The breaking down of discipline likewise affected the dogs in their relations with one another.They quarrelled and bickered more than ever among themselves,till at times the camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and Sol-leks alone were unaltered,though they were made irritable by the unending squabbling. François swore strange barbarous oaths,and stamped the snow in futile rage, and tore his hair. His lash was always singing among the dogs,but it was of small avail. Directly his back was turned they were at it again.He backed up Spitz with his whip, while Buck backed up the remainder of the team.François knew he was behind all the trouble, and Buck knew he knew;but Buck was too clever ever again to be caught red-handed. He worked faithfully in the harness,for the toil had become a delight to him;yet it was a greater delight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the traces.
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 full 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 manœuvred for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks.He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring,their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to fall.Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone.Only Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, snarling with horrible menace,as though to frighten off impending death. Then Buck sprang in and out; but while he was in,shoulder had at last squarely met shoulder.The dark circle became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as Spitz disappeared from view.Buck stood and looked on, the successful champion,the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill and found it good.
Chapter IV. Who Has Won to Mastership
“Eh?Wot I say?I spik true w’en I say dat Buck two devils.” This was François’s speech next morning when he discovered Spitz missing and Buck covered with wounds.He drew him to the fire and by its light pointed them out.
“Dat Spitz fight lak hell,” said Perrault, as he surveyed the gaping rips and cuts.
“An’ dat Buck fight lak two hells,” was François’s answer. “An’ now we make good time. No more Spitz, no more trouble, sure.”
While Perrault packed the camp outfit and loaded the sled,the dog-driver proceeded to harness the dogs.Buck trotted up to the place Spitz would have occupied as leader; but François, not noticing him,brought Sol-leks to the coveted position. In his judgment, Sol-leks was the best lead-dog left.Buck sprang upon Sol-leks in a fury, driving him back and standing in his place.
“Eh?eh?” François 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. François was obdurate,but when he turned his back Buck again displaced Sol-leks, who was not at all unwilling to go.
François 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 François,for he was become wise in the way of clubs. The driver went about his work,and he called to Buck when he was ready to put him in his old place in front of Dave.Buck retreated two or three steps. François followed him up, whereupon he again retreated.After some time of this, François threw down the club, thinking that Buck feared a thrashing.But Buck was in open revolt. He wanted, not to escape a clubbing, but to have the leadership.It was his by right. He had earned it, and he would not be content with less.
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.
François sat down and scratched his head. Perrault looked at his watch and swore. Time was flying,and they should have been on the trail an hour gone. François scratched his head again.He shook it and grinned sheepishly at the courier,who shrugged his shoulders in sign that they were beaten.Then François went up to where Sol-leks stood and called to Buck. Buck laughed, as dogs laugh,yet kept his distance. François unfastened Sol-leks’s traces and put him back in his old place.The team stood harnessed to the sled in an unbroken line, ready for the trail.There was no place for Buck save at the front. Once more François called,and once more Buck laughed and kept away.
“T’row down de club,” Perrault commanded.
François complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly,and swung around into position at the head of the team. His traces were fastened,the sled broken out, and with both men running they dashed out on to the river trail.
Highly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he found,while the day was yet young, that he had undervalued.At a bound Buck took up the duties of leadership; and where judgment was required,and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior even of Spitz,of whom François had never seen an equal.
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 François’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 François threw chests up and down the main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink,while the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd of dog-busters and mushers.Then three or four western bad men aspired to clean out the town,were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and public interest turned to other idols.Next came official orders. François called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over him.And that was the last of François and Perrault. Like other men,they passed out of Buck’s life for good.
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.
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 François and the others who had gone before. When driven with his mates to the new owners’ camp, Buck saw a slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed, everything in disorder; also, he saw a woman. “Mercedes” the men called her. She was Charles’s wife and Hal’s sister—a nice family party.