THE DOMINANT PRIMORDIAL BEAST
 THE dominant primordial beast was strong in Buck, and under the fierce conditions of trail life it grew and
grew. Yet it was a secret growth. His newborn cunning gave him poise and control. He was too busy adjusting
himself to the new life to feel at ease, and not only did he not pick fights, but he avoided them whenever
possible. A certain deliberateness characterized his attitude. He was not prone to rashness and precipitate
action; and in the bitter hatred between him and Spitz he betrayed no impatience, shunned all offensive acts.
 On the other hand, possibly because he divined in Buck a dangerous rival, Spitz never lost an opportunity of
showing his teeth. He even went out of his way to bully Buck, striving constantly to start the fight which
could end only in the death of one or the other. Early in the trip this might have taken place had it not been
for an unwonted accident. At the end of this day they made a bleak and miserable camp on the shore of Lake Le
Barge. Driving snow, a wind that cut like a white-hot knife, and darkness had forced them to grope for a
camping place. They could hardly have fared worse. At their backs rose a perpendicular wall of rock, and
Perrault and François were compelled to make their fire and spread their sleeping robes on the ice of the lake
itself. The tent they had discarded at Dyea in order to travel light. A few sticks of driftwood furnished them
with a fire that thawed down through the ice and left them to eat supper in the dark.
Close in under the sheltering rock Buck made his nest. So snug and warm was it, that
 he was loath to leave it when François distributed the fish which he had first thawed over the fire. But when
Buck finished his ration and returned, he found his nest occupied. A warning snarl told him that the
trespasser was Spitz. Till now Buck had avoided trouble with his enemy, but this was too much. The beast in
him roared. He sprang upon Spitz with a fury which surprised them both, and Spitz particularly, for his whole
experience with Buck had gone to teach him that his rival was an unusually timid dog, who managed to hold his
own only because of his great weight and size.
François was surprised, too, when they shot out in a tangle from the disrupted nest and he divined the cause
of the trouble. "A-a-ah!" he cried to Buck. "Gif it to heem, by Gar! Gif it to heem, the dirty t'eef!"
Spitz was equally willing. He was crying with sheer rage and eagerness as he circled back and forth for a
chance to spring in. Buck was no less eager, and no less cautious, as he likewise circled back and forth for
the advantage. But it was then that the
 unexpected happened, the thing which projected their struggle for supremacy far into the future, past many a
weary mile of trail and toil.
An oath from Perrault, the resounding impact of a club upon a bony frame, and a shrill yelp of pain, heralded
the breaking forth of pandemonium. The camp was suddenly discovered to be alive with skulking furry
forms,—starving huskies, four or five score of them, who had scented the camp from some Indian village.
They had crept in while Buck and Spitz were fighting, and when the two men sprang among them with stout clubs
they showed their teeth and fought back. They were crazed by the smell of the food. Perrault found one with
head buried in the grub-box. His club landed heavily on the gaunt ribs, and the grub-box was capsized on the
ground. On the instant a score of the famished brutes were scrambling for the bread and bacon. The clubs fell
upon them unheeded. They yelped and howled under the rain of blows, but struggled none the less madly till the
last crumb had been devoured.
 In the meantime the astonished team-dogs had burst out of their nests only to be set upon by the fierce
invaders. Never had Buck seen such dogs. It seemed as though their bones would burst through their skins. They
were mere skeletons, draped loosely in draggled hides, with blazing eyes and slavered fangs. But the
hunger-madness made them terrifying, irresistible. There was no opposing them. The team-dogs were swept back
against the cliff at the first onset. Buck was beset by three huskies, and in a trice his head and shoulders
were ripped and slashed. The din was frightful. Billee was crying as usual. Dave and Sol-leks, dripping blood
from a score of wounds, were fighting bravely side by side. Joe was snapping like a demon. Once, his teeth
closed on the fore leg of a husky, and he crunched down through the bone. Pike, the malingerer, leaped upon
the crippled animal, breaking its neck with a quick flash of teeth and a jerk, Buck got a frothing adversary
by the throat, and was sprayed with blood when his teeth sank through the jugular.
 The warm taste of it in his mouth goaded him to greater fierceness. He flung himself upon another, and at the
same time felt teeth sink into his own throat. It was Spitz, treacherously attacking from the side.
Perrault and François, having cleaned out their part of the camp, hurried to save their sled-dogs. The wild
wave of famished beasts rolled back before them, and Buck shook himself free. But it was only for a moment.
The two men were compelled to run back to save the grub, upon which the huskies returned to the attack on the
team. Billee, terrified into bravery, sprang through the savage circle and fled away over the ice. Pike and
Dub followed on his heels, with the rest of the team behind. As Buck drew himself together to spring after
them, out of the tail of his eye he saw Spitz rush upon him with the evident intention of overthrowing him.
Once off his feet and under that mass of huskies, there was no hope for him. But he braced himself to the
shock of Spitz's charge, then joined the flight out on the lake.
 Later, the nine team-dogs gathered together and sought shelter in the forest. Though unpursued, they were in a
sorry plight. There was not one who was not wounded in four or five places, while some were wounded
grievously. Dub was badly injured in a hind leg; Dolly, the last husky added to the team at Dyea, had a badly
torn throat; Joe had lost an eye; while Billee, the good-natured, with an ear chewed and rent to ribbons,
cried and whimpered throughout the night. At daybreak they limped warily back to camp, to find the marauders
gone and the two men in bad tempers. Fully half their grub supply was gone. The huskies had chewed through the
sled lashings and canvas coverings. In fact, nothing, no matter how remotely eatable, had escaped them. They
had eaten a pair of Perrault's moose-hide moccasins, chunks out of the leather traces, and even two feet of
lash from the end of François's whip. He broke from a mournful contemplation of it to look over his wounded
"Ah, my frien's," he said softly, "mebbe
 it mek you mad dog, dose many bites. Mebbe all mad dog, sacredam! Wot you t'ink, eh, Perrault?"
The courier shook his head dubiously. With four hundred miles of trail still between him and Dawson, he could
ill afford to have madness break out among his dogs. Two hours of cursing and exertion got the harnesses into
shape, and the wound-stiffened team was under way, struggling painfully over the hardest part of the trail
they had yet encountered, and for that matter, the hardest between them and Dawson.
The Thirty Mile River was wide open. Its wild water defied the frost, and it was in the eddies only and in the
quiet places that the ice held at all. Six days of exhausting toil were required to cover those thirty
terrible miles. And terrible they were, for every foot of them was accomplished at the risk of life to dog and
man. A dozen times, Perrault, nosing the way broke through the ice bridges, being saved by the long pole he
carried, which he so held that it fell each time across the
 hole made by his body. But a cold snap was on, the thermometer registering fifty below zero, and each time he
broke through he was compelled for very life to build a fire and dry his garments.
Nothing daunted him. It was because nothing daunted him that he had been chosen for government courier. He
took all manner of risks, resolutely thrusting his little weazened face into the frost and struggling on from
dim dawn to dark. He skirted the frowning shores on rim ice that bent and crackled under foot and upon which
they dared not halt. Once, the sled broke through, with Dave and Buck, and they were half-frozen and all but
drowned by the time they were dragged out. The usual fire was necessary to save them. They were coated solidly
with ice, and the two men kept them on the run around the fire, sweating and thawing, so close that they were
singed by the flames.
At another time Spitz went through, dragging the whole team after him up to Buck, who strained backward with
all his strength,
 his fore paws on the slippery edge and the ice quivering and snapping all around. But behind him was Dave,
likewise straining backward, and behind the sled was François, pulling till his tendons cracked.
Again, the rim ice broke away before and behind, and there was no escape except up the cliff. Perrault scaled
it by a miracle, while François prayed for just that miracle; and with every thong and sled lashing and the
last bit of harness rove into a long rope, the dogs were hoisted, one by one, to the cliff crest. François
came up last, after the sled and load. Then came the search for a place to descend, which descent was
ultimately made by the aid of the rope, and night found them back on the river with a quarter of a mile to the
By the time they made the Hootalinqua and good ice, Buck was played out. The rest of the dogs were in like
condition; but Perrault, to make up lost time, pushed them late and early. The first day they covered
thirty-five miles to the Big Salmon; the next
 day thirty-five more to the Little Salmon; the third day forty miles, which brought them well up toward the
Buck's feet were not so compact and hard as the feet of the huskies. His had softened during the many
generations since the day his last wild ancestor was tamed by a cave-dweller or river man. All day long he
limped in agony, and camp once made, lay down like a dead dog. Hungry as he was, he would not move to receive
his ration of fish, which François had to bring to him. Also, the dog-driver rubbed Buck's feet for half an
hour each night after supper, and sacrificed the tops of his own moccasins to make four moccasins for Buck.
This was a great relief, and Buck caused even the weazened face of Perrault to twist itself into a grin one
morning, when François forgot the moccasins and Buck lay on his back, his four feet waving appealingly in the
air, and refused to budge without them. Later his feet grew hard to the trail, and the worn-out foot-gear was
At the Pelly one morning, as they were
 harnessing up, Dolly, who had never been conspicuous for anything, went suddenly mad. She announced her
condition by a long, heartbreaking wolf howl that sent every dog bristling with fear, then sprang straight for
Buck. He had never seen a dog go mad, nor did he have any reason to fear madness; yet he knew that here was
horror, and fled away from it in a panic. Straight away he raced, with Dolly, panting and frothing, one leap
behind; nor could she gain on him, so great was his terror, nor could he leave her, so great was her madness.
He plunged through the wooded breast of the island, flew down to the lower end, crossed a back channel filled
with rough ice to another island, gained a third island, curved back to the main river, and in desperation
started to cross it. And all the time, though he did not look, he could hear her snarling just one leap
behind. François called to him a quarter of a mile away and he doubled back, still one leap ahead, gasping
painfully for air and putting all his faith in that François would save
 him. The dog-driver held the axe poised in his hand, and as Buck shot past him the axe crashed down upon mad
Buck staggered over against the sled, exhausted, sobbing for breath, helpless. This was Spitz's opportunity.
He sprang upon Buck, and twice his teeth sank into his unresisting foe and ripped and tore the flesh to the
bone. Then François's lash descended, and Buck had the satisfaction of watching Spitz receive the worst
whipping as yet administered to any of the teams.
"One devil, dat Spitz," remarked Perrault. "Some dam day heem keel dat Buck."
"Dat Buck two devils," was François's rejoinder. "All de tam I watch dat Buck I know for sure. Lissen: some
dam fine day heem get mad lak hell an' den heem chew dat Spitz all up an' spit heem out on de snow. Sure. I
From then on it was war between them. Spitz, as lead-dog and acknowledged master of the team, felt his
supremacy threatened by this strange Southland dog. And strange
 Buck was to him, for of the many Southland dogs he had known, not one had shown up worthily in camp and on
trail. They were all too soft, dying under the toil, the frost, and starvation. Buck was the exception. He
alone endured and prospered, matching the husky in strength, savagery, and cunning. Then he was a masterful
dog, and what made him dangerous was the fact that the club of the man in the red sweater had knocked all
blind pluck and rashness out of his desire for mastery. He was preeminently cunning, and could bide his time
with a patience that was nothing less than primitive.
It was inevitable that the clash for leadership should come. Buck wanted it. He wanted it because it was his
nature, because he had been gripped tight by that nameless, incomprehensible pride of the trail and
trace—that pride which holds dogs in the toil to the last gasp, which lures them to die joyfully in the
harness, and breaks their hearts if they are cut out of the harness. This was the pride of Dave as wheel-dog,
of Sol-leks as
 he pulled with all his strength; the pride that laid hold of them at break of camp, transforming them from
sour and sullen brutes into straining, eager, ambitious creatures; the pride that spurred them on all day and
dropped them at pitch of camp at night, letting them fall back into gloomy unrest and uncontent. This was the
pride that bore up Spitz and made him thrash the sled-dogs who blundered and shirked in the traces or hid away
at harness-up time in the morning. Likewise it was this pride that made him fear Buck as a possible lead-dog.
And this was Buck's pride, too.
He openly threatened the other's leadership. He came between him and the shirks he should have punished. And
he did it deliberately. One night there was a heavy snowfall, and in the morning Pike, the malingerer, did not
appear. He was securely hidden in his nest under a foot of snow. François called him and sought him in vain.
Spitz was wild with wrath. He raged through the camp, smelling and digging in every likely
 place, snarling so frightfully that Pike heard and shivered in his hiding-place.
But when he was at last unearthed, and Spitz flew at him to punish him, Buck flew, with equal rage, in
between. So unexpected was it, and so shrewdly managed, that Spitz was hurled backward and off his feet. Pike,
who had been trembling abjectly, took heart at this open mutiny, and sprang upon his overthrown leader. Buck,
to whom fair play was a forgotten code, likewise sprang upon Spitz. But François, chuckling at the incident
while unswerving in the administration of justice, brought his lash down upon Buck with all his might. This
failed to drive Buck from his prostrate rival, and the butt of the whip was brought into play. Half-stunned by
the blow, Buck was knocked backward and the lash laid upon him again and again, while Spitz soundly punished
the many times offending Pike.
In the days that followed, as Dawson grew closer and closer, Buck still continued to interfere between Spitz
and the culprits; but he
 did it craftily, when François was not around. With the covert mutiny of Buck, a general insubordination
sprang up and increased. Dave and Sol-leks were unaffected, but the rest of the team went from bad to worse.
Things no longer went right. There was continual bickering and jangling. Trouble was always afoot, and at the
bottom of it was Buck. He kept François busy, for the dog-driver was in constant apprehension of the
life-and-death struggle between the two which he knew must take place sooner or later; and on more than one
night the sounds of quarrelling and strife among the other dogs turned him out of his sleeping robe, fearful
that Buck and Spitz were at it.
But the opportunity did not present itself, and they pulled into Dawson one dreary afternoon with the great
fight still to come. Here were many men, and countless dogs, and Buck found them all at work. It seemed the
ordained order of things that dogs should work. All day they swung up and down the main street in long teams,
and in the night their
 jingling bells still went by. They hauled cabin logs and firewood, freighted up to the mines, and did all
manner of work that horses did in the Santa Clara Valley. Here and there Buck met Southland dogs, but in the
main they were the wild wolf husky breed. Every night, regularly, at nine, at twelve, at three, they lifted a
nocturnal song, a weird and eerie chant, in which it was Buck's delight to join.
"WITH THE AURORA BOREALIS FLAMING COLDLY OVERHEAD."
With the aurora borealis flaming coldly overhead, or the stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb
and frozen under its pall of snow, this song of the huskies might have been the defiance of life, only it was
pitched in minor key, with long-drawn wailings and half-sobs, and was more the pleading of life, the
articulate travail of existence. It was an old song, old as the breed itself—one of the first songs of
the younger world in a day when songs were sad. It was invested with the woe of unnumbered generations, this
plaint by which Buck was so strangely stirred. When he moaned and sobbed, it was with the
 pain of living that was of old the pain of his wild fathers, and the fear and mystery of the cold and dark
that was to them fear and mystery. And that he should be stirred by it marked the completeness with which he
harked back through the ages of fire and roof to the raw beginnings of life in the howling ages.
Seven days from the time they pulled into Dawson, they dropped down the steep bank by the Barracks to the
Yukon Trail, and pulled for Dyea and Salt Water. Perrault was carrying despatches if anything more urgent than
those he had brought in; also, the travel pride had gripped him, and he purposed to make the record trip of
the year. Several things favored him in this. The week's rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in
thorough trim. The trail they had broken into the country was packed hard by later journeyers. And further,
the police had arranged in two or three places deposits of grub for dog and man, and he was travelling light.
They made Sixty Mile, which is a fifty-mile run, on the first day; and the second day saw
 them booming up the Yukon well on their way to Pelly. But such splendid running was achieved not without great
trouble and vexation on the part of François. The insidious revolt led by Buck had destroyed the solidarity of
the team. It no longer was as one dog leaping in the traces. The encouragement Buck gave the rebels led them
into all kinds of petty misdemeanors. No more was Spitz a leader greatly to be feared. The old awe departed,
and they grew equal to challenging his authority. Pike robbed him of half a fish one night, and gulped it down
under the protection of Buck. Another night Dub and Joe fought Spitz and made him forego the punishment they
deserved. And even Billee, the good-natured, was less good-natured, and whined not half so placatingly as in
former days. Buck never came near Spitz without snarling and bristling menacingly. In fact, his conduct
approached that of a bully, and he was given to swaggering up and down before Spitz's very nose.
The breaking down of discipline likewise
 affected the dogs in their relations with one another. They quarrelled and bickered more than ever among
themselves, till at times the camp was a howling bedlam. Dave and Sol-leks alone were unaltered, though they
were made irritable by the unending squabbling. François swore strange barbarous oaths, and stamped the snow
in futile rage, and tore his hair. His lash was always singing among the dogs, but it was of small avail.
Directly his back was turned they were at it again. He backed up Spitz with his whip, while Buck backed up the
remainder of the team. François knew he was behind all the trouble, and Buck knew he knew; but Buck was too
clever ever again to be caught red-handed. He worked faithfully in the harness, for the toil had become a
delight to him; yet it was a greater delight slyly to precipitate a fight amongst his mates and tangle the
At the mouth of the Tahkeena, one night after supper, Dub turned up a snowshoe rabbit, blundered it, and
missed. In a second the whole team was in full cry. A hundred yards
 away was a camp of the Northwest Police, with fifty dogs, huskies all, who joined the chase. The rabbit sped
down the river, turned off into a small creek, up the frozen bed of which it held steadily. It ran lightly on
the surface of the snow, while the dogs ploughed through by main strength. Buck led the pack, sixty strong,
around bend after bend, but he could not gain. He lay down low to the race, whining eagerly, his splendid body
flashing forward, leap by leap, in the wan white moonlight. And leap by leap, like some pale frost wraith, the
snowshoe rabbit flashed on ahead.
All that stirring of old instincts which at stated periods drives men out from the sounding cities to forest
and plain to kill things by chemically propelled leaden pellets, the blood lust, the joy to kill—all
this was Buck's, only it was infinitely more intimate. He was ranging at the head of the pack, running the
wild thing down, the living meat, to kill with his own teeth and wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood.
 There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox
of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is
alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a
sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to
Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled
swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his
nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of
life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was
everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly
under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.
 But Spitz, cold and calculating even in his supreme moods, left the pack and cut across a narrow neck of land
where the creek made a long bend around. Buck did not know of this, and as he rounded the bend, the frost
wraith of a rabbit still flitting before him, he saw another and larger frost wraith leap from the overhanging
bank into the immediate path of the rabbit. It was Spitz. The rabbit could not turn, and as the white teeth
broke its back in mid air it shrieked as loudly as a stricken man may shriek. At sound of this, the cry of
Life plunging down from Life's apex in the grip of Death, the fall pack at Buck's heels raised a hell's chorus
Buck did not cry out. He did not check himself, but drove in upon Spitz, shoulder to shoulder, so hard that he
missed the throat. They rolled over and over in the powdery snow. Spitz gained his feet almost as though he
had not been overthrown, slashing Buck down the shoulder and leaping clear. Twice his teeth clipped together,
like the steel jaws of a trap, as he backed away for better
 footing, with lean and lifting lips that writhed and snarled.
In a flash Buck knew it. The time had come. It was to the death. As they circled about, snarling, ears laid
back, keenly watchful for the advantage, the scene came to Buck with a sense of familiarity. He seemed to
remember it all,—the white woods, and earth, and moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Over the whiteness
and silence brooded a ghostly calm. There was not the faintest whisper of air—nothing moved, not a leaf
quivered, the visible breaths of the dogs rising slowly and lingering in the frosty air. They had made short
work of the snowshoe rabbit, these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves; and they were now drawn up in an expectant
circle. They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their breaths drifting slowly upward. To Buck it
was nothing new or strange, this scene of old time. It was as though it had always been, the wonted way of
Spitz was a practised fighter. From Spitzbergen through the Arctic, and across Canada
 and the Barrens, he had held his own with all manner of dogs and achieved to mastery over them. Bitter rage
was his, but never blind rage. In passion to rend and destroy, he never forgot that his enemy was in like
passion to rend and destroy. He never rushed till he was prepared to receive a rush; never attacked till he
had first defended that attack.
In vain Buck strove to sink his teeth in the neck of the big white dog. Wherever his fangs struck for the
softer flesh, they were countered by the fangs of Spitz. Fang clashed fang, and lips were cut and bleeding,
but Buck could not penetrate his enemy's guard. Then he warmed up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of
rushes. Time and time again he tried for the snow-white throat, where life bubbled near to the surface, and
each time and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Then Buck took to rushing, as though for the throat,
when, suddenly drawing back his head and curving in from the side, he would drive his shoulder at the shoulder
of Spitz, as a ram
 by which to overthrow him. But instead, Buck's shoulder was slashed down each time as Spitz leaped lightly
Spitz was untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting hard. The fight was growing desperate.
And all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down. As Buck grew
winded, Spitz took to rushing, and he kept him staggering for footing. Once Buck went over, and the whole
circle of sixty dogs started up; but he recovered himself, almost in mid air, and the circle sank down again
But Buck possessed a quality that made for greatness—imagination. He fought by instinct, but he could
fight by head as well. He rushed, as though attempting the old shoulder trick, but at the last instant swept
low to the snow and in. His teeth closed on Spitz's left fore leg. There was a crunch of breaking bone, and
the white dog faced him on three legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then repeated the trick and broke
the right fore leg.
 Despite the pain and helplessness, Spitz struggled madly to keep up. He saw the silent circle, with gleaming
eyes, lolling tongues, and silvery breaths drifting upward, closing in upon him as he had seen similar circles
close in upon beaten antagonists in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten.
There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes. He manuvred
for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks. He
could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A
pause seemed to fall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone. Only Spitz quivered and bristled
as he staggered back and forth, snarling with horrible menace, as though to frighten off impending death. Then
Buck sprang in and out; but while he was in, shoulder had at last squarely met shoulder. The dark circle
became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as
 Spitz disappeared from view. Buck stood and looked on, the successful champion, the dominant primordial beast
who had made his kill and found it good.
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