I don’t think much of Stephen Mackaye any more，though I used to swear by him. I know that in those daysI loved him more than my own brother. If ever I meetStephen Mackaye again， I shall not be responsible formy actions. It passes beyond me that a man with whom Ishared food and blanket， and with whom I mushed overthe Chilcoot Trail， should turn out the way he did. I alwayssized Steve up as a square man， a kindly comrade， withoutan iota of anything vindictive or malicious in his nature. Ishall never trust my judgment in men again. Why， I nursedthat man through typhoid fever； we starved together onthe headwaters of the Stewart； and he saved my life on theLittle Salmon. And now， after the years we were together，all I can say of Stephen Mackaye is that he is the meanestman I ever knew.
We started for the Klondike in the fall rush of 1897，and we started too late to get over Chilcoot Pass beforethe freeze-up. We packed our outfit on our backs partway over， when the snow began to fly， and then we hadto buy dogs in order to sled it the rest of the way. Thatwas how we came to get that Spot. Dogs were high， andwe paid one hundred and ten dollars for him. He lookedworth it. I say looked， because he was one of the finestappearingdogs I ever saw. He weighed sixty pounds， andhe had all the lines of a good sled animal. We never couldmake out his breed. He wasn’t husky， nor Malemute， norHudson Bay； he looked like all of them and he didn’t looklike any of them； and on top of it all he had some of thewhite man’s dog in him， for on one side， in the thick ofthe mixed yellow-brown-red-and-dirty-white that was hisprevailing color， there was a spot of coal-black as big as awater-bucket. That was why we called him Spot.
He was a good looker all right. When he was incondition his muscles stood out in bunches all over him.
And he was the strongest-looking brute I ever saw inAlaska， also the most intelligent-looking. To run youreyes over him， you’d think he could outpull three dogsof his own weight. Maybe he could， but I never saw it.
His intelligence didn’t run that way. He could steal andforage to perfection； he had an instinct that was positivelygrewsome for divining when work was to be done and formaking a sneak accordingly； and for getting lost and notstaying lost he was nothing short of inspired. But whenit came to work， the way that intelligence dribbled outof him and left him a mere clot of wobbling， stupid jellywould make your heart bleed.
There are times when I think it wasn’t stupidity. Maybe，like some men I know， he was too wise to work. I shouldn’twonder if he put it all over us with that intelligence of his.
Maybe he figured it all out and decided that a licking nowand again and no work was a whole lot better than workall the time and no licking. He was intelligent enoughfor such a computation. I tell you， I’ve sat and lookedinto that dog’s eyes till the shivers ran up and down myspine and the marrow crawled like yeast， what of theintelligence I saw shining out. I can’t express myself aboutthat intelligence. It is beyond mere words. I saw it， that’sall. At times it was like gazing into a human soul， to lookinto his eyes； and what I saw there frightened me andstarted all sorts of ideas in my own mind of reincarnationand all the rest. I tell you I sensed something big in thatbrute’s eyes； there was a message there， but I wasn’t bigenough myself to catch it. Whatever it was （I know I’mmaking a fool of myself）—whatever it was， it baffled me.
I can’t give an inkling of what I saw in that brute’s eyes； itwasn’t light， it wasn’t color； it was something that moved，away back， when the eyes themselves weren’t moving.
And I guess I didn’t see it move， either； I only sensed thatit moved. It was an expression， —that’s what it was， —andI got an impression of it. No； it was different from amere expression； it was more than that. I don’t knowwhat it was， but it gave me a feeling of kinship just thesame. Oh， no， not sentimental kinship. It was， rather， akinship of equality. Those eyes never pleaded like a deer’seyes. They challenged. No， it wasn’t defiance. It was justa calm assumption of equality. And I don’t think it wasdeliberate. My belief is that it was unconscious on hispart. It was there because it was there， and it couldn’thelp shining out. No， I don’t mean shine. It didn’t shine；it moved. I know I’m talking rot， but if you’d looked intothat animal’s eyes the way I have， you’d understand Stevewas affected the same way I was. Why， I tried to kill thatSpot once—he was no good for anything； and I fell downon it. I led him out into the brush， and he came alongslow and unwilling. He knew what was going on. I stoppedin a likely place， put my foot on the rope， and pulled mybig Colt’s. And that dog sat down and looked at me. I tellyou he didn’t plead. He just looked. And I saw all kindsof incomprehensible things moving， yes， moving， in thoseeyes of his. I didn’t really see them move； I thought I sawthem， for， as I said before， I guess I only sensed them.
And I want to tell you right now that it got beyond me. Itwas like killing a man， a conscious， brave man who lookedcalmly into your gun as much as to say， “Who’s afraid？”
Then， too， the message seemed so near that， instead ofpulling the trigger quick， I stopped to see if I could catchthe message. There it was， right before me， glimmering allaround in those eyes of his. And then it was too late. I gotscared. I was trembly all over， and my stomach generated anervous palpitation that made me seasick. I just sat downand looked at that dog， and he looked at me， till I thoughtI was going crazy. Do you want to know what I did？ Ithrew down the gun and ran back to camp with the fear ofGod in my heart. Steve laughed at me. But I notice thatSteve led Spot into the woods， a week later， for the samepurpose， and that Steve came back alone， and a little laterSpot drifted back， too.