الفصل الفصل 4 · Who Has Won to Mastership

. 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.