THE CALL OF THE WILD

by Jack London

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 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 stern, demanding instant
obedience, and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while Dave, who
was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck's hind quarters whenever he was in
error. Spitz was the leader, likewise experienced, and while he could not always
get at Buck, he growled sharp reproof now and again, or cunningly threw his
weight in the traces to jerk Buck into the way he should go. Buck learned easily,
and under the combined tuition of his two mates and 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 Solleks 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.

Ebd
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 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. All day long he limped in agony, and camp
once made, lay down like a dead dog. Hungry as he was, he would not move to
receive his ration of fish, which 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 look, 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 gentler 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.

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 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 all the while whining and yelping and crying with
grief and pain. The half-breed tried to drive him away with the whip; but he paid
no heed to the stinging lash, and the man had not the heart to strike harder. Dave
refused to run quietly on the trail behind the sled, where the going was easy, but
continued to flounder alongside in the soft snow, where the going was most
difficult, till exhausted. Then he fell, and lay where he fell, howling lugubriously
as the long train of sleds churned by.
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.

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 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 doubling the fatigue of a day's
travel. There was nothing the matter with them except that they were dead tired.
It was not the dead-tiredness that comes through brief and excessive effort, from
which recovery is a matter of hours; but it was the dead-tiredness that comes
through the slow and prolonged strength drainage of months of toil. There was no
power of recuperation left, no reserve strength to call upon. It had been all used,
the last least bit of it. Every muscle, every fibre, every cell, was tired, dead tired.
And there was reason for it. In less than five months they had travelled twenty-
five hundred miles, during the last eighteen hundred of which they had had but
five days' rest. When they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their last
legs. They could barely keep the traces taut, and on the down grades just managed
to keep out of the way of the sled.
"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. All things were thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining
to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away from beneath; the sun ate
from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin
sections of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting,
rending, throbbing of awakening life, under the blazing sun and through the soft-
sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men, the woman, and
the huskies.
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.

Ebd
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 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.

Ebd
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 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 wildfowl had been, but where then there was no
life nor sign of life—only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered
places, and the melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches.
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 shellfish and ate
them as he gathered, it was with eyes that roved everywhere for hidden danger
and with legs prepared to run like the wind at its first appearance. Through the
forest they crept noiselessly, Buck at the hairy man's heels; and they were alert
and vigilant, the pair of them, ears twitching and moving and nostrils quivering,
for the man heard and smelled as keenly as Buck. The hairy man could spring up
into the trees and travel ahead as fast as on the ground, swinging by the arms
from limb to limb, sometimes a dozen feet apart, letting go and catching, never
falling, never missing his grip. In fact, he seemed as much at home among the
trees as on the ground; and Buck had memories of nights of vigil spent beneath
trees wherein the hairy man roosted, holding on tightly as he slept.
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 discharging its pent magnetism at the contact. Every
part, brain and body, nerve tissue and fibre, was keyed to the most exquisite
pitch; and between all the parts there was a perfect equilibrium or adjustment. To
sights and sounds and events which required action, he responded with lightning-
like rapidity. Quickly as a husky dog could leap to defend from attack or to
attack, he could leap twice as quickly. He saw the movement, or heard sound, and
responded in less time than another dog required to compass the mere seeing or
hearing. He perceived and determined and responded in the same instant. In point
of fact the three actions of perceiving, determining, and responding were
sequential; but so infinitesimal were the intervals of time between them that they
appeared simultaneous. His muscles were surcharged with vitality, and snapped
into play sharply, like steel springs. Life streamed through him in splendid flood,
glad and rampant, until it seemed that it would burst him asunder in sheer ecstasy
and pour forth generously over the world.
"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 the
pregnant silence of the forest. The bird life had flitted. The squirrels were in
hiding. One only he saw,—a sleek gray fellow, flattened against a gray dead limb
so that he seemed a part of it, a woody excrescence upon the wood itself.
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.

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