Chapter One Kidnapped Buck did not read the newspapers.
If he did, he would have known that trouble was brewing, not only for himself but for every dog strong of muscle and with warm long hair from Puget Sound to San Diego.
A little while ago some men who lived far north in the Arctic darkness had found a yellow medal that was worth a lot of money.
Now, thousands of men were heading north in pursuit of that medal they called gold.
These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were dogs like Buck, heavy dogs with strong muscles and furry coats to protect them from the cold.
Buck lived at a big house in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley in California.
Judge Miller's place, as it was called, stood back from the road, half hidden among the trees, through which glimpses could be caught of the wide porch that ran around its four sides.
The house was approached by gravel driveways which wound about through wide lawns.
Behind the house were great stables where a dozen grooms and boys worked, rows of vine-clad servants' cottages, long grapevines, green pastures, orchards and berry patches.
There was a large well and the big cement tank where Judge Miller's boys took their morning swim and kept cool in the hot afternoon.
And over this great estate, Buck ruled.
Here he was born, and Here he had lived the four years of his life.
It was true, there were other dogs.
There could not but be other dogs on so vast a place, but they did not count.
They came and went, resided in the populous kennels or lived quietly in the corners of the house, like Toots the Japanese pug or Isabel the Mexican hairless.
Strange creatures that rarely put nose out of doors or set foot to ground.
On the other hand, there were the fox terriers a score of them at least who yelped fearful promises at Toots and Isabel, looking out of the windows at them and protected by a legion of housemaids armed with brooms and mops.
But Buck was not a house dog or a kennel dog.
He looked after the entire place.
He plunged into the swimming tank or went hunting with the judge's sons.
He escorted Molly and Alice, the judge's daughters, on long twilight or early morning walks around the estate.
On wintry nights, he lay at the judge's feet before the roaring library fire.
He carried the judge's grandsons on his back, rolled them in the grass and guarded their footsteps through wild adventures, down to the fountain, in the stable yard and even beyond, where the horse stable stood and the berry patches grew.
He walked like a king past the kennel dogs and utterly ignored Toots and Isabel, because he was king, king over all creeping crawling, flying things of Judge Miller's place, humans included.
Buck's father Elmo, a huge Saint Bernard, had been the judge's close friend, and Buck tried to follow in the way of his father.
He was not so large.
He weighed only 140 pounds.
For his mother, Shep had been a smaller Scotch shepherd dog.
Still 140 pounds, to which was added.
The dignity that comes of good living and universal respect enabled him to carry himself in right royal fashion.
During the four years since his puppyhood he had a fine pride in himself and was even a trifle bit arrogant, as country gentlemen can sometimes become.
But he had saved himself by not becoming a mere pampered house dog.
Hunting and running outdoors had kept down the fat and hardened his muscles.
He also loved to play and swim.
This was the kind of dog Buck was in the fall of 1897, when the Klondike Gold Rush dragged men from all over the world into the frozen north.
But Buck did not read the newspapers and he did not know that Manuel, one of the gardeners, had one dangerous problem.
He loved to gamble.
One night, when the judge was at a meeting and the boys were busy on the memorable night of Manuel's treachery, no one saw him and Buck go off through the orchard on what Buck imagined was just a stroll and, except for one other man, no one saw them arrive at the tiny train station known as College Park.
This man talked with Manuel and gave him money.
You might wrap up the goods before you deliver them.
The stranger said gruffly, and Manuel looped a piece of strong rope around Buck's neck, under the collar.
Twist it, and you'll choke him plenty, said Manuel. and the stranger nodded his head.
Buck accepted the rope with quiet dignity.
To be sure he didn't like it, but he had learned to trust in men he knew and to give them credit for knowing more than he did.
But when the ends of the rope were placed in the stranger's hands which pulled him, Buck growled angrily.
To his surprise, the rope tightened around his neck, making it hard to breathe.
Never in all his life had he been so vilely treated, and never in all his life had he been so angry.
But he could not escape.
Soon after, a train stopped, and the two men threw him into the baggage car.
The next he knew he was dimly aware that his tongue hurt and that he was being jolted along in some kind of vehicle.
The hoarse shriek of a train whistle told him where he was.
He had traveled too often with the judge not to know how it felt to ride in a baggage car.
He opened his eyes and felt as angry as a kidnapped king.
He saw in front of him the man who had taken him, and he began barking wildly at the man and even managed to bite one of the man's hands.
Buck's barking made so much noise that one of the baggage men came in to see what was going on.
Seeing that the man who had taken Buck had been bitten, he asked if there was something wrong with the dog.
Yep, this dog has fits, the man lied.
I'm taking him up for his owner to San Francisco.
The crack dog doctor up there thinks that he can cure him.
After the train finally reached San Francisco, the man took Buck to a little shed in the back of a saloon near the waterfront.
All I get is fifty for this, the man grumbled to the saloon keeper.
Pointing to his sore hand, the man continued, and I wouldn't do it over for a thousand cold cash.
That dog is as fierce as they come.
Stop your complaining, the saloon keeper said.
You got the money we agreed on, and not a penny more or a penny less, didn't you?
Besides, where this dog is going, you won't meet up with him again.
That I can promise.
I sure hope so, the other man muttered and rubbed his sore hand again.
I'll not soon forget the likes of this one, that's for sure.
Tired as he was, Buck still tried to fight, but finally he was thrown down and held by a group of men who took the heavy brass collar off his neck.
Then they took off the rope from his neck and shoved Buck into a wooden crate that was like a cage.
There Buck stayed for the rest of the night.
He could not understand what it all meant.
What did they want with him, these strange men?
Why were they keeping him in this narrow crate?
He did not know why, but he also felt more trouble coming.
Several times during the night.
Buck sprang to his feet when the shed door rattled open, hoping to see the judge, or the boys at least.
But each time he only saw the big face of the saloon keeper who looked in at him by the light of the candle, and each time the joyful bark that grew in Buck's throat was changed into a savage growl.
But the saloon keeper let him alone.
And in the morning four new men entered and picked up the crate.
More bad men, Buck decided, for they were evil-looking creatures, ragged and dirty, and he barked and growled at them as best he could.
They only laughed and poked sticks at him which he grabbed with his teeth until he realized that they wanted to anger him.
Now Buck lay down and allowed the crate to be lifted into a wagon.
Then he and the crate in which he was held began another long journey.
After a wagon ride, he was placed along with a bunch of boxes and parcels onto a ferry boat.
After that, a truck took him to a big train station, and finally he was put in an express train car.
Buck didn't know what was next for him, but he couldn't help feeling that he wouldn't see his old home for a long time to come.
For two days and nights this express car traveled, and for two days and nights Buck did not eat or drink.
In his rage, he had barked and growled at everyone he saw.
Sometimes, after he threw himself against the bars in anger, a few people would laugh and tease him.
They growled and barked back at him, pretending to be dogs, or they meowed like cats or flapped their arms like birds.
It was all very silly, he knew, but still his anger grew and grew.
He did not mind the not being fed so much, but the lack of water made his tongue and throat feel dry, dry and swollen.
He was glad for one thing.
The rope was finally off his neck and he made up his mind that they would never put another rope on him again.
His eyes turned red, and he was now so angry that the judge himself would not have recognized him.
Everyone who saw Buck on the train was very happy when the crate that carried Buck was finally unloaded at Seattle.
Four men gingerly carried the crate from the wagon into a small backyard with high walls around it.
A stout man wearing a sweater came out and signed the receipt book for the driver.
The driver also gave the man a letter from the saloon keeper in San Francisco that the man in the red sweater carefully read.
That must be the man, Buck figured, who would be his next tormentor.
And he hurled himself savagely against the bars.
The man smiled grimly and brought a hatchet and a club.
You ain't gonna take him out now, the driver asked.
Sure, the man replied, driving the hatchet into the crate.
The four men who had carried the crate in ran to a safe spot on the top of the wall, just in case Buck escaped.
At the first sound of the crate being opened, Buck rushed forward, sinking his teeth into the splinters of wood and pulling at them.
Snarling and growling Buck was as anxious to get out as the man in the red sweater was intent on getting him out.
Now you red-eyed devil.
The man said when he had made an opening large enough for Buck to get through.
At the same time, he dropped the hatchet and shifted the club to his right hand.
And Buck was truly a red-eyed devil as he drew himself together for the spring hair bristling, mouth foaming, a mad glitter in his bloodshot eyes.
He threw his 140 pounds of fury right at the man, with all the pent-up rage that he had been building up inside him after two full days and nights without any food or water.
In midair, just as he was about to bite the man, he received a shock that stopped his body.
He spun over, hitting the ground on his back and side.
Buck had never been struck by a club in his life and did not understand what had just happened.
With a snarl that was part bark and more scream, he was again on his feet and launched into the air.
And again the shock came and he again fell to the ground.
"'He's no slouch at dog-breaking, that's what I say,' one of the men on the wall cried happily.
The dog's name is Buck.
The man in the red sweater replied as he gently patted Buck on the top of his head.
That's what the letter from the saloon keeper in San Francisco said.
Then, turning to the still-dazed dog, he continued in a gentle voice.
Well Buck, my boy, we've had our little fight and the best thing we can do is to let it go with that.
You've learned your place and I know mine.
Be a good dog and all will go well.
Be a bad dog and you will be in trouble.
Understand?
When the man then brought him water, Buck drank eagerly, and he later gobbled down a generous meal of raw meat, chunk by chunk, from the man's hand.
Even though Buck took the food and water happily, it didn't mean that he accepted what the man did to him.
Buck knew that this time he had lost the fight, but he hadn't given up.
He now learned, once for all, that he could not simply rely on his strength to win.
In the future, he knew he would also have to figure out ways to survive that didn't just rely on his muscles, but on his cunning as well.
That day, the man in the red sweater had taught him a lesson he would never forget.
