The freeze-up came on when we were at the mouth ofHenderson Creek， and we traded him off for two sacksof flour to an outfit that was bound up White River aftercopper. Now that whole outfit was lost. Never trace norhide nor hair of men， dogs， sleds， or anything was everfound. They dropped clean out of sight. It became one ofthe mysteries of the country. Steve and I plugged away upthe Stewart， and six weeks afterward that Spot crawledinto camp. He was a perambulating skeleton， and couldjust drag along； but he got there. And what I want to knowis who told him we were up the Stewart？ We could havegone a thousand other places. How did he know？ You tellme， and I’ll tell you.
No losing him. At the Mayo he started a row with anIndian dog. The buck who owned the dog took a swingat Spot with an axe， missed him， and killed his own dog.
Talk about magic and turning bullets aside—I， for one，consider it a blamed sight harder to turn an axe aside witha big buck at the other end of it. And I saw him do it withmy own eyes. That buck didn’t want to kill his own dog.
You’ve got to show me.
I told you about Spot breaking into our meat-cache. Itwas nearly the death of us. There wasn’t any more meat tobe killed， and meat was all we had to live on. The moosehad gone back several hundred miles and the Indianswith them. There we were. Spring was on， and we had towait for the river to break. We got pretty thin before wedecided to eat the dogs， and we decided to eat Spot first.
Do you know what that dog did？ He sneaked. Now howdid he know our minds were made up to eat him？ We satup nights laying for him， but he never came back， and weate the other dogs. We ate the whole team.
And now for the sequel. You know what it is when abig river breaks up and a few billion tons of ice go out，jamming and milling and grinding. Just in the thick ofit， when the Stewart went out， rumbling and roaring， wesighted Spot out in the middle. He’d got caught as he wastrying to cross up above somewhere. Steve and I yelled andshouted and ran up and down the bank， tossing our hats inthe air. Sometimes we’d stop and hug each other， we werethat boisterous， for we saw Spot’s finish. He didn’t have achance in a million. He didn’t have any chance at all. Afterthe ice-run， we got into a canoe and paddled down to theYukon， and down the Yukon to Dawson， stopping to feedup for a week at the cabins at the mouth of HendersonCreek. And as we came in to the bank at Dawson， theresat that Spot， waiting for us， his ears pricked up， his tailwagging， his mouth smiling， extending a hearty welcometo us. Now how did he get out of that ice？ How did heknow we were coming to Dawson， to the very hour andminute， to be out there on the bank waiting for us？
The more I think of that Spot， the more I am convincedthat there are things in this world that go beyond science.
On no scientific grounds can that Spot be explained. It’spsychic phenomena， or mysticism， or something of thatsort， I guess， with a lot of Theosophy thrown in. TheKlondike is a good country. I might have been there yet，and become a millionnaire， if it hadn’t been for Spot. Hegot on my nerves. I stood him for two years all together，and then I guess my stamina broke. It was the summerof 1899 when I pulled out. I didn’t say anything to Steve.
I just sneaked. But I fixed it up all right. I wrote Steve anote， and enclosed a package of “rough-on-rats，” tellinghim what to do with it. I was worn down to skin and boneby that Spot， and I was that nervous that I’d jump andlook around when there wasn’t anybody within hailingdistance. But it was astonishing the way I recuperatedwhen I got quit of him. I got back twenty pounds beforeI arrived in San Francisco， and by the time I’d crossed theferry to Oakland I was my old self again， so that even mywife looked in vain for any change in me.
Steve wrote to me once， and his letter seemed irritated.
He took it kind of hard because I’d left him with Spot.
Also， he said he’d used the “rough-on-rats，” per directions，and that there was nothing doing. A year went by. I wasback in the office and prospering in all ways—even gettinga bit fat. And then Steve arrived. He didn’t look me up. Iread his name in the steamer list， and wondered why. ButI didn’t wonder long. I got up one morning and found thatSpot chained to the gate-post and holding up the milkman.
Steve went north to Seattle， I learned， that very morning.
I didn’t put on any more weight. My wife made me buyhim a collar and tag， and within an hour he showed hisgratitude by killing her pet Persian cat. There is no gettingrid of that Spot. He will be with me until I die， for he’llnever die. My appetite is not so good since he arrived， andmy wife says I am looking peaked. Last night that Spotgot into Mr. Harvey’s hen-house （Harvey is my next doorneighbor） and killed nineteen of his fancy-bred chickens. Ishall have to pay for them. My neighbors on the other sidequarrelled with my wife and then moved out. Spot was thecause of it. And that is why I am disappointed in StephenMackaye. I had no idea he was so mean a man.
