Short Stories
tripping over his own shadow, but, withal, vicious and master-
ful with his team-mates. Nor did he show signs of a breaking
spirit. Rather did he grow more grim and taciturn, biding his
time with an inscrutable patience that began to puzzle and
weigh upon Leclere. The dog would lie in the firelight, motion-
less, for hours, gazing straight before him at Leclere, and hating
him with his bitter eyes.
Often the man felt that he had bucked against the very es-
sence of life—the unconquerable essence that swept the hawk
down out of the sky like a feathered thunderbolt, that drove the
great grey goose across the zones, that hurled the spawning
salmon through two thousand miles of boiling Yukon flood. At
such times he felt impelled to—express his own unconquerable
essence; and with strong drink, wild music, and Batard, he in-
dulged in vast orgies, wherein he pitted his puny strength in the
face of things, and challenged all that was, and had been, and
was yet to be.
"Dere is somet'ing dere," he affirmed, when the rhythmed va-
garies of his mind touched the secret chords of Batard's being
and brought forth the long lugubrious howl. "Ah pool eet out
wid bot' my han's, so, an' so. Ha! ha! Eet is fonee! Eet is ver'
fonee! De priest chant, de womans pray, de mans swear, de
leetle bird go peep-peep, Batard, heem go yow-yow—an' eet is
all de ver' same t'ing. Ha! ha!"
Father Gautier, a worthy priest, one reproved him with in-
stances of concrete perdition. He never reproved him again.
"Eet may be so, mon pere," he made answer. "An' Ah t'ink Ah
go troo hell a-snappin', lak de hemlock troo de fire. Eh, mon
pere?"
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