A thousand deaths by Jack London

was heavy with new-fallen snow, and they had come far, and the runners, burdened with

flint-like quarters of frozen moose, clung tenaciously to the unpacked surface and held

back with a stubbornness almost human. Darkness was coming on, but there was no camp

to pitch that night. The snow fell gently through the pulseless air, not in flakes, but in tiny

frost crystals of delicate design. It was very warm,–barely ten below zero,–and the men

did

not mind. Meyers and Bettles had raised their ear-flaps, while Malemute Kid had even

taken off his mittens.

The dogs had been fagged out early in the afternoon, but they now began to show new

vigor. Among the more astute there was a certain restlessness,–an impatience at the

restraint of the traces, an indecisive quickness of movement, a sniffing of snouts and

pricking of ears. These became incensed at their more phlegmatic brothers, urging them on

with numerous sly nips on their hinder-quarters. Those, thus chidden, also contracted and

helped spread the contagion. At last, the leader of the foremost sled uttered a sharp whine

of satisfaction, crouching lower in the snow and throwing himself against the collar. The

rest followed suit. There was an ingathering of back-bands, a tightening of traces; the sleds

leaped forward, and the men clung to the gee-poles, violently accelerating the uplift of

their

feet that they might escape going under the runners. The weariness of the day fell from

them, and they whooped encouragement to the dogs. The animals responded with joyous

yelps. They were swinging through the gathering darkness at a rattling gallop.

“Gee! Gee!” the men cried, each in turn, as their sleds abruptly left the main-trail, heeling

over on single runners like luggers on the wind.

Then came a hundred yards’ dash to the lighted parchment window, which told its own

story

of the home cabin, the roaring Yukon stove, and the steaming pots of tea. But the home

cabin had been invaded. Three-score huskies chorused defiance, and as many furry forms

precipitated themselves upon the dogs which drew the first sled. The door was flung open,

and a man, clad in the scarlet tunic of the Northwest Police, waded knee-deep among the

furious brutes, calmly and impartially dispensing soothing justice with the butt end of a

dog-whip. After that, the men shook hands; and in this wise was Malemute Kid welcomed

to his own cabin by a stranger.

Stanley Prince, who should have welcomed him, and who was responsible for the Yukon

stove and hot tea aforementioned, was busy with his guests. There were a dozen or so of

them, as nondescript a crowd as ever served the Queen in the enforcement of her laws or

AN ODYSSEY OF THE NORTH

3

the delivery of her mails. They were of many breeds, but their common life had formed of

them a certain type,–a lean and wiry type, with trail-hardened muscles, and sun-browned

faces, and untroubled souls which gazed frankly forth, clear-eyed and steady. They drove

the dogs of the Queen, wrought fear in the hearts of her enemies, ate of her meagre fare,

and were happy. They had seen life, and done deeds, and lived romances; but they did not

know it.

And they were very much at home. Two of them were sprawled upon Malemute Kid’s

bunk,

singing chansons which their French forbears sang in the days when first they entered the

Northwest-land and mated with its Indian women. Bettles’ bunk had suffered a similar

invasion, and three or four lusty voyageurs worked their toes among its blankets as they

listened to the tale of one who had served on the boat brigade with Wolseley when he

fought his way to Khartoum. And when he tired, a cowboy told of courts and kings and

lords

and ladies he had seen when Buffalo Bill toured the capitals of Europe. In a corner, two

half-breeds, ancient comrades in a lost campaign, mended harnesses and talked of the days

when the Northwest flamed with insurrection and Louis Riel was king.

Rough jests and rougher jokes went up and down, and great hazards by trail and river were

spoken of in the light of commonplaces, only to be recalled by virtue of some grain of

humor or ludicrous happening. Prince was led away by these uncrowned heroes who had

seen history made, who regarded the great and the romantic as but the ordinary and the

incidental in the routine of life. He passed his precious tobacco among them with lavish

disregard, and rusty chains of reminiscence were loosened, and forgotten odysseys

resurrected for his especial benefit.

When conversation dropped and the travelers filled the last pipes and unlashed their

tight-rolled sleeping-furs, Prince fell back upon his comrade for further information.

“Well, you know what the cowboy is,” Malemute Kid answered, beginning to unlace his

moccasins; “and it’s not hard to guess the British blood in his bed-partner. As for the rest,

they’re all children of the coureurs du bois, mingled with God knows how many other

bloods. The two turning in by the door are the regulation ‘breeds’ or Boisbrûles. That lad

with the worsted breech scarf–notice his eyebrows and the turn of his jaw–shows a

Scotchman wept in his mother’s smoky tepee. And that handsome-looking fellow putting

the

capote under his head is a French half-breed,–you heard him talking; he doesn’t like the

two Indians turning in next to him. You see, when the ‘breeds’ rose under Riel the

full-bloods kept the peace, and they’ve not lost much love for one another since.”

“But I say, what’s that glum-looking fellow by the stove? I’ll swear he can’t talk English.

He hasn’t opened his mouth all night.”

“You’re wrong. He knows English well enough. Did you follow his eyes when he listened?

I

AN ODYSSEY OF THE NORTH

4

did. But he’s neither kith nor kin to the others. When they talked their own patois you

could

see he didn’t understand. I’ve been wondering myself what he is. Let’s find out.”

“Fire a couple of sticks into the stove!” Malemute Kid commanded, raising his voice and

looking squarely at the man in question.

He obeyed at once.

“Had discipline knocked into him somewhere,” Prince commented in a low tone.

Malemute Kid nodded, took off his socks, and picked his way among the recumbent men

to

the stove. There he hung his damp footgear among a score or so of mates.

“When do you expect to get to Dawson?” he asked tentatively.

The man studied him a moment before replying. “They say seventy-five mile. So? Maybe

two days.”

The very slightest accent was perceptible, while there was no awkward hesitancy or

groping for words.

“Been in the country before?”

“No.”

“Northwest Territory?”

“Yes.”

“Born there?”

“No.”

“Well, where the devil were you born? You’re none of these.” Malemute Kid swept his

hand over the dog-drivers, even including the two policemen who had turned into Prince’s

bunk. “Where did you come from? I’ve seen faces like yours before, though I can’t

remember just where.”

“I know you,” he irrelevantly replied, at once turning the drift of Malemute Kid’s

questions.

“Where? Ever see me?”

“No; your partner, him priest, Pastilik, long time ago. Him ask me if I see you, Malemute

AN ODYSSEY OF THE NORTH

5

Kid. Him give me grub. I no stop long. You hear him speak ’bout me?”

“Oh! you’re the fellow that traded the otter skins for the dogs?”

The man nodded, knocked out his pipe, and signified his disinclination for conversation by

rolling up in his furs. Malemute Kid blew out the slush-lamp and crawled under the

blankets with Prince.

“Well, what is he?”

“Don’t know–turned me off, somehow, and then shut up like a clam. But he’s a fellow to

whet your curiosity. I’ve heard of him. All the Coast wondered about him eight years ago.

Sort of mysterious, you know. He came down out of the North, in the dead of winter,

many

a thousand miles from here, skirting Bering Sea and traveling as though the devil were

after him. No one ever learned where he came from, but he must have come far. He was

badly travel-worn when he got food from the Swedish missionary on Golovin Bay and

asked

the way south. We heard of this afterward. Then he abandoned the shore-line, heading

right

across Norton Sound. Terrible weather, snowstorms and high winds, but he pulled through

where a thousand other men would have died, missing St. Michael’s and making the land

at

Pastilik. He’d lost all but two dogs, and was nearly gone with starvation.

“He was so anxious to go on that Father Roubeau fitted him out with grub; but he couldn’t

let him have any dogs, for he was only waiting my arrival to go on a trip himself. Mr.

Ulysses knew too much to start on without animals, and fretted around for several days.

He

had on his sled a bunch of beautifully cured otter skins, sea-otters, you know, worth their