miles. For three days Perrault and Francois threw chests up and down
the main street of Skaguay and were deluged with invitations to drink,
while the team was the constant centre of a worshipful crowd of
dog-busters and mushers. Then three or four western bad men aspired to
clean out the town, were riddled like pepper-boxes for their pains, and
public interest turned to other idols. Next came official orders.
Francois called Buck to him, threw his arms around him, wept over him.
And that was the last of Francois and Perrault. Like other men, they
passed out of Buck s life for good.
A Scotch half-breed took charge of him and his mates, and in company
with a dozen other dog-teams he started back over the weary trail to
Dawson. It was no light running now, nor record time, but heavy toil
each day, with a heavy load behind; for this was the mail train,
carrying word from the world to the men who sought gold under the
shadow of the Pole.
Buck did not like it, but he bore up well to the work, taking pride in
it after the manner of Dave and Sol-leks, and seeing that his mates,
whether they prided in it or not, did their fair share. It was a
monotonous life, operating with machine-like regularity. One day was
very like another. At a certain time each morning the cooks turned out,
fires were built, and breakfast was eaten. Then, while some broke camp,
others harnessed the dogs, and they were under way an hour or so before
the darkness fell which gave warning of dawn. At night, camp was made.
Some pitched the flies, others cut firewood and pine boughs for the
beds, and still others carried water or ice for the cooks. Also, the
dogs were fed. To them, this was the one feature of the day, though it
was good to loaf around, after the fish was eaten, for an hour or so
with the other dogs, of which there were fivescore and odd. There were
fierce fighters among them, but three battles with the fiercest brought
Buck to mastery, so that when he bristled and showed his teeth they got
out of his way.
Best of all, perhaps, he loved to lie near the fire, hind legs crouched
under him, fore legs stretched out in front, head raised, and eyes
blinking dreamily at the flames. Sometimes he thought of Judge Miller s
big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley, and of the cement
swimming-tank, and Ysabel, the Mexican hairless, and Toots, the
Japanese pug; but oftener he remembered the man in the red sweater, the
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