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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
*** 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 ***
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 *** 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.