The Call of the Wild

The Call of the Wild

Jack London

“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

Buck’s first day on the Dyea beach was like a nightmare. Every hour was

filled with shock and surprise. He had been suddenly jerked from the

heart of civilization and flung into the heart of things primordial. No

lazy, sun-kissed life was this, with nothing to do but loaf and be

bored. Here was neither peace, nor rest, nor a moment’s safety. All was

confusion and action, and every moment life and limb were in peril.

There was imperative need to be constantly alert; for these dogs and

men were not town dogs and men. They were savages, all of them, who

knew no law but the law of club and fang.

He had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures fought, and his

first experience taught him an unforgetable lesson. It is true, it was

a vicarious experience, else he would not have lived to profit by it.

Curly was the victim. They were camped near the log store, where she,

in her friendly way, made advances to a husky dog the size of a

full-grown wolf, though not half so large as she. There was no warning,

only a leap in like a flash, a metallic clip of teeth, a leap out

equally swift, and Curly’s face was ripped open from eye to jaw.

It was the wolf manner of fighting, to strike and leap away; but there

was more to it than this. Thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and

surrounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck did not

comprehend that silent intentness, nor the eager way with which they

were licking their chops. Curly rushed her antagonist, who struck again

and leaped aside. He met her next rush with his chest, in a peculiar

fashion that tumbled her off her feet. She never regained them. This

was what the onlooking huskies had waited for. They closed in upon her,

snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming with agony, beneath

the bristling mass of bodies.

So sudden was it, and so unexpected, that Buck was taken aback. He saw

Spitz run out his scarlet tongue in a way he had of laughing; and he

saw François, swinging an axe, spring into the mess of dogs. Three men

with clubs were helping him to scatter them. It did not take long. Two

minutes from the time Curly went down, the last of her assailants were

clubbed off. But she lay there limp and lifeless in the bloody,

trampled snow, almost literally torn to pieces, the swart half-breed

standing over her and cursing horribly. The scene often came back to

Buck to trouble him in his sleep. So that was the way. No fair play.

Once down, that was the end of you. Well, he would see to it that he

never went down. Spitz ran out his tongue and laughed again, and from

that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred.

Before he had recovered from the shock caused by the tragic passing of

Curly, he received another shock. François fastened upon him an

arrangement of straps and buckles. It was a harness, such as he had

seen the grooms put on the horses at home. And as he had seen horses

work, so he was set to work, hauling François on a sled to the forest

that fringed the valley, and returning with a load of firewood. Though

his dignity was sorely hurt by thus being made a draught animal, he was

too wise to rebel. He buckled down with a will and did his best, though

it was all new and strange. François was stern, demanding instant

obedience, and by virtue of his whip receiving instant obedience; while

Dave, who was an experienced wheeler, nipped Buck’s hind quarters

whenever he was in error. Spitz was the leader, likewise experienced,