Back to gods country and other stories

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JamesOliverCurwood
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Title:BacktoGod'sCountryandOtherStories
Author:JamesOliverCurwood
PostingDate:August11,2009[EBook#4539]
ReleaseDate:October,2003
FirstPosted:February5,2002
Language:English

***STARTOFTHISPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKBACKTOGOD'SCOUNTRY***

ProducedbyDianneBean.HTMLversionbyAlHaines.


BACKTOGOD'SCOUNTRY
ANDOTHERSTORIES
BY


JAMESOLIVERCURWOOD


CONTENTS
BacktoGod'sCountry
TheYellow-Back

TheFiddlingMan
L'ange
TheCaseofBeauvais
TheOtherMan'sWife
TheStrengthofMen
TheMatch
TheHonorofHerPeople
BuckySevern
HisFirstPenitent
PeterGod
TheMouse

BACKTOGOD'SCOUNTRY
When Shan Tung, the long-cued Chinaman from Vancouver, started up the
FrazerRiverintheolddayswhentheTelegraphTrailandtheheadwatersofthe
PeaceweretheMeccasofhalfthegold-huntingpopulationofBritishColumbia,
hedidnotforeseetragedyaheadofhim.Hewasacleverman,wasShanTung,a
cha-sukeed,averydevilinthecollectingofgold,andfar-seeing.Buthecould
notlookfortyyearsintothefuture,andwhenShanTungsetoffintothenorth,
thatwinter,hewasinrealitytouchingfiretotheendofafusethatwastoburn
throughfourdecadesbeforetheexplosioncame.
WithShanTungwentTao,aGreatDane.TheChinamanhadpickedhimup
somewhereonthecoastandhadtrainedhimasonetrainsahorse.Taowasthe
biggestdogeverseenabouttheHeightofLand,themostpowerful,andattimes
themostterrible.OftwothingsShanTungwasenormouslyproudinhissilent
and mysterious oriental way—of Tao, the dog, and of his long, shining cue


whichfelltothecrookofhiskneeswhenheletitdown.Ithadbeenthelongest
cueinVancouver,andthereforeitwasthelongestcueinBritishColumbia.The

cue and the dog formed the combination which set the forty-year fuse of
romanceandtragedyburning.ShanTungstartedfortheElDoradosearlyinthe
winter, and Tao alone pulled his sledge and outfit. It was no more than an
ordinary task for the monstrous Great Dane, and Shan Tung subserviently but
with hidden triumph passed outfit after outfit exhausted by the way. He had
reached Copper Creek Camp, which was boiling and frothing with the
excitement of gold-maddened men, and was congratulating himself that he
would soon be at the camps west of the Peace, when the thing happened. A
drunken Irishman, filled with a grim and unfortunate sense of humor, spotted
Shan Tung's wonderful cue and coveted it. Wherefore there followed a bit of
excitement in which Shan Tung passed into his empyrean home with a bullet
through his heart, and the drunken Irishman was strung up for his misdeed
fifteen minutes later. Tao, the Great Dane, was taken by the leader of the men
whopulledontherope.Tao'snewmasterwasa"drifter,"andashedrifted,his
face was always set to the north, until at last a new humor struck him and he
turnedeastwardtotheMackenzie.Astheseasonspassed,Taofoundmatesalong
thewayandleftastringofhisprogenybehindhim,andhehadnewmasters,one
after another, until he was grown old and his muzzle was turning gray. And
neverdidoneofthesemastersturnsouthwithhim.Alwaysitwasnorth,north
withthewhitemanfirst,northwiththeCree,andthenwiththeChippewayan,
untilintheendthedogborninaVancouverkenneldiedinanEskimoiglooon
theGreatBear.ButthebreedoftheGreatDanelivedon.Hereandthere,asthe
years passed, one would find among the Eskimo trace-dogs, a grizzled-haired,
powerful-jawedgiantthatwasalientothearcticstock,andintheseoccasional
aliensranthebloodofTao,theDane.
Fortyyears,moreorless,afterShanTunglosthislifeandhiscueatCopper
CreekCamp,therewasbornonafirthofCoronationGulfadogwhowasnamed
Wapi,whichmeans"theWalrus."Wapi,atfullgrowth,wasathrowbackofmore
than forty dog generations. He was nearly as large as his forefather, Tao. His
fangs were an inch in length, his great jaws could crack the thigh-bone of a

caribou,andfromthebeginningthehandsofmenandthefangsofbeastswere
againsthim.Almostfromthedayofhisbirthuntilthiswinterofhisfourthyear,
life for Wapi had been an unceasing fight for existence. He was maya-tisew—
badwiththebadnessofadevil.Hisreputationhadgonefrommastertomaster
and from igloo to igloo; women and children were afraid of him, and men
alwaysspoketohimwiththecluborthelashintheirhands.Hewashatedand


feared, and yet because he could run down a barren-land caribou and kill it
withinamile,andwouldholdabigwhitebearatbayuntilthehunterscame,he
was not sacrificed to this hate and fear. A hundred whips and clubs and a
hundredpairsofhandswereagainsthimbetweenCapePerryandthecrownof
FranklinBay—andthefangsoftwiceasmanydogs.
The dogs were responsible. Quick-tempered, clannish with the savage
brotherhoodofthewolves,treacherous,jealousofleadership,andwiththeolder
instincts of the dog dead within them, their merciless feud with what they
regardedasaninterloperofanotherbreedputthedevilheartinWapi.Inallthe
grayanddesolatesweepofhisworldhehadnofriend.TheheritageofTao,his
forefather,hadfallenuponhim,andhewasanalieninalandofstrangers.Asthe
dogs and the men and women and children hated him, so he hated them. He
hatedthesightandsmelloftheround-faced,blear-eyedcreatureswhowerehis
master, yet he obeyed them, sullenly, watchfully, with his lips wrinkled
warningly over fangs which had twice torn out the life of white bears. Twenty
timeshehadkilledotherdogs.Hehadfoughtthemsingly,andinpairs,andin
packs.Hisgiantbodyborethescarsofahundredwounds.Hehadbeenclubbed
until a part of his body was deformed and he traveled with a limp. He kept to
himselfeveninthematingseason.AndallthisbecauseWapi,theWalrus,forty
yearsremovedfromtheGreatDaneofVancouver,wasawhiteman'sdog.
Stirring restlessly within him, sometimes coming to him in dreams and
sometimesinagreatandunfulfilledyearning,Wapifeltvaguelythestrangecall

ofhisforefathers.Itwasimpossibleforhimtounderstand.Itwasimpossiblefor
him to know what it meant. And yet he did know that somewhere there was
somethingforwhichhewasseekingandwhichheneverfound.Thedesireand
the questing came to him most compellingly in the long winter filled with its
eternalstarlight,whenthemaddeningyap,yap,yapofthelittlewhitefoxes,the
barking of the dogs, and the Eskimo chatter oppressed him like the voices of
hauntingghosts.Intheselongmonths,filledwiththehorrorofthearcticnight,
thespiritofTaowhisperedwithinhimthatsomewheretherewaslightandsun,
thatsomewheretherewaswarmthandflowers,andrunningstreams,andvoices
hecouldunderstand,andthingshecouldlove.AndthenWapiwouldwhine,and
perhapsthewhinewouldbringhimtheblowofaclub,orthelashofawhip,or
anEskimothreat,orthemenaceofanEskimodog'ssnarl.OfthelatterWapiwas
unafraid.Withasnapofhisjaws,hecouldbreakthebackofanyotherdogon
FranklinBay.


SuchwasWapi,theWalrus,whenfortwosacksofflour,sometobacco,anda
baleofclothhebecamethepropertyofBlake,theuta-wawe-yinew,thetraderin
seals, whalebone—and women. On this day Wapi's soul took its flight back
throughthespaceoffortyyears.ForBlakewaswhite,whichistosaythatatone
timeoranotherhehadbeenwhite.Hisskinandhisappearancedidnotbetray
how black he had turned inside and Wapi's brute soul cried out to him, telling
himhowhehadwaitedandwatchedforthismasterheknewwouldcome,how
hewouldfightforhim,howhewantedtoliedownandputhisgreatheadonthe
white man's feet in token of his fealty. But Wapi's bloodshot eyes and battlescarred face failed to reveal what was in him, and Blake—following the
instructions of those who should know—ruled him from the beginning with a
clubthatwasmorebrutalthanthecluboftheEskimo.
Forthreemonths Wapihadbeenthe propertyofBlake, anditwasnowthe
dead of a long and sunless arctic night. Blake's cabin, built of ship timber and
veneeredwithblocksofice,wasbuiltinthefaceofadeeppitthatshelteredit

from wind and storm. To this cabin came the Nanatalmutes from the east, and
theKogmollocksfromthewest,barteringtheirfursandwhaleboneandseal-oil
for the things Blake gave in exchange, and adding women to their wares
whenever Blake announced a demand. The demand had been excellent this
winter. Over in Darnley Bay, thirty miles across the headland, was the whaler
Harpoon frozen up for the winter with a crew of thirty men, and straight out
from the face of his igloo cabin, less than a mile away, was the Flying Moon
with a crew of twenty more. It was Blake's business to wait and watch like a
hawkforsuchopportunitiesasthere,andtonight—hiswatchpointedtothehour
of twelve, midnight—he was sitting in the light of a sputtering seal-oil lamp
adding up figures which told him that his winter, only half gone, had already
beenanenormouslyprofitableone.
"IftheMountedPoliceoveratHerschelonlyknew,"hechuckled."Uppy,if
theydid,they'dhaveanoutfitafterusintwenty-fourhours."
Oopi,hisEskimoright-handman,hadlearnedtounderstandEnglish,andhe
nodded, his moon-face split by a wide and enigmatic grin. In his way, "Uppy"
wasascleverasShanTunghadbeeninhis.
And Blake added, "We've sold every fur and every pound of bone and oil,
andwe'vefortyUpiskwivestoourcreditatfiftydollarsapiece."


Uppy'sgrinbecamelarger,andhisthroatwasfilledwithanexultantrattle.In
thematteroftheUpiskwivesheknewthathestoodace-high.
"Never,"saidBlake,"hasourwife-by-the-monthbusinessbeensogood.Ifit
wasn't for Captain Rydal and his love-affair, we'd take a vacation and go
hunting."
He turned, facing the Eskimo, and the yellow flame of the lamp lit up his
face.Itwasthefaceofaremarkableman.Ablackbeardconcealedmuchofits
crueltyanditscunning,abeardascarefullyVan-dyckedasthoughBlakesatina
professional chair two thousand miles south, but the beard could not hide the

almostinhumanhardnessoftheeyes.Therewasaglitteringlightinthemashe
looked at the Eskimo. "Did you see her today, Uppy? Of course you did. My
Gawd,ifawomancouldevertemptme,shecould!AndRydalisgoingtohave
her.UnlessImissmyguess,there'sgoingtobemoneyinitforus—alotofit.
Thefunnypartofitis,Rydal'sgottogetridofherhusband.Andhow'shegoing
todoit,Uppy?Eh?Answermethat.How'shegoingtodoit?"
Inaholehehaddugforhimselfinthedriftedsnowunderahugescarpofice
ahundredyardsfromtheigloocabinlayWapi.Hisbedwasredwiththestainof
blood,andatrailofbloodledfromthecabintotheplacewherehehadhidden
himself.Notmanyhoursago,whenbyGod'ssunitshouldhavebeenday,hehad
turnedatlastonateasing,snarling,back-bitinglittlekiskanukofadogandhad
killedit.AndBlakeandUppyhadbeatenhimuntilhewasalmostdead.
ItwasnotofthebeatingthatWapiwasthinkingashelayinhiswallow.He
wasthinkingofthefur-cladfigurethathadcomebetweenBlake'sclubandhis
body,ofthemomentwhenforthefirsttimeinhislifehehadseenthefaceofa
white woman. She had stopped Blake's club. He had heard her voice. She had
bent over him, and she would have put her hand on him if his master had not
draggedherbackwithacryofwarning.Shehadgoneintothecabinthen,andhe
haddraggedhimselfaway.
Sincethenanewandthrillingflamehadburnedinhim.Foratimehissenses
had been dazed by his punishment, but now every instinct in him was like a
living wire. Slowly he pulled himself from his retreat and sat down on his
haunches. His gray muzzle was pointed to the sky. The same stars were there,
burningincold,whitepointsofflameastheyhadburnedweekafterweekinthe
maddeningmonotonyofthelongnightsnearthepole.Theywerelikeamillion


pitiless eyes, never blinking, always watching, things of life and fire, and yet
dead. And at those eyes, the little white foxes yapped so incessantly that the
soundofitdrovemenmad.Theywereyappingnow.Theywereneverstill.And

with their yapping came the droning, hissing monotone of the aurora, like the
song of a vast piece of mechanism in the still farther north. Toward this Wapi
turned his bruised and beaten head. Out there, just beyond the ghostly pale of
vision,wastheship.Fiftytimeshehadslunkoutandaroundit,cautiouslyasthe
foxes themselves. He had caught its smells and its sounds; he had come near
enoughtohearthevoicesofmen,andthosevoiceswerelikethevoiceofBlake,
hismaster.Therefore,hehadnevergonenearer.
Therewasachangeinhimnow.Hisbigpadsfellnoiselesslyasheslunkback
tothecabinandsniffedforascentinthesnow.Hefoundit.Itwasthetrailofthe
whitewoman.Hisbloodtingledagain,asithadtingledwhenherfacebentover
himandherhandreachedout,andinhissoulthereroseuptheghostofTaoto
whiphimon.Hefollowedthewoman'sfootprintsslowly,stoppingnowandthen
tolisten,andeachmomentthespiritinhimgrewmoreinsistent,andhewhined
upatthestars.Atlasthesawtheship,awraithlikethinginitspiled-upbedof
ice, and he stopped. This was his dead-line. He had never gone nearer. But
tonight—ifanyoneperiodcouldbecallednight—hewenton.
It was the hour of sleep, and there was no sound aboard. The foxes, never
tiringoftheirinfuriatingsport,wereyappingattheship.Theybarkedfasterand
louderwhentheycaughtthescentofWapi,andasheapproached,theydrifted
fartheraway.Thescentofthewoman'strailledupthewidebridgeofice,and
Wapifollowedthisashewouldhavefollowedaroad,untilhefoundhimselfall
atonceonthedeckoftheFlyingMoon.Foraspacehewasstartled.Hislong
fangsbaredthemselvesattheshadowscastbythestars.Thenhesawaheadof
himanarrowribbonofyellowlight.TowardthisWapisniffedout,stepbystep,
the footprints of the woman. When he stopped again, his muzzle was at the
narrowcrackthroughwhichcametheglimmeroflight.
Itwasthedoorofadeck-houseveneeredlikeanigloowithsnowandiceto
protectitfromcoldandwind.Itwas,perhaps,halfaninchajar,andthroughthat
apertureWapidrankthewarm,sweetperfumeofthewoman.Withithecaught
also the smell of a man. But in him the woman scent submerged all else.

Overwhelmedbyit,hestoodtrembling,notdaringtomove,everyinchofhim
thrilledbyavastandmysteriousyearning.HewasnolongerWapi,theWalrus;
Wapi,theKiller.Taowasthere.AnditmaybethatthespiritofShanTungwas


there. For after forty years the change had come, and Wapi, as he stood at the
woman's door, was just dog,—a white man's dog—again the dog of the
Vancouverkennel—thedogofawhiteman'sworld.
Hethrustopenthedoorwithhisnose.Heslunkin,sosilentlythathewasnot
heard.Thecabinwaslighted.Inabedlayawhite-faced,hollow-cheekedman—
awake. On a low stool at his side sat a woman. The light of the lamp hanging
fromabovewarmedwithgoldfiresthethickandradiantmassofherhair.She
was leaning over the sick man. One slim, white hand was stroking his face
gently,andshewasspeakingtohiminavoicesosweetandsoftthatitstirred
likewonderfulmusicinWapi'swarpedandbeatensoul.Andthen,withagreat
sigh,hefloppeddown,anabjectslave,ontheedgeofherdress.
Withastartledcrythewomanturned.Foramomentshestaredatthegreat
beast wide-eyed, then there came slowly into her face recognition and
understanding."Why,it'sthedogBlakewhippedsoterribly,"shegasped."Peter,
it's—it'sWapi!"ForthefirsttimeWapifeltthecaressofawoman'shand,soft,
gentle,pitying,andoutofhimtherecameawimperingsoundthatwasalmosta
sob.
"It's the dog—he whipped," she repeated, and, then, if Wapi could have
understood,hewouldhavenotedthetensepallorofherlovelyfaceandthelook
ofagreatfearthatwasawaybackinthestaringbluedepthsofhereyes.
FromhispillowPeterKeithhadseenthelookoffearandthepalenessofher
cheeks,buthewasalongwayfromguessingthetruth.Yethethoughtheknew.
Fordays—yes,forweeks—therehadbeenthatgrowingfearinhereyes.Hehad
seenhermightyfighttohideitfromhim.Andhethoughtheunderstood.
"Iknowithasbeenaterriblewinterforyou,dear,"hehadsaidtohermany

times. "But you mustn't worry so much about me. I'll be on my feet again—
soon."Hehadalwaysemphasizedthat."I'llbeonmyfeetagainsoon!"
Once,inthebreakingterrorofherheart,shehadalmosttoldhimthetruth.
AfterwardshehadthankedGodforgivingherthestrengthtokeepitback.Itwas
day—for they spoke in terms of day and night—when Rydal, half drunk, had
draggedherintohiscabin,andshehadfoughthimuntilherhairwasdownabout
herintangledconfusion—andshehadtoldPeterthatitwasthewind.Afterthat,
instead of evading him, she had played Rydal with her wits, while praying to


Godforhelp.ItwasimpossibletotellPeter.Hehadagedsteadilyandterriblyin
the last two weeks. His eyes were sunken into deep pits. His blond hair was
turning gray over the temples. His cheeks were hollowed, and there was a
different sort of luster in his eyes. He looked fifty instead of thirty-five. Her
heartbledinitsagony.ShelovedPeterwithawonderfullove.
Thetruth!Ifshetoldhimthat!ShecouldseePeterrisingupoutofhisbed
likeaghost.Itwouldkillhim.IfhecouldhaveseenRydal—onlyanhourbefore
—stoppingheroutonthedeck,takingherinhisarms,andkissingheruntilhis
drunken breath and his beard sickened her! And if he could have heard what
Rydalhadsaid!Sheshuddered.Andsuddenlyshedroppeddownonherknees
besideWapiandtookhisgreatheadinherarms,unafraidofhim—andgladthat
hehadcome.
Then she turned to Peter. "I'm going ashore to see Blake again—now," she
said. "Wapi will go with me, and I won't be afraid. I insist that I am right, so
pleasedon'tobjectanymore,Peterdear."
Shebentoverandkissedhim,andtheninspiteofhisprotest,putonherfur
coatandhood,andstoodforamomentsmilingdownathim.Thefearwasgone
outofhereyesnow.Itwasimpossibleforhimnottosmileatherloveliness.He
hadalwaysbeenproudofthat.Hereachedupathinhandandpluckedtenderly
attheshininglittletendrilsofgoldthatcreptoutfromunderherhood.

"Iwishyouwouldn't,dear,"hepleaded.
Howpatheticallywhite,andthin,andweakhewas!Shekissedhimagainand
turnedstand,agreeto
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