Белый Клык / White Fang. Джек Лондон

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      “Say, Henry,” he asked suddenly, “how many dogs did you say we had?”

      “Six.”

      “Wrong,” Bill said triumphantly.

      “Seven again?”

      “No, five; one’s gone.”

      “The hell!” Henry cried in anger, left the cooking and went to count the dogs.

      “You’re right, Bill,” he concluded. “Fatty’s gone. They just swallowed him alive, damn them!”

      “He always was a fool dog.”

      “But not fool enough to commit suicide. I bet none of the others would do it.”

      “Couldn’t drive them away from the fire with a club,” Bill agreed. “I always thought there was something wrong with Fatty anyway.”

      And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland trail, and it was longer than the epitaphs of many other dogs, many other men.

      Chapter II. THE SHE-WOLF

      After breakfast the men set off again. Fiercely sad cries called through the darkness to one another and answered back. Daylight came at nine o’clock. At midday the sky to the south warmed to rose-colour, but it soon faded. After the grey light of day faded as well, the Arctic night descended upon the land.

      As darkness came, the hunting-cries around them drew closer—so close that the dogs had occasional periods of panic. It was getting on men’s nerves.

      Henry was cooking supper when he heard the sound of a blow, an exclamation from Bill, and a cry of pain from dogs. He straightened up in time to see a dim silhouette running into the dark. Then he saw Bill, standing among the dogs, in one hand a club, in the other the tail and part of the body of a salmon.

      “I got half of it,” he announced; “but it got the other half. Did you hear it squeal?”

      “What did it look like?”

      “Couldn’t see. But it had four legs and a mouth and hair and looked like any dog.”

      “Must be a tame wolf, I reckon.”

      “Damn! It must be tame, whatever it is, if it is coming here at feeding time.”

      That night, when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and smoked, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before.

      “I wish they’d go away and leave us alone[3],” Bill said.

      For a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness.

      “I wish we were going into McGurry right now,” he began again.

      “Shut up your wishing,” Henry said angrily. “Your have a stomach ache. That’s what’s bothering you. Take a spoonful of sody, and you’ll be a more pleasant company.”

      In the morning Henry was awakened by Bill’s swearing. He saw his comrade standing among the dogs, his arms raised and his face angry.

      “Hello!” Henry called. “What’s up now?”

      “Frog’s gone.”

      “No.”

      “I tell you yes.”

      Henry came to the dogs, counted them with care, and then joined his partner in cursing the Wild that had robbed them of another dog.

      “Frog was our strongest dog,” Bill said finally.

      “And he was no fool,” Henry added.

      And so it was the second epitaph in two days.

      The next day was a repetition of the days that had gone before. All was silent in the world but[4] the cries of their pursuers.

      “There, that’ll fix you, fool creatures,” Bill said with satisfaction that night. He tied the dogs, after the Indian method, with sticks. About the neck of each dog was a leather thong. To this he had tied a stick four or five feet[5] in length. The other end of the stick, in turn, was attached to a stake in the ground.

      Henry nodded his head approvingly, “They all will be here in the morning.”

      “If one of them disappears, I’ll go without my coffee,” said Bill.

      “They just know we have nothing to kill them with,” Henry remarked at bed-time, indicating the circle of eyes that surrounded them. “If we could put a couple of shots into them, they’d be more respectful. They come closer every night,” and then he suddenly whispered: “Look at that, Bill.”

      A doglike animal went stealthily in the firelight. Its attention was fixed on the dogs. One Ear strained the full length of the stick toward the intruder.

      “That fool One Ear doesn’t seem scared,” Bill said in a low tone.

      “It’s a she-wolf. She’s dangerous. She draws out the dog and eats him up.”

      “Henry, I’m thinking,” Bill announced, “I’m thinking that is the one I hit with the club.”

      “It must be.”

      “And I want to remark,” Bill went on, “that that animal’s familiarity with campfires is suspicious and immoral.”

      “It knows more than a self-respecting wolf ought to know,” Henry agreed. “A wolf that comes at the dogs’ feeding time has had experience.”

      “If I get a chance, that wolf will be just meat. We can’t afford to lose any more animals.”

      “But you’ve only got three cartridges,” Henry objected.

      “I’ll wait for a dead shot.”

      In the morning Henry renewed the fire and cooked breakfast to the accompaniment of his partner’s snoring.

      “You were sleeping just so comfortably,” Henry told him, as he called him out for breakfast. “I hadn’t the heart[6] to wake you.”

      Bill began to eat sleepily. He noticed that his cup was empty, but the pot was beyond his arm’s length and beside Henry.

      “You don’t get coffee,” Henry announced.

      “Has it run out?”

      “Nope.”

      “Aren’t you thinking it’ll hurt my digestion?”

      “Nope.”

      “Then explain yourself[7],” СКАЧАТЬ