Original subtitles

Buck lived at a big house in the sun -kissed Santa Clara Valley.

Judge Miller's place, it was called.

The house was approached by gravel driveways, which wound about through

-spreading lawns and under the interlacing boughs of tall poplars.

And over this great domain, Buck ruled.

Here he was born, and here he had lived the four years of his life.

Good afternoon, Manuel.

Luck didn't read the newspapers or he would have known the trouble was

not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog strong of muscle and with

warm, long hair from Puget Sound to San Diego.

Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal. And

because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find,

of men were rushing into the Northland.

These men wanted dogs.

And the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs.

with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the

frost.

Buck accepted the rope with quiet dignity. He had learned to trust in men

knew, and to give them credit for a wisdom that outreached his own. But when

rope was placed in the stranger's arms...

For two days and nights he neither ate nor drank. And in those two days of

torment, he accumulated a fund of wrath that boded ill for whoever first fell

foul of him.

Let him out.

stay good, and it'll be fine.

You be a bad dog, and I'll wail the stuff out of you.

Buck was beaten, but he was not broken.

He saw that he stood no chance against a man with a club.

That club was a revelation.

It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law.

Now this is the one you need.

A big strapping brute named Buck.

He's big enough, aren't I?

Why isn't he eating?

He's sulking.

Got a temper for a big dog. Had to show him his place.

This is my best dog, Perot.

He'll pull your mail sled all the way to Dawson by himself. Mark my words.

It's 300.

300? It's my price.

He's worth more.

That's a lot of money.

He's a lot of dog.

I'll give you 300 for him.

The next morning, Buck and Curly were loaded onto the Narwhal.

The vessel sailed north from Seattle, quickly crossing the Canadian border.

The journey continued, pressing on through Queen Charlotte Sound, past

into Lynn Canal, and finally up towards Dyee Beach.

At last, one morning, the propeller was quiet.

Buck knew the change was there.

And Curly.

Take them over to the camp.

I'll go get the mail.

That was fair, Buck decided.

This was a new kind of man, a man too wise in the way of dogs to be fooled by

dogs.

As a courier for the Canadian government, bearing important

was anxious to secure the best dogs, and he was particularly gladdened.

by the possession of Buck.

There you go, sir.

Thanks a lot.

Hello, John.

How are you this morning?

Fine, Pero. And you?

All right.

I'm plenty of Mayapodothan this time.

Oh, I see.

So, what's the weather like in Italy these days? Looks pretty bad.

Gets me around Lake Bennett.

Yeah?

So that was the way.

No fair play.

Once down, that was the end of you.

Well, Buck would see to it that he never went down.

Spitz looked at Curly unmoved. And at that moment, Buck hated him with a

and deathless hatred.

What's the

problem?

Well, he's old and half blind.

He knows how to pull a sled. That's all I care about.

No more fancy colors for you, my friend.

Come on, Buck.

Come on, Buck.

Good, Tuck, yeah.

Let's get moving, Francois, or we'll never make it through the canyon.

Though Buck's dignity was sorely hurt by being harnessed like a horse, he was

too wise to rebel.

He buckled down with a will and did his best, though it was all new and strange.

He was glad to be gone.

He was surprised at the eagerness which animated the whole team and which was

communicated to him.

The toil and the traces seemed the supreme expression of their being and

that they lived for and the only thing in which they took delight.

Here, Spitz.

Come on, Buck.

Thieves! What happened?

One of them stole my bacon.

Where'd you leave it? Doesn't matter where I left it.

I had no business stealing it.

No, Buck wouldn't have stolen it.

It was you, wasn't it?

If I ever catch you, you'll wish you'd never been born.

This first theft marked Buck as fit to survive in the hostile Northland

environment. It marked his adaptability, his capacity to adjust himself to

changing conditions, the lack of which would have meant swift and terrible

death. It was all well enough in the Southland under the law of love and

fellowship to respect private property and personal feelings.

But in the Northland, under the law of club and fang, who so took such things

into account was a fool.

And insofar as he observed them, he would fail to prosper.

Come on, Buck.

You build your stuff in there, go back to it.

Hey, hey!

All right, hold it, Buck, hold it.

Get out of there, Spitz. Go!

Go!

The next day they made 40 miles, the trail being packed.

But the next day, and for many days to follow, they broke their own trail,

worked harder and made poorer time.

It was a hard day's run, up canyon, through snowdrift, hundreds of feet

and over the great Chilkoot Divide, which stands between the ocean and the

River, and guards forbiddingly the sad and lonely north.

We camp here.

All right.

You're gonna like this.

Trust me.

The weather's getting worse.

Come on, come walk.

Come on, Buck.

Don't worry. You'll get used to them.

That's it, Buck.

Come on.

That's it, Buck.

You'll get used to it.

I've seen it all, Mufasa.

Boots for a damn dog.

How's the ice?

Pretty bad.

You'll lose half a day, so keep your wits about you.

Here, in Dawson, were other Southland dogs, and every night, regularly, at

at twelve, at three, they lifted a nocturnal song, a weird and eerie chant

in which it was Buck's delight to join.

Seven days from the time they pulled into Dauphin, they dropped down to the

Yukon Trail.

Perrault was carrying dispatches more urgent than those he had brought in.

Also, the pride had gripped him, and he proposed to make the record trip of the

year.

The week's rest had recuperated the dogs and put them in thorough trim.

Good days are on, Francois.

They must be tired of salmon.

A little rabbit might taste good, eh?

And you too.

Thank you.

There had been no hope for spits.

Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes.

Instincts long dead became alive again in Buck.

The domesticated generations were falling from him.

Looks like you put up a hell of a fight.

Damn it.

It's tough enough on the trail.

Now this.

I'm glad it's finally over.

You're glad we lost the dog?

Buck's worth two dogs.

We're gonna make better time.

No more spits.

No more trouble.

Hope you're right.

Come on, Alex.

Come on.

Got a new job for you.

Come on, Alex.

Buck,

go away!

So, you think you should take Spitz's place, eh?

Go away.

Go!

Solex will lead.

Hey!

I've had enough.

By God, Buck, I'm going to teach you your place.

Yeah. So, what do we do?

I say give Buck a chance.

He fought for it.

All right, Mr. Pebble.

Maybe you're right.

It was a hard trip, the trail behind them, and the heavy work wore them down.

Since the beginning of winter, they had traveled 1 ,800 miles, dragging sled the

whole weary distance.

Buck stood it, keeping his mates up to their work and maintaining discipline,

though he, too, was very tired.

Mr. Perrault.

No broken bones.

Put him back in the traces.

No. He's too weak to pull.

Then you know what we have to do.

He might recover.

We'll make him run behind.

All right.

Let's get going.

Come on, Dave.

Marsh!

Come on, Dave. You can do it.

Wait!

I'll do it.

Hold the dogs ahead.

Marsh! Marsh!

Buck knew, and every dog knew,

what had taken place behind that belt of river trees.

and they knew that this thing was very close to them.

Thirty days from the time it left Dauphin, the male, with Buck and his

the fore, arrived back in a wretched state, worn out and worn down.

Die.

Thank God.

Sounds like you're both lucky to be alive.

Too bad you're going to have to go back to Dawson.

What?

Urgent mail for the Northwest Police.

No way we can make it to Dawson right now.

The dogs are exhausted.

They need a week to rest up.

Sorry, you're the only messengers in town.

Cyrus O 'Neill's got some fresh dogs he can buy.

Yeah, now what am I going to do with my dogs?

Tell him.

He's crawling with southerners. Have them looking for dogs.

350.

400.

That right?

Yes, sir. And give the dogs a good rest.

They need it.

Where are the dogs?

This way.

Goodbye, my friends.

You're a good dog, bud.

Buck listened to his new masters apprehensively as they proceeded to load

sled.

There was a great deal of effort about their manner, but no business -like

method.

No, that one should go on top, please. All right.

Yes, dear.

I wouldn't tote that tent along if I were you.

Undreamed of. How in the world would we manage without a tent?

It's almost spring.

You can get along with that. Thanks for the advice, mister.

Think it'll ride?

Then why not?

Well, it seems to make Tom happy, that's all.

Oh.

Well, then.

All right, listen up, you mutt.

I'm your new master.

And I demand obedience.

Stand.

Stand, I said.

I said stand up.

Oh, you lazy brute.

No, Hal. No, you mustn't.

Now, you mustn't be so harsh with them or I won't move a step. You have to whip

the dogs if you want anything out of them.

Ask any one of those men. Whip.

They're weak as water, friend.

They just got off the trail. They need a rest.

But just look at them.

Well, it's the big one here. He's... He's lazy.

What's his name?

Uh, Buck.

Okay, Buck.

Up. You're crazy, mister.

Don't you talk to my brother in that tone of voice, sir.

Now you do what you think is most important.

Why don't you get out of here?

What a good boy.

Back away, Mercedes.

We need to get going.

Yes.

A few things off.

Warm enough?

Feeling better?

No. How can I feel better leaving all my things behind?

Oh, sweet pea.

With all the gold we're going to find, I'll buy you every new dress in Dawson

City.

Everyone just relax.

We're seven dogs.

We're really going to fly.

This is a lot harder than you told me, Charles.

Well, you didn't think getting rich would be easy, did you, Peter?

All right.

All aboard the Gold Express.

All set.

Ready? Yes.

All right, you mangy mutts.

Mush!

Mush!

What? What now?

Well, perhaps I should walk for a while.

All right, here we go.

Mush! Mush on!

Here we go.

Hurrah for the Klondike!

It's spring. I'm glad we missed winter.

Eat hardly, lad.

You've earned it.

But, Hal, we didn't get very far today.

It's not bad for a first day, especially considering Cleopatra sat on a barge

the entire way.

A woman can only walk so far in one day.

Now, sweetheart, don't be like that.

Perhaps we should show her the map.

She's your wife.

What's wrong?

We've got a problem.

I thought we'd passed Lake Bennett yesterday.

No, that was Lake Harris.

What if we went this way?

We'd have made up with the White Pass Trail here.

We'd cut our distance by a third. But in Dyee, they said that trail was

dangerous this time of year.

No, dear, don't do that.

You mustn't overfeed the dogs. Oh, no, no, don't be so cruel, Charles.

They need their sustenance. But we'll run out of food halfway to Dawson. We're

taking the white pass trail, and we're cutting the dogs' rations.

Buck felt vaguely that there was no depending upon these two men and the

He didn't know how to do anything.

And as the days went by, it became apparent that they couldn't learn.

This way.

Why aren't you wearing your snowshoes?

They're back there.

Why don't you go back and find them if they're so precious?

Charles, would you please inform my sister that this is not Milwaukee, that

is, in fact, the middle of a damn Yukon?

Why don't you tell my foul -mouthed brother that I am trying my best, but I

can't walk anymore. I just can't.

By this time, all the amenities and gentlenesses of the Southland fell away

the three people.

Shorn of its glamour and romance, Arctic travel became to them a reality too

harsh for them.

And through it all, Buck staggered along at the head of the team as in a

nightmare.

Don't panic.

We'll follow the river upstream until it's frozen.

Come on. Let's go.

For God's sake!

He's dead!

Let's just keep moving!

What does he want?

I think he's trying to tell you something, dear.

He wants you off the sled.

But I'm freezing.

Get off, or we're not going anywhere.

I didn't want to come on this trip, you know. I didn't want to look for gold.

I only came because I wanted to be near you, because I love you. And now,

everything is ruined.

It was spring, but neither dogs nor humans were aware of it.

From every hill came the trickle of running water.

All things were thawing. The Yukon was straining to break loose the ice that

bound it down.

Thin sections of ice fell through bodily into the river, and amid all this

throbbing of awakening life, through the rushing of the swollen river, like

wayfarers to death, the two men, the woman, and the dogs, staggered into John

Thornton's camp.

at the mouth of White River.

Thank God.

We're traveling upstream, looking for some ice to cross.

Well, there's lots of ice.

But it's about to break. I wouldn't call it safe.

We made it this far.

We'll find a way across.

Could be.

You look frozen stiff.

No.

We're just fine.

Up.

Up.

Come on, Buck. Let's get up.

We gotta keep going now.

Come on.

Come on, Buck. Up.

Come on. Come on, Buck.

Look at me. I said stand.

Up. Up.

Buck, I said up.

Listen to me, Buck.

Up.

Come on.

Like his mate, Buck was barely able to get up.

But unlike them, he had made up his mind not to get up.

He sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice.

Where his master was trying to drive him.

This dog's finished.

Give me the gun, Charles.

No, Al.

Give me the damn gun. No!

You finish the dog.

I'll finish you.

You got that?

He's my dog.

He minds his own business.

Well,

take

him. He's nearly dead anyway.

By the time John Thornton's search had disclosed nothing more than many bruises

and a state of terrible starvation, the sled was a quarter of a mile away.

When John Thornton froze his feet in the previous December, his partners, Hans

and Pete, had made him comfortable and left him to get well, going on

up the river with a boat of skins for Dawson.

He was still weak at the time he rescued Buck, but with the continued warm

weather, the weakness had left him.

And here beside the riverbank, through the long days of approaching spring,

listening lazily to the songs of birds and the hum of nature, Buck slowly won

back his strength, and then, one day, decided he might trust

John Thornton.

Buck romped through his convalescence and into a new existence.

Love, genuine, passionate love, was his for the first time.

This he had never experienced down at Judge Miller's.

Theirs had been a stately and dignified friendship, but love that was feverish

and burning, that was adoration, that was madness, it had taken John Thornton

arouse.

This man had saved his life.

For a long time after his rescue, Buck didn't let Thornton out of his sight.

Since he had come into the Northland, he had feared that no master could be

permanent.

He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life, too.

But in spite of this great love Buck bore John Thornton, the strain of the

primitive, which the Northland had aroused in him, remained alive and

Each day, mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him.

Deep in the forest, a call was sounding.

And as often as Buck heard the call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he

compelled to turn his back upon the campsite and the beaten earth around it,

to plunge into the forest, and on and on.

He knew not where or why.

But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the dark forest

love for John Thornton drew him back again.

Thornton alone held him. The rest of mankind was a nothing.

Convalescence was over.

Along a bad stretch of rapids on the Forty Mile Creek, Thornton's two

Hans and Pete, were moving along the bank with ropes.

They were getting ready to guide Thornton in the boat, which was loaded

skins they would sell in Dawson.

Who gave a fuck?

John. John.

John.

John, it's me, Han.

John.

John, come on. He's alright.

You okay?

I could use a whiskey right now.

Golly, don't you be cheating again.

Don't say hello, John.

All right.

How are things with you?

Do I get rich yet?

No.

I just look that way.

Who's your friend?

My partner.

A pretty fine -looking dog, mister.

Hey, John.

Over here.

Excuse us.

It looks pretty strong.

You know, I got a dog. It can break out a sled with 500 pounds and walk right

off with it.

Oh, yeah?

Well, my boy Dugan can do the same with 600 pounds.

Well, my boy Buck can do 800 pounds.

800 pounds.

And walk with it for 100 feet and walk off with it.

You know, I'd like to see that.

I got $1 ,000 worth of gold dust that says that he can't.

Hey.

Glenn waiting right outside.

Okay.

Done.

Thornton's dog can't meet the challenge.

This deep, bud?

I say it ought to be three to one.

I'll take those three to one odds.

And I'll lay you another thousand.

At those odds. Any pictures? Come on!

Get any more money?

All we got.

Ask Bud to triple it for us anyway.

John, I'll put my money on you.

200 more.

I guess my 600.

Done.

Please, for me, count me down.

Thanks for this.

When are you going to leave?

Pretty soon.

Listen, why don't you just think about it, huh?

Sleep on it?

Maggie.

When Buck earned $1 ,600 in five minutes for John Thornton, he made it possible

for his master to pay off certain debts and to journey into the East after a

fabled lost mine, the history of which was as old as the history of the

Many men had sought it, few had found it, and more than a few there were who

never returned from the quest.

From the beginning, there had been an ancient and ramshackle cabin.

Dying men had sworn to it, and to the mine which it marked, clinching their

testimony with nuggets that were unlike any known grade of gold in the

Northland.

John Thornton asked little of man or nature.

He was unafraid of the wild.

With a handful of salt and a rifle, he could plunge into the wilderness and

wherever he pleased and as long as he pleased.

This was Indian country, and being in no haste Indian fashion, he hunted and

fished for his dinner in the course of the day's travel.

Lying next to Thornton, dozing lazily in the heat of the day, irresistible

impulses were beginning to seize Buck.

The months came and went, and at the end of all their wandering, they found not

the lost cabin, but a shallow mine in a broad valley.

They sought no further.

The call was still sounding in the depths of the forest.

It filled Buck with a great unrest and strange desires, and he was aware of

yearnings and stirrings, for he knew not what.

He pursued the call into the forest, running in the dim twilight, seeking for

the mysterious something that called for him to come.

Oh, there you are. It's now time for breakfast.

From

the

forest came the call.

Distinct and definite as never before, a long -drawn howl, like yet unlike any

noise made by a dog.

and he knew it in the old familiar way as a sound heard before.

Buck was wildly glad.

He knew he was at last answering the call, running by the side of his wood

brother toward the place from where the call surely came.

He had done this thing before, somewhere in that dimly remembered world, and he

was doing it again now.

Then Buck remembered John Thornton.

You think you're gonna sleep here?

You got another thing coming.

Buck never left camp, never let Thornton out of his sight.

But after a while, his restlessness came back on him.

He was a thing of the wild, come in from the wild to sit by John Thornton's

fire, and he was haunted by recollections of the wild brother.

Once again he took to wandering in the woods, but the wild brother came no

There's no gold here.

We go home tomorrow.

Buck had lessened well.

He must be master or be mastered, while to show mercy was a weakness.

Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear and

such misunderstandings made for death.

Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law.

Yeah.

Really.

by Thornton's body.

Death, as a succession of movement, as a passing out and away from the lives of

the living, he knew.

And he knew John Thornton was dead.

It left a great void in him, somewhat akin to hunger, but a void which ached

ached, and which food could not fill.

And with the coming of night, brooding and mourning by the river, Buck became

alive to a stirring of the new life in the forest.

It was the call, sounding more luring and compelling than ever before.

And as never before, he was ready to obey.

John Thornton was dead.

The last tie was broken.

Man and the claims of man no longer bound him.

And here may well end the story of Buck.

The years were not many when the Yeehawt Indians noted a change in the breed of

timber wolves.

For some were seen with splashes of brown on head and muzzle, with a rift of

gold centering down the chest.

But more remarkable than this, the Yeehawts tell of a ghost dog that runs

the pack.

They are afraid of this ghost dog.

for it has cunning greater than they, stealing from their camps in fierce

winters, robbing their traps, slaying their dogs, defying their bravest

And there is a certain valley which they never enter.

When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat, he may be

seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight, leaping

gigantic above his fellows.

his great throat a bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the

song of the pack.