The Sun Dog Trail by Jack London
Sitka Charley smoked his pipe and gazed thoughtfully at the
Police Gazette illustration on the wall. For half an
hour he had been steadily regarding it, and for half an hour I
had been slyly watching him. Something was going on in that
mind of his, and, whatever it was, I knew it was well worth
knowing. He had lived life, and seen things, and performed
that prodigy of prodigies, namely, the turning of his back upon
his own people, and, in so far as it was possible for an Indian,
becoming a white man even in his mental processes. As he
phrased it himself, he had come into the warm, sat among us, by
our fires, and become one of us. He had never learned to
read nor write, but his vocabulary was remarkable, and more
remarkable still was the completeness with which he had assumed
the white man’s point of view, the white man’s
attitude toward things.
We had struck this deserted cabin after a hard day on
trail. The dogs had been fed, the supper dishes washed, the
beds made, and we were now enjoying that most delicious hour that
comes each day, and but once each day, on the Alaskan trail, the
hour when nothing intervenes between the tired body and bed save
the smoking of the evening pipe. Some former denizen of the
cabin had decorated its walls with illustrations torn from
magazines and newspapers, and it was these illustrations that had
held Sitka Charley’s attention from the moment of our
arrival two hours before. He had studied them intently,
ranging from one to another and back again, and I could see that
there was uncertainty in his mind, and bepuzzlement.
“Well?” I finally broke the silence.
He took the pipe from his mouth and said simply, “I do
He smoked on again, and again removed the pipe, using it to
point at the Police Gazette illustration.
“That picture—what does it mean? I do not
I looked at the picture. A man, with a preposterously
wicked face, his right hand pressed dramatically to his heart,
was falling backward to the floor. Confronting him, with a
face that was a composite of destroying angel and Adonis, was a
man holding a smoking revolver.
“One man is killing the other man,” I said, aware
of a distinct bepuzzlement of my own and of failure to
“Why?” asked Sitka Charley.
“I do not know,” I confessed.
“That picture is all end,” he said.
“It has no beginning.”
“It is life,” I said.
“Life has beginning,” he objected.
I was silenced for the moment, while his eyes wandered on to
an adjoining decoration, a photographic reproduction of
somebody’s “Leda and the Swan.”
“That picture,” he said, “has no
beginning. It has no end. I do not understand
“Look at that picture,” I commanded, pointing to a
third decoration. “It means something. Tell me
what it means to you.”
He studied it for several minutes.
“The little girl is sick,” he said finally.
“That is the doctor looking at her. They have been up
all night—see, the oil is low in the lamp, the first
morning light is coming in at the window. It is a great
sickness; maybe she will die, that is why the doctor looks so
hard. That is the mother. It is a great sickness,
because the mother’s head is on the table and she is
“How do you know she is crying?” I
interrupted. “You cannot see her face. Perhaps
she is asleep.”
Sitka Charley looked at me in swift surprise, then back at the
picture. It was evident that he had not reasoned the
“Perhaps she is asleep,” he repeated. He
studied it closely. “No, she is not asleep. The
shoulders show that she is not asleep. I have seen the
shoulders of a woman who cried. The mother is crying.
It is a very great sickness.”
“And now you understand the picture,” I cried.
He shook his head, and asked, “The little
girl—does it die?”
It was my turn for silence.
“Does it die?” he reiterated. “You are
a painter-man. Maybe you know.”
“No, I do not know,” I confessed.
“It is not life,” he delivered himself
dogmatically. “In life little girl die or get
well. Something happen in life. In picture nothing
happen. No, I do not understand pictures.”
His disappointment was patent. It was his desire to
understand all things that white men understand, and here, in
this matter, he failed. I felt, also, that there was
challenge in his attitude. He was bent upon compelling me
to show him the wisdom of pictures. Besides, he had
remarkable powers of visualization. I had long since
learned this. He visualized everything. He saw life
in pictures, felt life in pictures, generalized life in pictures;
and yet he did not understand pictures when seen through other
men’s eyes and expressed by those men with color and line
“Pictures are bits of life,” I said.
“We paint life as we see it. For instance, Charley,
you are coming along the trail. It is night. You see
a cabin. The window is lighted. You look through the
window for one second, or for two seconds, you see something, and
you go on your way. You saw maybe a man writing a
letter. You saw something without beginning or end.
Nothing happened. Yet it was a bit of life you saw.
You remember it afterward. It is like a picture in your
memory. The window is the frame of the picture.”
I could see that he was interested, and I knew that as I spoke
he had looked through the window and seen the man writing the
“There is a picture you have painted that I
understand,” he said. “It is a true
picture. It has much meaning. It is in your cabin at
Dawson. It is a faro table. There are men
playing. It is a large game. The limit is
“How do you know the limit is off?” I broke in
excitedly, for here was where my work could be tried out on an
unbiassed judge who knew life only, and not art, and who was a
sheer master of reality. Also, I was very proud of that
particular piece of work. I had named it “The Last
Turn,” and I believed it to be one of the best things I had
“There are no chips on the table,” Sitka Charley
explained. “The men are playing with markers.
That means the roof is the limit. One man play yellow
markers—maybe one yellow marker worth one thousand dollars,
maybe two thousand dollars. One man play red markers.
Maybe they are worth five hundred dollars, maybe one thousand
dollars. It is a very big game. Everybody play very
high, up to the roof. How do I know? You make the
dealer with blood little bit warm in face.” (I was
delighted.) “The lookout, you make him lean forward
in his chair. Why he lean forward? Why his face very
much quiet? Why his eyes very much bright? Why dealer
warm with blood a little bit in the face? Why all men very
quiet?—the man with yellow markers? the man with white
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
“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
“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
“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
“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
“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
“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
“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
“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 is none of
your business. I give you one thousand dollars take me to
Dawson. That only is your business.’ Next day
after that I ask her what is her name. She laugh, then she
says, ‘Mary Jones, that is my name.’ I do not
know her name, but I know all the time that Mary Jones is not her
“It is very cold in canoe, and because of cold sometimes
she not feel good. Sometimes she feel good and she
sing. Her voice is like a silver bell, and I feel good all
over like when I go into church at Holy Cross Mission, and when
she sing I feel strong and paddle like hell. Then she laugh
and says, ‘You think we get to Dawson before freeze-up,
Charley?’ Sometimes she sit in canoe and is thinking
far away, her eyes like that, all empty. She does not see
Sitka Charley, nor the ice, nor the snow. She is far
away. Very often she is like that, thinking far away.
Sometimes, when she is thinking far away, her face is not good to
see. It looks like a face that is angry, like the face of
one man when he want to kill another man.
“Last day to Dawson very bad. Shore-ice in all the
eddies, mush-ice in the stream. I cannot paddle. The
canoe freeze to ice. I cannot get to shore. There is
much danger. All the time we go down Yukon in the
ice. That night there is much noise of ice. Then ice
stop, canoe stop, everything stop. ‘Let us go to
shore,’ the woman says. I say no, better wait.
By and by, everything start down-stream again. There is
much snow. I cannot see. At eleven o’clock at
night, everything stop. At one o’clock everything
start again. At three o’clock everything stop.
Canoe is smashed like eggshell, but is on top of ice and cannot
sink. I hear dogs howling. We wait. We
sleep. By and by morning come. There is no more
snow. It is the freeze-up, and there is Dawson. Canoe
smash and stop right at Dawson. Sitka Charley has come in
with two thousand letters on very last water.
“The woman rent a cabin on the hill, and for one week I
see her no more. Then, one day, she come to me.
‘Charley,’ she says, ‘how do you like to work
for me? You drive dogs, make camp, travel with
me.’ I say that I make too much money carrying
letters. She says, ‘Charley, I will pay you more
money.’ I tell her that pick-and-shovel man get
fifteen dollars a day in the mines. She says, ‘That
is four hundred and fifty dollars a month.’ And I
say, ‘Sitka Charley is no pick-and-shovel man.’
Then she says, ‘I understand, Charley. I will give
you seven hundred and fifty dollars each month.’ It
is a good price, and I go to work for her. I buy for her
dogs and sled. We travel up Klondike, up Bonanza and
Eldorado, over to Indian River, to Sulphur Creek, to Dominion,
back across divide to Gold Bottom and to Too Much Gold, and back
to Dawson. All the time she look for something, I do not
know what. I am puzzled. ‘What thing you look
for?’ I ask. She laugh. ‘You look for
gold?’ I ask. She laugh. Then she says,
‘That is none of your business, Charley.’ And
after that I never ask any more.
“She has a small revolver which she carries in her
belt. Sometimes, on trail, she makes practice with
revolver. I laugh. ‘What for you laugh,
Charley?’ she ask. ‘What for you play with
that?’ I say. ‘It is no good. It is too
small. It is for a child, a little plaything.’
When we get back to Dawson she ask me to buy good revolver for
her. I buy a Colt’s 44. It is very heavy, but
she carry it in her belt all the time.
“At Dawson comes the man. Which way he come I do
not know. Only do I know he is checha-quo—what
you call tenderfoot. His hands are soft, just like
hers. He never do hard work. He is soft all
over. At first I think maybe he is her husband. But
he is too young. Also, they make two beds at night.
He is maybe twenty years old. His eyes blue, his hair
yellow, he has a little mustache which is yellow. His name
is John Jones. Maybe he is her brother. I do not
know. I ask questions no more. Only I think his name
not John Jones. Other people call him Mr. Girvan. I
do not think that is his name. I do not think her name is
Miss Girvan, which other people call her. I think nobody
know their names.
“One night I am asleep at Dawson. He wake me
up. He says, ‘Get the dogs ready; we
start.’ No more do I ask questions, so I get the dogs
ready and we start. We go down the Yukon. It is
night-time, it is November, and it is very cold—sixty-five
below. She is soft. He is soft. The cold
bites. They get tired. They cry under their breaths
to themselves. By and by I say better we stop and make
camp. But they say that they will go on. Three times
I say better to make camp and rest, but each time they say they
will go on. After that I say nothing. All the time,
day after day, is it that way. They are very soft.
They get stiff and sore. They do not understand moccasins,
and their feet hurt very much. They limp, they stagger like
drunken people, they cry under their breaths; and all the time
they say, ‘On! on! We will go on!’
“They are like crazy people. All the time do they
go on, and on. Why do they go on? I do not
know. Only do they go on. What are they after?
I do not know. They are not after gold. There is no
stampede. Besides, they spend plenty of money. But I
ask questions no more. I, too, go on and on, because I am
strong on the trail and because I am greatly paid.
“We make Circle City. That for which they look is
not there. I think now that we will rest, and rest the
dogs. But we do not rest, not for one day do we rest.
‘Come,’ says the woman to the man, ‘let us go
on.’ And we go on. We leave the Yukon. We
cross the divide to the west and swing down into the Tanana
Country. There are new diggings there. But that for
which they look is not there, and we take the back trail to
“It is a hard journey. December is most
gone. The days are short. It is very cold. One
morning it is seventy below zero. ‘Better that we
don’t travel to-day,’ I say, ‘else will the
frost be unwarmed in the breathing and bite all the edges of our
lungs. After that we will have bad cough, and maybe next
spring will come pneumonia.’ But they are
checha-quo. They do not understand the trail.
They are like dead people they are so tired, but they say,
‘Let us go on.’ We go on. The frost bites
their lungs, and they get the dry cough. They cough till
the tears run down their cheeks. When bacon is frying they
must run away from the fire and cough half an hour in the
snow. They freeze their cheeks a little bit, so that the
skin turns black and is very sore. Also, the man freezes
his thumb till the end is like to come off, and he must wear a
large thumb on his mitten to keep it warm. And sometimes,
when the frost bites hard and the thumb is very cold, he must
take off the mitten and put the hand between his legs next to the
skin, so that the thumb may get warm again.
“We limp into Circle City, and even I, Sitka Charley, am
tired. It is Christmas Eve. I dance, drink, make a
good time, for to-morrow is Christmas Day and we will rest.
But no. It is five o’clock in the
morning—Christmas morning. I am two hours
asleep. The man stand by my bed. ‘Come,
Charley,’ he says, ‘harness the dogs. We
“Have I not said that I ask questions no more?
They pay me seven hundred and fifty dollars each month.
They are my masters. I am their man. If they say,
‘Charley, come, let us start for hell,’ I will
harness the dogs, and snap the whip, and start for hell. So
I harness the dogs, and we start down the Yukon. Where do
we go? They do not say. Only do they say, ‘On!
on! We will go on!’
“They are very weary. They have travelled many
hundreds of miles, and they do not understand the way of the
trail. Besides, their cough is very bad—the dry cough
that makes strong men swear and weak men cry. But they go
on. Every day they go on. Never do they rest the
dogs. Always do they buy new dogs. At every camp, at
every post, at every Indian village, do they cut out the tired
dogs and put in fresh dogs. They have much money, money
without end, and like water they spend it. They are
crazy? Sometimes I think so, for there is a devil in them
that drives them on and on, always on. What is it that they
try to find? It is not gold. Never do they dig in the
ground. I think a long time. Then I think it is a man
they try to find. But what man? Never do we see the
man. Yet are they like wolves on the trail of the
kill. But they are funny wolves, soft wolves, baby wolves
who do not understand the way of the trail. They cry aloud
in their sleep at night. In their sleep they moan and groan
with the pain of their weariness. And in the day, as they
stagger along the trail, they cry under their breaths. They
are funny wolves.
“We pass Fort Yukon. We pass Fort Hamilton.
We pass Minook. January has come and nearly gone. The
days are very short. At nine o’clock comes
daylight. At three o’clock comes night. And it
is cold. And even I, Sitka Charley, am tired. Will we
go on forever this way without end? I do not know.
But always do I look along the trail for that which they try to
find. There are few people on the trail. Sometimes we
travel one hundred miles and never see a sign of life. It
is very quiet. There is no sound. Sometimes it snows,
and we are like wandering ghosts. Sometimes it is clear,
and at midday the sun looks at us for a moment over the hills to
the south. The northern lights flame in the sky, and the
sun-dogs dance, and the air is filled with frost-dust.
“I am Sitka Charley, a strong man. I was born on
the trail, and all my days have I lived on the trail. And
yet have these two baby wolves made me very tired. I am
lean, like a starved cat, and I am glad of my bed at night, and
in the morning am I greatly weary. Yet ever are we hitting
the trail in the dark before daylight, and still on the trail
does the dark after nightfall find us. These two baby
wolves! If I am lean like a starved cat, they are lean like
cats that have never eaten and have died. Their eyes are
sunk deep in their heads, bright sometimes as with fever, dim and
cloudy sometimes like the eyes of the dead. Their cheeks
are hollow like caves in a cliff. Also are their cheeks
black and raw from many freezings. Sometimes it is the
woman in the morning who says, ‘I cannot get up. I
cannot move. Let me die.’ And it is the man who
stands beside her and says, ‘Come, let us go
on.’ And they go on. And sometimes it is the
man who cannot get up, and the woman says, ‘Come, let us go
on.’ But the one thing they do, and always do, is to
go on. Always do they go on.
“Sometimes, at the trading posts, the man and woman get
letters. I do not know what is in the letters. But it
is the scent that they follow, these letters themselves are the
scent. One time an Indian gives them a letter. I talk
with him privately. He says it is a man with one eye who
gives him the letter, a man who travels fast down the
Yukon. That is all. But I know that the baby wolves
are after the man with the one eye.
“It is February, and we have travelled fifteen hundred
miles. We are getting near Bering Sea, and there are storms
and blizzards. The going is hard. We come to
Anvig. I do not know, but I think sure they get a letter at
Anvig, for they are much excited, and they say, ‘Come,
hurry, let us go on.’ But I say we must buy grub, and
they say we must travel light and fast. Also, they say that
we can get grub at Charley McKeon’s cabin. Then do I
know that they take the big cut-off, for it is there that Charley
McKeon lives where the Black Rock stands by the trail.
“Before we start, I talk maybe two minutes with the
priest at Anvig. Yes, there is a man with one eye who has
gone by and who travels fast. And I know that for which
they look is the man with the one eye. We leave Anvig with
little grub, and travel light and fast. There are three
fresh dogs bought in Anvig, and we travel very fast. The
man and woman are like mad. We start earlier in the
morning, we travel later at night. I look sometimes to see
them die, these two baby wolves, but they will not die.
They go on and on. When the dry cough take hold of them
hard, they hold their hands against their stomach and double up
in the snow, and cough, and cough, and cough. They cannot
walk, they cannot talk. Maybe for ten minutes they cough,
maybe for half an hour, and then they straighten up, the tears
from the coughing frozen on their faces, and the words they say
are, ‘Come, let us go on.’
“Even I, Sitka Charley, am greatly weary, and I think
seven hundred and fifty dollars is a cheap price for the labor I
do. We take the big cut-off, and the trail is fresh.
The baby wolves have their noses down to the trail, and they say,
‘Hurry!’ All the time do they say,
‘Hurry! Faster! Faster!’ It is hard
on the dogs. We have not much food and we cannot give them
enough to eat, and they grow weak. Also, they must work
hard. The woman has true sorrow for them, and often,
because of them, the tears are in her eyes. But the devil
in her that drives her on will not let her stop and rest the
“And then we come upon the man with the one eye.
He is in the snow by the trail, and his leg is broken.
Because of the leg he has made a poor camp, and has been lying on
his blankets for three days and keeping a fire going. When
we find him he is swearing. He swears like hell.
Never have I heard a man swear like that man. I am
glad. Now that they have found that for which they look, we
will have rest. But the woman says, ‘Let us
“I am surprised. But the man with the one eye
says, ‘Never mind me. Give me your grub. You
will get more grub at McKeon’s cabin to-morrow. Send
McKeon back for me. But do you go on.’ Here is
another wolf, an old wolf, and he, too, thinks but the one
thought, to go on. So we give him our grub, which is not
much, and we chop wood for his fire, and we take his strongest
dogs and go on. We left the man with one eye there 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,
“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
“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 walk is a dream and we are
without pain; and every time we fall down is an awakening, and we
see the snow and the mountains and the fresh trail of the man who
is before us, and we know all our pain again. We come to
where we can see a long way over the snow, and that for which
they look is before them. A mile away there are black spots
upon the snow. The black spots move. My eyes are dim,
and I must stiffen my soul to see. And I see one man with
dogs and a sled. The baby wolves see, too. They can
no longer talk, but they whisper, ‘On, on. Let us
“And they fall down, but they go on. The man who
is before us, his blanket harness breaks often, and he must stop
and mend it. Our harness is good, for I have hung it in
trees each night. At eleven o’clock the man is half a
mile away. At one o’clock he is a quarter of a mile
away. He is very weak. We see him fall down many
times in the snow. One of his dogs can no longer travel,
and he cuts it out of the harness. But he does not kill
it. I kill it with the axe as I go by, as I kill one of my
dogs which loses its legs and can travel no more.
“Now we are three hundred yards away. We go very
slow. Maybe in two, three hours we go one mile. We do
not walk. All the time we fall down. We stand up and
stagger two steps, maybe three steps, then we fall down
again. And all the time I must help up the man and
woman. Sometimes they rise to their knees and fall forward,
maybe four or five times before they can get to their feet again
and stagger two or three steps and fall. But always do they
fall forward. Standing or kneeling, always do they fall
forward, gaining on the trail each time by the length of their
“Sometimes they crawl on hands and knees like animals
that live in the forest. We go like snails, like snails
that are dying we go so slow. And yet we go faster than the
man who is before us. For he, too, falls all the time, and
there is no Sitka Charley to lift him up. Now he is two
hundred yards away. After a long time he is one hundred
“It is a funny sight. I want to laugh out loud,
Ha! ha! just like that, it is so funny. It is a race of
dead men and dead dogs. It is like in a dream when you have
a nightmare and run away very fast for your life and go very
slow. The man who is with me is mad. The woman is
mad. I am mad. All the world is mad, and I want to
laugh, it is so funny.
“The stranger-man who is before us leaves his dogs
behind and goes on alone across the snow. After a long time
we come to the dogs. They lie helpless in the snow, their
harness of blanket and canvas on them, the sled behind them, and
as we pass them they whine to us and cry like babies that are
“Then we, too, leave our dogs and go on alone across the
snow. The man and the woman are nearly gone, and they moan
and groan and sob, but they go on. I, too, go on. I
have but one thought. It is to come up to the
stranger-man. Then it is that I shall rest, and not until
then shall I rest, and it seems that I must lie down and sleep
for a thousand years, I am so tired.
“The stranger-man is fifty yards away, all alone in the
white snow. He falls and crawls, staggers, and falls and
crawls again. He is like an animal that is sore wounded and
trying to run from the hunter. By and by he crawls on hands
and knees. He no longer stands up. And the man and
woman no longer stand up. They, too, crawl after him on
hands and knees. But I stand up. Sometimes I fall,
but always do I stand up again.
“It is a strange thing to see. All about is the
snow and the silence, and through it crawl the man and the woman,
and the stranger-man who goes before. On either side the
sun are sun-dogs, so that there are three suns in the sky.
The frost-dust is like the dust of diamonds, and all the air is
filled with it. Now the woman coughs, and lies still in the
snow until the fit has passed, when she crawls on again.
Now the man looks ahead, and he is blear-eyed as with old age and
must rub his eyes so that he can see the stranger-man. And
now the stranger-man looks back over his shoulder. And
Sitka Charley, standing upright, maybe falls down and stands
“After a long time the stranger-man crawls no
more. He stands slowly upon his feet and rocks back and
forth. Also does he take off one mitten and wait with
revolver in his hand, rocking back and forth as he waits.
His face is skin and bones and frozen black. It is a hungry
face. The eyes are deep-sunk in his head, and the lips are
snarling. The man and woman, too, get upon their feet and
they go toward him very slowly. And all about is the snow
and the silence. And in the sky are three suns, and all the
air is flashing with the dust of diamonds.
“And thus it was that I, Sitka Charley, saw the baby
wolves make their kill. No word is spoken. Only does
the stranger-man snarl with his hungry face. Also does he
rock to and fro, his shoulders drooping, his knees bent, and his
legs wide apart so that he does not fall down. The man and
the woman stop maybe fifty feet away. Their legs, too, are
wide apart so that they do not fall down, and their bodies rock
to and fro. The stranger-man is very weak. His arm
shakes, so that when he shoots at the man his bullet strikes in
the snow. The man cannot take off his mitten. The
stranger-man shoots at him again, and this time the bullet goes
by in the air. Then the man takes the mitten in his teeth
and pulls it off. But his hand is frozen and he cannot hold
the revolver, and it fails in the snow. I look at the
woman. Her mitten is off, and the big Colt’s revolver
is in her hand. Three times she shoot, quick, just like
that. The hungry face of the stranger-man is still snarling
as he falls forward into the snow.
“They do not look at the dead man. ‘Let us
go on,’ they say. And we go on. But now that
they have found that for which they look, they are like
dead. The last strength has gone out of them. They
can stand no more upon their feet. They will not crawl, but
desire only to close their eyes and sleep. I see not far
away a place for camp. I kick them. I have my
dog-whip, and I give them the lash of it. They cry aloud,
but they must crawl. And they do crawl to the place for
camp. I build fire so that they will not freeze. Then
I go back for sled. Also, I kill the dogs of the
stranger-man so that we may have food and not die. I put
the man and woman in blankets and they sleep. Sometimes I
wake them and give them little bit of food. They are not
awake, but they take the food. The woman sleep one day and
a half. Then she wake up and go to sleep again. The
man sleep two days and wake up and go to sleep again. After
that we go down to the coast at St. Michaels. And when the
ice goes out of Bering Sea, the man and woman go away on a
steamship. But first they pay me my seven hundred and fifty
dollars a month. Also, they make me a present of one
thousand dollars. And that was the year that Sitka Charley
gave much money to the Mission at Holy Cross.”
“But why did they kill the man?” I asked.
Sitka Charley delayed reply until he had lighted his
pipe. He glanced at the Police Gazette illustration
and nodded his head at it familiarly. Then he said,
speaking slowly and ponderingly:
“I have thought much. I do not know. It is
something that happened. It is a picture I remember.
It is like looking in at the window and seeing the man writing a
letter. They came into my life and they went out of my
life, and the picture is as I have said, without beginning, the
end without understanding.”
“You have painted many pictures in the telling,” I
“Ay,” he nodded his head. “But they
were without beginning and without end.”
“The last picture of all had an end,” I said.
“Ay,” he answered. “But what
“It was a piece of life,” I said.
“Ay,” he answered. “It was a piece of