The Demon s Call ENGLISH

Into the Primitive"Old longings nomadic leap, Chafing at custom's chain;Again from its brumal sleep Wakens the ferine strain."Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known thattrouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide- water dog,strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to SanDiego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found ayellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies werebooming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the Northland.

　　These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs,with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

　　Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley.

　　Judge Miller's place, it was called. It stood back from the road, halfhidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of thewide cool veranda that ran around its four sides. The house wasapproached by gravelled driveways which wound about through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars. Atthe rear things were on even a more spacious scale than at the front.

　　There were great stables, where a dozen grooms and boys held forth,rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, an endless and orderly array ofouthouses, long grape arbors, green pastures, orchards, and berry patches.

　　Then there was the pumping plant for the artesian well, and the bigcement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning plunge andkept cool in the hot afternoon.

　　And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, andhere he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there were otherdogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they didnot count. They came and went, resided in the populous kennels, orlived obscurely in the recesses of the house after the fashion of Toots,the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the Mexican hairless,--strange creaturesthat rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground. On the other hand,there were the fox terriers, a score of them at least, who yelped fearfulpromises at Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them andprotected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.

　　But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realmwas his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with theJudge's sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge's daughters, onlong twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry nights he lay at theJudge's feet before the roaring library fire; he carried the Judge'sgrandsons on his back, or rolled them in the grass, and guarded theirfootsteps through wild adventures down to the fountain in the stable yard,and even beyond, where the paddocks were, and the berry patches.

　　Among the terriers he stalked imperiously, and Toots and Ysabel heutterly ignored, for he was king,--king over all creeping, crawling, flyingthings of Judge Miller's place, humans included.

　　His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge'sinseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of hisfather. He was not so large,--he weighed only one hundred and fortypounds,--for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd dog.

　　Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was added thedignity that comes of good living and universal respect, enabled him tocarry himself in right royal fashion. During the four years since hispuppyhood he had lived the life of a sated aristocrat; he had a fine pridein himself, was even a trifle egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimesbecome because of their insular situation. But he had saved himself bynot becoming a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindredoutdoor delights had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and tohim, as to the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic anda health preserver.

　　And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, whenthe Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozenNorth. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know thatManuel, one of the gardener's helpers, was an undesirable acquaintance.

　　Manuel had one besetting sin. He loved to play Chinese lottery. Also,in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness--faith in a system; andthis made his damnation certain. For to play a system requires money,while the wages of a gardener's helper do not lap over the needs of awife and numerous progeny.

　　The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers' Association, andthe boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable nightof Manuel's treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off through theorchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll. And with theexception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive at the little flagstation known as College Park. This man talked with Manuel, andmoney chinked between them.

　　"You might wrap up the goods before you deliver 'm," the strangersaid gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around Buck'sneck under the collar.

　　"Twist it, an' you'll choke 'm plentee," said Manuel, and the strangergrunted a ready affirmative.

　　Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it wasan unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he knew,and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. Butwhen the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands, hegrowled menacingly. He had merely intimated his displeasure, in hispride believing that to intimate was to command. But to his surprisethe rope tightened around his neck, shutting off his breath. In quickrage he sprang at the man, who met him halfway, grappled him close bythe throat, and with a deft twist threw him over on his back. Then therope tightened mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tonguelolling out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never inall his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had hebeen so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes glazed, and he knewnothing when the train was flagged and the two men threw him into the baggage car.

　　The next he knew, he was dimly aware that his tongue was hurtingand that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance. Thehoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him where hewas. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to know thesensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his eyes, and into themcame the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king. The man sprang for histhroat, but Buck was too quick for him. His jaws closed on the hand,nor did they relax till his senses were choked out of him once more.

　　"Yep, has fits," the man said, hiding his mangled hand from thebaggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle. "I'mtakin' 'm up for the boss to 'Frisco. A crack dog-doctor there thinks thathe can cure 'm."Concerning that night's ride, the man spoke most eloquently forhimself, in a little shed back of a saloon on the San Francisco water front.

　　"All I get is fifty for it," he grumbled; "an' I wouldn't do it over for athousand, cold cash."His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the righttrouser leg was ripped from knee to ankle.

　　"How much did the other mug get?" the saloon-keeper demanded.

　　"A hundred," was the reply. "Wouldn't take a sou less, so help me.""That makes a hundred and fifty," the saloon-keeper calculated; "andhe's worth it, or I'm a squarehead."The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at hislacerated hand. "If I don't get the hydrophoby--""It'll be because you was born to hang," laughed the saloon- keeper.

　　"Here, lend me a hand before you pull your freight," he added.

　　Dazed, suffering intolerable pain from throat and tongue, with thelife half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his tormentors.

　　But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till they succeeded infiling the heavy brass collar from off his neck. Then the rope wasremoved, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.

　　There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his wrathand wounded pride. He could not understand what it all meant. Whatdid they want with him, these strange men? Why were they keepinghim pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know why, but he feltoppressed by the vague sense of impending calamity. Several timesduring the night he sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open,expecting to see the Judge, or the boys at least. But each time it wasthe bulging face of the saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sicklylight of a tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled inBuck's throat was twisted into a savage growl.

　　But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four menentered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided, forthey were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he stormedand raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and pokedsticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth till he realizedthat that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay down sullenly andallowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon. Then he, and the crate inwhich he was imprisoned, began a passage through many hands.