The Sun-dog Trail Page #5

"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.

								

in the snow, and he died there in the snow, for McKeon never went back
for him. And who that man was, and why he came to be there, I do not
know. But I think he was greatly paid by the man and the woman, like
me, to do their work for them.

"That day and that night we had nothing to eat, and all next day we
travelled fast, and we were weak with hunger. Then we came to the Black
Rock, which rose five hundred feet above the trail. It was at the
end of the day. Darkness was coming, and we could not find the cabin
of McKeon. We slept hungry, and in the morning looked for the cabin.
It was not there, which was a strange thing, for everybody knew that
McKeon lived in a cabin at Black Rock. We were near to the coast, where
the wind blows hard and there is much snow. Everywhere there were small
hills of snow where the wind had piled it up. I have a thought, and I
dig in one and another of the hills of snow. Soon I find the walls of
the cabin, and I dig down to the door. I go inside. McKeon is dead.
Maybe two or three weeks he is dead. A sickness had come upon him so
that he could not leave the cabin. The wind and the snow had covered
the cabin. He had eaten his grub and died. I looked for his cache, but
there was no grub in it.

"'Let us go on,' said the woman. Her eyes were hungry, and her hand was
upon her heart, as with the hurt of something inside. She bent back
and forth like a tree in the wind as she stood there. 'Yes, let us go
on,' said the man. His voice was hollow, like the klonk of an old
raven, and he was hunger-mad. His eyes were like live coals of fire,
and as his body rocked to and fro, so rocked his soul inside. And I,
too, said, 'Let us go on.' For that one thought, laid upon me like a
lash for every mile of fifteen hundred miles, had burned itself into
my soul, and I think that I, too, was mad. Besides, we could only go
on, for there was no grub. And we went on, giving no thought to the man
with the one eye in the snow.

"There is little travel on the big cut-off. Sometimes two or three
months and nobody goes by. The snow had covered the trail, and there
was no sign that men had ever come or gone that way. All day the wind
blew and the snow fell, and all day we travelled, while our stomachs
gnawed their desire and our bodies grew weaker with every step they
took. Then the woman began to fall. Then the man. I did not fall, but
my feet were heavy and I caught my toes and stumbled many times.

"That night is the end of February. I kill three ptarmigan with the
woman's revolver, and we are made somewhat strong again. But the dogs
have nothing to eat. They try to eat their harness, which is of leather
and walrus-hide, and I must fight them off with a club and hang all the
harness in a tree. And all night they howl and fight around that tree.
But we do not mind. We sleep like dead people, and in the morning get
up like dead people out of their graves and go on along the trail.

"That morning is the 1st of March, and on that morning I see the
first sign of that after which the baby wolves are in search. It is
clear weather, and cold. The sun stay longer in the sky, and there
are sun-dogs flashing on either side, and the air is bright with
frost-dust. The snow falls no more upon the trail, and I see the fresh
sign of dogs and sled. There is one man with that outfit, and I see
in the snow that he is not strong. He, too, has not enough to eat.
The young wolves see the fresh sign, too, and they are much excited.
'Hurry!' they say. All the time they say, 'Hurry! Faster, Charley,
faster!'

"We make hurry very slow. All the time the man and the woman fall down.
When they try to ride on sled the dogs are too weak, and the dogs fall
down. Besides, it is so cold that if they ride on the sled they will
freeze. It is very easy for a hungry man to freeze. When the woman fall
down, the man help her up. Sometimes the woman help the man up. By and
by both fall down and cannot get up, and I must help them up all the
time, else they will not get up and will die there in the snow. This is
very hard work, for I am greatly weary, and as well I must drive the
dogs, and the man and woman are very heavy with no strength in their
bodies. So, by and by, I, too, fall down in the snow, and there is no
one to help me up. I must get up by myself. And always do I get up by
myself, and help them up, and make the dogs go on.

"That night I get one ptarmigan, and we are very hungry. And that
night the man says to me, 'What time start to-morrow, Charley?' It is
like the voice of a ghost. I say, 'All the time you make start at five
o'clock.' 'To-morrow,' he says, 'we will start at three o'clock.' I
laugh in great bitterness, and I say, 'You are dead man.' And he says,
'To-morrow we will start at three o'clock.'

"And we start at three o'clock, for I am their man, and that which they
say is to be done, I do. It is clear and cold, and there is no wind.
When daylight comes we can see a long way off. And it is very quiet. We
can hear no sound but the beat of our hearts, and in the silence that
is a very loud sound. We are like sleep-walkers, and we walk in dreams
until we fall down; and then we know we must get up, and we see the
trail once more and bear the beating of our hearts. Sometimes, when I
am walking in dreams this way, I have strange thoughts. Why does Sitka
Charley live? I ask myself. Why does Sitka Charley work hard, and go
hungry, and have all this pain? For seven hundred and fifty dollars a
month, I make the answer, and I know it is a foolish answer. Also is
it a true answer. And after that never again do I care for money. For
that day a large wisdom came to me. There was a great light, and I saw
clear, and I knew that it was not for money that a man must live, but
for a happiness that no man can give, or buy, or sell, and that is
beyond all value of all money in the world.

"In the morning we come upon the last-night camp of the man who is
before us. It is a poor camp, the kind a man makes who is hungry
and without strength. On the snow there are pieces of blanket and
of canvas, and I know what has happened. His dogs have eaten their
harness, and he has made new harness out of his blankets. The man and
woman stare hard at what is to be seen, and as I look at them my back
feels the chill as of a cold wind against the skin. Their eyes are
toil-mad and hunger-mad, and burn like fire deep in their heads. Their
faces are like the faces of people who have died of hunger, and their
cheeks are black with the dead flesh of many freezings. 'Let us go on,'
says the man. But the woman coughs and falls in the snow. It is the dry
cough where the frost has bitten the lungs. For a long time she coughs,
then like a woman crawling out of her grave she crawls to her feet. The
tears are ice upon her cheeks, and her breath makes a noise as it comes
and goes, and she says, 'Let us go on.'

"We go on. And we walk in dreams through the silence. And every time we
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