THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

HIRTY 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.

THE CALL OF THE WILD

"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, every thing 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.

THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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 CALL OF THE WILD

"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

THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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,

THE CALL OF THE WILD

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 TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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 strength severely.

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 themselves.

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.

THE CALL OF THE WILD

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 his 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

THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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 dogs

unfed.

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 again.

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.

THE CALL OF THE WILD

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 staggered on.

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.

THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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.

THE CALL OF THE WILD

"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 was 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

THE TOIL OF TRACE AND TRAIL

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 falling tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on

wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his

stiffness.

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.

THE CALL OF THE WILD

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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