Into the Wild   –      By: Jack London

Chapter I – 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 that
trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-
water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget
Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness,
had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation
companies were booming 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,
half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be
caught of the wide cool veranda that ran around its four sides.
The house was approached by gravelled driveways which wound about
through wide-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of
tall poplars. At the 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 of outhouses, long grape arbors,
green pastures, orchards, and berry patches. Then there was the
pumping plant for the artesian well, and the big cement tank where
Judge Miller’s boys took their morning plunge and kept cool in the
hot afternoon.

And over this great demesne Buck ruled. Here he was born, and
here he had lived the four years of his life. It was true, there
were other dogs, There could not but be other dogs on so vast a
place, but they did not count. They came and went, resided in the
populous kennels, or lived obscurely in the recesses of the house
after the fashion of Toots, the Japanese pug, or Ysabel, the
Mexican hairless,–strange creatures that 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 fearful promises at
Toots and Ysabel looking out of the windows at them and protected
by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.

But Buck was neither house-dog nor kennel-dog. The whole realm
was his. He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with
the Judge’s sons; he escorted Mollie and Alice, the Judge’s
daughters, on long twilight or early morning rambles; on wintry
nights he lay at the Judge’s feet before the roaring library fire;
he carried the Judge’s grandsons on his back, or rolled them in
the grass, and guarded their footsteps 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 he utterly ignored, for
he was king,–king over all creeping, crawling, flying things of
Judge Miller’s place, humans included.

His father, Elmo, a huge St. Bernard, had been the Judge’s
inseparable companion, and Buck bid fair to follow in the way of
his father. He was not so large,–he weighed only one hundred and
forty pounds,–for his mother, Shep, had been a Scotch shepherd
dog. Nevertheless, one hundred and forty pounds, to which was
added the dignity that comes of good living and universal respect,
enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion. During the
four years since his puppyhood he had lived the life of a sated
aristocrat; he had a fine pride in himself, was even a trifle
egotistical, as country gentlemen sometimes become because of
their insular situation. But he had saved himself by not becoming
a mere pampered house-dog. Hunting and kindred outdoor delights
had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles; and to him, as to
the cold-tubbing races, the love of water had been a tonic and a
health preserver.

And this was the manner of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when
the Klondike strike dragged men from all the world into the frozen
North. But Buck did not read the newspapers, and he did not know
that Manuel, 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; and this 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 a wife and numerous
progeny.

The Judge was at a meeting of the Raisin Growers’ Association, and
the boys were busy organizing an athletic club, on the memorable
night of Manuel’s treachery. No one saw him and Buck go off
through the orchard on what Buck imagined was merely a stroll.
And with the exception of a solitary man, no one saw them arrive
at the little flag station known as College Park. This man talked
with Manuel, and money chinked between them.

“You might wrap up the goods before you deliver ‘m,” the stranger
said gruffly, and Manuel doubled a piece of stout rope around
Buck’s neck under the collar.

“Twist it, an’ you’ll choke ‘m plentee,” said Manuel, and the
stranger grunted a ready affirmative.

Buck had accepted the rope with quiet dignity. To be sure, it was
an unwonted performance: but he had learned to trust in men he
knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his
own. But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger’s
hands, he growled menacingly. He had merely intimated his
displeasure, in his pride believing that to intimate was to
command. But to his surprise the rope tightened around his neck,
shutting off his breath. In quick rage he sprang at the man, who
met him halfway, grappled him close by the throat, and with a deft
twist threw him over on his back. Then the rope tightened
mercilessly, while Buck struggled in a fury, his tongue lolling
out of his mouth and his great chest panting futilely. Never in
all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his
life had he been so angry. But his strength ebbed, his eyes
glazed, and he knew nothing 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 hurting
and that he was being jolted along in some kind of a conveyance.
The hoarse shriek of a locomotive whistling a crossing told him
where he was. He had travelled too often with the Judge not to
know the sensation of riding in a baggage car. He opened his
eyes, and into them came the unbridled anger of a kidnapped king.
The man sprang for his throat, 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 the
baggageman, who had been attracted by the sounds of struggle.
“I’m takin’ ‘m up for the boss to ‘Frisco. A crack dog-doctor
there thinks that he can cure ‘m.”

Concerning that night’s ride, the man spoke most eloquently for
himself, 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 a thousand, cold cash.”

His hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, and the right
trouser 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;
“and he’s worth it, or I’m a squarehead.”

The kidnapper undid the bloody wrappings and looked at his
lacerated 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 the
life half throttled out of him, Buck attempted to face his
tormentors. But he was thrown down and choked repeatedly, till
they succeeded in filing the heavy brass collar from off his neck.
Then the rope was removed, and he was flung into a cagelike crate.

There he lay for the remainder of the weary night, nursing his
wrath and wounded pride. He could not understand what it all
meant. What did they want with him, these strange men? Why were
they keeping him pent up in this narrow crate? He did not know
why, but he felt oppressed by the vague sense of impending
calamity. Several times during 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 was the bulging face of the
saloon-keeper that peered in at him by the sickly light of a
tallow candle. And each time the joyful bark that trembled in
Buck’s throat was twisted into a savage growl.

But the saloon-keeper let him alone, and in the morning four men
entered and picked up the crate. More tormentors, Buck decided,
for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and unkempt; and he
stormed and raged at them through the bars. They only laughed and
poked sticks at him, which he promptly assailed with his teeth
till he realized that that was what they wanted. Whereupon he lay
down sullenly and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon.
Then he, and the crate in which he was imprisoned, began a passage
through many hands. Clerks in the express office took charge of
him; he was carted about in another wagon; a truck carried him,
with an assortment of boxes and parcels, upon a ferry steamer; he
was trucked off the steamer into a great railway depot, and
finally he was deposited in an express car.

For two days and nights this express car was dragged along at the
tail of shrieking locomotives; and for two days and nights Buck
neither ate nor drank. In his anger he had met the first advances
of the express messengers with growls, and they had retaliated by
teasing him. When he flung himself against the bars, quivering
and frothing, they laughed at him and taunted him. They growled
and barked like detestable dogs, mewed, and flapped their arms and
crowed. It was all very silly, he knew; but therefore the more
outrage to his dignity, and his anger waxed and waxed. He did not
mind the hunger so much, but the lack of water caused him severe
suffering and fanned his wrath to fever-pitch. For that matter,
high-strung and finely sensitive, the ill treatment had flung him
into a fever, which was fed by the inflammation of his parched and
swollen throat and tongue.

He was glad for one thing: the rope was off his neck. That had
given them an unfair advantage; but now that it was off, he would
show them. They would never get another rope around his neck.
Upon that he was resolved. For two days and nights he neither ate
nor drank, and during those two days and nights of torment, he
accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell
foul of him. His eyes turned blood-shot, and he was metamorphosed
into a raging fiend. So changed was he that the Judge himself
would not have recognized him; and the express messengers breathed
with relief when they bundled him off the train at Seattle.

Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small,
high-walled back yard. A stout man, with a red sweater that
sagged generously at the neck, came out and signed the book for
the driver. That was the man, Buck divined, the next tormentor,
and he hurled himself savagely against the bars. The man smiled
grimly, and brought a hatchet and a club.

“You ain’t going to take him out now?” the driver asked.

“Sure,” the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate for a
pry.

There was an instantaneous scattering of the four men who had
carried it in, and from safe perches on top the wall they prepared
to watch the performance.

Buck rushed at the splintering wood, sinking his teeth into it,
surging and wrestling with it. Wherever the hatchet fell on the
outside, he was there on the inside, snarling and growling, as
furiously anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was
calmly intent on getting him out.

“Now, you red-eyed devil,” he said, when he had made an opening
sufficient for the passage of Buck’s body. At the same time he
dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.

And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil, as he drew himself together
for the spring, hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in
his blood-shot eyes. Straight at the man he launched his one
hundred and forty pounds of fury, surcharged with the pent passion
of two days and nights. In mid air, just as his jaws were about
to close on the man, he received a shock that checked his body and
brought his teeth together with an agonizing clip. He whirled
over, fetching the ground on his back and side. He had never been
struck by a club in his life, and did not understand. With a
snarl that was part bark and more scream he was again on his feet
and launched into the air. And again the shock came and he was
brought crushingly to the ground. This time he was aware that it
was the club, but his madness knew no caution. A dozen times he
charged, and as often the club broke the charge and smashed him
down.

After a particularly fierce blow, he crawled to his feet, too
dazed to rush. He staggered limply about, the blood flowing from
nose and mouth and ears, his beautiful coat sprayed and flecked
with bloody slaver. Then the man advanced and deliberately dealt
him a frightful blow on the nose. All the pain he had endured was
as nothing compared with the exquisite agony of this. With a roar
that was almost lionlike in its ferocity, he again hurled himself
at the man. But the man, shifting the club from right to left,
coolly caught him by the under jaw, at the same time wrenching
downward and backward. Buck described a complete circle in the
air, and half of another, then crashed to the ground on his head
and chest.

For the last time he rushed. The man struck the shrewd blow he
had purposely withheld for so long, and Buck crumpled up and went
down, knocked utterly senseless.

“He’s no slouch at dog-breakin’, that’s wot I say,” one of the men
on the wall cried enthusiastically.

“Druther break cayuses any day, and twice on Sundays,” was the
reply of the driver, as he climbed on the wagon and started the
horses.

Buck’s senses came back to him, but not his strength. He lay
where he had fallen, and from there he watched the man in the red
sweater.

” ‘Answers to the name of Buck,’ ” the man soliloquized, quoting
from the saloon-keeper’s letter which had announced the
consignment of the crate and contents. “Well, Buck, my boy,” he
went on in a genial voice, “we’ve had our little ruction, and the
best thing we can do is to let it go at that. You’ve learned your
place, and I know mine. Be a good dog and all ‘ll go well and the
goose hang high. Be a bad dog, and I’ll whale the stuffin’ outa
you. Understand?”

As he spoke he fearlessly patted the head he had so mercilessly
pounded, and though Buck’s hair involuntarily bristled at touch of
the hand, he endured it without protest. When the man brought him
water he drank eagerly, and later bolted a generous meal of raw
meat, chunk by chunk, from the man’s hand.

He was beaten (he knew that); but he was not broken. He saw, once
for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He
had learned the lesson, and in all his after life he never forgot
it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the
reign of primitive law, and he met the introduction halfway. The
facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while he faced that
aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his
nature aroused. As the days went by, other dogs came, in crates
and at the ends of ropes, some docilely, and some raging and
roaring as he had come; and, one and all, he watched them pass
under the dominion of the man in the red sweater. Again and
again, as he looked at each brutal performance, the lesson was
driven home to Buck: a man with a club was a lawgiver, a master to
be obeyed, though not necessarily conciliated. Of this last Buck
was never guilty, though he did see beaten dogs that fawned upon
the man, and wagged their tails, and licked his hand. Also he saw
one dog, that would neither conciliate nor obey, finally killed in
the struggle for mastery.

Now and again men came, strangers, who talked excitedly,
wheedlingly, and in all kinds of fashions to the man in the red
sweater. And at such times that money passed between them the
strangers took one or more of the dogs away with them. Buck
wondered where they went, for they never came back; but the fear
of the future was strong upon him, and he was glad each time when
he was not selected.

Yet his time came, in the end, in the form of a little weazened
man who spat broken English and many strange and uncouth
exclamations which Buck could not understand.

“Sacredam!” he cried, when his eyes lit upon Buck. “Dat one dam
bully dog! Eh? How moch?”

“Three hundred, and a present at that,” was the prompt reply of
the man in the red sweater. “And seem’ it’s government money, you
ain’t got no kick coming, eh, Perrault?”

Perrault grinned. Considering that the price of dogs had been
boomed skyward by the unwonted demand, it was not an unfair sum
for so fine an animal. The Canadian Government would be no loser,
nor would its despatches travel the slower. Perrault knew dogs,
and when he looked at Buck he knew that he was one in a thousand–
“One in ten t’ousand,” he commented mentally.

Buck saw money pass between them, and was not surprised when
Curly, a good-natured Newfoundland, and he were led away by the
little weazened man. That was the last he saw of the man in the
red sweater, and as Curly and he looked at receding Seattle from
the deck of the Narwhal, it was the last he saw of the warm
Southland. Curly and he were taken below by Perrault and turned
over to a black-faced giant called Francois. Perrault was a
French-Canadian, and swarthy; but Francois was a French-Canadian
half-breed, and twice as swarthy. They were a new kind of men to
Buck (of which he was destined to see many more), and while he
developed no affection for them, he none the less grew honestly to
respect them. He speedily learned that Perrault and Francois were
fair men, calm and impartial in administering justice, and too
wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by dogs.

In the ‘tween-decks of the Narwhal, Buck and Curly joined two
other dogs. One of them was a big, snow-white fellow from
Spitzbergen who had been brought away by a whaling captain, and
who had later accompanied a Geological Survey into the Barrens.
He was friendly, in a treacherous sort of way, smiling into one’s
face the while he meditated some underhand trick, as, for
instance, when he stole from Buck’s food at the first meal. As
Buck sprang to punish him, the lash of Francois’s whip sang
through the air, reaching the culprit first; and nothing remained
to Buck but to recover the bone. That was fair of Francois, he
decided, and the half-breed began his rise in Buck’s estimation.

The other dog made no advances, nor received any; also, he did not
attempt to steal from the newcomers. He was a gloomy, morose
fellow, and he showed Curly plainly that all he desired was to be
left alone, and further, that there would be trouble if he were
not left alone. “Dave” he was called, and he ate and slept, or
yawned between times, and took interest in nothing, not even when
the Narwhal crossed Queen Charlotte Sound and rolled and pitched
and bucked like a thing possessed. When Buck and Curly grew
excited, half wild with fear, he raised his head as though
annoyed, favored them with an incurious glance, yawned, and went
to sleep again.

Day and night the ship throbbed to the tireless pulse of the

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