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The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Contents

I Into the Primitive

II The Law of Club and Fang

III The Dominant Primordial Beast

IV Who Has Won to Mastership

V The Toil of Trace and Tail

VI For the Love of a Man

VII The Sounding of the Call

Chapter I

Into the Primitive

"Old longings nomadic leap,

Chafing at custom's chain;

Again from its brumal sleep

Wakens the ferine strain."

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," said Manuel, and the

stranger grunted a ready affirmative.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it

over for a thousand, cold cash."

His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right

trouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

"How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded.

"A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help

me."

"That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated;

"and he's worth it, or I'm a squarehead."

The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his

lacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby--"

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"You ain't going to take him out now?" the driver asked.

"Sure," the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a

pry.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

"He's no slouch at dog-breakin', that's wot I say," one of the men

on the wall cried enthusiastically.

"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.

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.

" '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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Sacredam!" he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. "Dat one dam

bully dog! Eh? How moch?"

"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?"

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.

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 Francois. Perrault was a

French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois 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 Francois were

fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too

wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.

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 Francois's whip sang

through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained

to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he

decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck's estimation.

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.

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. Francois 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Francois, 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.

Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic

passing of Curly, he received another shock. Francois 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 Francois

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. Francois was stem, 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 Francois 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.

"T'ree vair' good dogs," Francois told Perrault. "Dat Buck, heem

pool lak hell. I tich heem queek as anyt'ing."

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 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.

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 Francois 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.

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.

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.

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.

A shout from Francois hailed his appearance. "Wot I say?" the

dog-driver cried to Perrault. "Dat Buck for sure learn queek as

anyt'ing."

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.

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

Canon. 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.

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.

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

Francois'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.

Francois's whip snapped less frequently, and Perrault even honored

Buck by lifting up his feet and carefully examining them.

It was a hard day's run, up the Canon, 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.

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. Francois, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Francois 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.

Close in under the sheltering rock Buck made his nest. So snug

and warm was it, that he was loath to leave it when Francois

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.

Francois 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!"

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.

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.

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.

Perrault and Francois, 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.

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 Francois's whip. He

broke from a mournful contemplation of it to look over his wounded

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?"

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 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.

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.

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 Francois, pulling till his tendons

cracked.

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 Francois 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.

Francois 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.

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.

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. AU 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 Francois 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 Francois 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.

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 took, he could hear her snarling just one leap behind.

Francois 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 Francois 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.

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 Francois's lash descended,

and Buck had the satisfaction of watching Spitz receive the worst

whipping as yet administered to any of the teams.

"One devil, dat Spitz," remarked Perrault. "Some dam day heem

keel dat Buck."

"Dat Buck two devils, " was Francois'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."

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.

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.

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. Francois 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.

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 Francois, 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.

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 Francois 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 Francois 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Francois. 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.

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. Francois

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. Francois 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 fall pack at Buck's heels raised a hell's

chorus of delight.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a

thing reserved for gender climes. He manoeuvred 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.

Chapter IV

Who Has Won to Mastership

"Eh? Wot I say? I spik true w'en I say dat Buck two devils."

This was Francois'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.

"Dat Spitz fight lak hell," said Perrault, as he surveyed the

gaping rips and cuts.

"An' dat Buck fight lak two hells," was Francois's answer. "An'

now we make good time. No more Spitz, no more trouble, 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 Francois, 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.

"Eh? eh?" Francois cried, slapping his thighs gleefully. "Look at

dat Buck. Heem keel dat Spitz, heem t'ink to take de job."

"Go 'way, Chook!" he cried, but Buck refused to budge.

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. Francois was obdurate, but when he turned his back Buck

again displaced Sol-leks, who was not at all unwilling to go.

Francois was angry. "Now, by Gar, I feex you!" he cried, coming

back 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 Francois, 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.

Francois followed him up, whereupon he again retreated. After

some time of this, Francois 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.

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.

Francois 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. Francois scratched his head again. He

shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier, who shrugged his

shoulders in sign that they were beaten. Then Francois went up to

where Sol-leks stood and called to Buck. Buck laughed, as dogs

laugh, yet kept his distance. Francois 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 Francois

called, and once more Buck laughed and kept away.

"T'row down de club," Perrault commanded.

Francois 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.

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 Francois had

never seen an equal.

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.

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.

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 Francois's breath.

"Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!" he cried. "No, nevaire! Heem

worth one t'ousan' dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot 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.

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.

It was a record run. Each day for fourteen days they had averaged

forty miles. For three days Perrault and Francois 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. Francois called Buck to him,

threw his arms around him, wept over him. And that was the last

of Francois and Perrault. Like other men, they passed out of

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 A 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

They were all terribly footsore. No spring or rebound was left in

them. Their feet fell heavily on the trail, jarring their bodies

and doubting 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.

"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'."

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.

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.

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 Francois 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 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.

Three men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning

and winking at one another.

"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."

"Undreamed of!" cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty

dismay. "However in the world could I manage without a tent?"

"It's springtime, and you won't get 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.

"Think it'll ride?" one of the men asked.

"Why shouldn't it?" Charles demanded rather shortly.

"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."

Charles turned his back and drew the lashings down as well as he

could, which was not in the least well.

"An' of course the dogs can hike along all day with that

contraption behind them," affirmed a second of the men.

"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!"

The dogs sprang against the breast-bands, strained hard for a few

moments, then relaxed. They were unable to move the sled.

"The lazy brutes, I'll show them," he cried, preparing to lash out

at 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."

"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."

Mercedes looked at them imploringly, untold repugnance at sight of

pain written in her pretty 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."

"Rest be blanked," said Hal, with his beardless lips; and Mercedes

said, "Oh!" in pain and sorrow at the oath.

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."

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.

"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.

One of the onlookers, who had been clenching his teeth to suppress

hot speech, now spoke up:--

"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."

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music

of unseen fountains. AU 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.

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.

"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.

"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."

"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!"

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.

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.

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 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.

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 failing tree. Mercedes screamed.

Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not

get up because of his stiffness.

John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too

convulsed with rage to speak.

"If you strike that dog again, I'll kill you," he at last managed

to say in a choking 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."

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.

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.

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.

John Thornton and Buck looked at each other.

"You poor devil," 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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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 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 Francois 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"It's uncanny," Pete said, after it was over and they had caught

their speech.

Thornton shook his head. "No, it is splendid, and it is terrible,

too. Do you know, it sometimes makes me afraid."

"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.

"Py Jingo!" was Hans's contribution. "Not mineself 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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 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.

"Pooh! pooh!" said John Thornton; "Buck can start 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," John

Thornton said coolly.

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Can you lend 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."

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.

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.

"Three to one!" he proclaimed. "I'll lay you another thousand at

that figure, Thornton. What d'ye say?"

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.

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.

"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."

Thornton shook his head and stepped to Buck's side.

"You must stand off from him," Matthewson protested. "Free play

and plenty of room."

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.

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.

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.

"Now, Buck," he said.

Buck tightened the traces, then slacked them for a matter of

several inches. It was the way he had learned.

"Gee!" Thornton's voice rang out, sharp in 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.

"Haw!" Thornton commanded.

Buck duplicated the manoeuvre, 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.

"Now, MUSH!"

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.

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.

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.

"Gad, sir! Gad, sir!" spluttered the Skookum Bench king. "I'll

give 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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 wild-

fowl 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 shell-

fish 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 was larger than the muzzle of

any wolf; and his head, somewhat broader, was the wolf head on a

massive 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 intelligence 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 discharing 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.

"Never was there such a dog," said John Thornton one day, as the

partners watched Buck marching out of camp.

"When he was made, the mould was broke," said Pete.

"Py jingo! I t'ink so mineself," 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 die 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

* * *

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.

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.

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.

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.

END

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