Fiction by Jack London
Illustrations by C.F. Payne
Walt Masters is not a very large boy, but there is manliness in his makeup, and he himself, although he does not know a great deal that most boys know, knows much that other boys do not know.
He has never seen a train of cars nor an elevator in his life, and for that matter he has never once looked upon a cornfield, a plough, a cow, or even a chicken. He has never had a pair of shoes on his feet, nor gone to a picnic or a party, nor talked to a girl. But he has seen the sun at midnight, watched the ice-jams on one of the mightiest of rivers, and played beneath the northern lights, the one white child in thousands of square miles of frozen wilderness.
Walt has walked all the 14 years of his life in sun-tanned, moose-hide moccasins, and he can go to the Indian camps and “talk big” with the men, and trade calico and beads with them for their precious furs. He can make bread without baking powder, yeast or hops, shoot a moose at 300 yards, and drive the wild wolf-dogs 50 miles a day on the packed trail.
Last of all, he has a good heart, and is not afraid of the darkness and loneliness, of man or beast or thing. His father is a good man, strong and brave, and Walt is growing up like him.
Walt was born a thousand miles or so down the Yukon, in a trading post below the Ramparts.
After his mother died, his father and he came on up the river, step by step, from camp to camp, till now they are settled down on Mazy May Creek in the Klondike gold country. Last year they and several others had spent much toil and time on the Mazy May, and endured great hardships; the creek, in turn, was just beginning to show up its richness and to reward them for their heavy labor. But with the news of their discoveries, strange men began to come and go through the short days and long nights, and many unjust things they did to the men who had worked so long upon the creek.
Si Hartman had gone away on a moose-hunt, to return and find new stakes driven and his claim jumped. George Lukens and his brother had lost their claims in a like manner, having delayed too long on the way to Dawson to record them. In short, it was the old story, and quite a number of the earnest, industrious prospectors had suffered similar losses.
But Walt Masters’ father had recorded his claim at the start, so Walt had nothing to fear now that his father had gone on a short trip up to the White River prospecting for quartz. Walt was well able to stay by himself in the cabin, cook his three meals a day and look after things. Not only did he look after his father’s claim, but he had agreed to keep an eye on the adjoining one of Loren Hall, who had started for Dawson to record it.
Loren Hall was an old man, and he had no dogs, so he had to travel very slowly.
After he had been gone some time, word came up the river that he had broken through the ice at Rosebud Creek and frozen his feet so badly that he would not be able to travel for a couple of weeks. Then Walt Masters received news that old Loren was nearly all right again, and about to move on afoot for Dawson as fast as a weakened man could.
Walt was worried, however; the claim was liable to be jumped at any moment because of this delay, and a fresh stampede had started on the Mazy May. He did not like the looks of the newcomers, and one day, when five of them came by with crack dog-teams and the lightest of camping outfits, he could see that they were prepared to make speed, and resolved to keep an eye on them. So he locked up the cabin and followed them, being at the same time careful to remain hidden.
He had not watched them for very long before he was sure that they were professional stampeders, bent on jumping all the claims in sight. Walt crept along the snow at the rim of the creek and saw them change many stakes, destroy old ones, and set up new ones.
In the afternoon, with Walt always trailing on their heels, they came back down the creek, unharnessed their dogs and went into camp within two claims of his cabin. When he saw them make preparations to cook, he hurried home to get something to eat himself, and then hurried back. He crept so close that he could hear them talking, and by pushing the underbrush aside he could catch occasional glimpses of them. They had finished eating and were smoking around the fire.
“The creek is all right, boys,” a large, black-bearded man, evidently the leader, said, “and I think the best thing we can do is to pull out tonight. The dogs can follow the trail; besides, it’s going to be moonlight. What say you?”
“But it’s going to be beastly cold,” objected one of the party. “It’s 40 below zero now.”
“An’ sure, can’t ye keep warm by jumpin’ off the sleds an’ runnin’ after the dogs?” cried an Irishman. “An’ who wouldn’t? The creek’s as rich as a United States mint! Faith, it’s an ilegant chanst to be gettin’ a run fer yer money! An’ if ye don’t run, it’s mebbe you’ll not get the money at all, at all.”
“That’s it,” said the leader. “If we can get to Dawson and record, we’re rich men; and there’s no telling who’s been sneaking along in our tracks, watching us, and perhaps now off to give the alarm. The thing for us to do is to rest the dogs a bit, and then hit the trail as hard as we can. What do you say?”
Evidently the men had agreed with their leader, for Walt Masters could hear nothing but the rattle of the tin dishes being washed.
Peering out cautiously, he could see the leader studying a piece of paper. Walt knew what it was at a glance — a list of all the unrecorded claims on Mazy May. Any man could get these lists by applying to the gold commissioner at Dawson.
“Thirty-two,” the leader said, lifting his face to the men. “Thirty-two isn’t recorded, and this is 33. Come on; let’s take a look at it. I saw somebody had been working on it when we came up this morning.”
Three of the men went with him, leaving one to remain in camp. Walt crept carefully after them till they came to Loren Hall’s shaft. One of the men went down and built a fire on the bottom to thaw out the frozen gravel, while the others built another fire on the dump and melted water in a couple of goldpans. This they poured into a piece of canvas stretched between two logs, used by Loren Hall in which to wash his gold.
In a short time a couple of buckets of dirt were sent up by the man in the shaft, and Walt could see the others grouped anxiously about their leader as he proceeded to wash it. When this was finished, they stared at the broad streak of black sand and yellow gold grains on the bottom of the pan, and one of them called excitedly for the man who had remained in camp to come. Loren Hall had struck it rich and his claim was not yet recorded. It was plain that they were going to jump it.
Walt lay in the snow, thinking rapidly.
He was only a boy, but in the face of the threatened injustice to old lame Loren Hall he felt that he must do something. He waited and watched, with his mind made up, till he saw the men begin to square up new stakes. Then he crawled away till out of hearing, and broke into a run for the camp of the stampeders. Walt’s father had taken their own dogs with him prospecting, and the boy knew how impossible it was for him to undertake the 70 miles to Dawson without the aid of dogs.
Gaining the camp, he picked out, with an experienced eye, the easiest running sled and started to harness up the stampeders’ dogs. There were three teams of six each, and from these he chose 10 of the best. Realizing how necessary it was to have a good head-dog, he strove to discover a leader amongst them; but he had little time in which to do it, for he could hear the voices of the returning men. By the time the team was in shape and everything ready, the claim-jumpers came into sight in an open place not more than a hundred yards from the trail, which ran down the bed of the creek. They cried out to Walt, but instead of giving heed to them he grabbed up one of the fur sleeping robes, which lay loosely in the snow, and leaped upon the sled.
“Mush! Hi! Mush on!” he cried to the animals, snapping the keen-lashed whip among them.
The dogs sprang against the yoke straps, and the sled jerked under way so suddenly as to almost throw him off. Then it curved into the creek, poising perilously on one runner. He was almost breathless with suspense, when it finally righted with a bound and sprang ahead again. The creek bank was high and he could not see the men, although he could hear their cries and knew they were running to cut him off. He did not dare to think what would happen if they caught him; he just clung to the sled, his heart beating wildly, and watched the snow-rim of the bank above him.
Suddenly, over this snow-rim came the flying body of the Irishman, who had leaped straight for the sled in a desperate attempt to capture it; but he was an instant too late.
Striking on the very rear of it, he was thrown from his feet, backward, into the snow. Yet, with the quickness of a cat, he had clutched the end of the sled with one hand, turned over, and was dragging behind on his breast, swearing at the boy and threatening all kinds of terrible things if he did not stop the dogs; but Walt cracked him sharply across the knuckles with the butt of the dog-whip till he let go.
It was eight miles from Walt’s claim to the Yukon — eight very crooked miles, for the creek wound back and forth like a snake, “tying knots in itself” as George Lukens said. And because it was so crooked the dogs could not get up their best speed, while the sled ground heavily on its side against the curves, now to the right, now to the left.
Travelers who had come up and down the Mazy May on foot, with packs on their backs, had declined to go round all the bends, and instead had made short cuts across the narrow necks of creek bottom.
Two of his pursuers had gone back to harness the remaining dogs, but the others took advantage of these short cuts, running on foot, and before he knew it they had almost overtaken him.
“Halt!” they cried after him. “Stop, or we’ll shoot!”
But Walt only yelled the harder at the dogs, and dashed round the bend with a couple of revolver bullets singing after him. At the next bend they had drawn up closer still, and the bullets struck uncomfortably near him; but at this point the Mazy May straightened out for half a mile as the crow flies. Here the dogs stretched out in their long wolf swing, and the stampeders, quickly winded, slowed down and waited for their own sled to come up.
Looking over his shoulder, Walt reasoned that they had not given up the chase for good, and that they would soon be after him again. So he wrapped the fur robe about him to shut out the stinging air, and lay flat on the empty sled, encouraging the dogs, as he well knew how.
At last, twisting abruptly between two river islands, he came upon the mighty Yukon sweeping grandly to the north. He could not see from bank to bank, and in the quick-falling twilight it loomed a great white sea of frozen stillness. There was not a sound, save the breathing of the dogs, and the churn of the steel-shod sled.
No snow had fallen for several weeks, and the traffic had packed the main-river trail till it was hard and glassy as glare ice. Over this, the sled flew along, and the dogs kept the trail fairly well, although Walt quickly discovered that he had made a mistake in choosing the leader. As they were driving in single file, without reins, he had to guide them by his voice, and it was evident the head-dog had never learned the meaning of “gee” and “haw.” He hugged the insides of the curves too closely, often forcing his comrades behind him into the soft snow, while several times he thus capsized the sled.
There was no wind, but the speed at which he traveled created a bitter blast, and with the thermometer down to 40 below, this bit through fur and flesh to the very bones.
Aware that if he remained constantly upon the sled he would freeze to death, Walt shortened up one of the lashing-thongs, and whenever he felt chilled, seized hold of it, jumped off, and ran behind till warmth was restored. Then he would climb on and rest till the process had to be repeated.
Looking back he could see the sled of his pursuers, drawn by eight dogs, rising and falling over the ice hummocks like a boat in a seaway. The Irishman and the black-bearded leader were with it, taking turns in running and riding.
Night fell, and in the blackness of the first hour or so, Walt toiled desperately with his dogs. On account of the poor lead-dog, they were continually floundering off the beaten track into the soft snow, and the sled was as often riding on its side or top as it was in the proper way. This work and strain tried his strength sorely. Had he not been in such haste he could have avoided much of it, but he feared the stampeders would creep up in the darkness and overtake him. However, he could hear them yelling to their dogs, and knew from the sounds they were coming up very slowly.
When the moon rose he was off Sixty Mile, and Dawson was only 50 miles away. He was almost exhausted, and breathed a sigh of relief as he climbed on the sled again. Looking back, he saw his enemies had crawled up within 400 yards. At this space they remained, a black speck of motion on the white river-breast. Strive as they would, they could not shorten their distance, and strive as he would, he could not increase it.
Walt had now discovered the proper lead-dog, and he knew he could easily run away from them if he could only change the bad leader for the good one. But this was impossible, for a moment’s delay, at the speed they were running, would bring the men behind upon him.
When he was off the mouth of Rosebud Creek, just as he was topping a rise, the report of a gun and the ping of a bullet on the ice beside him told him that they were this time shooting at him with a rifle.
And from then on, as he cleared the summit of each ice-jam, he stretched flat on the leaping sled till the rifle-shot from the rear warned him that he was safe till the next ice-jam was reached.
Now it is very hard to lie on a moving sled, jumping and plunging and yawning like a boat before the wind, and to shoot through the wind, and to shoot through the deceiving moonlight at an object 400 yards away on another moving sled performing equally wild antics. So it is not to be wondered at that the black-bearded leader did not hit him.
After several hours of this, during which, perhaps, a score of bullets had struck about him, their ammunition began to give out and their fire slackened. They took greater care, and shot at him at the most favorable opportunities. He was also leaving them behind, the distance slowly increasing to 600 yards.
Lifting clear on the crest of a great jam off Indian River, Walt Masters met with his first accident. A bullet sang past his ears, and struck the bad lead-dog.
The poor brute plunged in a heap, with the rest of the team on top of him.
Like a flash Walt was by the leader. Cutting the traces with his hunting knife, he dragged the dying animal to one side and straightened out the team.
He glanced back. The other sled was coming up like an express train. With half the dogs still over their traces, he cried, “Mush on!” and leaped upon the sled just as the pursuers dashed abreast of him.
The Irishman was preparing to spring for him — they were so sure they had him that they did not shoot — when Walt turned fiercely upon them with his whip.
He struck at their faces, and because men must save their faces with their hands, there was no shooting just then. Before they could recover from the hot rain of blows, Walt reached out from his sled, catching their wheel-dog by the forelegs in mid-spring, and throwing him heavily. This brought the whole team into a snarl, capsizing the sled and tangling his enemies up beautifully.
Away Walt flew, the runners of his sled fairly screaming as they bounded over the frozen surface. And what had seemed an accident proved to be a blessing in disguise. The proper lead-dog was now to the fore, and he stretched low and whined with joy as he jerked his comrades along.
By the time he reached Ainslie’s Creek, 17 miles from Dawson, Walt had left his pursuers, a tiny speck, far behind.
At Monte Cristo Island he could no longer see them. And at Swede Creek, just as daylight was silvering the pines, he ran plump into the camp of old Loren Hall.
Almost as quick as it takes to tell it, Loren had his sleeping-furs rolled up, and had joined Walt on the sled. They permitted the dogs to travel more slowly, as there was no sign of the chase in the rear, and just as they pulled up at the gold commissioner’s office in Dawson, Walt, who had kept his eyes open to the last, fell asleep.
And because of what Walt Masters did on this night, the men of the Yukon have become proud of him, and speak of him now as the King of Mazy May.