Brown Wolf and Other Jack London Stories | Page 8

as steadily regarded Walt. The
appeal was unanswered. Not a word nor a sign did the dog receive, no
suggestion and no clew as to what his conduct should be.
A glance ahead to where the old master was nearing the curve of the
trail excited him again. He sprang to his feet with a whine, and then,
struck by a new idea, turned his attention to Madge. Hitherto he had
ignored her, but now, both masters failing him, she alone was left. He
went over to her and snuggled his head in her lap, nudging her arm
with his nose--an old trick of his when begging for favors. He backed
away from her and began writhing and twisting playfully, curvetting
and prancing, half rearing and striking his forepaws to the earth,
struggling with all his body, from the wheedling eyes and flattening
ears to the wagging tail, to express the thought that was in him and that
was denied him utterance.
This, too, he soon abandoned. He was depressed by the coldness of
these humans who had never been cold before. No response could he
draw from them, no help could he get. They did not consider him. They
were as dead.
He turned and silently gazed after the old master. Skiff Miller was
rounding the curve. In a moment he would be gone from view. Yet he
never turned his head, plodding straight onward, slowly and
methodically, as though possessed of no interest in what was occurring
behind his back.
And in this fashion he went out of view. Wolf waited for him to
reappear. He waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without movement,
as though turned to stone--withal stone quick with eagerness and desire.
He barked once, and waited. Then he turned and trotted back to Walt

Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped down heavily at his feet,
watching the trail where it curved emptily from view.
The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed
suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for the
meadow larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow butterflies
drifted silently through the sunshine and lost themselves in the drowsy
shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her husband.
A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and deliberation
marked his movements. He did not glance at the man and woman. His
eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his mind. They knew it.
And they knew, so far as they were concerned, that the ordeal had just
begun.
He broke into a trot, and Madge's lips pursed, forming an avenue for
the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth. But the
caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at her
husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her. The
pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.
Wolf's trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he made.
Not once did he turn his head, his wolf's brush standing out straight
behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail and was gone.
[Illustration]

THAT SPOT
I don't think much of Stephen Mackaye any more, though I used to
swear by him. I know that in those days I loved him more than my own
brother. If ever I meet Stephen Mackaye again, I shall not be
responsible for my actions. It passes beyond me that a man with whom
I shared food and blanket, and with whom I mushed over the Chilcoot
Trail, should turn out the way he did. I always sized Steve up as a
square man, a kindly comrade, without an iota of anything vindictive or
malicious in his nature. I shall never trust my judgment in men again.
Why, I nursed that man through typhoid fever; we starved together on
the headwaters of the Stewart; and he saved my life on the Little
Salmon. And now, after the years we were together, all I can say of
Stephen Mackaye is that he is the meanest man I ever knew.
We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 1897, and we started too
late to get over Chilcoot Pass before the freeze-up. We packed our

outfit on our backs part way over, when the snow began to fly, and then
we had to buy dogs in order to sled it the rest of the way. That was how
we came to get that Spot. Dogs were high, and we paid one hundred
and ten dollars for him. He looked worth it. I say looked, because he
was one of the finest appearing dogs I ever saw. He weighed sixty
pounds, and he had all the lines of a good sled animal. We