by Jack London 1906
Part One Chapter One -- The Trail of the Meat
Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of the frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness -- a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild. But there was life, abroad in the land and defiant. Down the frozen waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their bristly fur was rimed with frost. Their breath froze in the air as it left their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapor that settled upon the hair of their bodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along behind. The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch-bark, and its full surface rested on the snow. The front end of the sled was turned up, like a scroll in order to force down and under the bore of soft snow that surged like a wave before it. On the sled, securely lashed, was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things on the sled-blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot and frying-pan; but prominent, occupying most of the space, was the long and narrow oblong box. In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toiled a man. At the rear of the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over -- a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life is an offense to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does the Wild harry and crush into submission man - man, who is the most restless of life, ever in revolt against the dictum that all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement. But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men who were not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and
soft-tanned leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces were not discernible. This gave them the seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers in a spectral world at the funeral of some ghost. But under it all they were men, penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space. They traveled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible presence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with the weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardors and exaltations and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and interplay of the great blind elements and forces.
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An hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short sunless day was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the still air. It soared upward with a swift rush, till it reached its topmost note, where it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away. It might have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with a certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness. The front man turned his head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, across the narrow oblong box, each nodded to the other. A second cry arose, piercing the silence with needlelike shrillness. Both men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in the snow expanse they had just traversed. A third and answering cry arose, also to the rear and to the left of the second cry. "They're after us, Bill," said the man at the front. His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparent effort. "Meat is scarce," answered his comrade. "I ain't seen a rabbit sign for days." Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for the hunting-cries that continued to rise behind them. At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of spruce trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin, at the side of the fire, served for seat and table. The wolf-dogs, clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, but evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness. "Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin' remarkable close to camp," Bill commented. Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with a piece of ice, nodded. Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat on
the coffin and begun to eat. "They know where their hides is safe," he said. "They'd sooner eat grub than be grub. They're pretty wise, them dogs." Bill shook his head. "Oh, I don't know." His comrade looked at him curiously. "First time I ever heard you say anythin' about their not bein' wise." "Henry," said the other, munching with deliberation the beans he was eating, "did you happen to notice the way them dogs kicked up when I was a-feedin' 'em?" "They did cut up more'n usual," Henry acknowledged. "How many dogs've we got, Henry?" "Six." "Well, Henry????" Bill stopped for a moment, in order that his words might gain greater significance. "As I was sayin', Henry, we've got six dogs. I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, an', Henry, I was one fish short." "You counted wrong." "We've got six dogs," the other reiterated dispassionately. "I took out six fish. One Ear didn't get no fish. I come back to the bag afterward an' got 'm his fish." "We've only got six dogs," Henry said. "Henry," Bill went on, "I won't say they was all dogs, but there was seven of 'm that got fish." Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs. "There's only six now," he said. "I saw the other one run off across the snow," Bill announced with cool positiveness. "I saw seven." His comrade looked at him commiseratingly, and said, "I'll be almightly glad when this trip's over." "What d'ye mean by that?" Bill demanded. "I mean that this load of ourn is gettin' on your nerves, an' that you're beginnin' to see things." "I thought of that," Bill answered gravely. "An' so, when I saw it run off across the snow, I looked in the snow an' saw its tracks. Then I counted the dogs an' there was still six of 'em. The tracks is there in the snow now. D'ye want to look at 'em? I'll show 'm to you."
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Henry did not reply, but munched on in silence, until, the meal finished, he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said: "Then you're thinkin' as it was-" A long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness, had interrupted him. He stopped to listen to it, then he finished his sentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry, " -- one of them?" Bill nodded. "I'd a blame sight sooner think that than anything else. You noticed yourself the row the dogs made." Cry after cry, and answering cries, were turning the silence into a bedlam. From every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed their fear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their hair was scorched by the heat. Bill threw on more wood, before lighting his pipe. "I'm thinkin' you're down in the mouth some," Henry said. "Henry????" He sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time before he went on. "Henry, I was athinkin' what a blame sight luckier he is than you an' me'll ever
be." He indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to the box on which they sat. "You an' me Henry, when we die, we'll be lucky if we get enough stones over our carcasses to keep the dogs off of us." "But we ain't got people an' money an' all the rest, like him," Henry rejoined. "Long-distance funerals is somethin' you an' me can't exactly afford." "What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this, that's a lord or something in his own country, and that's never had to bother about grub nor blankets, why he comes a-buttin' round the God-forsaken ends of the earth -- that's what I can't exactly see." "He might have lived to a ripe old age if he'd stayed to home," Henry agreed. Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, he pointed toward the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every side. There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness; only could be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals. Henry indicated with his head a second pair, and a third. Now and again a pair of eyes moved, or disappeared to appear again a moment later. The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in a surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs had been overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain and fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. The commotion caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment and even to withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became quiet. "Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition." Bill had finished his pipe, and was helping his companion spread the bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which he had laid over the snow before supper. Henry grunted, and began unlacing his moccasins. "How many cartridges did you say you had left?" he asked. "Three," came the answer. "An' I wisht "twas three hundred. Then I'd show 'em what for, damn 'em!" He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely to prop his moccasins before the fire. "An' I wisht this cold snap'd break," he went on. "It's been fifty below for two weeks now. An' I wisht I'd never started on this trip, Henry. I don't like the looks of it. I don't feel right, somehow. An' while I'm wishin', I wisht the trip was over an' done with, an' you an' me a-sittin' by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an' playin' cribbage -- that's what I wisht." Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused by his comrade's voice. "Say, Henry, that other one that come in an' got a fish -- why didn't the dogs pitch into it? That's what's botherin' me."
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"You're botherin' too much, Bill," came the sleepy response. "You was never like this before. You jes' shut up now, an' go to sleep, an' you'll be all hunky-dory in the mornin'. Your stomach's sour, that's
what's botherin' you." The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering. The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer the circle they had flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close. Once their uproar became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire. As it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew farther back. He glanced casually at the huddling dogs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them more sharply. Then he crawled back into the blankets. "Henry," he said. "Oh, Henry." Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking, and demanded, "What's wrong now?" "Nothin'," came the answer; "only there's seven of 'em again. I just counted." Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with a grunt that slid into a snore as he drifted back into sleep. In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six o'clock; and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast, while Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing. "Say, Henry," he asked suddenly, "how many dogs did you say we had?" "Six." "Wrong," Bill proclaimed triumphantly. "Seven again?" Henry queried. "No, five; one's gone." "The hell!" Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and count the dogs. "You're right, Bill," he concluded. "Fatty's gone." "An' he went like greased lightnin' once he got started. Couldn't 've seen 'm for smoke." "No chance at all," Henry concluded. "They jes' swallowed 'm alive. I bet he was yelpin' as he went down their throats, damn 'em!" "He always was a fool dog," said Bill. "But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go off an' commit suicide that way." He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative eye that summed up instantlythe salient traits of each animal. "I bet none of the others would do it." "Couldn't drive 'em away from the fire with a club," Bill agreed. "I always did think there was somethin' wrong with Fatty, anyway." And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail -- less scant than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man.
Chapter Two -- The She-Wolf
Breakfast eaten and the slim camp-outfit lashed to the sled, the men turned their backs on the cheery fire and launched out into the darkness. At once began to rise the cries that were fiercely sad -- cries that called through the darkness and cold to one another and answered back. Conversation ceased. Daylight came at nine o'clock. At midday the sky to the south warmed to a rose-color, and marked where the bulge of the earth intervened between the meridian sun and the northern world. But the rose-color swiftly faded. The gray light of day that remained lasted until three o'clock, when it, too, faded, and the pall of the Arctic night descended upon the lone and silent land.
As darkness came on, the hunting-cries to right and left and rear drew closer -- so close that more than once they sent surges of fear through the toiling dogs, throwing them into short-lived panics. At the conclusion of one such panic, when he and Henry had got the dogs back in the traces, Bill said:
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"I wisht they'd strike game somewheres, an' go away an' leave us alone." "They do get on the nerves horrible," Henry sympathized. They spoke no more until camp was made. Henry was bending over and adding ice to the bubbling pot of beans when he was startled by the sound of a blow, and exclamation from Bill, and a sharp snarling cry of pain from among the dogs. He straightened up in time to see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter of the dark. Then he saw Bill, standing amid the dogs, half triumphant, half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the other the tail and part of the body of a sun-cured salmon. "It got half of it," he announced; "but I got a whack at it jes' the same. D'ye hear it squeal?" "What'd it look like?" Henry asked. "Couldn't see. But it had four legs an' a mouth an' hair an' looked like any dog." "Must be a tame wolf, I reckon." "It's damned tame, whatever it is, comin' in here at feedin' time an' gettin' its whack of fish." That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before. "I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moose or somethin', an' go away an' leave us alone," Bill said. Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the firelight. "I wisht we were pullin' into McGurry right now," he began again. "Shut up your wishin' an' your croakin', Henry burst out angrily. "Your stomach's sour. That's what's ailin' you. Swallow a spoonful of sody, an' you'll sweeten up wonderful an' be more pleasant company." In the morning, Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that proceeded from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elbow and looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished fire, his arms raised in objurgation, his face distorted with passion. "Hello!" Henry called. "What's up now?" "Frog's gone," came the answer. "No." "I tell you yes." Henry leaped out of the blankets and to the dogs. He counted them with care, and then joined his partner in cursing the powers of the Wild that had robbed them of another dog. "Frog was the strongest of the bunch," Bill pronounced finally. "An' he was no fool dog neither," Henry added. And so was recorded the second epitaph in two days. A gloomy breakfast was eaten, and the four remaining dogs were harnessed to the sled. The day was a repetition of the days that had gone before. The men toiled without speech across the face of the
frozen world. The silence was unbroken save by the cries of their pursuers, that, unseen, hung upon their rear. With the coming of night in the mid-afternoon, the cries sounded closer as the pursuers drew in according to their custom; and the dogs grew excited and frightened, and were guilty of panics that tangled the traces and further depressed the two men. "There, that'll fix you fool critters," Bill said with satisfaction that night, standing erect at completion of his task. Henry left his cooking to come and see. Not only had his partner tied the dogs up, but he had tied them, after the Indian fashion, with sticks. About the neck of each dog he had fastened the leather thong. To this, and so close to the neck that the dog could not get his teeth to it, he had tied a stout stick four or five feet in length. The other end of the stick, in turn, was made fast to a stake in the ground by means of a leather thong. The dog was unable to gnaw through the leather at his own end of the stick. The stick prevented him from getting at the leather that fastened the other end. Henry nodded his head approvingly.
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"It's the only contraption that'll ever hold One Ear," he said. "He can gnaw through leather as clean as a knife an' jes' about half as quick. They all "ll be here in the mornin' hunky-dory." "You jes' bet they will," Bill affirmed. "If one of 'em turns up missin', I'll go without my coffee." "They jes' know we ain't loaded to kill," Henry remarked at bedtime, indicating the gleaming circle that hemmed them in. "If we could put a couple of shot into 'em, they'd be more respectful. They come closer every night. Get the firelight out of your eyes an' look hard -- there! Did you see that one?" For some time the two men amused themselves with watching the movement of vague forms on the edge of the firelight. By looking closely and steadily at where a pair of eyes burned in the darkness, the form of the animal would slowly take shape. They could even see these forms move at times. A sound among the dogs attracted the men's attention. One Ear was uttering quick, eager whines, lunging at the length of his stick toward the darkness, and desisting now and again in order to make frantic attacks on the stick with his teeth. "Look at that, Bill," Henry whispered. Full into the firelight, with a stealthy, sidelong movement, glided a doglike animal. It moved with commingled mistrust and daring, cautiously observing the men, its attention fixed on the dogs. One Ear strained the full length of the stick toward the intruder and whined with eagerness. "That fool One Ear don't seem scairt much," Bill said in a low tone. "It's a she-wolf," Henry whispered back, "an' that accounts for Fatty an' Frog. She's the decoy for the pack. She draws out the dog an' then all the rest pitches in an' eats 'm up." The fire crackled. A log fell apart with a loud spluttering noise. At the sound of it the
strange animal leaped back into the darkness. "Henry, I'm a-thinkin'," Bill announced. "Thinkin' what?" "I'm a-thinkin' that was the one I lambasted with the club." "Ain't the slightest doubt in the world," was Henry's response. "An' right here I want to remark," Bill went on, "that that animal's familyarity with campfires is suspicious an' immoral." "It knows for certain more'n a self-respectin' wolf ought to know," Henry agreed. "A wolf that knows enough to come in with the dogs at feedin' time has had experiences." "Ol" Villan had a dog once that run away with the wolves," Bill cogitated aloud. "I ought to know. I shot it out of the pack in a moose pasture over on Little Stick. An' Ol" Villan cried like a baby. Hadn't seen it for three years, he said. Ben with the wolves all that time." "I reckon you've called the turn, Bill. That wolf's a dog, an' it's eaten fish many's the time from the hand of man." "An' if I get a chance at it, that wolf that's a dog'll be jes' meat," Bill declared. "We can't afford to lose no more animals." "But you've only got three cartridges," Henry objected. "I'll wait for a dead sure shot," was the reply. In the morning Henry renewed the fire and cooked breakfast to the accompaniment of his partner's snoring. "You was sleepin' jes' too comfortable for anythin'," Henry told him, as he routed him out for breakfast. "I hadn't the heart to rouse you." Bill began to eat sleepily. He noticed that his cup was empty and started to reach for the pot. But the pot was beyond arm's length and beside Henry. "Say, Henry," he chided gently, "ain't you forgot somethin'?" Henry looked about with great carefulness and shook his head. Bill held up the empty cup. "You don't get no coffee," Henry announced. "Ain't run out?" Bill asked anxiously. "Nope." "Ain't thinkin' it'll hurt my digestion?"
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"Nope." A flush of angry blood pervaded Bill's face. "Then it's jes' warm an' anxious I am to be hearin' you explain yourself," he said. "Spanker's gone," Henry answered. Without haste, with the air of one resigned to misfortune, Bill turned his head, and from where he sat counted the dogs. "How'd it happen?" he asked apathetically. Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Unless One Ear gnawed 'm loose. He couldn't a-done it himself, that's sure." "The darned cuss." Bill spoke gravely and slowly, with no hint of the anger that was raging within. "Jes' because he couldn't chew himself loose, he chews Spanker loose." "Well, Spanker's troubles is over, anyway; I guess he's digested by this time an' cavortin' over the landscape in the bellies of twenty different wolves," was Henry's epitaph on this, the latest lost dog. "Have some coffee, Bill." But Bill shook his head. "Go on," Henry pleaded, elevating the pot. Bill shoved his cup aside. "I'll be ding-dong-danged if I do. I said I wouldn't if any dog turned up missin', an' I won't."
"It's darn good coffee," Henry said enticingly. But Bill was stubborn, and he ate a dry breakfast, washed down with mumbled curses at One Ear for the trick he had played. "I'll tie 'em up out of reach of each other tonight," Bill said, as they took the trail. They had traveled little more than a hundred yards, when Henry, who was in front, bent down and picked up something with which his snowshoe had collided. It was dark, and he could not see it, but he recognized it by the touch. He flung it back, so that it struck the sled and bounced along until it fetched up on Bill's snowshoes. "Mebbee you'll need that in your business," Henry said. Bill uttered an exclamation. It was all that was left of Spanker -- the stick with which he had been tied. "They ate 'm hide an' all," Bill announced. "The stick's as clean as a whistle. They've ate the leather offen both ends. They're damn hungry, Henry, an' they'll have you an' me guessin' before his trip's over." Henry laughed defiantly. "I ain't been trailed this way by wolves before, but I've gone through a whole lot worse an' kept my health. Takes more'n a handful of them pesky critters to do for yours truly, Bill, my son." "I don't know, I don't know," Bill muttered ominously. "Well, you'll know all right when we pull into McGurry." "I ain't feelin' special enthusiastic," Bill persisted. "You're off color, that's what's the matter with you," Henry dogmatized. "What you need is quinine, an' I'm goin' to dose you up stiff as soon as we make McGurry." Bill grunted his disagreement with the diagnosis, and lapsed into silence. The day was like all the days. Light came at nine o'clock. At twelve o'clock the southern horizon was warmed by the unseen sun; and then began the cold gray of afternoon that would merge, three hours later, into night. It was just after the sun's futile effort to appear that Bill slipped the rifle from under the sledlashings and said: "You keep right on, Henry, I'm goin' to see what I can see." "You'd better stick by the sled," his partner protested. "You've only got three cartridges, an' there's no tellin' what might happen." "Who's croakin' now?" Bill demanded triumphantly.
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Henry made no reply, and plodded on alone, though often he cast anxious glances back into the gray solitude where his partner had disappeared. An hour later, taking advantage of the cut-offs around which the sled had to go, Bill arrived. "They're scattered an' rangin' along wide," he said; "keepin' up with us an' lookin' for game at the same time. You see, they're sure of us, only they know they've got to wait to get us. In the meantime they're willin' to pick up anythin' eatable that comes handy." "You mean they think they're sure of us," Henry objected pointedly. But Bill ignored him. "I seen some of them. They're pretty thin. They ain't had a bit in weeks, I reckon, outside of Fatty an' Frog an' Spanker; an' there's so many of 'em that that
didn't go far. They're remarkable thin. Their ribs is like washboards, an' their stomachs is right up against their backbones. They're pretty desperate, I can tell you. They'll be goin' mad, yet, an' then watch out." A few minutes later, Henry, who was now traveling behind the sled, emitted a low, warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then quietly stopped the dogs. To the rear, from around the last bend and plainly into view, on the very trail they had just covered, trotted a furry, slinking form. Its nose was to the trail, and it trotted with a peculiar, sliding, effortless gait. When they halted, it halted, throwing up its head and regarding them steadily with nostrils that twitched as it caught and studied the scent of them. "It's the she-wolf," Bill whispered. The dogs had lain down in the snow, and he walked past them to join his partner at the sled. Together they watched the strange animal that had pursued them for days and that had already accomplished the destruction of half their dog-team. After a searching scrutiny, the animal trotted forward a few steps. This it repeated several times, till it was a short hundred yards away. It paused, head up, close by a clump of spruce trees, and with sight and scent studied the outfit of the watching men. It looked at them in a strangely wistful way, after the manner of a dog; but in its wistfulness there was none of the dog affection. It was a wistfulness bred of hunger, as cruel as its own fangs, as merciless as the frost itself. It was large for a wolf, its gaunt frame advertising the lines of an animal that was among the largest of its kind. "Stands pretty close to two feet an' a half at the shoulders," Henry commented. "An' I'll bet it ain't far from five feet long." "Kind of strange color for a wolf," was Bill's criticism. "I never seen a red wolf before. Looks almost cinnamon to me." The animal was certainly not cinnamon-colored. Its coat was the true wolf-coat. The dominant color was gray, and yet there was to it a faint reddish hue -- a hue that was baffling, that appeared and disappeared, that was more like an illusion of the vision, now gray, distinctly gray, and again giving hints and glints of a vague redness of color not classifiable in terms of ordinary experience. "Looks for all the world like a big husky sled-dog," Bill said. "I wouldn't be s'prised to see it wag its tail." "Hello, you husky!" he called. "Come here, you whatever-your-name-is." "Ain't a bit scairt of you," Henry laughed. Bill waved his hand at it threateningly and shouted loudly; but the animal betrayed no fear. The only change in it that they could notice was an accession of alertness. It still regarded them with the merciless wistfulness of hunger. They were meat and it was hungry; and it would like to go in and eat them if it dared. "Look here, Henry," Bill said, unconsciously lowering his voice to a whisper because of what he meditated. "We've got three cartridges. But it's a dead shot. Couldn't miss it. It's got away with three of our dogs, an' we oughter put a