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 François and the Scotch half-breed had passed out.Even in the night, in his dreams, he was haunted by this fear.At such times he would shake off sleep and creep through the chill to the flap of the tent,where he would stand and listen to the sound of his master’s breathing.
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 manœuvre, this time to the left. The crackling turned into a snapping,the sled pivoting and the runners slipping and grating several inches to the side.The sled was broken out. Men were holding their breaths, intensely unconscious of the fact.
“Now, MUSH!”
Thornton’s command cracked out like a pistol-shot. Buck threw himself forward,tightening the traces with a jarring lunge.His whole body was gathered compactly together in the tremendous effort,the muscles writhing and knotting like live things under the silky fur.His great chest was low to the ground, his head forward and down,while his feet were flying like mad, the claws scarring the hard-packed snow in parallel grooves.The sled swayed and trembled, half-started forward. One of his feet slipped,and one man groaned aloud. Then the sled lurched ahead in what appeared a rapid succession of jerks,though it never really came to a dead stop again...half an inch...an inch... two inches...The jerks perceptibly diminished; as the sled gained momentum, he caught them up, till it was moving steadily along.
Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they had ceased to breathe.Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words.The distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards,a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the firewood and halted at command.Every man was tearing himself loose, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air.Men were shaking hands, it did not matter with whom,and bubbling over in a general incoherent babel.
But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head,and he was shaking him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck,and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and lovingly.
“Gad, sir!Gad, sir!” spluttered the Skookum Bench king. “I’ll give you a thousand for him, sir, a thousand, sir—twelve hundred, sir.”
Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming frankly down his cheeks.“Sir,” he said to the Skookum Bench king, “no, sir. You can go to hell, sir. It’s the best I can do for you, sir.”
Buck seized Thornton’s hand in his teeth. Thornton shook him back and forth.As though animated by a common impulse, the onlookers drew back to a respectful distance;nor were they again indiscreet enough to interrupt.
Chapter VII. The Sounding of the Call
When Buck earned sixteen hundred dollars in five minutes for John Thornton,he made it possible for his master to pay off certain debts and to journey with his partners into the East after a fabled lost mine,the history of which was as old as the history of the country. Many men had sought it;few had found it; and more than a few there were who had never returned from the quest.This lost mine was steeped in tragedy and shrouded in mystery. No one knew of the first man.The oldest tradition stopped before it got back to him.From the beginning there had been an ancient and ramshackle cabin. Dying men had sworn to it,and to the mine the site of which it marked,clinching their testimony with nuggets that were unlike any known grade of gold in the Northland.
But no living man had looted this treasure house, and the dead were dead;wherefore John Thornton and Pete and Hans, with Buck and half a dozen other dogs,faced into the East on an unknown trail to achieve where men and dogs as good as themselves had failed.They sledded seventy miles up the Yukon, swung to the left into the Stewart River,passed the Mayo and the McQuestion, and held on until the Stewart itself became a streamlet,threading the upstanding peaks which marked the backbone of the continent.
John Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was unafraid of the wild.With a handful of salt and a rifle he could plunge into the wilderness and fare wherever he pleased and as long as he pleased.Being in no haste, Indian fashion, he hunted his dinner in the course of the day’s travel;and if he failed to find it, like the Indian, he kept on travelling,secure in the knowledge that sooner or later he would come to it. So,on this great journey into the East, straight meat was the bill of fare,ammunition and tools principally made up the load on the sled,and the time-card was drawn upon the limitless future.
To Buck it was boundless delight, this hunting, fishing,and indefinite wandering through strange places. For weeks at a time they would hold on steadily,day after day; and for weeks upon end they would camp, here and there,the dogs loafing and the men burning holes through frozen muck and gravel and washing countless pans of dirt by the heat of the fire.Sometimes they went hungry, sometimes they feasted riotously,all according to the abundance of game and the fortune of hunting. Summer arrived,and dogs and men packed on their backs, rafted across blue mountain lakes,and descended or ascended unknown rivers in slender boats whipsawed from the standing forest.
The months came and went, and back and forth they twisted through the uncharted vastness,where no men were and yet where men had been if the Lost Cabin were true.They went across divides in summer blizzards,shivered under the midnight sun on naked mountains between the timber line and the eternal snows,dropped into summer valleys amid swarming gnats and flies,and in the shadows of glaciers picked strawberries and flowers as ripe and fair as any the Southland could boast.In the fall of the year they penetrated a weird lake country, sad and silent,where 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.