CHAPTER VIII
A TRAGEDY WITHOUT A MORAL—AND A COMEDY WITH ONE
Life at the Kruzgamapa Hot Springs offered a pleasant relaxation from the business cares and social duties of Nome. There was very little driving for the dogs, but they were allowed to chase every big beautiful white hare they could find, pursue a red fox if they were so lucky as to start one, and watch the flocks of ptarmigan that fluttered near enough to be a constant lure.
They were out by day with the Big Man and Ben to look for game, and once nearly went wild with excitement when they saw an Eskimo take a large gray lynx from his trap. That was the sort of a cat that would be worth while as a friend or foe; and Baldy remembered Texas Allan with added disdain.
Occasionally natives with their sleds drawn by reindeer would pass that way. And if they could elude "Scotty's" vigilance it was great fun to dash after the awkward, stubborn beasts who so disliked them; and who somewhat threatened, in the more remote interior, to break up the monopoly of the Northern Dog Transportation Company, Unlimited.
At night they were taken for long walks by the Woman and Ben. Out over the snow that crackled sharply in the clear, crisp air; out where the stars seemed strangely close, the moon strangely bright—and where across the heavens waved the luminous, ghostly banners of the Northern Lights.
Time now meant nothing. It was the Land of Day After To-morrow, where the obligation of definite hours for definite duties did not exist.
And because there was a vacation freedom in the very atmosphere, sometimes they stole into the big living-room of the Road House, two or three at a time; and lying in the shadowy twilight they would listen, in drowsy content, to the cheery snap of the wood in the huge ruddy stove, and to the voices of their friends as they talked of the North, its hardships, its happiness, its hopes.
KRUZAMAPA HOT SPRINGS
The great world "Outside," and its troubles, seemed far away.
International difficulties, the Fall of a Monarchy? Interesting of course, but on the last Holiday, Charles Johnson, with his marvelous Siberians, supplemented the previous Siberian triumph of John Johnson by winning the Solomon Derby of that year; making the course of sixty-five miles in but little more than five hours. That was something to worry one.
Suffrage? Desirable for many places, naturally. Though in Nome a woman could be a member of the Kennel Club, enter a racing team, and vote on school matters, long before the franchise was given her by the Legislature in Juneau. And surely that, all agreed, had been as liberal a policy as any reasonable female should have demanded from any community.
The Tariff, Panama Canal news, and graft prosecutions? Well, of course, one discussed such affairs casually; but after all, the Dog Question in all its phases was of far more immediate importance to Alaskans. And so they spent many an hour in reminiscences and prophecies; and were thrilled over and over again with the excitement of the great contests they had witnessed—lost and won; basing predictions for the future on the achievements of the past.
Then the dogs would be roused by the entrance of the Eskimo hunters, who stopped in the dusk of the evening on the way back to their settlement at Mary's Igloo, to barter for their day's bag. And later they sniffed with keen pleasure the wonderful smells from the adjoining kitchen; smells of broiled trout, reindeer steaks, and Arctic grouse—and fainter, but more delicious still, the odor of their own meal being cooked in the tent beside the cabin door.
They remained at the Springs a couple of weeks; and delightful weeks they were, too, but for one unfortunate incident, which was precipitated because of Tom's aristocratic race prejudice.
He had always hated Eskimo dogs; choosing either to ignore his own huskie blood, or feeling that it was superior to the native strain in the malamutes of the coast—just as some people boast of being descended from Pocahontas, but would shudder at the mere idea of a Siwash Squaw ancestress.
At all events, Tom had resented the entrance of the Eskimo, Wolf, into the Kennel; and never failed, when "Scotty" was not about, to manifest an enmity that would have told a civilized dog not to attempt any liberties with him. But Wolf was only an ignorant puppy, taken from a native igloo, where all of the dogs and all of the family lived in happy harmony; and so, one day when he was particularly joyous, he nipped, in a spirit of mischief, the end of Tom's wagging stump of a tail. Tom wheeled instantly, his hair bristling and his jaws apart, but the timely arrival of Matt made further demonstration impossible; and Tom's instinctive dislike for Wolf grew into an obsession after that direct and personal insult.
In their well-appointed quarters in Nome, with each dog in his own stall, revenge was out of the question; and when in harness, or out with Matt for exercise, there was as little chance for settling a grievance as there would be with soldiers on parade. But at the Springs Tom's opportunity came.
The small stables were overcrowded, there being seventy dogs in camp belonging to storm-bound travelers. It was necessary to chain them closer together than "Scotty" felt was wise, though he was not prepared for the tragedy that greeted him when he went out one morning to see that all was well with the team.
Every dog rose to greet him, as he came in with the Woman and Ben, except Wolf, who lay dead, strangled with his own collar.
The muscular body, so supple and vigorous but a short time before, was stiffening fast; and there were signs of a struggle desperate but ineffectual.
"Oh, 'Scotty,' can't you do something for poor Wolf?" and the tears came to the Woman's eyes as she laid a pitying hand on the handsome head of the tawny malamute.
"It's too late," said Allan regretfully. "He was a good dog, too; and would have made a strong addition to the team, properly handled."
A careful examination showed that on the left hind foot were traces of blood and marks of teeth; and there were but two dogs who could have reached Wolf to stretch him till he choked—Baldy and Tom.
The Woman looked accusingly toward Baldy. "I suppose he did it. He probably does not realize how wicked it was, he has had so little discipline as yet."
Anxious to defend the dog, Ben answered impulsively, "I'm quite sure Baldy wouldn't do a thing like that. He's been friends with Wolf; I saw them playing together only yesterday. And it really ain't a bit like Baldy t' be cruel an' sneakin'—t' lay fer a dog that didn't have a chance agin him."
"But surely Tom, after all of his years of training, would not have attacked one of his own stable-mates. Such a thing has never occurred before in our Kennel. I fear, Ben, it must have been Baldy."
But "Scotty" was not so confident. "I agree with Ben; it's not like Baldy. I have never found him quarrelsome, nor vindictive. And I hate, too, to believe Tom guilty. You know I never punish a dog on circumstantial evidence; so I am afraid this cold-blooded murder will have to be passed over, unless we can be certain of the criminal. There is always the possibility that a stray dog may have been responsible."
"Well, don't saddle it onto the Yellow Peril," exclaimed the Big Man, who came in to see what was the matter. "He is popularly supposed to start every dog fight in Nome; but this time he can prove a clear alibi, for he slept at the foot of my bed all night." Thus exonerated, the Peril passed by the line of chained dogs, bumping into them in a perfectly unnecessary manner, and emitting supercilious growls that in themselves would have been sufficient grounds for instant death if Pete Bernard's huskies could have acted upon their unanimous opinion.
"It's a terrible thing," sighed the Woman, "to have a murderer in our midst and not know who it is. It makes me feel positively creepy." And again, almost unconsciously, her glance fell upon Baldy.
And so the affair was ended officially. But Baldy could not forget the sickening suspicion that had rested upon him. In her heart the Woman felt that he was the culprit; and even "Scotty" had not been absolutely certain of his innocence. There was only Ben who knew.
Forlornly the boy and the dog wandered about throughout that dismal day, which seemed interminable. Nothing interested them, even the very things that had made the other days pass so quickly and so happily. Nothing except gloomily watching Tom, whose actions would have plainly proved his guilt to "Scotty" had the man not been too absorbed in an improvement for his sled to take much notice of anything else.
For a brief period the wily criminal had shown a humility as deep as it was unusual; he had sat on a pile of wood alone, not even romping with Dick and Harry till he felt the Hour of Judgment had passed. And then, deciding that there was no punishment forthcoming, he had leaped and frisked, and seemed so guileless that Baldy's contempt for his own kind made life hardly worth while.
One might look for such actions from inferior animals—from a cat that has killed a bird for instance; for cats are only soft-footed, purring bundles of deceit, with no standard of trail morals. But for a dog, a racing dog, and one belonging to the Allan and Darling Team, it was almost incredible. One would expect him at least to have the courage of his convictions, and be willing to take the consequences of what he regarded as a legitimate feud.
Tom's escape from all blame in this deplorable matter rankled. It made Baldy realize the indifference or casual injustice of a world that seldom delves below the surface of things; and while at times it plunged him into periods of depression, more often it spurred him on in his dogged determination to attain the goal of his recently aroused ambitions.
Fortunately he had a forgiving nature, and realized they could not know how deeply he had been wounded by their lack of faith. Also he was too busy to brood very much, for when they exercised at all, the new dogs were being tried out, and the older ones were in demand as "trainers." Most recruits are as eager for the honor of making the team as a freshman is to get into college football; but occasionally it was thrust upon an unwilling candidate.
"I should not be at all surprised if I have some trouble with Fisher," remarked "Scotty," as he turned the dogs out one day for their usual run. "He has a certain malamute stubbornness that might cause me a lot of annoyance just when I could least afford the time to correct him."
"Well, after your famous victory over Jack McMillan I do not anticipate seeing any real difficulty with Fisher," was the Big Man's confident reply. "I think you would be eligible to the position of wild beast tamer in a menagerie as the result of your tussle with Jack; for his strong wolf strain and his enormous strength certainly made him a formidable opponent. Yet you never tied nor whipped him."
"That had been tried constantly, with no success, and some danger. You see, with McMillan's disposition, such treatment only made him more defiant, without in the least breaking his spirit. I knew of course that he would have to be conquered, and conquered completely, or become an outlaw against whom every one would turn; but the punishment would have to be more vital and less humiliating than a beating. It won't do to embitter an animal any more than it will a person. You have to leave a certain self-respect and give him a fair chance."
And more than a fair chance Jack had received in that thrilling moment when the wiry little Scotchman, cool and determined, had faced the huge brute whose nature, harking back to the wild, threw off the shackles of generations of suppression and training, and rose to meet his hereditary enemy—opposing fierce resentment to all efforts of control.
For an instant the man and dog had paused, each seeming to gauge the strength of the other—then the instinct to kill, that heritage from the past, when the timber wolf gave no quarter, rose supreme; and the dog sprang forward, the wide open jaws revealing his sharp, white teeth and cruelly broken tusks. Suddenly the weight of Allan's body was hurled against him; strong supple fingers closed upon his neck, and with an unexpected wrench Jack McMillan's head was buried in a drift of soft, deep snow. He struggled violently to wrest himself from the iron grasp; madly he fought for freedom; but always there was that slow, deadly tightening at the throat. Panting and choking, he had made one last desperate attempt to break the grip that pinned him down; and then lay spent and inert except for an occasional hoarse gasp, or convulsive movement of his massive frame.
At length the man had risen, and the dog, feeling himself loosed, and able to get his breath, staggered uncertainly to his feet, turned, and stood bravely facing his foe. There was, for a brief period, the suggestion of a renewed conflict in the dog's attitude. With the foam dripping from his mouth, quivering in every muscle; but still erect, exhausted but not cowed, he waited for the next move—and when it came McMillan had met his master. Not because of the force in the vise-like fingers, not because of the dominating mind that controlled them, but because of the generous spirit that treats a conquered enemy—even a dog—as an honorable antagonist, not an abject slave.
There had seemed to be a sudden comprehension on the part of the dog, like the clearing of a distorting mist. He realized in the tone of the man's voice the recognition and appreciation of qualities which stand not alone for unquenchable hatred, but for undying fidelity as well; and when "Scotty's" hand fell upon his head, and gently stroked the soft sable muzzle, Jack McMillan had not only met a master, but he had made a friend.
"But Fisher is quite different from Jack. There was never anything petty about him. Even his hatred had something impressive about it, for he fought to kill, and was never snarling and underhanded. You always knew where you stood with him. While Fisher is not at all dangerous, he has many undesirable traits that are difficult to overcome. He shirked all the way up from town. That may have been the fault of his training, or possibly he is naturally lazy; that is what I want to find out. At any rate nagging does not seem to worry him in the least."
The Woman came out of the house pulling on her fur gloves. "What do you say," she asked Allan, "to a spin over to Mary's Igloo? Father Bernard has all sorts of native curios there that I should like to see, and the day is right for a drive."
"Fine idea," agreed the Big Man. "And Ben and I will follow with as many of Pete's huskies as we think we can manage without being slated for the hospital. We might try the Yellow Peril in the lead."
"In that case," the Woman responded rather grimly, "you will probably be slated for the cemetery instead. Why don't you get a couple of reindeer from the camp just below? They may not be so fast, but they are surely safe, and one feels so picturesque behind them, with all their gay felt collars and trappings."
"Scotty" whistled for the dogs, but Fisher was not to be seen. He had gone back into the stable to doze on the hay, his favorite pastime. Again and again the whistle failed to gain any response. The other dogs had all stepped into place before the sled; when at last Fisher, reluctant in coming, meditated a moment, and then, in open rebellion, darted down the steep banks into the overflow of the Springs. The water, a strange freak of nature in the Arctic, was very warm, and deep enough so that he had to swim; and he felt that he had selected an ideal place for his Declaration of Independence.
But "Scotty," shouting directions to have the other dogs unhitched, immediately started in pursuit of the rebel.
Fisher left the hard, well-beaten track, and struck out for some small willows and alders where the snow had drifted in feathery masses. He broke through the crust frequently, but knew that a man would have more difficulty still in making any headway. Finally Allan turned back to the house, and Fisher sat down to think over his little victory. He was tired and panting, but he felt he had scored a point; when to his amazement he saw the man coming toward him, and now on snow-shoes. He plunged forward, and relentlessly "Scotty" followed. Hour after hour the chase continued, until Fisher realized, at length, the futility of it all; and thoroughly exhausted, crouched shivering in the snow, waiting for the punishment that lay in the coils of the long black whip in the man's hand.
When some little distance from him, Allan paused and called to Fisher.
The dog listened. There was something compelling in the tone, something he could not resist; and so in spite of the temptation to make one more wild dash for liberty, the dog crawled to "Scotty's" feet in fear and trembling. And instead of the sting of the lash he had expected, a kindly touch fell upon him, and a friendly voice said, "It's a good thing, old fellow, you decided to come to me of your own free will.
"It means a bone instead of a beating—remember that always," and a delicious greasy bone was taken from a capacious pocket and given him.
So Fisher went back to the stable with "Scotty "; where Jack McMillan and other ex-rebels, but now loyal subjects, ignored, with a politeness born of similar experiences, the little episode that taught Fisher once for all that respect for authority eliminates the necessity for a whipping. Which is, perhaps, the canine version of Virtue being its own Reward.
The drive back to town was pleasant but uneventful. Ben, perfectly well again, was eager to begin his school work and lay a foundation for the wonderful education that Moose Jones had in mind for him, while Baldy was glad to be at home once more where he could settle down to his regular duties. It was with a contentment quite new to him, for in "Scotty" Allan there was evident a growing recognition of his earnest desire to be of real use. And with that certainty he ceased to worry over the short-sightedness of a world which, till now, had appeared to him unable to grasp the idea that while beauty is only fur deep, ability goes to the bone.
Tom, Dick and Harry might attract the notice of strangers by their persuasive ways; Jack McMillan compel admiration by his magnificence; Irish and Rover win caresses by their affectionate demonstrations. But after all, in storm and stress, with perhaps a life at stake, it was to him, to Baldy the obscure, to Baldy "formerly of Golconda, now of Nome," that his master had turned in his hour of greatest need.
IX
With the Flight of Time
