The Sun-dog Trail Page #2

"The Sun-Dog Trail" is a collection of short stories by Jack London that captures the essence of adventure in the wilderness. Set against the backdrop of the rugged Yukon environment, these tales explore themes of survival, the harsh realities of nature, and the indomitable spirit of man. With vivid descriptions and compelling narratives, London immerses readers in the challenges faced by individuals in the great outdoors, highlighting both the beauty and brutality of the wild. The stories resonate with London's keen observations on life, reflecting his deep respect for nature and the complex relationship between humanity and the untamed world.

								

markers? the man with red markers? Why nobody talk? Because very much
money. Because last turn."

"How do you know it is the last turn?" I asked.

"The king is coppered, the seven is played open," he answered. "Nobody
bet on other cards. Other cards all gone. Everybody one mind. Everybody
play king to lose, seven to win. Maybe bank lose twenty thousand
dollars, maybe bank win. Yes, that picture I understand."

"Yet you do not know the end!" I cried triumphantly. "It is the last
turn, but the cards are not yet turned. In the picture they will never
be turned. Nobody will ever know who wins nor who loses."

"And the men will sit there and never talk," he said, wonder and awe
growing in his face. "And the lookout will lean forward, and the blood
will be warm in the face of the dealer. It is a strange thing. Always
will they sit there, always; and the cards will never be turned."

"It is a picture," I said. "It is life. You have seen things like it
yourself."

He looked at me and pondered, then said, very slowly: "No, as you say,
there is no end to it. Nobody will ever know the end. Yet is it a true
thing. I have seen it. It is life."

For a long time he smoked on in silence, weighing the pictorial wisdom
of the white man and verifying it by the facts of life. He nodded his
head several times, and grunted once or twice. Then he knocked the
ashes from his pipe, carefully refilled it, and after a thoughtful
pause, lighted it again.

"Then have I, too, seen many pictures of life," he began; "pictures not
painted, but seen with the eyes. I have looked at them like through the
window at the man writing the letter. I have seen many pieces of life,
without beginning, without end, without understanding."

With a sudden change of position he turned his eyes full upon me and
regarded me thoughtfully.

"Look you," he said; "you are a painter-man. How would you paint this
which I saw, a picture without beginning, the ending of which I do not
understand, a piece of life with the northern lights for a candle and
Alaska for a frame."

"It is a large canvas," I murmured.

But he ignored me, for the picture he had in mind was before his eyes
and he was seeing it.

"There are many names for this picture," he said. "But in the picture
there are many sun-dogs, and it comes into my mind to call it 'The
Sun-Dog Trail.' It was a long time ago, seven years ago, the fall
of '97, when I saw the woman first time. At Lake Linderman I had one
canoe, very good Peterborough canoe. I came over Chilcoot Pass with
two thousand letters for Dawson. I was letter carrier. Everybody rush
to Klondike at that time. Many people on trail. Many people chop down
trees and make boats. Last water, snow in the air, snow on the ground,
ice on the lake, on the river ice in the eddies. Every day more snow,
more ice. Maybe one day, maybe three days, maybe six days, any day
maybe freeze-up come, then no more water, all ice, everybody walk,
Dawson six hundred miles, long time walk. Boat go very quick. Everybody
want to go boat. Everybody say, 'Charley, two hundred dollars you take
me in canoe,' 'Charley, three hundred dollars,' 'Charley, four hundred
dollars.' I say no, all the time I say no. I am letter carrier.

"In morning I get to Lake Linderman. I walk all night and am much
tired. I cook breakfast, I eat, then I sleep on the beach three hours.
I wake up. It is ten o'clock. Snow is falling. There is wind, much wind
that blows fair. Also, there is a woman who sits in the snow alongside.
She is white woman, she is young, very pretty, maybe she is twenty
years old, maybe twenty-five years old. She look at me. I look at her.
She is very tired. She is no dance-woman. I see that right away. She is
good woman, and she is very tired.

"'You are Sitka Charley,' she says. I get up quick and roll blankets
so snow does not get inside. 'I go to Dawson,' she says. 'I go in your
canoe--how much?'

"I do not want anybody in my canoe. I do not like to say no. So I say,
'One thousand dollars.' Just for fun I say it, so woman cannot come
with me, much better than say no. She look at me very hard, then she
says, 'When you start?' I say right away. Then she says all right, she
will give me one thousand dollars.

"What can I say? I do not want the woman, yet have I given my word that
for one thousand dollars she can come. I am surprised. Maybe she make
fun, too, so I say, 'Let me see thousand dollars.' And that woman, that
young woman, all alone on the trail, there in the snow, she take out
one thousand dollars, in greenbacks, and she put them in my hand. I
look at money, I look at her. What can I say? I say, 'No, my canoe very
small. There is no room for outfit.' She laugh. She says, 'I am great
traveller. This is my outfit.' She kick one small pack in the snow. It
is two fur robes, canvas outside, some woman's clothes inside. I pick
it up. Maybe thirty-five pounds. I am surprised. She take it away from
me. She says, 'Come, let us start.' She carries pack into canoe. What
can I say? I put my blankets into canoe. We start.

"And that is the way I saw the woman first time. The wind was fair. I
put up small sail. The canoe went very fast, it flew like a bird over
the high waves. The woman was much afraid. 'What for you come Klondike
much afraid?' I ask. She laugh at me, a hard laugh, but she is still
much afraid. Also is she very tired. I run canoe through rapids to Lake
Bennett. Water very bad, and woman cry out because she is afraid. We go
down Lake Bennett, snow, ice, wind like a gale, but woman is very tired
and go to sleep.

"That night we make camp at Windy Arm. Woman sit by fire and eat
supper. I look at her. She is pretty. She fix hair. There is much hair,
and it is brown, also sometimes it is like gold in the firelight, when
she turn her head, so, and flashes come from it like golden fire.
The eyes are large and brown, sometimes warm like a candle behind a
curtain, sometimes very hard and bright like broken ice when sun shines
upon it. When she smile--how can I say?--when she smile I know white
man like to kiss her, just like that, when she smile. She never do
hard work. Her hands are soft, like baby's hand. She is soft all over,
like baby. She is not thin, but round like baby; her arm, her leg, her
muscles, all soft and round like baby. Her waist is small, and when she
stand up, when she walk, or move her head or arm, it is--I do not know
the word--but it is nice to look at, like--maybe I say she is built on
lines like the lines of a good canoe, just like that, and when she move
she is like the movement of the good canoe sliding through still water
or leaping through water when it is white and fast and angry. It is
very good to see.

"Why does she come into Klondike, all alone, with plenty of money? I do
not know. Next day I ask her. She laugh and says: 'Sitka Charley, that
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