THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL
 THIRTY days from the time it left Dawson, the Salt Water Mail, with Buck and his mates at the fore, arrived at
Skaguay. They were in a wretched state, worn out and worn down. Buck's one hundred and forty pounds had
dwindled to one hundred and fifteen. The rest of his mates, though lighter dogs, had relatively lost more
weight than he. Pike, the malingerer, who, in his lifetime of deceit, had often successfully feigned a hurt
leg, was now limping in earnest. Sol-leks was limping, and Dub was suffering from a wrenched shoulder-blade.
They were all terribly footsore. No spring or rebound was left in them. Their feet fell heavily on the trail,
jarring their bodies and
 doubling the fatigue of a day's travel. There was nothing the matter with them except that they were dead
tired. It was not the dead-tiredness that comes through brief and excessive effort, from which recovery is a
matter of hours; but it was the dead-tiredness that comes through the slow and prolonged strength drainage of
months of toil. There was no power of recuperation left, no reserve strength to call upon. It had been all
used, the last least bit of it. Every muscle, every fibre, every cell, was tired, dead tired. And there was
reason for it. In less than five months they had travelled twenty-five hundred miles, during the last eighteen
hundred of which they had had but five days' rest. When they arrived at Skaguay they were apparently on their
last legs. They could barely keep the traces taut, and on the down grades just managed to keep out of the way
of the sled.
"Mush on, poor sore feets," the driver encouraged them as they tottered down the main street of Skaguay. "Dis
is de las'.
 Den we get one long res'. Eh? For sure. One bully long res'."
The drivers confidently expected a long stopover. Themselves, they had covered twelve hundred miles with two
days' rest, and in the nature of reason and common justice they deserved an interval of loafing. But so many
were the men who had rushed into the Klondike, and so many were the sweethearts, wives, and kin that had not
rushed in, that the congested mail was taking on Alpine proportions; also, there were official orders. Fresh
batches of Hudson Bay dogs were to take the places of those worthless for the trail. The worthless ones were
to be got rid of, and, since dogs count for little against dollars, they were to be sold.
Three days passed, by which time Buck and his mates found how really tired and weak they were. Then, on the
morning of the fourth day, two men from the States came along and bought them, harness and all, for a song.
The men addressed each
 other as "Hal" and "Charles." Charles was a middle-aged, lightish-colored man, with weak and watery eyes and a
mustache that twisted fiercely and vigorously up, giving the lie to the limply drooping lip it concealed. Hal
was a youngster of nineteen or twenty, with a big Colt's revolver and a hunting-knife strapped about him on a
belt that fairly bristled with cartridges. This belt was the most salient thing about him. It advertised his
callowness—a callowness sheer and unutterable. Both men were manifestly out of place, and why such as
they should adventure the North is part of the mystery of things that passes understanding.
Buck heard the chaffering, saw the money pass between the man and the Government agent, and knew that the
Scotch half-breed and the mail-train drivers were passing out of his life on the heels of Perrault and
François and the others who had gone before. When driven with his mates to the new owners' camp, Buck saw a
slipshod and slovenly affair, tent half stretched, dishes unwashed,
 everything in disorder; also, he saw a woman. "Mercedes" the men called her. She was Charles's wife and Hal's
sister—a nice family party.
Buck watched them apprehensively as they proceeded to take down the tent and load the sled. There was a great
deal of effort about their manner, but no businesslike method. The tent was rolled into an awkward bundle
three times as large as it should have been. The tin dishes were packed away unwashed. Mercedes continually
fluttered in the way of her men and kept up an unbroken chattering of remonstrance and advice. When they put a
clothes-sack on the front of the sled, she suggested it should go on the back; and when they had put it on the
back, and covered it over with a couple of other bundles, she discovered overlooked articles which could abide
nowhere else but in that very sack, and they unloaded again.
Three men from a neighboring tent came out and looked on, grinning and winking at one another.
 "You've got a right smart load as it is," said one of them; "and it's not me should tell you your business,
but I wouldn't tote that tent along if I was you."
"Undreamed of!" cried Mercedes, throwing up her hands in dainty dismay. "However in the world could I manage
without a tent?"
"It's springtime, and you won't get any more cold weather," the man replied.
She shook her head decidedly, and Charles and Hal put the last odds and ends on top the mountainous load.
"Think it'll ride?" one of the men asked.
"Why shouldn't it?" Charles demanded rather shortly.
"Oh, that's all right, that's all right," the man hastened meekly to say. "I was just a-wonderin', that is
all. It seemed a mite top-heavy."
Charles turned his back and drew the lashings down as well as he could, which was not in the least well.
"An' of course the dogs can hike along
 all day with that contraption behind them," affirmed a second of the men.
"Certainly," said Hal, with freezing politeness, taking hold of the gee-pole with one hand and swinging his
whip from the other. "Mush!" he shouted. "Mush on there!"
The dogs sprang against the breast-bands, strained hard for a few moments, then relaxed. They were unable to
move the sled.
"The lazy brutes, I'll show them," he cried, preparing to lash out at them with the whip.
But Mercedes interfered, crying, "Oh, Hal, you mustn't," as she caught hold of the whip and wrenched it from
him. "The poor dears! Now you must promise you won't be harsh with them for the rest of the trip, or I won't
go a step."
"Precious lot you know about dogs," her brother sneered; "and I wish you'd leave me alone. They're lazy, I
tell you, and you've got to whip them to get anything out of them. That's their way. You ask any one. Ask one
of those men."
Mercedes looked at them imploringly,
 untold repugnance at sight of pain written in her pretty face.
"They're weak as water, if you want to know," came the reply from one of the men. "Plum tuckered out, that's
what's the matter. They need a rest."
"Rest be blanked," said Hal, with his beardless lips; and Mercedes said, "Oh!" in pain and sorrow at the oath.
But she was a clannish creature, and rushed at once to the defence of her brother. "Never mind that man," she
said pointedly. "You're driving our dogs, and you do what you think best with them."
Again Hal's whip fell upon the dogs. They threw themselves against the breast-bands, dug their feet into the
packed snow, got down low to it, and put forth all their strength. The sled held as though it were an anchor.
After two efforts, they stood still, panting. The whip was whistling savagely, when once more Mercedes
interfered. She dropped on her knees before Buck, with tears in her eyes, and put her arms around his neck.
 "You poor, poor dears," she cried sympathetically, "why don't you pull hard?—then you wouldn't be
whipped." Buck did not like her, but he was feeling too miserable to resist her, taking it as part of the
day's miserable work.
One of the onlookers, who had been clenching his teeth to suppress hot speech, now spoke up:—
"It's not that I care a whoop what becomes of you, but for the dogs' sakes I just want to tell you, you can
help them a mighty lot by breaking out that sled. The runners are froze fast. Throw your weight against the
gee-pole, right and left, and break it out."
A third time the attempt was made, but this time, following the advice, Hal broke out the runners which had
been frozen to the snow. The overloaded and unwieldy sled forged ahead, Buck and his mates struggling
frantically under the rain of blows. A hundred yards ahead the path turned and sloped steeply into the main
street. It would have required an experienced man to keep the
 top-heavy sled upright, and Hal was not such a man. As they swung on the turn the sled went over, spilling
half its load through the loose lashings. The dogs never stopped. The lightened sled bounded on its side
behind them. They were angry because of the ill treatment they had received and the unjust load. Buck was
raging. He broke into a run, the team following his lead. Hal cried "Whoa! whoa!" but they gave no heed. He
tripped and was pulled off his feet. The capsized sled ground over him, and the dogs dashed on up the street,
adding to the gayety of Skaguay as they scattered the remainder of the outfit along its chief thoroughfare.
Kind-hearted citizens caught the dogs and gathered up the scattered belongings. Also, they gave advice. Half
the load and twice the dogs, if they ever expected to reach Dawson, was what was said. Hal and his sister and
brother-in-law listened unwillingly, pitched tent, and overhauled the outfit. Canned goods were turned out
that made men
 laugh, for canned goods on the Long Trail is a thing to dream about. "Blankets for a hotel" quoth one of the
men who laughed and helped. "Half as many is too much; get rid of them. Throw away that tent, and all those
dishes,—who's going to wash them, anyway? Good Lord, do you think you're travelling on a Pullman?"
And so it went, the inexorable elimination of the superfluous. Mercedes cried when her clothes-bags were
dumped on the ground and article after article was thrown out. She cried in general, and she cried in
particular over each discarded thing. She clasped hands about knees, rocking back and forth broken-heartedly.
She averred she would not go an inch, not for a dozen Charleses. She appealed to everybody and to everything,
finally wiping her eyes and proceeding to cast out even articles of apparel that were imperative necessaries.
And in her zeal, when she had finished with her own, she attacked the belongings of her men and went through
them like a tornado.
This accomplished, the outfit, though cut
 in half, was still a formidable bulk. Charles and Hal went out in the evening and bought six Outside dogs.
These, added to the six of the original team, and Teek and Koona, the huskies obtained at the Rink Rapids on
the record trip, brought the team up to fourteen. But the Outside dogs, though practically broken in since
their landing, did not amount to much. Three were short-haired pointers, one was a Newfoundland, and the other
two were mongrels of indeterminate breed. They did not seem to know anything, these newcomers. Buck and his
comrades looked upon them with disgust, and though he speedily taught them their places and what not to do, he
could not teach them what to do. They did not take kindly to trace and trail. With the exception of the two
mongrels, they were bewildered and spirit-broken by the strange savage environment in which they found
themselves and by the ill treatment they had received. The two mongrels were without spirit at all; bones were
the only things breakable about them.
 With the newcomers hopeless and forlorn, and the old team worn out by twenty-five hundred miles of continuous
trail, the outlook was anything but bright. The two men, however, were quite cheerful. And they were proud,
too. They were doing the thing in style, with fourteen dogs. They had seen other sleds depart over the Pass
for Dawson, or come in from Dawson, but never had they seen a sled with so many as fourteen dogs. In the
nature of Arctic travel there was a reason why fourteen dogs should not drag one sled, and that was that one
sled could not carry the food for fourteen dogs. But Charles and Hal did not know this. They had worked the
trip out with a pencil, so much to a dog, so many dogs, so many days, Q.E.D. Mercedes looked over their
shoulders and nodded comprehensively, it was all so very simple.
Late next morning Buck led the long team up the street. There was nothing lively about it, no snap or go in
him and his fellows. They were starting dead weary. Four times
 he had covered the distance between Salt Water and Dawson, and the knowledge that, jaded and tired, he was
facing the same trail once more, made him bitter. His heart was not in the work, nor was the heart of any dog.
The Outsides were timid and frightened, the Insides without confidence in their masters.
Buck felt vaguely that there was no depending upon these two men and the woman. They did not know how to do
anything, and as the days went by it became apparent that they could not learn. They were slack in all things,
without order or discipline. It took them half the night to pitch a slovenly camp, and half the morning to
break that camp and get the sled loaded in fashion so slovenly that for the rest of the day they were occupied
in stopping and rearranging the load. Some days they did not make ten miles. On other days they were unable to
get started at all. And on no day did they succeed in making more than half the distance used by the men as a
basis in their dog-food computation.
 It was inevitable that they should go short on dog-food. But they hastened it by overfeeding, bringing the day
nearer when underfeeding would commence. The Outside dogs, whose digestions had not been trained by chronic
famine to make the most of little, had voracious appetites. And when, in addition to this, the worn-out
huskies pulled weakly, Hal decided that the orthodox ration was too small. He doubled it. And to cap it all,
when Mercedes, with tears in her pretty eyes and a quaver in her throat, could not cajole him into giving the
dogs still more, she stole from the fish-sacks and fed them slyly. But it was not food that Buck and the
huskies needed, but rest. And though they were making poor time, the heavy load they dragged sapped their
Then came the underfeeding. Hal awoke one day to the fact that his dog-food was half gone and the distance
only quarter covered; further, that for love or money no additional dog-food was to be obtained. So he cut
down even the orthodox ration and tried to increase
 the day's travel. His sister and brother-in-law seconded him; but they were frustrated by their heavy outfit
and their own incompetence. It was a simple matter to give the dogs less food; but it was impossible to make
the dogs travel faster, while their own inability to get under way earlier in the morning prevented them from
travelling longer hours. Not only did they not know how to work dogs, but they did not know how to work
The first to go was Dub. Poor blundering thief that he was, always getting caught and punished, he had none
the less been a faithful worker. His wrenched shoulder-blade, untreated and unrested, went from bad to worse,
till finally Hal shot him with the big Colt's revolver. It is a saying of the country that an Outside dog
starves to death on the ration of the husky, so the six Outside dogs under Buck could do no less than die on
half the ration of the husky. The Newfoundland went first, followed by the three short-haired pointers, the
two mongrels hanging more grittily on to life, but going in the end.
 By this time all the amenities and gentlenesses of the Southland had fallen away from the three people. Shorn
of its glamour and romance, Arctic travel became to them a reality too harsh for their manhood and womanhood.
Mercedes ceased weeping over the dogs, being too occupied with weeping over herself and with quarrelling with
her husband and brother. To quarrel was the one thing they were never too weary to do. Their irritability
arose out of their misery, increased with it, doubled upon it, outdistanced it. The wonderful patience of the
trail which comes to men who toil hard and suffer sore, and remain sweet of speech and kindly, did not come to
these two men and the woman. They had no inkling of such a patience. They were stiff and in pain; their
muscles ached, their bones ached, their very hearts ached; and because of this they became sharp of speech,
and hard words were first on their lips in the morning and last at night.
Charles and Hal wrangled whenever Mercedes gave them a chance. It was the
 cherished belief of each that he did more than his share of the work, and neither forbore to speak this
belief at every opportunity. Sometimes Mercedes sided with her husband, sometimes with her brother. The result
was a beautiful and unending family quarrel. Starting from a dispute as to which should chop a few sticks for
the fire (a dispute which concerned only Charles and Hal), presently would be lugged in the rest of the
family, fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, people thousands of miles away, and some of them dead. That Hal's
views on art, or the sort of society plays his mother's brother wrote, should have anything to do with the
chopping of a few sticks of firewood, passes comprehension; nevertheless the quarrel was as likely
 to tend in that direction as in the direction of Charles's political prejudices. And that Charles's sister's
tale-bearing tongue should be relevant to the building of a Yukon fire, was apparent only to Mercedes, who
disburdened herself of copious opinions upon that topic, and incidentally upon a few other traits unpleasantly
peculiar to her husband's family. In the meantime the fire remained unbuilt, the camp half pitched, and the
Mercedes nursed a special grievance—the grievance of sex. She was pretty and soft, and had been
chivalrously treated all her days. But the present treatment by her husband and brother was everything save
chivalrous. It was her custom to be helpless. They
 complained. Upon which impeachment of what to her was her most essential sex-prerogative, she made their lives
unendurable. She no longer considered the dogs, and because she was sore and tired, she persisted in riding on
the sled. She was pretty and soft, but she weighed one hundred and twenty pounds—a lusty last straw to
the load dragged by the weak and starving animals. She rode for days, till they fell in the traces and the
sled stood still. Charles and Hal begged her to get off and walk, pleaded with her, entreated, the while she
wept and importuned Heaven with a recital of their brutality.
On one occasion they took her off the sled by main strength. They never did it again. She let her legs go limp
like a spoiled child, and sat down on the trail. They went on their way, but she did not move. After they had
travelled three miles they unloaded the sled, came back for her, and by main strength put her on the sled
In the excess of their own misery they were callous to the suffering of their animals.
 Hal's theory, which he practised on others, was that one must get hardened. He had started out preaching it to
his sister and brother-in-law. Failing there, he hammered it into the dogs with a club. At the Five Fingers
the dog-food gave out, and a toothless old squaw offered to trade them a few pounds of frozen horse-hide for
the Colt's revolver that kept the big hunting-knife company at Hal's hip. A poor substitute for food was this
hide, just as it had been stripped from the starved horses of the cattlemen six months back. In its frozen
state it was more like strips of galvanized iron, and when a dog wrestled it into his stomach it thawed into
thin and innutritious leathery strings and into a mass of short hair, irritating and indigestible.
And through it all Buck staggered along at the head of the team as in a nightmare. He pulled when he could;
when he could no longer pull, he fell down and remained down till blows from whip or club drove him to his
feet again. All the stiffness and gloss had gone out of his beautiful furry coat.
 The hair hung down, limp and draggled, or matted with dried blood where Hal's club had bruised him. His
muscles had wasted away to knotty strings, and the flesh pads had disappeared, so that each rib and every bone
in his frame were outlined cleanly through the loose hide that was wrinkled in folds of emptiness. It was
heartbreaking, only Buck's heart was unbreakable. The man in the red sweater had proved that.
As it was with Buck, so was it with his mates. They were perambulating skeletons. There were seven all
together, including him. In their very great misery they had become insensible to the bite of the lash or the
bruise of the club. The pain of the beating was dull and distant, just as the things their eyes saw and their
ears heard seemed dull and distant. They were not half living, or quarter living. They were simply so many
bags of bones in which sparks of life fluttered faintly. When a halt was made, they dropped down in the traces
like dead dogs, and the spark dimmed and paled and seemed to go out.
 And when the club or whip fell upon them, the spark fluttered feebly up, and they tottered to their feet and
There came a day when Billee, the good-natured, fell and could not rise. Hal had traded off his revolver, so
he took the axe and knocked Billee on the head as he lay in the traces, then cut the carcass out of the
harness and dragged it to one side. Buck saw, and his mates saw, and they knew that this thing was very close
to them. On the next day Koona went, and but five of them remained: Joe, too far gone to be malignant; Pike,
crippled and limping, only half conscious and not conscious enough longer to malinger; Sol-leks, the one-eyed,
still faithful to the toil of trace and trail, and mournful in that he had so little strength with which to
pull; Teek, who had not travelled so far that winter and who was now beaten more than the others because he
was fresher; and Buck, still at the head of the team, but no longer enforcing discipline or striving to
enforce it, blind with weakness half the time and keeping the trail
 by the loom of it and by the dim feel of his feet.
It was beautiful spring weather, but neither dogs nor humans were aware of it. Each day the sun rose earlier
and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The whole long
day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening
life. This murmur arose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living. It came from the things that lived
and moved again, things which had been as dead and which had not moved during the long months of frost. The
sap was rising in the pines. The willows and aspens were bursting out in young buds. Shrubs and vines were
putting on fresh garbs of green. Crickets sang in the nights, and in the days all manner of creeping, crawling
things rustled forth into the sun. Partridges and woodpeckers were booming and knocking in the forest.
Squirrels were chattering, birds singing, and overhead honked the wild-fowl driving
 up from the south in cunning wedges that split the air.
From every hill slope came the trickle of running water, the music of unseen fountains. All things were
thawing, bending, snapping. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that bound it down. It ate away
from beneath; the sun ate from above. Air-holes formed, fissures sprang and spread apart, while thin sections
of ice fell through bodily into the river. And amid all this bursting, rending, throbbing of awakening life,
under the blazing sun and through the soft-sighing breezes, like wayfarers to death, staggered the two men,
the woman, and the huskies.
With the dogs falling, Mercedes weeping and riding, Hal swearing innocuously, and Charles's eyes wistfully
watering, they staggered into John Thornton's camp at the mouth of White River. When they halted, the dogs
dropped down as though they had all been struck dead. Mercedes dried her eyes and looked at John Thornton.
Charles sat down on a log to rest. He sat down very
 slowly and painstakingly what of his great stiffness. Hal did the talking. John Thornton was whittling the
last touches on an axe-handle he had made from a stick of birch. He whittled and listened, gave monosyllabic
replies, and, when it was asked, terse advice. He knew the breed, and he gave his advice in the certainty that
it would not be followed.
"They told us up above that the bottom was dropping out of the trail and that the best thing for us to do was
to lay over," Hal said in response to Thornton's warning to take no more chances on the rotten ice. "They told
us we couldn't make White River, and here we are." This last with a sneering ring of triumph in it.
"And they told you true," John Thornton answered. "The bottom's likely to drop out at any moment. Only fools,
with the blind luck of fools, could have made it. I tell you straight, I wouldn't risk my carcass on that ice
for all the gold in Alaska."
"That's because you're not a fool, I
 suppose," said Hal. "All the same, we'll go on to Dawson." He uncoiled his whip. "Get up there, Buck! Hi! Get
up there! Mush on!"
Thornton went on whittling. It was idle, he knew, to get between a fool and his folly; while two or three
fools more or less would not alter the scheme of things.
But the team did not get up at the command. It had long since passed into the stage where blows were required
to rouse it. The whip flashed out, here and there, on its merciless errands. John Thornton compressed his
lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek followed. Joe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made
painful efforts. Twice he fell over, when half up, and on the third attempt managed to rise. Buck made no
effort. He lay quietly where he had fallen. The lash bit into him again and again, but he neither whined nor
struggled. Several times Thornton started, as though to speak, but changed his mind. A moisture came into his
eyes, and, as the whipping continued, he arose and walked irresolutely up and down.
 This was the first time Buck had failed, in itself a sufficient reason to drive Hal into a rage. He exchanged
the whip for the customary club. Buck refused to move under the rain of heavier blows which now fell upon him.
Like his mates, he barely able to get up, but, unlike them, he had made up his mind not to get up. He had a
vague feeling of impending doom. This had been strong upon him when he pulled in to the bank, and it had not
departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he
sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him. He refused
to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they
continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt
strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of
pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact
 of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away.
And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like the cry of an animal,
John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though struck by a failing
tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his
John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak.
"If you strike that dog again, I'll kill you," he at last managed to say in a choking voice.
"It's my dog," Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. "Get out of my way, or I'll fix
you. I'm going to Dawson."
Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the way. Hal drew his long
hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed, cried, laughed, and
 manifested the chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal's knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking
the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as he tried to pick it up. Then he stooped, picked it up
himself, and with two strokes cut Buck's traces.
Hal had no fight left in him. Besides, his hands were full with his sister, or his arms, rather; while Buck
was too near dead to be of further use in hauling the sled. A few minutes later they pulled out from the bank
and down the river. Buck heard them go and raised his head to see, Pike was leading, Sol-leks was at the
wheel, and between were Joe and Teek. They were limping and staggering. Mercedes was riding the loaded sled.
Hal guided at the gee-pole, and Charles stumbled along in the rear.
"JOHN THORNTON AND BUCK LOOKED AT EACH OTHER."
As Buck watched them, Thornton knelt beside him and with rough, kindly hands searched for broken bones. By the
time his search had disclosed nothing more than many bruises and a state of terrible starvation, the sled was
a quarter of a mile away. Dog and
 man watched it crawling along over the ice. Suddenly, they saw its back end drop down, as into a rut, and the
gee-pole, with Hal clinging to it, jerk into the air. Mercedes's scream came to their ears. They saw Charles
turn and make one step to run back, and then a whole section of ice give way and dogs and humans disappear. A
yawning hole was all that was to be seen. The bottom had dropped out of the trail.
John Thornton and Buck looked at each other.
"You poor devil," said John Thornton, and Buck licked his hand.
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