He is used to it. He knows that life. He was born to it an’
brought up to it. An’ you don’t know anything about it. You don’t
know what you’re talking about. That’s where the dog belongs, and
that’s where he’ll be happiest.”
“The dog doesn’t go,” Walt announced in a determined voice. “So
there is no need of further discussion.”
“What’s that?” Skiff Miller demanded, his brows lowering and an
obstinate flush of blood reddening his forehead.
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70
“I said the dog doesn’t go, and that settles it. I don’t believe
he’s your dog. You may have seen him sometime. You may even
sometime have driven him for his owner. But his obeying the
ordinary driving commands of the Alaskan trail is no demonstration
that he is yours. Any dog in Alaska would obey you as he obeyed.
Besides, he is undoubtedly a valuable dog, as dogs go in Alaska,
and that is sufficient explanation of your desire to get possession
of him. Anyway, you’ve got to prove property.”
Skiff Miller, cool and collected, the obstinate flush a trifle
deeper on his forehead, his huge muscles bulging under the black
cloth of his coat, carefully looked the poet up and down as though
measuring the strength of his slenderness.
The Klondiker’s face took on a contemptuous expression as he said
finally, “I reckon there’s nothin’ in sight to prevent me takin’
the dog right here an’ now.”
Walt’s face reddened, and the striking-muscles of his arms and
shoulders seemed to stiffen and grow tense. His wife fluttered
apprehensively into the breach.
“Maybe Mr. Miller is right”, she said. “I am afraid that he is.
Wolf does seem to know him, and certainly he answers to the name of
‘Brown.’ He made friends with him instantly, and you know that’s
something he never did with anybody before. Besides, look at the
way he barked. He was just bursting with joy Joy over what?
Without doubt at finding Mr. Miller.”
Walt’s striking-muscles relaxed, and his shoulders seemed to droop
with hopelessness.
“I guess you’re right, Madge,” he said. “Wolf isn’t Wolf, but
Brown, and he must belong to Mr. Miller.”
“Perhaps Mr. Miller will sell him,” she suggested. “We can buy
him.”
Skiff Miller shook his head, no longer belligerent, but kindly,
quick to be generous in response to generousness.
“I had five dogs,” he said, casting about for the easiest way to
temper his refusal. “He was the leader. They was the crack team
of Alaska. Nothin’ could touch ’em. In 1898 I refused five
thousand dollars for the bunch. Dogs was high, then, anyway; but
that wasn’t what made the fancy price. It was the team itself.
Brown was the best in the team. That winter I refused twelve
hundred for ‘m. I didn’t sell ‘m then, an’ I ain’t a-sellin’ ‘m
now. Besides, I think a mighty lot of that dog. I’ve ben lookin’
for ‘m for three years. It made me fair sick when I found he’d ben
stole – not the value of him, but the – well, I liked ‘m like hell,
that’s all, beggin’ your pardon. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I
seen ‘m just now. I thought I was dreamin’. It was too good to be
true. Why, I was his wet-nurse. I put ‘m to bed, snug every
night. His mother died, and I brought ‘m up on condensed milk at
two dollars a can when I couldn’t afford it in my own coffee. He
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71
never knew any mother but me. He used to suck my finger regular,
the darn little cuss – that finger right there!”
And Skiff Miller, too overwrought for speech, held up a fore finger
for them to see.
“That very finger,” he managed to articulate, as though it somehow
clinched the proof of ownership and the bond of affection.
He was still gazing at his extended finger when Madge began to
speak.
“But the dog,” she said. “You haven’t considered the dog.”
Skiff Miller looked puzzled.
“Have you thought about him?” she asked.
“Don’t know what you’re drivin’ at,” was the response.
“Maybe the dog has some choice in the matter,” Madge went on.
“Maybe he has his likes and desires. You have not considered him.
You give him no choice. It has never entered your mind that
possibly he might prefer California to Alaska. You consider only
what you like. You do with him as you would with a sack of
potatoes or a bale of hay.”
This was a new way of looking at it, and Miller was visibly
impressed as he debated it in his mind. Madge took advantage of
his indecision.
“If you really love him, what would be happiness to him would be
your happiness also,” she urged.
Skiff Miller continued to debate with himself, and Madge stole a
glance of exultation to her husband, who looked back warm approval.
“What do you think?” the Klondiker suddenly demanded.
It was her turn to be puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“D’ye think he’d sooner stay in California?”
She nodded her head with positiveness. “I am sure of it.”
Skiff Miller again debated with himself, though this time aloud, at
the same time running his gaze in a judicial way over the mooted
animal.
“He was a good worker. He’s done a heap of work for me. He never
loafed on me, an’ he was a joe-dandy at hammerin’ a raw team into
shape. He’s got a head on him. He can do everything but talk. He
knows what you say to him. Look at ‘m now. He knows we’re talkin’
about him.”
The dog was lying at Skiff Miller’s feet, head close down on paws,
ears erect and listening, and eyes that were quick and eager to
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72
follow the sound of speech as it fell from the lips of first one
and then the other.
“An’ there’s a lot of work in ‘m yet. He’s good for years to come.
An’ I do like him. I like him like hell.”
Once or twice after that Skiff Miller opened his mouth and closed
it again without speaking. Finally he said:
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Your remarks, ma’am, has some weight
in them. The dog’s worked hard, and maybe he’s earned a soft berth
an’ has got a right to choose. Anyway, we’ll leave it up to him.
Whatever he says, goes. You people stay right here settin’ down.
I’ll say good-by and walk off casual-like. If he wants to stay, he
can stay. If he wants to come with me, let ‘m come. I won’t call
‘m to come an’ don’t you call ‘m to come back.”
He looked with sudden suspicion at Madge, and added, “Only you must
play fair. No persuadin’ after my back is turned.”
“We’ll play fair,” Madge began, but Skiff Miller broke in on her
assurances.
“I know the ways of women,” he announced. “Their hearts is soft.
When their hearts is touched they’re likely to stack the cards,
look at the bottom of the deck, an’ lie like the devil – beggin’
your pardon, ma’am. I’m only discoursin’ about women in general.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Madge quavered.
“I don’t see as you’ve got any call to thank me,” he replied.
“Brown ain’t decided yet. Now you won’t mind if I go away slow?
It’s no more’n fair, seein’ I’ll be out of sight inside a hundred
yards.” – Madge agreed, and added, “And I promise you faithfully
that we won’t do anything to influence him.”
“Well, then, I might as well be gettin’ along,” Skiff Miller said
in the ordinary tones of one departing.
At this change in his voice, Wolf lifted his head quickly, and
still more quickly got to his feet when the man and woman shook
hands. He sprang up on his hind legs, resting his fore paws on her
hip and at the same time licking Skiff Miller’s hand. When the
latter shook hands with Walt, Wolf repeated his act, resting his
weight on Walt and licking both men’s hands.
“It ain’t no picnic, I can tell you that,” were the Klondiker’s
last words, as he turned and went slowly up the trail.
For the distance of twenty feet Wolf watched him go, himself all
eagerness and expectancy, as though waiting for the man to turn and
retrace his steps. Then, with a quick low whine, Wolf sprang after
him, overtook him, caught his hand between his teeth with reluctant
tenderness, and strove gently to make him pause.
Failing in this, Wolf raced back to where Walt Irvine sat, catching
his coat-sleeve in his teeth and trying vainly to drag him after
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73
the retreating man.
Wolf’s perturbation began to wax. He desired ubiquity. He wanted
to be in two places at the same time, with the old master and the