The Son of the Wolf E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Jack London (January 12, 1876 - November 22, 1916), was an American author who wrote The Call of the Wild and other books. A pioneer in the then-burgeoning world of commercial magazine fiction, he was one of the first Americans to make a huge financial success from writing.The Scarlet Plague was written by Jack London and originally published in London Magazine in 1912. It was re-released in February of 2007 by Echo Library. The story takes place in 2072, sixty years after the scarlet plague has depopulated the planet. James Howard Smith is one of the few people left alive in the San Francisco area, and as he realizes his time grows short, he tries to impart the value of knowledge and wisdom to his grandsons.American society at the time of the plague has become severely stratified and there is a large hereditary underclass of servants and "nurses"; and the politcal system has been replaced by a formalized oligarchy. Commercial airship lines exist, as do some airships privately owned by the very rich.

Leseprobe

TheSonoftheWolfBy

JackLondon

Publisher: ShadowPOET

THEWHITESILENCE

'Carmen won't last more than a couple of days.' Mason spat out a chunk ofice and surveyed the poor animal ruefully, then put her foot in his mouth andproceededtobiteouttheicewhichclusteredcruellybetweenthetoes.

'I never saw a dog with a highfalutin' name that ever was worth a rap,' hesaid, as he concluded his task and shoved her aside. 'They just fade away anddie under the responsibility. Did ye ever see one go wrong with a sensiblename like Cassiar, Siwash, or Husky? No, sir! Take a look at Shookum here,he's—' Snap! The lean brute flashed up, the white teeth just missing Mason'sthroat.

'Ye will, will ye?' A shrewd clout behind the ear with the butt of the dogwhipstretchedtheanimalinthesnow,quiveringsoftly,ayellowslaverdrippingfromitsfangs.

'As I was saying, just look at Shookum here—he's got the spirit. Bet ye heeats Carmen before the week's out.' 'I'll bank another proposition against that,'replied Malemute Kid, reversing the frozen bread placed before the fire tothaw. 'We'll eat Shookum before the trip is over. What d'ye say, Ruth?' TheIndian woman settled the coffee with a piece of ice, glanced from MalemuteKid to her husband, then at the dogs, but vouchsafed no reply. It was such apalpable truism that none was necessary. Two hundred miles of unbroken trailin prospect, with a scant six days' grub for themselves and none for the dogs,could admit no other alternative. The two men and the woman grouped aboutthefireandbegantheirmeagermeal.Thedogslayintheirharnessesforitwasamiddayhalt,andwatchedeachmouthfulenviously.

'Nomorelunchesaftertoday,'saidMalemuteKid.'Andwe'vegottokeepaclose eye on the dogs—they're getting vicious. They'd just as soon pull afellow down as not, if they get a chance.' 'And I was president of an Epworthonce, and taught in the Sunday school.' Having irrelevantly delivered himselfofthis,Masonfellintoadreamycontemplationofhissteamingmoccasins,butwasarousedbyRuthfillinghiscup.

'ThankGod,we'vegotslathersoftea!I'veseenitgrowing,downinTennessee. What wouldn't I give for a hot corn pone just now! Never mind,Ruth; you won't starve much longer, nor wear moccasins either.' The womanthrew off her gloom at this, and in her eyes welled up a great love for herwhite lord—the first white man she had ever seen—the first man whom shehad known to treat a woman as something better than a mere animal or beastofburden.

'Yes,Ruth,'continuedherhusband,havingrecoursetothemacaronicjargon in which it was alone possible for them to understand each other; 'waittillwecleanupandpullfortheOutside.We'lltaketheWhiteMan'scanoeandgo to the Salt Water. Yes, bad water, rough water—great mountains dance upand down all the time. And so big, so far, so far away—you travel ten sleep,twentysleep,fortysleep'—hegraphicallyenumeratedthedaysonhisfingers

—'allthetimewater,badwater.Thenyoucometogreatvillage,plentypeople,just the same mosquitoes next summer. Wigwams oh, so high—ten, twentypines.

'Hi-yuskookum!'Hepausedimpotently,castanappealingglanceatMalemute Kid, then laboriously placed the twenty pines, end on end, by signlanguage. Malemute Kid smiled with cheery cynicism; but Ruth's eyes werewide with wonder, and with pleasure; for she half believed he was joking, andsuchcondescensionpleasedherpoorwoman'sheart.

'And then you step into a—a box, and pouf! up you go.' He tossed hisempty cup in the air by way of illustration and, as he deftly caught it, cried:'And biff! down you come. Oh, great medicine men! You go Fort Yukon. I goArcticCity—twenty-fivesleep—bigstring,allthetime—Icatchhimstring—Isay, "Hello, Ruth! How are ye?"—and you say, "Is that my good husband?"—and I say, "Yes"—and you say, "No can bake good bread, no more soda"—then I say, "Look in cache, under flour; good-by." You look and catch plentysoda.AllthetimeyouFortYukon,meArcticCity.Hi-yumedicineman!'Ruthsmiled so ingenuously at the fairy story that both men burst into laughter. Arow among the dogs cut short the wonders of the Outside, and by the time thesnarlingcombatantswereseparated,shehadlashedthesledsandallwasreadyfor the trail.—'Mush! Baldy! Hi! Mush on!' Mason worked his whip smartlyand, as the dogs whined low in the traces, broke out the sled with the gee pole.Ruth followed with the second team, leaving Malemute Kid, who had helpedher start, to bring up the rear. Strong man, brute that he was, capable of fellingan ox at a blow, he could not bear to beat the poor animals, but humored themasadogdriverrarelydoes—nay,almostweptwiththemintheirmisery.

'Come, mush on there, you poor sore-footed brutes!' he murmured, afterseveral ineffectual attempts to start the load. But his patience was at lastrewarded,andthoughwhimperingwithpain,theyhastenedtojointheirfellows.

Nomoreconversation;thetoilofthetrailwillnotpermitsuchextravagance.

And of all deadening labors, that of the Northland trail is the worst. Happyis the man who can weather a day's travel at the price of silence, and that on abeatentrack.Andofallheartbreakinglabors,thatofbreakingtrailisthe

worst. At every step the great webbed shoe sinks till the snow is level with theknee.Thenup,straightup,thedeviationofafractionofaninchbeingacertain precursor of disaster, the snowshoe must be lifted till the surface iscleared; then forward, down, and the other foot is raised perpendicularly forthe matter of half a yard. He who tries this for the first time, if haply he avoidsbringinghisshoesindangerouspropinquityandmeasuresnothislengthonthe treacherous footing, will give up exhausted at the end of a hundred yards;he who can keep out of the way of the dogs for a whole day may well crawlinto his sleeping bag with a clear conscience and a pride which passeth allunderstanding; and he who travels twenty sleeps on the Long Trail is a manwhomthegodsmayenvy.

The afternoon wore on, and with the awe, born of the White Silence, thevoiceless travelers bent to their work. Nature has many tricks wherewith sheconvinces man of his finity—the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of thestorm, the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven's artillery—but themost tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the WhiteSilence. All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; theslightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at thesoundofhisownvoice.Solespeckoflifejourneyingacrosstheghostlywastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is amaggot'slife,nothingmore.

Strange thoughts arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strivesforutterance.

And the fear of death, of God, of the universe, comes over him—the hopeoftheResurrectionandtheLife,theyearningforimmortality,thevainstrivingoftheimprisonedessence—itisthen,ifever,manwalksalonewithGod.

So wore the day away. The river took a great bend, and Mason headed histeam for the cutoff across the narrow neck of land. But the dogs balked at thehigh bank. Again and again, though Ruth and Malemute Kid were shoving onthe sled, they slipped back. Then came the concerted effort. The miserablecreatures, weak from hunger, exerted their last strength. Up—up—the sledpoised on the top of the bank; but the leader swung the string of dogs behindhimtotheright,foulingMason'ssnowshoes.Theresultwasgrievous.

Mason was whipped off his feet; one of the dogs fell in the traces; and thesledtoppledback,draggingeverythingtothebottomagain.

Slash! the whip fell among the dogs savagely, especially upon the onewhichhadfallen.

'Don't,—Mason,' entreated Malemute Kid; 'the poor devil's on its last legs.Waitandwe'llputmyteamon.'Masondeliberatelywithheldthewhiptillthe

last word had fallen, then out flashed the long lash, completely curling abouttheoffendingcreature'sbody.

Carmen—for it was Carmen—cowered in the snow, cried piteously, thenrolledoveronherside.

It was a tragic moment, a pitiful incident of the trail—a dying dog, twocomradesinanger.

Ruth glanced solicitously from man to man. But Malemute Kid restrainedhimself, though there was a world of reproach in his eyes, and, bending overthe dog, cut the traces. No word was spoken. The teams were doublespannedand the difficulty overcome; the sleds were under way again, the dying dogdragging herself along in the rear. As long as an animal can travel, it is notshot, and this last chance is accorded it—the crawling into camp, if it can, inthehopeofamoosebeingkilled.

Already penitent for his angry action, but too stubborn to make amends,Mason toiled on at the head of the cavalcade, little dreaming that dangerhovered in the air. The timber clustered thick in the sheltered bottom, andthrough this they threaded their way. Fifty feet or more from the trail toweredaloftypine.Forgenerationsithadstoodthere,andforgenerationsdestinyhadhadthisoneendinview—perhapsthesamehadbeendecreedofMason.

Hestoopedtofastentheloosenedthongofhismoccasin.Thesledscameto a halt, and the dogs lay down in the snow without a whimper. The stillnesswas weird; not a breath rustled the frost-encrusted forest; the cold and silenceof outer space had chilled the heart and smote the trembling lips of nature. Asigh pulsed through the air—they did not seem to actually hear it, but ratherfelt it, like the premonition of movement in a motionless void. Then the greattree, burdened with its weight of years and snow, played its last part in thetragedy of life. He heard the warning crash and attempted to spring up but,almosterect,caughttheblowsquarelyontheshoulder.

The sudden danger, the quick death—how often had Malemute Kid facedit! The pine needles were still quivering as he gave his commands and spranginto action. Nor did the Indian girl faint or raise her voice in idle wailing, asmight many of her white sisters. At his order, she threw her weight on the endof a quickly extemporized handspike, easing the pressure and listening to herhusband's groans, while Malemute Kid attacked the tree with his ax. The steelrangmerrilyasitbitintothefrozentrunk,eachstrokebeingaccompaniedbyaforced,audiblerespiration,the'Huh!''Huh!'ofthewoodsman.

At last the Kid laid the pitiable thing that was once a man in the snow. Butworse than his comrade's pain was the dumb anguish in the woman's face, theblendedlookofhopeful,hopelessquery.Littlewassaid;thoseofthe

Northland are early taught the futility of words and the inestimable value ofdeeds. With the temperature at sixty-five below zero, a man cannot lie manyminutes in the snow and live. So the sled lashings were cut, and the sufferer,rolled in furs, laid on a couch of boughs. Before him roared a fire, built of thevery wood which wrought the mishap. Behind and partially over him wasstretched the primitive fly—a piece of canvas, which caught the radiating heatand threw it back and down upon him—a trick which men may know whostudyphysicsatthefount.

And men who have shared their bed with death know when the call issounded. Mason was terribly crushed. The most cursory examination revealedit.

His right arm, leg, and back were broken; his limbs were paralyzed fromthe hips; and the likelihood of internal injuries was large. An occasional moanwashisonlysignoflife.

No hope; nothing to be done. The pitiless night crept slowly by—Ruth'sportion, the despairing stoicism of her race, and Malemute Kid adding newlinestohisfaceofbronze.

Infact,Masonsufferedleastofall,forhespenthistimeineasternTennessee,intheGreatSmokyMountains,livingoverthescenesofhischildhood. And most pathetic was the melody of his long-forgotten Southernvernacular, as he raved of swimming holes and coon hunts and watermelonraids. It was as Greek to Ruth, but the Kid understood and felt—felt as onlyonecanfeelwhohasbeenshutoutforyearsfromallthatcivilizationmeans.

Morning brought consciousness to the stricken man, and Malemute Kidbentclosertocatchhiswhispers.

'YourememberwhenweforegatheredontheTanana,fouryearscomenexticerun?Ididn'tcaresomuchforherthen.Itwasmorelikeshewaspretty,andthere was a smack of excitement about it, I think. But d'ye know, I've come tothinkaheapofher.She'sbeenagoodwifetome,alwaysatmyshoulderinthepinch. And when it comes to trading, you know there isn't her equal. D'yerecollect the time she shot the Moosehorn Rapids to pull you and me off thatrock, the bullets whipping the water like hailstones?—and the time of thefamineatNuklukyeto?—whensheracedtheiceruntobringthenews?

'Yes, she's been a good wife to me, better'n that other one. Didn't know I'dbeenthere?

'Never told you, eh? Well, I tried it once, down in the States. That's whyI'm here. Been raised together, too. I came away to give her a chance fordivorce.Shegotit.

'But that's got nothing to do with Ruth. I had thought of cleaning up andpulling for the Outside next year—her and I—but it's too late. Don't send herbacktoherpeople,Kid.It'sbeastlyhardforawomantogoback.Thinkofit!

—nearly four years on our bacon and beans and flour and dried fruit, and thento go back to her fish and caribou. It's not good for her to have tried our ways,to come to know they're better'n her people's, and then return to them. Takecare of her, Kid, why don't you—but no, you always fought shy of them—andyou never told me why you came to this country. Be kind to her, and send herback to the States as soon as you can. But fix it so she can come back—liabletogethomesick,youknow.

'And the youngster—it's drawn us closer, Kid. I only hope it is a boy.Thinkofit!—fleshofmyflesh,Kid.Hemustn'tstopinthiscountry.Andifit'sa girl, why, she can't. Sell my furs; they'll fetch at least five thousand, and I'vegot as much more with the company. And handle my interests with yours. Ithink that bench claim will show up. See that he gets a good schooling; andKid, above all, don't let him come back. This country was not made for whitemen.

'I'm a gone man, Kid. Three or four sleeps at the best. You've got to go on.You must go on! Remember, it's my wife, it's my boy—O God! I hope it's aboy!Youcan'tstaybyme—andIchargeyou,adyingman,topullon.'

'Give me three days,' pleaded Malemute Kid. 'You may change for thebetter;somethingmayturnup.'

'No.'

'Just three days.''Youmustpullon.''Twodays.'

'It'smywifeandmyboy,Kid.Youwouldnotaskit.''Oneday.'

'No,no!Icharge—'

'Only one day. We can shave it through on the grub, and I might knockoveramoose.'

'No—all right; one day, but not a minute more. And, Kid, don't—don'tleave me to face it alone. Just a shot, one pull on the trigger. You understand.Thinkofit!Thinkofit!Fleshofmyflesh,andI'llneverlivetoseehim!

'Send Ruth here. I want to say good-by and tell her that she must think ofthe boy and not wait till I'm dead. She might refuse to go with you if I didn't.Goodby,oldman;good-by.

'Kid! I say—a—sink a hole above the pup, next to the slide. I panned outfortycentsonmyshovelthere.

'And, Kid!' He stooped lower to catch the last faint words, the dying man'ssurrender of his pride. 'I'm sorry—for—you know—Carmen.' Leaving the girlcryingsoftlyoverherman,MalemuteKidslippedintohisparkaandsnowshoes, tucked his rifle under his arm, and crept away into the forest. Hewas no tyro in the stern sorrows of the Northland, but never had he faced sostiffaproblemasthis.Intheabstract,itwasaplain,mathematicalproposition

—three possible lives as against one doomed one. But now he hesitated. Forfive years, shoulder to shoulder, on the rivers and trails, in the camps andmines, facing death by field and flood and famine, had they knitted the bondsof their comradeship. So close was the tie that he had often been conscious ofa vague jealousy of Ruth, from the first time she had come between. And nowitmustbeseveredbyhisownhand.

Though he prayed for a moose, just one moose, all game seemed to havedeserted the land, and nightfall found the exhausted man crawling into camp,lighthanded,heavyhearted.AnuproarfromthedogsandshrillcriesfromRuthhastenedhim.

Bursting into the camp, he saw the girl in the midst of the snarling pack,layingaboutherwithanax.Thedogshadbrokentheironruleoftheirmastersandwererushingthegrub.

He joined the issue with his rifle reversed, and the hoary game of naturalselection was played out with all the ruthlessness of its primeval environment.Rifle and ax went up and down, hit or missed with monotonous regularity;lithe bodies flashed, with wild eyes and dripping fangs; and man and beastfought for supremacy to the bitterest conclusion. Then the beaten brutes creptto the edge of the firelight, licking their wounds, voicing their misery to thestars.

The whole stock of dried salmon had been devoured, and perhaps fivepounds of flour remained to tide them over two hundred miles of wilderness.Ruth returned to her husband, while Malemute Kid cut up the warm body ofone of the dogs, the skull of which had been crushed by the ax. Every portionwas carefully put away, save the hide and offal, which were cast to his fellowsofthemomentbefore.

Morning brought fresh trouble. The animals were turning on each other.Carmen, who still clung to her slender thread of life, was downed by the pack.The lash fell among them unheeded. They cringed and cried under the blows,but refused to scatter till the last wretched bit had disappeared—bones, hide,hair,everything.