaciers picked strawberries and flowers as ripe and beautiful as those in the South. In the fall, they ventured into a strange lake region, quiet and somber, where wild birds had once been, but now there was no life or sign of life—only the cold winds blowing, ice forming in sheltered spots, and the sad rippling of waves on deserted beaches.
And through another winter they wandered on the obliterated trails of men who had gone before. Once, they came upon a path blazed through the forest, an ancient path, and the Lost Cabin seemed very near. But the path began nowhere and ended nowhere, and it remained mystery, as the man who made it and the reason he made it remained mystery. Another time they chanced upon the time-graven wreckage of a hunting lodge, and amid the shreds of rotted blankets John Thornton found a long-barrelled flint-lock. He knew it for a Hudson Bay Company gun of the young days in the Northwest, when such a gun was worth its height in beaver skins packed flat, And that was all—no hint as to the man who in an early day had reared the lodge and left the gun among the blankets.
And through another winter, they wandered along the erased trails of those who had come before. Once, they stumbled upon a path cut through the forest, an old path, and the Lost Cabin seemed very close. But the path started nowhere and ended nowhere, and it remained a mystery, just like the man who created it and why he made it. Another time, they came across the weathered remains of a hunting lodge, and among the tattered pieces of rotten blankets, John Thornton found a long-barreled flintlock. He recognized it as a Hudson Bay Company gun from the early days in the Northwest, when such a gun was worth its weight in flat-packed beaver skins. And that was all—no clue about the man who had built the lodge long ago and left the gun among the blankets.
Spring came on once more, and at the end of all their wandering they found, not the Lost Cabin, but a shallow placer in a broad valley where the gold showed like yellow butter across the bottom of the washing-pan. They sought no farther. Each day they worked earned them thousands of dollars in clean dust and nuggets, and they worked every day. The gold was sacked in moose-hide bags, fifty pounds to the bag, and piled like so much firewood outside the spruce-bough lodge. Like giants they toiled, days flashing on the heels of days like dreams as they heaped the treasure up.
Spring arrived again, and after all their wandering, they found not the Lost Cabin, but a shallow area in a wide valley where the gold glimmered like yellow butter at the bottom of the washing pan. They didn’t search any further. Each day they worked brought them thousands of dollars in clean dust and nuggets, and they worked every day. The gold was packed in moose-hide bags, with fifty pounds per bag, and stacked like firewood outside the spruce-bough lodge. Like giants, they labored, days flying by like dreams as they piled up the treasure.
There was nothing for the dogs to do, save the hauling in of meat now and again that Thornton killed, and Buck spent long hours musing by the fire. The vision of the short-legged hairy man came to him more frequently, now that there was little work to be done; and often, blinking by the fire, Buck wandered with him in that other world which he remembered.
There was nothing for the dogs to do except occasionally haul in the meat that Thornton killed, and Buck spent long hours lost in thought by the fire. The image of the short-legged hairy man came to him more often now that there was little work to be done; and often, as he blinked by the fire, Buck drifted off with him in that other world he remembered.
The salient thing of this other world seemed fear. When he watched the hairy man sleeping by the fire, head between his knees and hands clasped above, Buck saw that he slept restlessly, with many starts and awakenings, at which times he would peer fearfully into the darkness and fling more wood upon the fire. Did they walk by the beach of a sea, where the hairy man gathered shellfish and ate them as he gathered, it was with eyes that roved everywhere for hidden danger and with legs prepared to run like the wind at its first appearance. Through the forest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man’s heels; and they were alert and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving and nostrils quivering, for the man heard and smelled as keenly as Buck. The hairy man could spring up into the trees and travel ahead as fast as on the ground, swinging by the arms from limb to limb, sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never falling, never missing his grip. In fact, he seemed as much at home among the trees as on the ground; and Buck had memories of nights of vigil spent beneath trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on tightly as he slept.
The main thing in this other world seemed to be fear. When he watched the hairy man sleeping by the fire, his head between his knees and hands clasped on top, Buck saw that he slept restlessly, frequently jolting awake. During those moments, he would peep fearfully into the darkness and toss more wood onto the fire. When they walked along the beach of a sea, where the hairy man collected shellfish and ate them as he gathered, it was with eyes scanning everywhere for hidden threats and legs ready to sprint at the first sign of danger. They moved quietly through the forest, Buck following closely behind the hairy man; both were alert and watchful, ears twitching and nostrils flaring, since the man could hear and smell as sharply as Buck could. The hairy man could spring up into the trees and travel just as quickly through the branches, swinging from limb to limb, sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching himself, never falling, never missing his grip. In fact, he seemed just as comfortable among the trees as he did on the ground, and Buck remembered nights spent on watch beneath trees where the hairy man roosted, clinging tightly as he slept.
And closely akin to the visions of the hairy man was the call still sounding in the depths of the forest. It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It caused him to feel a vague, sweet gladness, and he was aware of wild yearnings and stirrings for he knew not what. Sometimes he pursued the call into the forest, looking for it as though it were a tangible thing, barking softly or defiantly, as the mood might dictate. He would thrust his nose into the cool wood moss, or into the black soil where long grasses grew, and snort with joy at the fat earth smells; or he would crouch for hours, as if in concealment, behind fungus-covered trunks of fallen trees, wide-eyed and wide-eared to all that moved and sounded about him. It might be, lying thus, that he hoped to surprise this call he could not understand. But he did not know why he did these various things. He was impelled to do them, and did not reason about them at all.
And closely related to the visions of the hairy man was the call still echoing in the depths of the forest. It filled him with a deep unrest and strange desires. It made him feel a vague, sweet happiness, and he sensed wild yearnings and stirrings for something he could not identify. Sometimes he chased the call into the forest, searching for it as if it were something real, barking softly or defiantly, depending on his mood. He would push his nose into the cool moss on the ground or into the dark soil where long grasses grew, snorting with joy at the rich earthy smells; or he would crouch for hours, as if hiding, behind fungus-covered trunks of fallen trees, wide-eyed and alert to everything that moved and sounded around him. Lying there, he might have hoped to catch this call he couldn’t understand. But he didn’t know why he did these various things. He was driven to do them and didn’t think about it at all.
Irresistible impulses seized him. He would be lying in camp, dozing lazily in the heat of the day, when suddenly his head would lift and his ears cock up, intent and listening, and he would spring to his feet and dash away, and on and on, for hours, through the forest aisles and across the open spaces where the niggerheads bunched. He loved to run down dry watercourses, and to creep and spy upon the bird life in the woods. For a day at a time he would lie in the underbrush where he could watch the partridges drumming and strutting up and down. But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called—called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come.
Irresistible urges would take over him. He’d be lying in camp, dozing lazily in the afternoon heat, when suddenly his head would lift and his ears perk up, focused and listening. He would leap to his feet and run off, continuing for hours through the forest paths and across the open areas where the wildflowers gathered. He loved running down dry riverbeds and sneaking around to observe the bird life in the woods. For an entire day, he’d lie in the bushes, watching the partridges drum and strut back and forth. But most of all, he loved to run during the dim twilight of summer nights, listening to the soft, sleepy sounds of the forest, interpreting signs and noises like a person reads a book, and searching for that mysterious something that called—called, whether awake or asleep, at all times for him to come.
One night he sprang from sleep with a start, eager-eyed, nostrils quivering and scenting, his mane bristling in recurrent waves. From the forest came the call (or one note of it, for the call was many noted), distinct and definite as never before,—a long-drawn howl, like, yet unlike, any noise made by husky dog. And he knew it, in the old familiar way, as a sound heard before. He sprang through the sleeping camp and in swift silence dashed through the woods. As he drew closer to the cry he went more slowly, with caution in every movement, till he came to an open place among the trees, and looking out saw, erect on haunches, with nose pointed to the sky, a long, lean, timber wolf.
One night, he suddenly woke up, wide-eyed, with his nostrils flaring, sensing something, his mane standing on end in waves. From the forest came the call (or one note of it, since the call had many notes), clear and distinct like never before—a long howl, similar yet different from any sound made by a husky dog. He recognized it, in that familiar way, as a sound he had heard before. He leaped through the sleeping camp and silently dashed through the woods. As he got closer to the cry, he moved more slowly, being cautious with every step, until he reached a clearing among the trees and looked out to see a long, lean timber wolf standing on its haunches, nose pointed to the sky.
He had made no noise, yet it ceased from its howling and tried to sense his presence. Buck stalked into the open, half crouching, body gathered compactly together, tail straight and stiff, feet falling with unwonted care. Every movement advertised commingled threatening and overture of friendliness. It was the menacing truce that marks the meeting of wild beasts that prey. But the wolf fled at sight of him. He followed, with wild leapings, in a frenzy to overtake. He ran him into a blind channel, in the bed of the creek where a timber jam barred the way. The wolf whirled about, pivoting on his hind legs after the fashion of Joe and of all cornered husky dogs, snarling and bristling, clipping his teeth together in a continuous and rapid succession of snaps.
He was silent, but the howling stopped as it tried to detect his presence. Buck moved into the open, half crouching, his body tightly gathered, tail straight and rigid, feet landing with unusual care. Every movement signaled a mix of threat and a gesture of friendliness. It was the tense peace that comes with the meeting of predatory wild animals. But the wolf ran away as soon as it saw him. Buck chased after it, leaping wildly, desperate to catch up. He cornered the wolf in a narrow channel, in the creek's bed where a log jam blocked the path. The wolf spun around, pivoting on its hind legs like Joe and all other cornered husky dogs, growling and bristling, clacking its teeth together in a rapid, continuous snap.
Buck did not attack, but circled him about and hedged him in with friendly advances. The wolf was suspicious and afraid; for Buck made three of him in weight, while his head barely reached Buck’s shoulder. Watching his chance, he darted away, and the chase was resumed. Time and again he was cornered, and the thing repeated, though he was in poor condition, or Buck could not so easily have overtaken him. He would run till Buck’s head was even with his flank, when he would whirl around at bay, only to dash away again at the first opportunity.
Buck didn’t attack but instead circled around him, approaching in a friendly way. The wolf was wary and scared because Buck weighed three times as much, and his head barely reached Buck's shoulder. Looking for a chance, he took off, and the chase started again. Time after time, he was cornered, and the same thing happened again, even though he wasn’t in great shape; otherwise, Buck wouldn’t have been able to catch up so easily. He would run until Buck’s head was level with his side, then turn to face him, only to take off again at the first chance he got.
But in the end Buck’s pertinacity was rewarded; for the wolf, finding that no harm was intended, finally sniffed noses with him. Then they became friendly, and played about in the nervous, half-coy way with which fierce beasts belie their fierceness. After some time of this the wolf started off at an easy lope in a manner that plainly showed he was going somewhere. He made it clear to Buck that he was to come, and they ran side by side through the sombre twilight, straight up the creek bed, into the gorge from which it issued, and across the bleak divide where it took its rise.
But in the end, Buck’s persistence paid off; the wolf, realizing that Buck meant no harm, finally touched noses with him. They became friends and played in a nervous, almost shy way that fierce animals sometimes do to hide their fierceness. After a while, the wolf started off at an easy jog, clearly heading somewhere. He indicated to Buck that he should follow, and they ran side by side through the darkening twilight, up the creek bed, into the gorge from which it flowed, and across the barren divide where it began.
On the opposite slope of the watershed they came down into a level country where were great stretches of forest and many streams, and through these great stretches they ran steadily, hour after hour, the sun rising higher and the day growing warmer. Buck was wildly glad. He knew he was at last answering the call, running by the side of his wood brother toward the place from where the call surely came. Old memories were coming upon him fast, and he was stirring to them as of old he stirred to the realities of which they were the shadows. He had done this thing before, somewhere in that other and dimly remembered world, and he was doing it again, now, running free in the open, the unpacked earth underfoot, the wide sky overhead.
On the opposite slope of the watershed, they descended into flat land filled with vast forests and numerous streams. They ran steadily through these expanses for hours, the sun climbing higher and the day warming up. Buck felt an overwhelming joy. He knew he was finally responding to the call, running alongside his wood brother towards the place from which the call definitely came. Old memories rushed back to him, and he was reacting to them as he had once responded to the realities they represented. He had done this before, somewhere in that other, vaguely remembered world, and he was doing it again now: running freely outdoors, with the unpaved earth beneath his feet and the wide sky above.
They stopped by a running stream to drink, and, stopping, Buck remembered John Thornton. He sat down. The wolf started on toward the place from where the call surely came, then returned to him, sniffing noses and making actions as though to encourage him. But Buck turned about and started slowly on the back track. For the better part of an hour the wild brother ran by his side, whining softly. Then he sat down, pointed his nose upward, and howled. It was a mournful howl, and as Buck held steadily on his way he heard it grow faint and fainter until it was lost in the distance.
They stopped by a flowing stream to drink, and as they paused, Buck thought about John Thornton. He sat down. The wolf continued on toward the source of the call, then came back to him, sniffing noses and acting like he was trying to encourage him. But Buck turned around and slowly retraced his steps. For most of an hour, the wild brother ran alongside him, softly whining. Then he sat down, lifted his nose to the sky, and howled. It was a sad howl, and as Buck kept moving forward, he heard it fade away until it disappeared into the distance.
John Thornton was eating dinner when Buck dashed into camp and sprang upon him in a frenzy of affection, overturning him, scrambling upon him, licking his face, biting his hand—“playing the general tom-fool,” as John Thornton characterized it, the while he shook Buck back and forth and cursed him lovingly.
John Thornton was having dinner when Buck ran into camp and jumped on him in a burst of affection, knocking him over, scrambling onto him, licking his face, and nipping at his hand—“acting like a complete fool,” as John Thornton described it, while he shook Buck back and forth and lovingly cursed at him.
For two days and nights Buck never left camp, never let Thornton out of his sight. He followed him about at his work, watched him while he ate, saw him into his blankets at night and out of them in the morning. But after two days the call in the forest began to sound more imperiously than ever. Buck’s restlessness came back on him, and he was haunted by recollections of the wild brother, and of the smiling land beyond the divide and the run side by side through the wide forest stretches. Once again he took to wandering in the woods, but the wild brother came no more; and though he listened through long vigils, the mournful howl was never raised.
For two days and nights, Buck stayed in camp, never taking his eyes off Thornton. He followed him while he worked, watched him eat, helped him settle into his blankets at night, and was there as he woke up in the morning. But after two days, the call of the forest started to echo more strongly than ever. Buck felt restless again, haunted by memories of his wild brother and the beautiful land beyond the mountains where they could run together through the vast forest. He began to wander in the woods again, but the wild brother didn’t return, and despite listening for a long time, the sad howl never came.
He began to sleep out at night, staying away from camp for days at a time; and once he crossed the divide at the head of the creek and went down into the land of timber and streams. There he wandered for a week, seeking vainly for fresh sign of the wild brother, killing his meat as he travelled and travelling with the long, easy lope that seems never to tire. He fished for salmon in a broad stream that emptied somewhere into the sea, and by this stream he killed a large black bear, blinded by the mosquitoes while likewise fishing, and raging through the forest helpless and terrible. Even so, it was a hard fight, and it aroused the last latent remnants of Buck’s ferocity. And two days later, when he returned to his kill and found a dozen wolverenes quarrelling over the spoil, he scattered them like chaff; and those that fled left two behind who would quarrel no more.
He started sleeping out at night, staying away from camp for days at a time; and once he crossed the divide at the head of the creek and ventured into the land of trees and rivers. There he roamed for a week, desperately searching for fresh signs of his wild brother, hunting for food as he moved and traveling with a long, easy stride that seemed never to tire. He fished for salmon in a wide stream that flowed somewhere into the ocean, and by this stream, he killed a large black bear, blinded by the mosquitoes while also fishing, and thrashing through the forest in a helpless and terrifying way. Even then, it was a tough fight, and it stirred the last remnants of Buck’s wild instincts. Two days later, when he returned to his kill and found a dozen wolverines fighting over the carcass, he scattered them like leaves; and those that ran off left two behind who would no longer fight.
The blood-longing became stronger than ever before. He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survived. Because of all this he became possessed of a great pride in himself, which communicated itself like a contagion to his physical being. It advertised itself in all his movements, was apparent in the play of every muscle, spoke plainly as speech in the way he carried himself, and made his glorious furry coat if anything more glorious. But for the stray brown on his muzzle and above his eyes, and for the splash of white hair that ran midmost down his chest, he might well have been mistaken for a gigantic wolf, larger than the largest of the breed. From his St. Bernard father he had inherited size and weight, but it was his shepherd mother who had given shape to that size and weight. His muzzle was the long wolf muzzle, save that it was larger than the muzzle of any wolf; and his head, somewhat broader, was the wolf head on a massive scale.
The craving for blood had become stronger than ever. He was a predator, a creature that hunted, living off the things that lived, alone and self-sufficient, relying on his own strength and skill, thriving in a harsh environment where only the strong made it. Because of this, he developed a deep pride in himself that radiated from his very being. It showed in all his movements, was evident in the way his muscles flexed, was as clear as speech in how he held himself, and made his magnificent furry coat even more stunning. If not for the stray brown on his muzzle and above his eyes, and the splash of white hair running down his chest, people might have mistaken him for a gigantic wolf, larger than any of the species. From his St. Bernard father, he got size and weight, but it was his shepherd mother who shaped that size and weight. His muzzle was the long, wolf-like muzzle, but larger than any wolf's; and his head, slightly broader, was a wolf's head on a grand scale.
His cunning was wolf cunning, and wild cunning; his intelligence, shepherd intelligence and St. Bernard intelligence; and all this, plus an experience gained in the fiercest of schools, made him as formidable a creature as any that roamed the wild. A carnivorous animal living on a straight meat diet, he was in full flower, at the high tide of his life, overspilling with vigor and virility. When Thornton passed a caressing hand along his back, a snapping and crackling followed the hand, each hair discharging its pent magnetism at the contact. Every part, brain and body, nerve tissue and fibre, was keyed to the most exquisite pitch; and between all the parts there was a perfect equilibrium or adjustment. To sights and sounds and events which required action, he responded with lightning-like rapidity. Quickly as a husky dog could leap to defend from attack or to attack, he could leap twice as quickly. He saw the movement, or heard sound, and responded in less time than another dog required to compass the mere seeing or hearing. He perceived and determined and responded in the same instant. In point of fact the three actions of perceiving, determining, and responding were sequential; but so infinitesimal were the intervals of time between them that they appeared simultaneous. His muscles were surcharged with vitality, and snapped into play sharply, like steel springs. Life streamed through him in splendid flood, glad and rampant, until it seemed that it would burst him asunder in sheer ecstasy and pour forth generously over the world.
His cleverness was like that of a wolf, instinctual and fierce; his intelligence was a mix of a shepherd's and a St. Bernard's; and all of this, combined with the experience gained in the toughest conditions, made him as intimidating a creature as any that roamed the wild. A carnivorous animal thriving on a strict meat diet, he was in the prime of his life, bursting with energy and vitality. When Thornton ran a gentle hand down his back, a snap and crackle followed, each hair releasing its built-up energy at the touch. Every part of him—brain, body, nerves, and fibers—was tuned to a fine level; and there was a perfect balance between them. He reacted to sights, sounds, and events that called for action with lightning-fast speed. As quickly as a husky could leap to defend itself or go on the attack, he could jump twice as fast. He noticed movement or heard a sound and reacted in less time than another dog would take just to see or hear it. He perceived, processed, and responded all in the same moment. In reality, the three actions of perceiving, processing, and responding happened one after the other; but the gaps of time between them were so tiny that they seemed simultaneous. His muscles were charged with energy and sprang into action sharply, like steel springs. Life flowed through him in abundant waves, joyful and wild, until it felt like he might burst from sheer exhilaration and overflow generously into the world.
“Never was there such a dog,” said John Thornton one day, as the partners watched Buck marching out of camp.
“Never was there such a dog,” John Thornton said one day, as the partners watched Buck strut out of camp.
“When he was made, the mould was broke,” said Pete.
“When he was created, the mold was broken,” said Pete.
“Py jingo! I t’ink so mineself,” Hans affirmed.
“By jingo! I think so myself,” Hans affirmed.
They saw him marching out of camp, but they did not see the instant and terrible transformation which took place as soon as he was within the secrecy of the forest. He no longer marched. At once he became a thing of the wild, stealing along softly, cat-footed, a passing shadow that appeared and disappeared among the shadows. He knew how to take advantage of every cover, to crawl on his belly like a snake, and like a snake to leap and strike. He could take a ptarmigan from its nest, kill a rabbit as it slept, and snap in mid air the little chipmunks fleeing a second too late for the trees. Fish, in open pools, were not too quick for him; nor were beaver, mending their dams, too wary. He killed to eat, not from wantonness; but he preferred to eat what he killed himself. So a lurking humor ran through his deeds, and it was his delight to steal upon the squirrels, and, when he all but had them, to let them go, chattering in mortal fear to the treetops.
They saw him walking out of camp, but they didn't see the instant and terrible change that happened as soon as he entered the cover of the forest. He stopped marching. Suddenly, he became a creature of the wild, moving quietly, like a shadow that appeared and disappeared among the trees. He knew how to use every bit of cover, crawling on his belly like a snake, and like a snake, he could leap and strike. He could take a ptarmigan from its nest, catch a rabbit while it was sleeping, and snap out of the air to catch little chipmunks that fled a moment too late for the trees. Fish in open pools weren't too fast for him, nor were beavers fixing their dams too cautious. He killed to eat, not for sport; but he preferred to eat what he caught himself. So, there was a playful aspect to his actions, and he enjoyed sneaking up on squirrels, and just when he was about to catch them, he would let them go, leaving them chattering in fear as they scampered up to the treetops.
As the fall of the year came on, the moose appeared in greater abundance, moving slowly down to meet the winter in the lower and less rigorous valleys. Buck had already dragged down a stray part-grown calf; but he wished strongly for larger and more formidable quarry, and he came upon it one day on the divide at the head of the creek. A band of twenty moose had crossed over from the land of streams and timber, and chief among them was a great bull. He was in a savage temper, and, standing over six feet from the ground, was as formidable an antagonist as even Buck could desire. Back and forth the bull tossed his great palmated antlers, branching to fourteen points and embracing seven feet within the tips. His small eyes burned with a vicious and bitter light, while he roared with fury at sight of Buck.
As fall approached, moose appeared in larger numbers, slowly migrating to the lower, milder valleys to prepare for winter. Buck had already taken down a young calf, but he was eager for a bigger challenge, and one day he found it at the ridge by the creek. A group of twenty moose had crossed over from the forested streams, and among them was a massive bull. He was in a fierce mood, standing over six feet tall and proving to be a formidable opponent, even for Buck. The bull tossed his enormous, palmated antlers, which branched out to fourteen points and measured seven feet across. His small eyes glowed with a vicious intensity as he bellowed in rage at the sight of Buck.
From the bull’s side, just forward of the flank, protruded a feathered arrow-end, which accounted for his savageness. Guided by that instinct which came from the old hunting days of the primordial world, Buck proceeded to cut the bull out from the herd. It was no slight task. He would bark and dance about in front of the bull, just out of reach of the great antlers and of the terrible splay hoofs which could have stamped his life out with a single blow. Unable to turn his back on the fanged danger and go on, the bull would be driven into paroxysms of rage. At such moments he charged Buck, who retreated craftily, luring him on by a simulated inability to escape. But when he was thus separated from his fellows, two or three of the younger bulls would charge back upon Buck and enable the wounded bull to rejoin the herd.
From the side of the bull, just ahead of the flank, a feathered arrow tip was sticking out, which explained his aggression. Following the instinct that came from the ancient hunting days of a distant past, Buck moved to isolate the bull from the herd. It was no easy task. He would bark and dance in front of the bull, staying just out of reach of the massive antlers and the powerful hooves that could crush him with a single stomp. Unable to ignore the fanged threat and walk away, the bull would be driven into fits of rage. In those moments, he would charge at Buck, who would cleverly back away, pretending he couldn’t escape in order to lure the bull on. But when the bull got separated from the rest of the herd, two or three younger bulls would rush back at Buck, allowing the injured bull to rejoin the group.
There is a patience of the wild—dogged, tireless, persistent as life itself—that holds motionless for endless hours the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, the panther in its ambuscade; this patience belongs peculiarly to life when it hunts its living food; and it belonged to Buck as he clung to the flank of the herd, retarding its march, irritating the young bulls, worrying the cows with their half-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull mad with helpless rage. For half a day this continued. Buck multiplied himself, attacking from all sides, enveloping the herd in a whirlwind of menace, cutting out his victim as fast as it could rejoin its mates, wearing out the patience of creatures preyed upon, which is a lesser patience than that of creatures preying.
There’s a patience in the wild—stubborn, tireless, and as persistent as life itself—that keeps the spider in its web, the snake in its coils, and the panther in its ambush perfectly still for hours on end; this kind of patience is unique to life when it hunts its food, and it was present in Buck as he stayed close to the herd, slowing its movement, annoying the young bulls, bothering the cows with their almost-grown calves, and driving the wounded bull into a frenzy of helpless rage. This went on for half a day. Buck overwhelmed the herd, attacking from all angles, surrounding them in a storm of threat, isolating his target as quickly as it could return to the group, wearing down the patience of the hunted, which is less than the patience of the hunter.
As the day wore along and the sun dropped to its bed in the northwest (the darkness had come back and the fall nights were six hours long), the young bulls retraced their steps more and more reluctantly to the aid of their beset leader. The down-coming winter was harrying them on to the lower levels, and it seemed they could never shake off this tireless creature that held them back. Besides, it was not the life of the herd, or of the young bulls, that was threatened. The life of only one member was demanded, which was a remoter interest than their lives, and in the end they were content to pay the toll.
As the day went on and the sun set in the northwest (darkness had returned and the fall nights were six hours long), the young bulls hesitated more and more as they retraced their steps to help their troubled leader. The approaching winter was pushing them down to the lower levels, and it felt like they could never get rid of this relentless creature holding them back. Plus, it wasn't the lives of the herd or the young bulls that were at stake. Only one member's life was at risk, which felt like a more distant concern than their own, and in the end, they accepted the cost.
As twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his mates—the cows he had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he had mastered—as they shambled on at a rapid pace through the fading light. He could not follow, for before his nose leaped the merciless fanged terror that would not let him go. Three hundredweight more than half a ton he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life, full of fight and struggle, and at the end he faced death at the teeth of a creature whose head did not reach beyond his great knuckled knees.
As twilight descended, the old bull stood with his head down, watching his companions—the cows he had known, the calves he had sired, the bulls he had dominated—as they hurried on through the dimming light. He couldn't follow, because a relentless, fanged terror jumped before him that wouldn't let him escape. Weighing over three hundred pounds, he had lived a long, strong life, filled with battles and challenges, and now he faced death at the jaws of a creature whose head didn't even reach his massive knuckled knees.
From then on, night and day, Buck never left his prey, never gave it a moment’s rest, never permitted it to browse the leaves of trees or the shoots of young birch and willow. Nor did he give the wounded bull opportunity to slake his burning thirst in the slender trickling streams they crossed. Often, in desperation, he burst into long stretches of flight. At such times Buck did not attempt to stay him, but loped easily at his heels, satisfied with the way the game was played, lying down when the moose stood still, attacking him fiercely when he strove to eat or drink.
From then on, day and night, Buck never left his target, never gave it a moment’s peace, and never allowed it to munch on the leaves of trees or the young shoots of birch and willow. He also didn’t let the wounded bull take a break to quench its burning thirst in the thin, trickling streams they crossed. Often, in desperation, the bull would break into long sprints. During those times, Buck didn’t try to stop him but easily trotted behind, pleased with how the chase was going, lying down when the moose paused, and fiercely attacking whenever it tried to eat or drink.
The great head drooped more and more under its tree of horns, and the shambling trot grew weak and weaker. He took to standing for long periods, with nose to the ground and dejected ears dropped limply; and Buck found more time in which to get water for himself and in which to rest. At such moments, panting with red lolling tongue and with eyes fixed upon the big bull, it appeared to Buck that a change was coming over the face of things. He could feel a new stir in the land. As the moose were coming into the land, other kinds of life were coming in. Forest and stream and air seemed palpitant with their presence. The news of it was borne in upon him, not by sight, or sound, or smell, but by some other and subtler sense. He heard nothing, saw nothing, yet knew that the land was somehow different; that through it strange things were afoot and ranging; and he resolved to investigate after he had finished the business in hand.
The massive head sagged more and more under its heavy antlers, and the awkward trot became weaker and weaker. He started standing still for long periods, with his nose to the ground and his droopy ears hanging down; and Buck found more time to get water for himself and to rest. During these moments, panting with his red tongue hanging out and with his eyes fixed on the big bull, Buck felt that something was changing in the world around him. He sensed a new energy in the land. As the moose were arriving, other forms of life were also coming in. The forest, stream, and air seemed alive with their presence. He picked up on this not through sight, sound, or smell, but through some other, more subtle sense. He heard nothing, saw nothing, yet knew that the land was somehow different; that strange things were happening and moving through it; and he decided to investigate once he finished what he was doing.
At last, at the end of the fourth day, he pulled the great moose down. For a day and a night he remained by the kill, eating and sleeping, turn and turn about. Then, rested, refreshed and strong, he turned his face toward camp and John Thornton. He broke into the long easy lope, and went on, hour after hour, never at loss for the tangled way, heading straight home through strange country with a certitude of direction that put man and his magnetic needle to shame.
At last, on the fourth day, he took down the huge moose. For a day and a night, he stayed by the kill, alternating between eating and sleeping. Once he was rested, refreshed, and strong, he faced the direction of camp and John Thornton. He broke into a long, easy run and continued on, hour after hour, never getting lost in the tangled paths, heading straight home through unfamiliar territory with a sense of direction that would put a man and his compass to shame.
As he held on he became more and more conscious of the new stir in the land. There was life abroad in it different from the life which had been there throughout the summer. No longer was this fact borne in upon him in some subtle, mysterious way. The birds talked of it, the squirrels chattered about it, the very breeze whispered of it. Several times he stopped and drew in the fresh morning air in great sniffs, reading a message which made him leap on with greater speed. He was oppressed with a sense of calamity happening, if it were not calamity already happened; and as he crossed the last watershed and dropped down into the valley toward camp, he proceeded with greater caution.
As he held on, he became increasingly aware of the new energy in the land. There was a vitality in the air that was different from the summer’s stillness. This realization didn’t come to him in some subtle, mysterious way anymore. The birds talked about it, the squirrels chattered about it, and even the breeze seemed to be whispering about it. Several times, he stopped to take deep breaths of the fresh morning air, feeling a message that made him move faster. He was weighed down by a feeling of impending disaster, as if it had already happened; and as he crossed the last ridge and descended into the valley toward camp, he moved with extra caution.
Three miles away he came upon a fresh trail that sent his neck hair rippling and bristling, It led straight toward camp and John Thornton. Buck hurried on, swiftly and stealthily, every nerve straining and tense, alert to the multitudinous details which told a story—all but the end. His nose gave him a varying description of the passage of the life on the heels of which he was travelling. He remarked the pregnant silence of the forest. The bird life had flitted. The squirrels were in hiding. One only he saw,—a sleek gray fellow, flattened against a gray dead limb so that he seemed a part of it, a woody excrescence upon the wood itself.
Three miles later, he discovered a fresh trail that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It headed straight toward the camp and John Thornton. Buck moved quickly and quietly, every nerve on edge, fully aware of the countless details that hinted at a story—except for the ending. His nose picked up on the different scents that revealed the life of whatever was ahead of him. He noticed the eerie silence of the forest. The birds were gone. The squirrels were hiding. The only one he spotted was a sleek gray creature, pressed against a gray dead branch, making it look like he was just a part of the wood itself.
As Buck slid along with the obscureness of a gliding shadow, his nose was jerked suddenly to the side as though a positive force had gripped and pulled it. He followed the new scent into a thicket and found Nig. He was lying on his side, dead where he had dragged himself, an arrow protruding, head and feathers, from either side of his body.
As Buck moved smoothly like a shadow, his nose suddenly jerked to the side as if something had gripped it and pulled. He followed the new scent into a thicket and found Nig. He was lying on his side, dead where he had dragged himself, an arrow sticking out, with the head and feathers visible from either side of his body.
A hundred yards farther on, Buck came upon one of the sled-dogs Thornton had bought in Dawson. This dog was thrashing about in a death-struggle, directly on the trail, and Buck passed around him without stopping. From the camp came the faint sound of many voices, rising and falling in a sing-song chant. Bellying forward to the edge of the clearing, he found Hans, lying on his face, feathered with arrows like a porcupine. At the same instant Buck peered out where the spruce-bough lodge had been and saw what made his hair leap straight up on his neck and shoulders. A gust of overpowering rage swept over him. He did not know that he growled, but he growled aloud with a terrible ferocity. For the last time in his life he allowed passion to usurp cunning and reason, and it was because of his great love for John Thornton that he lost his head.
A hundred yards further on, Buck came across one of the sled dogs that Thornton had bought in Dawson. This dog was struggling for its life right in the middle of the trail, and Buck moved past it without stopping. From the camp, he could hear the faint sound of many voices, rising and falling in a sing-song chant. Leaning forward to the edge of the clearing, he found Hans lying face down, covered in arrows like a porcupine. At that moment, Buck looked out where the spruce-bough lodge had been and saw something that made his hair stand up on his neck and shoulders. A wave of overwhelming rage washed over him. He didn’t realize he was growling, but he growled loudly with terrifying intensity. For the last time in his life, he let his emotions take over his cunning and reason, and it was because of his deep love for John Thornton that he lost control.
The Yeehats were dancing about the wreckage of the spruce-bough lodge when they heard a fearful roaring and saw rushing upon them an animal the like of which they had never seen before. It was Buck, a live hurricane of fury, hurling himself upon them in a frenzy to destroy. He sprang at the foremost man (it was the chief of the Yeehats), ripping the throat wide open till the rent jugular spouted a fountain of blood. He did not pause to worry the victim, but ripped in passing, with the next bound tearing wide the throat of a second man. There was no withstanding him. He plunged about in their very midst, tearing, rending, destroying, in constant and terrific motion which defied the arrows they discharged at him. In fact, so inconceivably rapid were his movements, and so closely were the Indians tangled together, that they shot one another with the arrows; and one young hunter, hurling a spear at Buck in mid air, drove it through the chest of another hunter with such force that the point broke through the skin of the back and stood out beyond. Then a panic seized the Yeehats, and they fled in terror to the woods, proclaiming as they fled the advent of the Evil Spirit.
The Yeehats were dancing around the wreckage of the spruce-bough lodge when they heard a terrifying roar and saw an animal rushing toward them like nothing they had ever seen before. It was Buck, a living hurricane of rage, charging at them in a frenzy to destroy. He leaped at the first man (the chief of the Yeehats), ripping open his throat so that blood gushed out like a fountain. He didn’t stop to attack his victim, but in the next leap, he tore open the throat of a second man. There was no stopping him. He dashed through their ranks, tearing, shredding, and destroying in a constant, furious motion that made their arrows useless. In fact, he moved so incredibly fast and the Indians were so tangled up that they ended up shooting each other with their arrows. One young hunter, throwing a spear at Buck while he was in the air, accidentally drove it through the chest of another hunter with such force that the tip broke through his back. Then panic set in among the Yeehats, and they fled in terror into the woods, shouting as they ran about the arrival of the Evil Spirit.
And truly Buck was the Fiend incarnate, raging at their heels and dragging them down like deer as they raced through the trees. It was a fateful day for the Yeehats. They scattered far and wide over the country, and it was not till a week later that the last of the survivors gathered together in a lower valley and counted their losses. As for Buck, wearying of the pursuit, he returned to the desolated camp. He found Pete where he had been killed in his blankets in the first moment of surprise. Thornton’s desperate struggle was fresh-written on the earth, and Buck scented every detail of it down to the edge of a deep pool. By the edge, head and fore feet in the water, lay Skeet, faithful to the last. The pool itself, muddy and discolored from the sluice boxes, effectually hid what it contained, and it contained John Thornton; for Buck followed his trace into the water, from which no trace led away.
And truly, Buck was the embodiment of rage, charging after them and bringing them down like deer as they sprinted through the trees. It was a tragic day for the Yeehats. They scattered all over the area, and it wasn't until a week later that the last of the survivors came together in a lower valley to count their losses. As for Buck, tired of the chase, he returned to the abandoned camp. He found Pete where he had been killed in his blankets during the first moments of surprise. Thornton’s desperate struggle was still visible on the ground, and Buck picked up every detail of it, leading him to the edge of a deep pool. By the water's edge, with his head and front feet in the water, lay Skeet, loyal until the end. The pool itself, muddy and stained from the sluice boxes, effectively concealed what was inside, and it held John Thornton; Buck followed his scent into the water, from which no trace emerged.
All day Buck brooded by the pool or roamed restlessly about the camp. Death, as a cessation of movement, as a passing out and away from the lives of the living, he knew, and he knew John Thornton was dead. It left a great void in him, somewhat akin to hunger, but a void which ached and ached, and which food could not fill. At times, when he paused to contemplate the carcasses of the Yeehats, he forgot the pain of it; and at such times he was aware of a great pride in himself,—a pride greater than any he had yet experienced. He had killed man, the noblest game of all, and he had killed in the face of the law of club and fang. He sniffed the bodies curiously. They had died so easily. It was harder to kill a husky dog than them. They were no match at all, were it not for their arrows and spears and clubs. Thenceforward he would be unafraid of them except when they bore in their hands their arrows, spears, and clubs.
All day Buck sulked by the pool or wandered restlessly around the camp. He understood death as a stop in movement, a departure from the lives of the living, and he knew John Thornton was gone. It left a huge emptiness inside him, somewhat like hunger, but this emptiness ached deeply, and no food could satisfy it. Sometimes, when he paused to look at the bodies of the Yeehats, he forgot the pain for a moment; during those times, he felt a deep pride in himself—a pride greater than anything he had felt before. He had killed a man, the noblest game of all, and he had done it defying the law of club and fang. He sniffed the bodies curiously. They had died so easily. It was harder to kill a husky dog than these men. They were no match at all, except for their arrows, spears, and clubs. From then on, he would not fear them unless they had their arrows, spears, and clubs in hand.
Night came on, and a full moon rose high over the trees into the sky, lighting the land till it lay bathed in ghostly day. And with the coming of the night, brooding and mourning by the pool, Buck became alive to a stirring of the new life in the forest other than that which the Yeehats had made, He stood up, listening and scenting. From far away drifted a faint, sharp yelp, followed by a chorus of similar sharp yelps. As the moments passed the yelps grew closer and louder. Again Buck knew them as things heard in that other world which persisted in his memory. He walked to the centre of the open space and listened. It was the call, the many-noted call, sounding more luringly and compellingly than ever before. And as never before, he was ready to obey. John Thornton was dead. The last tie was broken. Man and the claims of man no longer bound him.
Night fell, and a full moon rose high above the trees, illuminating the land in an eerie light. With night’s arrival, while brooding and grieving by the pool, Buck became aware of a stirring of new life in the forest, different from what the Yeehats had caused. He stood up, listening and sniffing the air. From far away, a faint, sharp yelp drifted in, followed by a chorus of similar yelps. As time passed, the yelps grew closer and louder. Again, Buck recognized them as sounds from that other world that lingered in his memory. He moved to the center of the clearing and listened. It was the call, that rich, many-layered call, sounding more enticing and compelling than ever. And for the first time, he was ready to answer it. John Thornton was dead. The last connection was gone. Man and his demands no longer held him back.
Hunting their living meat, as the Yeehats were hunting it, on the flanks of the migrating moose, the wolf pack had at last crossed over from the land of streams and timber and invaded Buck’s valley. Into the clearing where the moonlight streamed, they poured in a silvery flood; and in the centre of the clearing stood Buck, motionless as a statue, waiting their coming. They were awed, so still and large he stood, and a moment’s pause fell, till the boldest one leaped straight for him. Like a flash Buck struck, breaking the neck. Then he stood, without movement, as before, the stricken wolf rolling in agony behind him. Three others tried it in sharp succession; and one after the other they drew back, streaming blood from slashed throats or shoulders.
Hunting for their food, just like the Yeehats were doing on the migrating moose, the wolf pack finally crossed over from the land of streams and trees and entered Buck’s valley. They flooded into the clearing where the moonlight poured in, and in the center of the clearing stood Buck, as still as a statue, waiting for them. They were impressed by how quiet and large he was, and for a moment, there was a pause until the boldest one jumped straight at him. In a flash, Buck struck, breaking its neck. Then he stood still again, just like before, while the injured wolf rolled in pain behind him. Three others tried to attack in quick succession; one after another, they pulled back, bleeding from slashed throats or shoulders.
This was sufficient to fling the whole pack forward, pell-mell, crowded together, blocked and confused by its eagerness to pull down the prey. Buck’s marvellous quickness and agility stood him in good stead. Pivoting on his hind legs, and snapping and gashing, he was everywhere at once, presenting a front which was apparently unbroken so swiftly did he whirl and guard from side to side. But to prevent them from getting behind him, he was forced back, down past the pool and into the creek bed, till he brought up against a high gravel bank. He worked along to a right angle in the bank which the men had made in the course of mining, and in this angle he came to bay, protected on three sides and with nothing to do but face the front.
This was enough to send the whole group forward in a chaotic rush, tangled up and confused by their eagerness to catch the prey. Buck's incredible speed and agility gave him an advantage. Pivoting on his back legs and snapping out with his teeth, he seemed to be everywhere at once, creating a front that looked solid as he quickly spun around to guard himself from all sides. However, to stop them from getting behind him, he was forced back, past the pool and into the creek bed, until he reached a steep gravel bank. He moved along to a corner in the bank made by the miners, and there he stood his ground, protected on three sides and left with nothing to do but face the front.
And so well did he face it, that at the end of half an hour the wolves drew back discomfited. The tongues of all were out and lolling, the white fangs showing cruelly white in the moonlight. Some were lying down with heads raised and ears pricked forward; others stood on their feet, watching him; and still others were lapping water from the pool. One wolf, long and lean and gray, advanced cautiously, in a friendly manner, and Buck recognized the wild brother with whom he had run for a night and a day. He was whining softly, and, as Buck whined, they touched noses.
And he handled it so well that after half an hour, the wolves backed off, feeling outmatched. Their tongues were out and hanging, and their white fangs looked vicious in the moonlight. Some were lying down with their heads up and ears perked, while others stood watching him, and a few were drinking from the pool. One wolf, long, lean, and gray, approached carefully, in a friendly way, and Buck recognized the wild brother he had run with for a night and a day. He was whining softly, and as Buck whined back, they touched noses.
Then an old wolf, gaunt and battle-scarred, came forward. Buck writhed his lips into the preliminary of a snarl, but sniffed noses with him, Whereupon the old wolf sat down, pointed nose at the moon, and broke out the long wolf howl. The others sat down and howled. And now the call came to Buck in unmistakable accents. He, too, sat down and howled. This over, he came out of his angle and the pack crowded around him, sniffing in half-friendly, half-savage manner. The leaders lifted the yelp of the pack and sprang away into the woods. The wolves swung in behind, yelping in chorus. And Buck ran with them, side by side with the wild brother, yelping as he ran.
Then an old wolf, thin and marked by battles, stepped forward. Buck curled his lips into a subtle snarl but then sniffed noses with him. The old wolf sat down, pointed his nose at the moon, and let out a long wolf howl. The others joined in and howled as well. Now, Buck heard the call clearly. He sat down and howled too. Once that was done, he stepped out of his corner, and the pack gathered around him, sniffing in a mix of friendly and aggressive ways. The leaders raised the pack's yelp and darted into the woods. The wolves followed close behind, howling in unison. Buck ran with them, side by side with his wild brother, howling as he went.
And here may well end the story of Buck. The years were not many when the Yeehats noted a change in the breed of timber wolves; for some were seen with splashes of brown on head and muzzle, and with a rift of white centring down the chest. But more remarkable than this, the Yeehats tell of a Ghost Dog that runs at the head of the pack. They are afraid of this Ghost Dog, for it has cunning greater than they, stealing from their camps in fierce winters, robbing their traps, slaying their dogs, and defying their bravest hunters.
And this may very well be the end of Buck’s story. It wasn't long before the Yeehats noticed a change in the breed of timber wolves; some were spotted with patches of brown on their heads and muzzles, and a streak of white running down their chests. But more astonishing than this, the Yeehats talk about a Ghost Dog that leads the pack. They fear this Ghost Dog because it is smarter than they are, stealing from their camps during harsh winters, raiding their traps, killing their dogs, and challenging their bravest hunters.
Nay, the tale grows worse. Hunters there are who fail to return to the camp, and hunters there have been whom their tribesmen found with throats slashed cruelly open and with wolf prints about them in the snow greater than the prints of any wolf. Each fall, when the Yeehats follow the movement of the moose, there is a certain valley which they never enter. And women there are who become sad when the word goes over the fire of how the Evil Spirit came to select that valley for an abiding-place.
No, the story gets even worse. There are hunters who don’t come back to the camp, and there have been hunters found by their tribesmen with their throats brutally cut and with wolf tracks around them in the snow larger than any wolf's prints. Every fall, when the Yeehats track the movement of the moose, there’s a particular valley they never go into. And there are women who become sorrowful when the word spreads around the fire about how the Evil Spirit chose that valley as a place to stay.
In the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which the Yeehats do not know. It is a great, gloriously coated wolf, like, and yet unlike, all other wolves. He crosses alone from the smiling timber land and comes down into an open space among the trees. Here a yellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks and sinks into the ground, with long grasses growing through it and vegetable mould overrunning it and hiding its yellow from the sun; and here he muses for a time, howling once, long and mournfully, ere he departs.
In the summer, there’s one visitor to that valley that the Yeehats don’t know about. It’s a magnificent, beautifully furred wolf, similar to but different from all other wolves. He travels alone from the lush timberland and enters a clearing among the trees. In this spot, a yellow stream flows from decayed moose-hide sacks and disappears into the ground, with tall grasses growing through it and soil covering it, hiding its yellow from the sun; and he lingers for a while, howling once, long and mournfully, before he leaves.
But he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.
But he isn't always alone. When the long winter nights arrive and the wolves track their prey into the lower valleys, you can see him leading the pack through the pale moonlight or shimmering northern lights, leaping high above his companions, his powerful throat booming as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.
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