I saw him steal a chunk of moose meat from Major Dinwiddie’s cache so heavy that he could just keep one jump ahead of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s squaw cook, who was after him with an axe.  As he went up the hill, after the squaw gave up, Major Dinwiddie himself came out and pumped his Winchester into the landscape.  He emptied his magazine twice, and never touched that Spot.  Then a policeman came along and arrested him for discharging firearms inside the city limits.  Major Dinwiddie paid his fine, and Steve and I paid him for the moose meat at the rate of a dollar a pound, bones and all.  That was what he paid for it.  Meat was high that year.

I am only telling what I saw with my own eyes.  And now I’ll tell you something also.  I saw that Spot fall through a water-hole.  The ice was three and a half feet thick, and the current sucked him under like a straw.  Three hundred yards below was the big water-hole used by the hospital.  Spot crawled out of the hospital water-hole, licked off the water, bit out the ice that had formed between his toes, trotted up the bank, and whipped a big Newfoundland belonging to the Gold Commissioner.

In the fall of 1898, Steve and I poled up the Yukon on the last water, bound for Stewart River.  We took the dogs along, all except Spot.  We figured we’d been feeding him long enough.  He’d cost us more time and trouble and money and grub than we’d got by selling him on the Chilcoot—­especially grub.  So Steve and I tied him down in the cabin and pulled our freight.  We camped that night at the mouth of Indian River, and Steve and I were pretty facetious over having shaken him.  Steve was a funny fellow, and I was just sitting up in the blankets and laughing when a tornado hit camp.  The way that Spot walked into those dogs and gave them what-for was hair-raising.  Now how did he get loose?  It’s up to you.  I haven’t any theory.  And how did he get across the Klondike River?  That’s another facer.  And anyway, how did he know we had gone up the Yukon?  You see, we went by water, and he couldn’t smell our tracks.  Steve and I began to get superstitious about that dog.  He got on our nerves, too; and, between you and me, we were just a mite afraid of him.

The freeze-up came on when we were at the mouth of Henderson Creek, and we traded him off for two sacks of flour to an outfit that was bound up White River after copper.  Now that whole outfit was lost.  Never trace nor hide nor hair of men, dogs, sleds, or anything was ever found.  They dropped clean out of sight.  It became one of the mysteries of the country.  Steve and I plugged away up the Stewart, and six weeks afterward that Spot crawled into camp.  He was a perambulating skeleton, and could just drag along; but he got there.  And what I want to know is who told him we were up the Stewart?  We could have gone a thousand other places.  How did he know?  You tell me, and I’ll tell you.

No losing him.  At the Mayo he started a row with an Indian dog.  The buck who owned the dog took a swing at 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 with a big buck at the other end of it.  And I saw him do it with my own eyes.  That buck didn’t want to kill his own dog.  You’ve got to show me.