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
 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
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
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
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
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.
"BEHIND HIM WERE THE SHADES OF ALL MANNER OF DOGS."
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
 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
"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.
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
 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.
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