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 the debts and to go with his partners into the East looking for a legendary lost mine, the history of which was as old as the history of the country. Many men had looked for it; few had found it; and more than a few had never returned from the quest. But there was gold higher than any known grade of gold in the Northland.

Thus, John Thornton, Pete and Hans, with Buck and six other dogs, went to 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, turn to the left into the Stewart River, passed the Mayo and the McQuestion, and drove on until the Stewart itself became just a stream.

John Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was unafraid of the wild. With a handful of salt and a rifle he could go wherever he pleased and as long as he pleased. If he failed to find his dinner one day, he kept on travelling, sure that sooner or later he would come to it. So, on this great journey into the East, practically no food was taken, only ammunition and tools, and the deadline was the limitless future.

To Buck it was delight, this hunting, fishing, and going through strange places. For weeks they could drive on; and for weeks they could camp, here and there. Sometimes they were hungry, sometimes they ate a lot. Summer arrived, and they rafted across blue mountain lakes and unknown rivers.

They went where no men were and yet where men had been if the Lost Cabin were true. They went through mountains, valleys, forests and lonely beaches. Once, when another winter arrived, they saw the path and the remains of a hunting lodge, and there John Thornton found an old flint-lock, but there was no hint as to its owner.

Spring came on once more, and at the end 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 did not go farther. Each day they worked earned them thousands of dollars in clean gold dust and nuggets, and they worked every day. The gold was sacked in moose-hide sacks, fifty pounds to the sack, and put like firewood outside their lodge. Like giants they worked, day after day, as they got more and more treasure.

There was nothing for the dogs to do, and Buck spent long hours dreaming by the fire. The vision of the short-legged hairy man came to him more often; and often, in his dreams, Buck walked with him in that other world.

The main thing of this other world was fear. Buck saw that the hairy man slept badly, sometimes looking fearfully into the darkness. He always looked for hidden danger and was ready to run at its first appearance. Through the forest they went noiselessly. The hairy man could jump up into the trees and travel there as fast as on the ground, never falling.

And closely related to the visions of the hairy man was the call still sounding in the forest. It filled him with a great unrest and strange desires. It made him feel a sweet gladness and wild longing for he knew not what. Sometimes he pursued the call into the forest, looking for it as though it were a real thing, barking sometimes. He touched wood moss and black earth with his nose; or lay for hours behind fallen trees, wide-eyed and wide-eared to all that moved and sounded about him. It might be, lying thus, that he hoped to catch this call. But he did not know why he did these things.

Irresistible impulses seized him. He could be lying in camp, dreaming in the heat of the day, when suddenly his head lifted and his ears cocked up, and he sprang to his feet and run away, and on and on, for hours, through the forest and across the open spaces. He loved to run down dry watercourses, and to watch the bird life in the woods. But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the forest, reading signs and sounds as man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called for him to come.

One night he suddenly woke up, eager-eyed, nostrils quivering, mane bristling. From the forest came the call (or one note of it), clear as never before, – a long howl, like, yet unlike, any noise made by a husky dog. And he knew it as a sound heard before. He ran through the sleeping camp and through the woods. As he came closer to the cry he went more slowly, with caution in every movement, till he came to an open place among the trees, and saw, erect on haunches, with nose pointed to the sky, a long, thin timber wolf.

He had made no noise, yet it stopped howling and tried to sense his presence. Buck came into the open, half crouching, body gathered compactly together, tail straight, a mix of threat and friendliness. But the wolf fled at sight of him. Buck followed. He ran him to where the fallen timber blocked the way. The wolf whirled about on his hind legs, like huskies, snarling and bristling, clipping his teeth and snapping.

Buck did not attack, but circled him about friendly. The wolf was afraid, for Buck made three of him in weight, while his head hardly reached Buck’s shoulder. In the end, after much running, the wolf, finding that no harm was meant, finally sniffed noses with him. Then they became friendly, and even played a little. After some time the wolf showed he was going somewhere. He made it clear to Buck that he could come, too, and they ran side by side through the twilight.

They came down into a level country, with great stretches of forest and many streams, and there they ran hour after hour. Buck was wildly glad. He knew he was at last answering the call, running by the side of his wood brother toward the place from where the call surely came. Old memories, of which he used to see only shadows, were coming upon him fast. He was doing it again, as if not for the first time, now, running free, the earth underfoot, the wide sky overhead.

They stopped by a stream to drink, and, stopping, Buck remembered John Thornton. He sat down. The wolf tried to encourage him to follow. But Buck turned and slowly ran back. The wild brother tried to stop him, then howled. It was a mournful howl, and as Buck ran he heard it become fainter until it was lost in the distance.

John Thornton was eating dinner when Buck ran into camp and sprang upon him in a fit of affection, overturning him, licking his face, biting his hand, while he shook Buck back and forth and cursed him lovingly.

For two days and nights Buck never left camp, never let Thornton out of his sight. He followed him, watched him while he ate, worked or went to sleep. But after two days the call in the forest began to sound more imperiously than ever. Buck’s unrest came back on him, and remembered the wild brother and of the smiling wild country. Once again he went in the woods, but the wild brother came no more.

He began to ran away at night, staying away from camp for days; and once he came to the level valley the wolf showed to him. There he stayed for a week, looking in vain for fresh sign of the wild brother, killing his meat and fishing for salmon. Once he killed a large black bear. It was a hard fight, and it woke up the last sleeping pieces of Buck’s ferocity. And two days later, when he returned to the place and found a dozen wolverines quarrelling over the killed bear, he scattered them; and those that ran away left two behind who would quarrel no more.

He was a killer, a beast pf prey, living alone, by his own strength, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survived. Because of all this he had a great pride in himself, seen in all his movements. But for the brown hair on his muzzle and above his eyes, and for the white hair that ran down his chest, he might well have been mistaken for a gigantic wolf. From his St. Bernard father he had inherited size and weight, but it was his shepherd mother who had given shape to that size and weight. His muzzle and his head were wolf-like, only much larger and broader.

His cunning was wolf cunning; his intelligence, shepherd intelligence and St. Bernard intelligence; and all this, plus an experience received in the fiercest of schools, made him a formidable creature. A carnivorous animal living on a straight meat diet, he was at the high tide of his life. When Thornton passed a caressing hand along his back, the magnetism was in every hair. When the action was needed, he acted quickly. He perceived and determined and responded in the same instant. Life streamed through him in splendid flood, glad and wild, and it seemed that it would burst through him and pour generously over the world.

“Never was there such a dog,” said John Thornton one day, as the partners watched Buck marching out of camp.

They saw him marching out of camp, but they did not see the quick and terrible transformation which took place as soon as he was in the forest. At once he became a thing of the wild, moving softly, a shadow that appeared and disappeared among the shadows. He could take a bird from its nest or in mid air, kill a rabbit as it slept, and even fish was not too quick for him.

In autumn, great numbers of moose appeared, moving slowly down to meet the winter in warmer valleys. Buck had already killed a part-grown calf; but he wished for a larger enemy, and he came upon it one day. A band of twenty moose had come from the land of streams and timber, and chief among them was a great bull. He was in a savage mood, all his six feet of height. The bull turned his great antlers, and its small eyes burned when he roared with fury at sight of Buck.

From the bull’s side protruded a feathered arrow-end, which spoke for his savageness. Guided by the instinct which came from the old hunting days of the primordial world, Buck cut the bull out from the herd. It was no easy task. He barked and danced in front of the bull, just out of reach of the great antlers and of the terrible hoofs which could have taken his life with a single blow.

There is a patience in the wild, persistent as life itself. And the patience of creatures preyed upon is a lesser patience than that of creatures preying. Buck spent half a day getting the wounded moose away from the herd. Other moose stopped helping the chief and were on their way. The life of only one member was demanded for them to continue their way in safety, and in the end they were ready to pay this price.

As twilight fell the old bull stood with lowered head, watching his mates – the cows he had known, the calves he had fathered, the bulls he had mastered – as they went on. He could not follow, for before his nose was the merciless fanged terror that would not let him go. More than half a ton he weighed; he had lived a long, strong life, full of fight, and at the end he faced death at the teeth of a creature whose head did not reach beyond his knees.

From then on, night and day, Buck never left his prey, never gave it a moment’s rest, nor did he give the wounded bull opportunity to eat or drink. Often, in desperation, the moose started to run. Buck did not attempt to stop him, but ran easily at his heels, satisfied with the way the game was played, lying down when the moose stood still.

At last, at the end of the fourth day, he killed the weakened moose. For a day and a night he remained by the kill, eating and sleeping. Then, rested, refreshed and strong, he turned toward camp and John Thornton. He ran on, hour after hour, heading straight home through strange country with a sense of direction that put man and his magnetic needle to shame.

As he ran on he became more and more aware of the new order in the land. There was life different from the life which had been there throughout the summer. The birds and squirrels and winds talked of it. Several times he stopped and sniffed the fresh morning air, reading a message which made him run with greater speed. He had a sense of calamity happening, if it were not calamity already happened; and as he crossed the last stream and came down into the valley toward camp, he stepped with greater caution.

Three miles away he came upon a fresh trail that made his neck hair bristle. It led straight toward camp and John Thornton. Buck hurried on, every nerve strained, aware to the many details which told a story – all but the end.

As Buck ran, he found Nig in the bushes, dead where he had fallen, with an arrow through his body. A hundred yards farther on, Buck saw one of the sled-dogs Thornton had bought in Dawson. This dog was dying in agony, directly on the trail, and Buck passed around him without stopping. From the camp came the sound of many voices, rising and falling, like a song. Creeping forward, he found Hans, lying on his face, all in arrows like a porcupine. At the same instant Buck looked at where the lodge had been and saw what made his hair stand straight up on his neck and shoulders. Overpowering rage came over him. He did not know that he growled, but he growled aloud with a terrible ferocity. For the last time in his life he allowed passion to be stronger than reason, and it was because of his great love for John Thornton.

The Indians were dancing about the remains of the lodge when they heard a fearful roaring and saw rushing upon them an animal the like of which they had never seen before. It was Buck, a live hurricane of fury, rushing upon them to destroy. He sprang at the first man (it was the chief of the tribe), ripping the throat wide open till the artery gave a fountain of blood. He did not pause and tore the throat of a second man. He was irresistible. So fast were his movements, and so closely were the Indians standing, that they shot one another with the arrows. A panic came over them, and they fled in terror to the woods, crying of the coming of the Evil Spirit.

And truly Buck was the Fiend incarnate, raging at their heels and killing them like deer. It was a fateful day for the tribe. It was not till a week later that the last of the survivors gathered together in a lower valley and counted their losses.

As for Buck, tired, he returned to the camp. He found Pete where he had been killed in his blankets in the first moment of surprise. Thornton’s desperate struggle was fresh-written on the earth, and Buck scented every detail of it down to the edge of a deep pool. By the edge, head and fore feet in the water, lay Skeet, faithful to the last. The pool itself, muddy and discoloured, effectually hid what it contained, and it contained John Thornton; for Buck followed his trace into the water, from which no trace led away.

All day Buck walked up and down by the pool or about the camp. He knew that death was a stop of movement, a passing away from the lives of the living, and he knew John Thornton was dead. It left a great empty space in him, somewhat like hunger, but a space which hurt and hurt, and which food could not fill. At times, when he paused over the bodies of the Indians, he forgot the pain; and at such times he was aware of a great pride in himself, – a pride greater than any he had yet experienced. He had killed man, the noblest game of all, and so he had broken the law of club and fang. He sniffed the bodies curiously. They had died so easily. It was harder to kill a husky dog than them. So he must be unafraid of them except when they had in their hands their arrows, spears, and clubs.

With the coming of the night, mourning by the pool, Buck felt the new life in the forest, other than that which the Indians had left. He stood up, listening and scenting. From far away came a faint, sharp yelp, followed by a chorus of similar sharp yelps. The yelps became closer and louder. Again Buck knew them as things heard in that other, primodial world. He walked to the centre of the open space and listened. It was the call, the many-noted call, sounding more imperiously than ever before. And now he was ready to follow it. John Thornton was dead. The last connection was broken. Mankind no longer held him.

The wolf pack had at last crossed over from the land of streams and timber and came to Buck’s valley. Like a silvery flood they were moving, and in the centre of the clearing stood Buck, motionless as a statue, waiting for their coming. They were amazed, so still and large he stood, and a moment’s pause fell, after which the boldest one leaped straight for him. Buck struck quickly, breaking the neck. Then he stood, without movement, as before, the beaten wolf rolling in agony behind him. Three others tried; and one after the other they drew back, in blood from slashed throats or shoulders.

The whole pack came forward, crowded together, in its eagerness to kill the prey. Buck’s excellent quickness and agility helped him. He was everywhere at once. To prevent them from getting behind him, he moved down past the pool and up a high bank, to the place protected on three sides.

At the end of half an hour the wolves drew back, confused. One wolf, thin and grey, approached cautiously, in a friendly manner, and Buck recognized the wild brother. He was whining softly, and, as Buck whined, they touched noses.

Then an old, battle-scared wolf came forward. Buck was ready to snarl, but sniffed noses with him. The old wolf sat down, pointed nose at the moon, and started the long howl. The others sat down and howled. And now the call came to Buck unmistakably. He, too, sat down and howled. Then he came out of his angle and the pack went around him, sniffing in half-friendly, half-savage manner. The old wolf, then, showed it was time to be on the way. And Buck ran with them, side by side with the wild brother, yelping as he ran, like his brother did.

And here may end the story of Buck. Soon the Indians noted a change in timber wolves; for some were with brown on head and muzzle, and with white down the chest. Also, they tell of a Ghost Dog that runs at the head of the pack. They are afraid of this Ghost Dog, for it is cunning, stealing from their camps in winters and slaying their dogs and even their hunters.

There is a certain valley which the Indians never enter. They believe that the Evil Spirit lives there. In the summers there is one visitor, however, to that valley, of which they do not know. It is a great, beautifully coated wolf, like, and yet unlike, all other wolves. He comes down into an open space among the trees. Here a yellow stream flows from rotted moose-hide sacks into the ground, with long grasses growing through it; and here he stops, howling once, long and mournfully, before he leaves.

But he is not always alone. On some nights, he may be seen running at the head of the pack in moonlight or at dawn, leaping gigantic above his fellows, as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.