MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/related; boundary="----=_NextPart_01D08B55.4888A4A0" This document is a Single File Web Page, also known as a Web Archive file. If you are seeing this message, your browser or editor doesn't support Web Archive files. Please download a browser that supports Web Archive, such as Windows® Internet Explorer®. ------=_NextPart_01D08B55.4888A4A0 Content-Location: file:///C:/CC749227/WhiteFang.htm Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Content-Type: text/html; charset="us-ascii"
White Fang
By
Jack London
Contents
CHAPTER
I--THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT
CHAPTER
I--THE BATTLE OF THE FANGS
CHAPTER
IV--THE WALL OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER
IV--THE TRAIL OF THE GODS
CHAPTER
I--THE ENEMY OF HIS KIND
CHAPTER
III--THE REIGN OF HATE
CHAPTER
IV--THE CLINGING DEATH
=
Dark
spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a r=
ecent
wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each
other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the
land. The land itself was a d=
esolation,
lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not =
even
that of sadness. There was a =
hint
in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness--a laug=
hter
that was mirthless as the smile of the sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost=
and
partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommuni=
cable
wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of
life. It was the Wild, the sa=
vage,
frozen-hearted Northland Wild.
But there was life, abroad in the land and
defiant. Down the frozen wate=
rway
toiled a string of wolfish dogs.
Their bristly fur was rimed with frost. Their breath froze in the air as i=
t left
their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapour that settled upon the hair=
of
their bodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the dogs, a=
nd
leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along behind. The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch-bark, a=
nd its
full surface rested on the snow.
The front end of the sled was turned up, like a scroll, in order to
force down and under the bore of soft snow that surged like a wave before
it. On the sled, securely las=
hed,
was a long and narrow oblong box.
There were other things on the sled--blankets, an axe, and a coffee-=
pot
and frying-pan; but prominent, occupying most of the space, was the long and
narrow oblong box.
In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes, toi=
led
a man. At the rear of the sled
toiled a second man. On the s=
led,
in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over,--a man whom the Wild had
conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the Wild to l=
ike
movement. Life is an offence =
to it,
for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it
running to the sea; it drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen=
to
their mighty hearts; and most ferociously and terribly of all does the Wild
harry and crush into submission man--man who is the most restless of life, =
ever
in revolt against the dictum that all movement must in the end come to the
cessation of movement.
But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable,
toiled the two men who were not yet dead.&=
nbsp;
Their bodies were covered with fur and soft-tanned leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were=
so
coated with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces were not
discernible. This gave them t=
he
seeming of ghostly masques, undertakers in a spectral world at the funeral =
of
some ghost. But under it all =
they
were men, penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence, puny =
adventurers
bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world=
as
remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space.
They travelled on without speech, saving their
breath for the work of their bodies.
On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible pr=
esence. It affected their minds as the many
atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with the weight of
unending vastness and unalterable decree.&=
nbsp;
It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, press=
ing
out of them, like juices from the grape, all the false ardours and exaltati=
ons
and undue self-values of the human soul, until they perceived themselves fi=
nite
and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom ami=
dst
the play and inter-play of the great blind elements and forces.
An hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short sunles=
s day
was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry arose on the still air. It soar=
ed
upward with a swift rush, till it reached its topmost note, where it persis=
ted,
palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away. It might have been a lost soul wai=
ling,
had it not been invested with a certain sad fierceness and hungry
eagerness. The front man turn=
ed his
head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, across the narrow oblong=
box,
each nodded to the other.
A second cry arose, piercing the silence with
needle-like shrillness. Both men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in t=
he
snow expanse they had just traversed.
A third and answering cry arose, also to the rear and to the left of=
the
second cry.
"They're after us, Bill," said the m=
an
at the front.
His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had
spoken with apparent effort.
"Meat is scarce," answered his
comrade. "I ain't seen a
rabbit sign for days."
Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ea=
rs
were keen for the hunting-cries that continued to rise behind them.
At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs in=
to a
cluster of spruce trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin, at the side of the fir=
e,
served for seat and table. The
wolf-dogs, clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among
themselves, but evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness.
"Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin'
remarkable close to camp," Bill commented.
Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the
pot of coffee with a piece of ice, nodded.=
Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat on the coffin and begun =
to
eat.
"They know where their hides is safe,&quo=
t;
he said. "They'd sooner =
eat
grub than be grub. They're pr=
etty
wise, them dogs."
Bill shook his head. "Oh, I don't know."
His comrade looked at him curiously. "First time I ever heard you =
say anything
about their not bein' wise."
"Henry," said the other, munching wi=
th
deliberation the beans he was eating, "did you happen to notice the way
them dogs kicked up when I was a-feedin' 'em?"
"They did cut up more'n usual," Henry
acknowledged.
"How many dogs 've we got, Henry?"
"Six."
"Well, Henry . . . " Bill stopped fo=
r a
moment, in order that his words might gain greater significance. "As I was sayin', Henry, we'v=
e got
six dogs. I took six fish out=
of
the bag. I gave one fish to e=
ach
dog, an', Henry, I was one fish short."
"You counted wrong."
"We've got six dogs," the other
reiterated dispassionately. &=
quot;I
took out six fish. One Ear di=
dn't
get no fish. I came back to t=
he bag
afterward an' got 'm his fish."
"We've only got six dogs," Henry sai=
d.
"Henry," Bill went on. "I won't say they was all dog=
s, but
there was seven of 'm that got fish."
Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire=
and
count the dogs.
"There's only six now," he said.
"I saw the other one run off across the
snow," Bill announced with cool positiveness. "I saw seven."
Henry looked at him commiseratingly, and said,
"I'll be almighty glad when this trip's over."
"What d'ye mean by that?" Bill deman=
ded.
"I mean that this load of ourn is gettin'=
on
your nerves, an' that you're beginnin' to see things."
"I thought of that," Bill answered
gravely. "An' so, when I=
saw
it run off across the snow, I looked in the snow an' saw its tracks. Then I counted the dogs an' there =
was
still six of 'em. The tracks =
is
there in the snow now. D'ye w=
ant to
look at 'em? I'll show 'em to
you."
Henry did not reply, but munched on in silence,
until, the meal finished, he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with the back o=
f his
hand and said:
"Then you're thinkin' as it was--"
A long wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhe=
re
in the darkness, had interrupted him.
He stopped to listen to it, then he finished his sentence with a wav=
e of
his hand toward the sound of the cry, "--one of them?"
Bill nodded.&=
nbsp;
"I'd a blame sight sooner think that than anything else. You
noticed yourself the row the dogs made."
Cry after cry, and answering cries, were turni=
ng
the silence into a bedlam. Fr=
om
every side the cries arose, and the dogs betrayed their fear by huddling
together and so close to the fire that their hair was scorched by the
heat. Bill threw on more wood,
before lighting his pipe.
"I'm thinking you're down in the mouth
some," Henry said.
"Henry . . . " He sucked meditatively at his pipe=
for
some time before he went on.
"Henry, I was a-thinkin' what a blame sight luckier he is than =
you
an' me'll ever be."
He indicated the third person by a downward th=
rust
of the thumb to the box on which they sat.
"You an' me, Henry, when we die, we'll be
lucky if we get enough stones over our carcases to keep the dogs off of
us."
"But we ain't got people an' money an' all
the rest, like him," Henry rejoined.&=
nbsp;
"Long-distance funerals is somethin' you an' me can't exactly a=
fford."
"What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like
this, that's a lord or something in his own country, and that's never had to
bother about grub nor blankets; why he comes a-buttin' round the Godforsaken
ends of the earth--that's what I can't exactly see."
"He might have lived to a ripe old age if
he'd stayed at home," Henry agreed.
Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his
mind. Instead, he pointed tow=
ards
the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every side. There was no suggestion of form in=
the
utter blackness; only could be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live
coals. Henry indicated with h=
is
head a second pair, and a third. A
circle of the gleaming eyes had drawn about their camp. Now and again a pair of eyes moved=
, or disappeared
to appear again a moment later.
The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and
they stampeded, in a surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire,
cringing and crawling about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs ha=
d been
overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain and fright =
as
the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. The commotion caused the circle of=
eyes
to shift restlessly for a moment and even to withdraw a bit, but it settled
down again as the dogs became quiet.
"Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out=
of
ammunition."
Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his
companion to spread the bed of fur and blanket upon the spruce boughs which=
he
had laid over the snow before supper.
Henry grunted, and began unlacing his mocassins.
"How many cartridges did you say you had
left?" he asked.
"Three," came the answer. "An' I wisht 'twas three
hundred. Then I'd show 'em wh=
at
for, damn 'em!"
He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes,
and began securely to prop his moccasins before the fire.
"An' I wisht this cold snap'd break,"=
; he
went on. "It's ben fifty=
below
for two weeks now. An' I wish=
t I'd
never started on this trip, Henry.
I don't like the looks of it.
I don't feel right, somehow.
An' while I'm wishin', I wisht the trip was over an' done with, an' =
you
an' me a-sittin' by the fire in Fort McGurry just about now an' playing cri=
bbage--that's
what I wisht."
Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused by =
his
comrade's voice.
"Say, Henry, that other one that come in = an' got a fish--why didn't the dogs pitch into it? That's what's botherin' me."<= o:p>
"You're botherin' too much, Bill," c=
ame
the sleepy response. "Yo=
u was never
like this before. You jes' sh=
ut up
now, an' go to sleep, an' you'll be all hunkydory in the mornin'. Your stomach's sour, that's what's=
botherin'
you."
The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side,
under the one covering. The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew clos=
er
the circle they had flung about the camp.&=
nbsp;
The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again snarling menacing=
ly
as a pair of eyes drew close. Once
their uproar became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully, so as=
not to
disturb the sleep of his comrade, and threw more wood on the fire. As it began to flame up, the circl=
e of
eyes drew farther back. He gl=
anced casually
at the huddling dogs. He rubb=
ed his
eyes and looked at them more sharply.
Then he crawled back into the blankets.
"Henry," he said. "Oh, Henry."
Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to wakin=
g,
and demanded, "What's wrong now?"
"Nothin'," came the answer; "on=
ly
there's seven of 'em again. I=
just counted."
Henry acknowledged receipt of the information =
with
a grunt that slid into a snore as he drifted back into sleep.
In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and
routed his companion out of bed.
Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six o'clock;
and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast, while Bill rolled=
the
blankets and made the sled ready for lashing.
"Say, Henry," he asked suddenly,
"how many dogs did you say we had?"
"Six."
"Wrong," Bill proclaimed triumphantl=
y.
"Seven again?" Henry queried.
"No, five; one's gone."
"The hell!" Henry cried in wrath, leaving the
cooking to come and count the dogs.
"You're right, Bill," he concluded.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "Fatty's gone."
"An' he went like greased lightnin' once =
he
got started. Couldn't 've see=
n 'm
for smoke."
"No chance at all," Henry
concluded. "They jes'
swallowed 'm alive. I bet he =
was
yelpin' as he went down their throats, damn 'em!"
"He always was a fool dog," said Bil=
l.
"But no fool dog ought to be fool enough =
to
go off an' commit suicide that way."&=
nbsp;
He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative eye that
summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. "I bet none of the others wou=
ld do
it."
"Couldn't drive 'em away from the fire wi=
th a
club," Bill agreed. &quo=
t;I always
did think there was somethin' wrong with Fatty anyway."
And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the
Northland trail--less scant than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a
man.
=
Breakfast
eaten and the slim camp-outfit lashed to the sled, the men turned their bac=
ks
on the cheery fire and launched out into the darkness. At once began to rise
the cries that were fiercely sad--cries that called through the darkness and
cold to one another and answered back. Conversation ceased. Daylight came at nine o'clock. At midday the sky to the south war=
med to
rose-colour, and marked where the bulge of the earth intervened between the
meridian sun and the northern world.
But the rose-colour swiftly faded.&=
nbsp;
The grey light of day that remained lasted until three o'clock, when=
it,
too, faded, and the pall of the Arctic night descended upon the lone and si=
lent
land.
As darkness came on, the hunting-cries to right
and left and rear drew closer--so close that more than once they sent surge=
s of
fear through the toiling dogs, throwing them into short-lived panics.
At the conclusion of one such panic, when he a=
nd
Henry had got the dogs back in the traces, Bill said:
"I wisht they'd strike game somewheres, a=
n'
go away an' leave us alone."
"They do get on the nerves
horrible," Henry sympath=
ised.
They spoke no more until camp was made.
Henry was bending over and adding ice to the
babbling pot of beans when he was startled by the sound of a blow, an
exclamation from Bill, and a sharp snarling cry of pain from among the
dogs. He straightened up in t=
ime to
see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter of the dark. Then he saw Bill, standing amid the
dogs, half triumphant, half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the o=
ther
the tail and part of the body of a sun-cured salmon.
"It got half of it," he announced;
"but I got a whack at it jes' the same. D'ye hear it squeal?"
"What'd it look like?" Henry asked.<= o:p>
"Couldn't see. But it had four legs an' a mouth a=
n'
hair an' looked like any dog."
"Must be a tame wolf, I reckon."
"It's damned tame, whatever it is, comin'=
in
here at feedin' time an' gettin' its whack of fish."
That night, when supper was finished and they =
sat
on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes dr=
ew
in even closer than before.
"I wisht they'd spring up a bunch of moos=
e or
something, an' go away an' leave us alone," Bill said.
Henry grunted with an intonation that was not =
all
sympathy, and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry starin=
g at
the fire, and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just
beyond the firelight.
"I wisht we was pullin' into McGurry right
now," he began again.
"Shut up your wishin' and your
croakin'," Henry burst out angrily.&n=
bsp;
"Your stomach's sour.
That's what's ailin' you.
Swallow a spoonful of sody, an' you'll sweeten up wonderful an' be m=
ore
pleasant company."
In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid
blasphemy that proceeded from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elb=
ow and
looked to see his comrade standing among the dogs beside the replenished fi=
re,
his arms raised in objurgation, his face distorted with passion.
"Hello!" Henry called. "What's up now?"
"Frog's gone," came the answer.
"No."
"I tell you yes."
Henry leaped out of the blankets and to the
dogs. He counted them with ca=
re,
and then joined his partner in cursing the power of the Wild that had robbed
them of another dog.
"Frog was the strongest dog of the
bunch," Bill pronounced finally.
"An' he was no fool dog neither," He=
nry
added.
And so was recorded the second epitaph in two
days.
A gloomy breakfast was eaten, and the four
remaining dogs were harnessed to the sled.=
The day was a repetition of the days that had gone before. The men
toiled without speech across the face of the frozen world. The silence was unbroken save by t=
he
cries of their pursuers, that, unseen, hung upon their rear. With the coming of night in the
mid-afternoon, the cries sounded closer as the pursuers drew in according to
their custom; and the dogs grew excited and frightened, and were guilty of
panics that tangled the traces and further depressed the two men.
"There, that'll fix you fool critters,&qu=
ot;
Bill said with satisfaction that night, standing erect at completion of his
task.
Henry left the cooking to come and see. Not only had his partner tied the =
dogs
up, but he had tied them, after the Indian fashion, with sticks. About the =
neck
of each dog he had fastened a leather thong. To this, and so close to the neck =
that
the dog could not get his teeth to it, he had tied a stout stick four or fi=
ve
feet in length. The other end=
of
the stick, in turn, was made fast to a stake in the ground by means of a le=
ather
thong. The dog was unable to =
gnaw
through the leather at his own end of the stick. The stick prevented him from getti=
ng at
the leather that fastened the other end.
Henry nodded his head approvingly.
"It's the only contraption that'll ever h=
old
One Ear," he said. "=
;He
can gnaw through leather as clean as a knife an' jes' about half as quick. =
They
all'll be here in the mornin' hunkydory."
"You jes' bet they will," Bill
affirmed. "If one of em'=
turns
up missin', I'll go without my coffee."
"They jes' know we ain't loaded to
kill," Henry remarked at bed-time, indicating the gleaming circle that
hemmed them in. "If we c=
ould
put a couple of shots into 'em, they'd be more respectful. They come closer every night. Get the firelight out of your eyes=
an'
look hard--there! Did you see that one?"
For some time the two men amused themselves wi=
th
watching the movement of vague forms on the edge of the firelight. By looking closely and steadily at=
where
a pair of eyes burned in the darkness, the form of the animal would slowly =
take
shape. They could even see th=
ese
forms move at times.
A sound among the dogs attracted the men's
attention. One Ear was utteri=
ng
quick, eager whines, lunging at the length of his stick toward the darkness,
and desisting now and again in order to make frantic attacks on the stick w=
ith
his teeth.
"Look at that, Bill," Henry whispere=
d.
Full into the firelight, with a stealthy, side=
long
movement, glided a doglike animal.
It moved with commingled mistrust and daring, cautiously observing t=
he
men, its attention fixed on the dogs.
One Ear strained the full length of the stick toward the intruder and
whined with eagerness.
"That fool One Ear don't seem scairt
much," Bill said in a low tone.
"It's a she-wolf," Henry whispered b=
ack,
"an' that accounts for Fatty an' Frog. She's the decoy for the pack. She draws out the dog an' then all=
the
rest pitches in an' eats 'm up."
The fire crackled. A log fell apart with a loud splut=
tering
noise. At the sound of it the
strange animal leaped back into the darkness.
"Henry, I'm a-thinkin'," Bill announ=
ced.
"Thinkin' what?"
"I'm a-thinkin' that was the one I lambas=
ted
with the club."
"Ain't the slightest doubt in the
world," was Henry's response.
"An' right here I want to remark," B=
ill
went on, "that that animal's familyarity with campfires is suspicious =
an'
immoral."
"It knows for certain more'n a
self-respectin' wolf ought to know," Henry agreed. "A wolf that knows enough to =
come
in with the dogs at feedin' time has had experiences."
"Ol' Villan had a dog once that run away =
with
the wolves," Bill cogitates aloud.&nb=
sp;
"I ought to know. I
shot it out of the pack in a moose pasture over 'on Little Stick. An' Ol' Villan cried like a baby.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Hadn't seen it for three years, he
said. Ben with the wolves all=
that
time."
"I reckon you've called the turn, Bill. That wolf's a dog, an' it's eaten =
fish
many's the time from the hand of man."
"An if I get a chance at it, that wolf th=
at's
a dog'll be jes' meat," Bill declared. "We can't afford to lose no m=
ore
animals."
"But you've only got three cartridges,&qu=
ot;
Henry objected.
"I'll wait for a dead sure shot," was
the reply.
In the morning Henry renewed the fire and cook=
ed
breakfast to the accompaniment of his partner's snoring.
"You was sleepin' jes' too comfortable for
anything," Henry told him, as he routed him out for breakfast. "I hadn't the heart to rouse
you."
Bill began to eat sleepily. He noticed that his cup was empty =
and started
to reach for the pot. But the=
pot
was beyond arm's length and beside Henry.
"Say, Henry," he chided gently,
"ain't you forgot somethin'?"
Henry looked about with great carefulness and
shook his head. Bill held up =
the
empty cup.
"You don't get no coffee," Henry
announced.
"Ain't run out?" Bill asked anxiousl=
y.
"Nope."
"Ain't thinkin' it'll hurt my
digestion?"
"Nope."
A flush of angry blood pervaded Bill's face.
"Then it's jes' warm an' anxious I am to =
be
hearin' you explain yourself," he said.
"Spanker's gone," Henry answered.
Without haste, with the air of one resigned to
misfortune Bill turned his head, and from where he sat counted the dogs.
"How'd it happen?" he asked
apathetically.
Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know. Unless One Ear gnawed 'm loose.
"The darned cuss." Bill spoke gravely and slowly, wit=
h no
hint of the anger that was raging within.&=
nbsp;
"Jes' because he couldn't chew himself loose, he chews Spanker
loose."
"Well, Spanker's troubles is over anyway;=
I
guess he's digested by this time an' cavortin' over the landscape in the
bellies of twenty different wolves," was Henry's epitaph on this, the
latest lost dog. "Have s=
ome coffee,
Bill."
But Bill shook his head.
"Go on," Henry pleaded, elevating the
pot.
Bill shoved his cup aside. "I'll be ding-dong-danged if I
do. I said I wouldn't if ary =
dog
turned up missin', an' I won't."
"It's darn good coffee," Henry said
enticingly.
But Bill was stubborn, and he ate a dry breakf=
ast
washed down with mumbled curses at One Ear for the trick he had played.
"I'll tie 'em up out of reach of each oth=
er
to-night," Bill said, as they took the trail.
They had travelled little more than a hundred
yards, when Henry, who was in front, bent down and picked up something with
which his snowshoe had collided. It
was dark, and he could not see it, but he recognised it by the touch. He flung it back, so that it struc=
k the
sled and bounced along until it fetched up on Bill's snowshoes.
"Mebbe you'll need that in your business,=
"
Henry said.
Bill uttered an exclamation. It was all that was left of Spanke=
r--the
stick with which he had been tied.
"They ate 'm hide an' all," Bill
announced. "The stick's =
as
clean as a whistle. They've a=
te the
leather offen both ends. They=
're
damn hungry, Henry, an' they'll have you an' me guessin' before this trip's
over."
Henry laughed defiantly. "I ain't been trailed this wa=
y by
wolves before, but I've gone through a whole lot worse an' kept my health.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Takes more'n a handful of them pes=
ky
critters to do for yours truly, Bill, my son."
"I don't know, I don't know," Bill
muttered ominously.
"Well, you'll know all right when we pull
into McGurry."
"I ain't feelin' special enthusiastic,&qu=
ot;
Bill persisted.
"You're off colour, that's what's the mat=
ter
with you," Henry dogmatised. "What you need is quinine, an' I'm g=
oin'
to dose you up stiff as soon as we make McGurry."
Bill grunted his disagreement with the diagnos=
is,
and lapsed into silence. The =
day
was like all the days. Light =
came
at nine o'clock. At twelve o'=
clock
the southern horizon was warmed by the unseen sun; and then began the cold =
grey
of afternoon that would merge, three hours later, into night.
It was just after the sun's futile effort to appear, that Bill slipped the rifle from under the sled-lashings and said:<= o:p>
"You keep right on, Henry, I'm goin' to s=
ee
what I can see."
"You'd better stick by the sled," his partner protested. "You'= ve only got three cartridges, an' there's no tellin' what might happen."<= o:p>
"Who's croaking now?" Bill demanded
triumphantly.
Henry made no reply, and plodded on alone, tho=
ugh
often he cast anxious glances back into the grey solitude where his partner=
had
disappeared. An hour later, t=
aking
advantage of the cut-offs around which the sled had to go, Bill arrived.
"They're scattered an' rangin' along
wide," he said: "keeping up with us an' lookin' for game at the s=
ame
time. You see, they're sure o=
f us,
only they know they've got to wait to get us. In the meantime they're willin' to=
pick
up anything eatable that comes handy."
"You mean they think they're sure of
us," Henry objected pointedly.
But Bill ignored him. "I seen some of them. They're pretty thin. They ain't had a bite in weeks I r=
eckon,
outside of Fatty an' Frog an' Spanker; an' there's so many of 'em that that
didn't go far. They're remark=
able
thin. Their ribs is like
wash-boards, an' their stomachs is right up against their backbones. They're pretty desperate, I can te=
ll you. They'll be goin' mad, yet, an' then
watch out."
A few minutes later, Henry, who was now travel=
ling
behind the sled, emitted a low, warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then quiet=
ly stopped
the dogs. To the rear, from a=
round
the last bend and plainly into view, on the very trail they had just covere=
d,
trotted a furry, slinking form. Its
nose was to the trail, and it trotted with a peculiar, sliding, effortless
gait. When they halted, it ha=
lted, throwing
up its head and regarding them steadily with nostrils that twitched as it
caught and studied the scent of them.
"It's the she-wolf," Bill answered.<= o:p>
The dogs had lain down in the snow, and he wal=
ked
past them to join his partner in the sled.=
Together they watched the strange animal that had pursued them for d=
ays
and that had already accomplished the destruction of half their dog-team.
After a searching scrutiny, the animal trotted
forward a few steps. This it
repeated several times, till it was a short hundred yards away. It paused, head up, close by a clu=
mp of
spruce trees, and with sight and scent studied the outfit of the watching
men. It looked at them in a s=
trangely
wistful way, after the manner of a dog; but in its wistfulness there was no=
ne
of the dog affection. It was a
wistfulness bred of hunger, as cruel as its own fangs, as merciless as the
frost itself.
It was large for a wolf, its gaunt frame advertising the lines of an animal that was among the largest of its kind.<= o:p>
"Stands pretty close to two feet an' a ha=
lf
at the shoulders," Henry commented.&n=
bsp;
"An' I'll bet it ain't far from five feet long."
"Kind of strange colour for a wolf,"=
was
Bill's criticism. "I nev=
er
seen a red wolf before. Looks
almost cinnamon to me."
The animal was certainly not
cinnamon-coloured. Its coat w=
as the
true wolf-coat. The dominant =
colour
was grey, and yet there was to it a faint reddish hue--a hue that was baffl=
ing,
that appeared and disappeared, that was more like an illusion of the vision,
now grey, distinctly grey, and again giving hints and glints of a vague red=
ness
of colour not classifiable in terms of ordinary experience.
"Looks for all the world like a big husky
sled-dog," Bill said. &q=
uot;I wouldn't
be s'prised to see it wag its tail."
"Hello, you husky!" he called. "Come here, you
whatever-your-name-is."
"Ain't a bit scairt of you," Henry
laughed.
Bill waved his hand at it threateningly and
shouted loudly; but the animal betrayed no fear. The only change in it that they co=
uld
notice was an accession of alertness.
It still regarded them with the merciless wistfulness of hunger. They were meat, and it was hungry;=
and
it would like to go in and eat them if it dared.
"Look here, Henry," Bill said,
unconsciously lowering his voice to a whisper because of what he imitated.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "We've got three cartridges.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But it's a dead shot. Couldn't miss it. It's got away with three of our do=
gs,
an' we oughter put a stop to it.
What d'ye say?"
Henry nodded his consent. Bill cautiously slipped the gun fr=
om
under the sled-lashing. The g=
un was
on the way to his shoulder, but it never got there. For in that instant the she-wolf l=
eaped
sidewise from the trail into the clump of spruce trees and disappeared.
The two men looked at each other. Henry whistled long and comprehend=
ingly.
"I might have knowed it," Bill chided
himself aloud as he replaced the gun.
"Of course a wolf that knows enough to come in with the dogs at=
feedin'
time, 'd know all about shooting-irons.&nb=
sp;
I tell you right now, Henry, that critter's the cause of all our
trouble. We'd have six dogs a=
t the
present time, 'stead of three, if it wasn't for her. An' I tell you right now, Henry, I=
'm
goin' to get her. She's too s=
mart
to be shot in the open. But I=
'm
goin' to lay for her. I'll
bushwhack her as sure as my name is Bill."
"You needn't stray off too far in doin'
it," his partner admonished.
"If that pack ever starts to jump you, them three cartridges'd =
be
wuth no more'n three whoops in hell.
Them animals is damn hungry, an' once they start in, they'll sure get
you, Bill."
They camped early that night. Three dogs could not drag the sled=
so fast
nor for so long hours as could six, and they were showing unmistakable sign=
s of
playing out. And the men went=
early
to bed, Bill first seeing to it that the dogs were tied out of gnawing-reac=
h of
one another.
But the wolves were growing bolder, and the men
were aroused more than once from their sleep. So near did the wolves approach, t=
hat
the dogs became frantic with terror, and it was necessary to replenish the =
fire
from time to time in order to keep the adventurous marauders at safer dista=
nce.
"I've hearn sailors talk of sharks follow=
in'
a ship," Bill remarked, as he crawled back into the blankets after one
such replenishing of the fire.
"Well, them wolves is land sharks. They know their business better'n =
we do,
an' they ain't a-holdin' our trail this way for their health. They're goin' to get us. They're sure goin' to get us,
Henry."
"They've half got you a'ready, a-talkin' =
like
that," Henry retorted sharply.
"A man's half licked when he says he is. An' you're half eaten from the way
you're goin' on about it."
"They've got away with better men than you
an' me," Bill answered.
"Oh, shet up your croakin'. You make me all-fired tired."=
Henry rolled over angrily on his side, but was
surprised that Bill made no similar display of temper. This was not Bill's way, for he was
easily angered by sharp words.
Henry thought long over it before he went to sleep, and as his eyeli=
ds
fluttered down and he dozed off, the thought in his mind was: "There's=
no
mistakin' it, Bill's almighty blue.
I'll have to cheer him up to-morrow."
=
=
The
day began auspiciously. They =
had
lost no dogs during the night, and they swung out upon the trail and into t=
he
silence, the darkness, and the cold with spirits that were fairly light.
It was an awkward mix-up. The sled was upside down and jammed
between a tree-trunk and a huge rock, and they were forced to unharness the
dogs in order to straighten out the tangle. The two men were bent over the sle=
d and
trying to right it, when Henry observed One Ear sidling away.
"Here, you, One Ear!" he cried,
straightening up and turning around on the dog.
But One Ear broke into a run across the snow, =
his
traces trailing behind him. A=
nd
there, out in the snow of their back track, was the she-wolf waiting for
him. As he neared her, he bec=
ame
suddenly cautious. He slowed =
down
to an alert and mincing walk and then stopped. He regarded her carefully and dubi=
ously,
yet desirefully. She seemed to
smile at him, showing her teeth in an ingratiating rather than a menacing
way. She moved toward him a f=
ew
steps, playfully, and then halted.
One Ear drew near to her, still alert and cautious, his tail and ear=
s in
the air, his head held high.
He tried to sniff noses with her, but she
retreated playfully and coyly. Every advance on his part was accompanied by=
a
corresponding retreat on her part.
Step by step she was luring him away from the security of his human
companionship. Once, as thoug=
h a
warning had in vague ways flitted through his intelligence, he turned his h=
ead
and looked back at the overturned sled, at his team-mates, and at the two m=
en
who were calling to him.
But whatever idea was forming in his mind, was
dissipated by the she-wolf, who advanced upon him, sniffed noses with him f=
or a
fleeting instant, and then resumed her coy retreat before his renewed advan=
ces.
In the meantime, Bill had bethought himself of=
the
rifle. But it was jammed bene=
ath
the overturned sled, and by the time Henry had helped him to right the load,
One Ear and the she-wolf were too close together and the distance too great=
to
risk a shot.
Too late One Ear learned his mistake. Before they saw the cause, the two=
men
saw him turn and start to run back toward them. Then, approaching at right angles =
to the
trail and cutting off his retreat they saw a dozen wolves, lean and grey,
bounding across the snow. On =
the
instant, the she- wolf's coyness and playfulness disappeared. With a snarl she sprang upon One
Ear. He thrust her off with h=
is
shoulder, and, his retreat cut off and still intent on regaining the sled, =
he
altered his course in an attempt to circle around to it. More wolves were appearing every m=
oment and
joining in the chase. The she=
-wolf
was one leap behind One Ear and holding her own.
"Where are you goin'?" Henry suddenly
demanded, laying his hand on his partner's arm.
Bill shook it off. "I won't stand it," he
said. "They ain't a-goin=
' to get
any more of our dogs if I can help it."
Gun in hand, he plunged into the underbrush th=
at
lined the side of the trail. =
His
intention was apparent enough.
Taking the sled as the centre of the circle that One Ear was making,
Bill planned to tap that circle at a point in advance of the pursuit. With his rifle, in the broad dayli=
ght,
it might be possible for him to awe the wolves and save the dog.
"Say, Bill!" Henry called after
him. "Be careful! Don't take no chances!"
Henry sat down on the sled and watched. There was nothing else for him to
do. Bill had already gone from
sight; but now and again, appearing and disappearing amongst the underbrush=
and
the scattered clumps of spruce, could be seen One Ear. Henry judged his case to be
hopeless. The dog was thoroug=
hly
alive to its danger, but it was running on the outer circle while the wolf-=
pack
was running on the inner and shorter circle. It was vain to think of One Ea=
r so
outdistancing his pursuers as to be able to cut across their circle in adva=
nce
of them and to regain the sled.
The different lines were rapidly approaching a
point. Somewhere out there in=
the
snow, screened from his sight by trees and thickets, Henry knew that the
wolf-pack, One Ear, and Bill were coming together. All too quickly, far more quickly =
than
he had expected, it happened. He
heard a shot, then two shots, in rapid succession, and he knew that Bill's =
ammunition
was gone. Then he heard a gre=
at
outcry of snarls and yelps. He recognised One Ear's yell of pain and terror,
and he heard a wolf-cry that bespoke a stricken animal. And that was all. The snarls ceased. The yelping died
away. Silence settled down ag=
ain
over the lonely land.
He sat for a long while upon the sled. There was no need for him to go and=
see
what had happened. He knew it=
as
though it had taken place before his eyes.=
Once, he roused with a start and hastily got the axe out from undern=
eath
the lashings. But for some ti=
me
longer he sat and brooded, the two remaining dogs crouching and trembling at
his feet.
At last he arose in a weary manner, as though =
all
the resilience had gone out of his body, and proceeded to fasten the dogs to
the sled. He passed a rope ov=
er his
shoulder, a man-trace, and pulled with the dogs. He did not go far. At the first hint of darkness he
hastened to make a camp, and he saw to it that he had a generous supply of
firewood. He fed the dogs, co=
oked
and ate his supper, and made his bed close to the fire.
But he was not destined to enjoy that bed. Before his eyes closed the wolves =
had
drawn too near for safety. It=
no
longer required an effort of the vision to see them. They were all about him and the fi=
re, in
a narrow circle, and he could see them plainly in the firelight lying down,=
sitting
up, crawling forward on their bellies, or slinking back and forth. They even slept. Here and there he could see one cu=
rled
up in the snow like a dog, taking the sleep that was now denied himself.
He kept the fire brightly blazing, for he knew
that it alone intervened between the flesh of his body and their hungry
fangs. His two dogs stayed cl=
ose by
him, one on either side, leaning against him for protection, crying and
whimpering, and at times snarling desperately when a wolf approached a litt=
le
closer than usual. At such mo=
ments,
when his dogs snarled, the whole circle would be agitated, the wolves comin=
g to
their feet and pressing tentatively forward, a chorus of snarls and eager y=
elps
rising about him. Then the ci=
rcle
would lie down again, and here and there a wolf would resume its broken nap=
.
But this circle had a continuous tendency to d=
raw
in upon him. Bit by bit, an i=
nch at
a time, with here a wolf bellying forward, and there a wolf bellying forwar=
d,
the circle would narrow until the brutes were almost within springing
distance. Then he would seize
brands from the fire and hurl them into the pack. A hasty drawing back always result=
ed, accompanied
by angry yelps and frightened snarls when a well-aimed brand struck and
scorched a too daring animal.
Morning found the man haggard and worn, wide-e=
yed
from want of sleep. He cooked
breakfast in the darkness, and at nine o'clock, when, with the coming of
daylight, the wolf-pack drew back, he set about the task he had planned thr=
ough
the long hours of the night.
Chopping down young saplings, he made them cross-bars of a scaffold =
by
lashing them high up to the trunks of standing trees. Using the sled-lashing for a heavi=
ng rope,
and with the aid of the dogs, he hoisted the coffin to the top of the scaff=
old.
"They got Bill, an' they may get me, but
they'll sure never get you, young man," he said, addressing the dead b=
ody
in its tree-sepulchre.
Then he took the trail, the lightened sled
bounding along behind the willing dogs; for they, too, knew that safety lay
open in the gaining of Fort McGurry.
The wolves were now more open in their pursuit, trotting sedately be=
hind
and ranging along on either side, their red tongues lolling out, their lean
sides showing the undulating ribs with every movement. They were very lean, mere skin-bags
stretched over bony frames, with strings for muscles--so lean that Henry fo=
und
it in his mind to marvel that they still kept their feet and did not collap=
se
forthright in the snow.
He did not dare travel until dark. At midday, not only did the sun wa=
rm the
southern horizon, but it even thrust its upper rim, pale and golden, above =
the
sky-line. He received it as a
sign. The days were growing l=
onger. The sun was returning. But scarcely had the cheer of its =
light departed,
than he went into camp. There=
were
still several hours of grey daylight and sombre twilight, and he utilised t=
hem
in chopping an enormous supply of fire-wood.
With night came horror. Not only were the starving wolves
growing bolder, but lack of sleep was telling upon Henry. He dozed despite himself, crouchin=
g by
the fire, the blankets about his shoulders, the axe between his knees, and =
on
either side a dog pressing close against him. He awoke once and saw in fron=
t of
him, not a dozen feet away, a big grey wolf, one of the largest of the
pack. And even as he looked, =
the
brute deliberately stretched himself after the manner of a lazy dog, yawnin=
g full
in his face and looking upon him with a possessive eye, as if, in truth, he
were merely a delayed meal that was soon to be eaten.
This certitude was shown by the whole pack.
As he piled wood on the fire he discovered an
appreciation of his own body which he had never felt before. He watched his moving muscles and =
was interested
in the cunning mechanism of his fingers.&n=
bsp;
By the light of the fire he crooked his fingers slowly and repeatedly
now one at a time, now all together, spreading them wide or making quick
gripping movements. He studied the nail-formation, and prodded the finger-t=
ips,
now sharply, and again softly, gauging the while the nerve-sensations
produced. It fascinated him, =
and he
grew suddenly fond of this subtle flesh of his that worked so beautifully a=
nd
smoothly and delicately. Then=
he
would cast a glance of fear at the wolf-circle drawn expectantly about him,=
and
like a blow the realisation would strike him that this wonderful body of hi=
s,
this living flesh, was no more than so much meat, a quest of ravenous anima=
ls,
to be torn and slashed by their hungry fangs, to be sustenance to them as t=
he
moose and the rabbit had often been sustenance to him.
He came out of a doze that was half nightmare,=
to
see the red-hued she- wolf before him.&nbs=
p;
She was not more than half a dozen feet away sitting in the snow and
wistfully regarding him. The =
two
dogs were whimpering and snarling at his feet, but she took no notice of
them. She was looking at the =
man,
and for some time he returned her look.&nb=
sp;
There was nothing threatening about her. She looked at him merely with a gr=
eat wistfulness,
but he knew it to be the wistfulness of an equally great hunger. He was the food, and the sight of =
him
excited in her the gustatory sensations.&n=
bsp;
Her mouth opened, the saliva drooled forth, and she licked her chops
with the pleasure of anticipation.
A spasm of fear went through him. He reached hastily for a brand to =
throw
at her. But even as he reache=
d, and
before his fingers had closed on the missile, she sprang back into safety; =
and
he knew that she was used to having things thrown at her. She had snarled as she sprang away=
, baring
her white fangs to their roots, all her wistfulness vanishing, being replac=
ed
by a carnivorous malignity that made him shudder. He glanced at the hand that held t=
he
brand, noticing the cunning delicacy of the fingers that gripped it, how th=
ey
adjusted themselves to all the inequalities of the surface, curling over and
under and about the rough wood, and one little finger, too close to the bur=
ning
portion of the brand, sensitively and automatically writhing back from the
hurtful heat to a cooler gripping-place; and in the same instant he seemed =
to
see a vision of those same sensitive and delicate fingers being crushed and=
torn
by the white teeth of the she-wolf.
Never had he been so fond of this body of his as now when his tenure=
of
it was so precarious.
All night, with burning brands, he fought off =
the
hungry pack. When he dozed de=
spite
himself, the whimpering and snarling of the dogs aroused him. Morning came, but for the first ti=
me the
light of day failed to scatter the wolves.=
The man waited in vain for them to go. They remained in a circle about hi=
m and
his fire, displaying an arrogance of possession that shook his courage born=
of
the morning light.
He made one desperate attempt to pull out on t=
he
trail. But the moment he left=
the
protection of the fire, the boldest wolf leaped for him, but leaped short.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He saved himself by springing back=
, the
jaws snapping together a scant six inches from his thigh. The rest of the pack was now up and
surging upon him, and a throwing of firebrands right and left was necessary=
to
drive them back to a respectful distance.
Even in the daylight he did not dare leave the
fire to chop fresh wood. Twenty feet away towered a huge dead spruce. He spent half the day extending his
campfire to the tree, at any moment a half dozen burning faggots ready at h=
and
to fling at his enemies. Once=
at
the tree, he studied the surrounding forest in order to fell the tree in the
direction of the most firewood.
The night was a repetition of the night before,
save that the need for sleep was becoming overpowering. The snarling of his dogs was losin=
g its efficacy. Besides, they were snarling all the
time, and his benumbed and drowsy senses no longer took note of changing pi=
tch
and intensity. He awoke with a
start. The she-wolf was less =
than a
yard from him. Mechanically, at short range, without letting go of it, he
thrust a brand full into her open and snarling mouth. She sprang away, yelling with pain=
, and
while he took delight in the smell of burning flesh and hair, he watched her
shaking her head and growling wrathfully a score of feet away.
But this time, before he dozed again, he tied a
burning pine-knot to his right hand.
His eyes were closed but few minutes when the burn of the flame on h=
is
flesh awakened him. For sever=
al
hours he adhered to this programme.
Every time he was thus awakened he drove back the wolves with flying
brands, replenished the fire, and rearranged the pine-knot on his hand. All worked well, but there came a =
time
when he fastened the pine- knot insecurely. As his eyes closed it fell away fr=
om his
hand.
He dreamed.&n=
bsp;
It seemed to him that he was in Fort McGurry. It was warm and comfortable, and h=
e was
playing cribbage with the Factor.
Also, it seemed to him that the fort was besieged by wolves. They were howling at the very gate=
s, and
sometimes he and the Factor paused from the game to listen and laugh at the
futile efforts of the wolves to get in.&nb=
sp;
And then, so strange was the dream, there was a crash. The door was burst open. He could see the wolves flooding i=
nto
the big living-room of the fort.
They were leaping straight for him and the Factor. With the bursting open of the door=
, the
noise of their howling had increased tremendously. This howling now bothered him. His dream was merging into somethi=
ng
else--he knew not what; but through it all, following him, persisted the
howling.
And then he awoke to find the howling real.
But it could not last long. His face was blistering in the hea=
t, his
eyebrows and lashes were singed off, and the heat was becoming unbearable to
his feet. With a flaming bran=
d in
each hand, he sprang to the edge of the fire. The wolves had been driven back. On every side, wherever the live c=
oals
had fallen, the snow was sizzling, and every little while a retiring wolf, =
with
wild leap and snort and snarl, announced that one such live coal had been
stepped upon.
Flinging his brands at the nearest of his enem=
ies,
the man thrust his smouldering mittens into the snow and stamped about to c=
ool
his feet. His two dogs were
missing, and he well knew that they had served as a course in the protracted
meal which had begun days before with Fatty, the last course of which would
likely be himself in the days to follow.
"You ain't got me yet!" he cried,
savagely shaking his fist at the hungry beasts; and at the sound of his voi=
ce
the whole circle was agitated, there was a general snarl, and the she-wolf =
slid
up close to him across the snow and watched him with hungry wistfulness.
He set to work to carry out a new idea that had
come to him. He extended the =
fire
into a large circle. Inside t=
his
circle he crouched, his sleeping outfit under him as a protection against t=
he
melting snow. When he had thus
disappeared within his shelter of flame, the whole pack came curiously to t=
he
rim of the fire to see what had become of him. Hitherto they had been denied acce=
ss to
the fire, and they now settled down in a close-drawn circle, like so many d=
ogs,
blinking and yawning and stretching their lean bodies in the unaccustomed w=
armth. Then the she- wolf sat down, point=
ed her
nose at a star, and began to howl.
One by one the wolves joined her, till the whole pack, on haunches, =
with
noses pointed skyward, was howling its hunger cry.
Dawn came, and daylight. The fire was burning low. The fuel had run out, and there wa=
s need
to get more. The man attempte=
d to
step out of his circle of flame, but the wolves surged to meet him. Burning brands made them spring as=
ide,
but they no longer sprang back. In
vain he strove to drive them back.
As he gave up and stumbled inside his circle, a wolf leaped for him,
missed, and landed with all four feet in the coals. It cried out with terror, at the s=
ame
time snarling, and scrambled back to cool its paws in the snow.
The man sat down on his blankets in a crouching
position. His body leaned for=
ward
from the hips. His shoulders,
relaxed and drooping, and his head on his knees advertised that he had give=
n up
the struggle. Now and again he
raised his head to note the dying down of the fire. The circle of flame and coals was
breaking into segments with openings in between. These openings grew in size, the
segments diminished.
"I guess you can come an' get me any
time," he mumbled.
"Anyway, I'm goin' to sleep."
Once he awakened, and in an opening in the cir=
cle,
directly in front of him, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him.
Again he awakened, a little later, though it
seemed hours to him. A myster=
ious
change had taken place--so mysterious a change that he was shocked wider
awake. Something had happened=
. He could not understand at first.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Then he discovered it. The wolves were gone. Remained only the trampled snow to=
show
how closely they had pressed him.
Sleep was welling up and gripping him again, his head was sinking do=
wn
upon his knees, when he roused with a sudden start.
There were cries of men, and churn of sleds, t=
he
creaking of harnesses, and the eager whimpering of straining dogs. Four sleds pulled in from the rive=
r bed
to the camp among the trees. =
Half a
dozen men were about the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They were shaking and prodding him=
into
consciousness. He looked at t=
hem
like a drunken man and maundered in strange, sleepy speech.
"Red she-wolf. . . . Come in with the dog=
s at
feedin' time. . . . First she ate the dog-food. . . . Then she ate the dogs=
. .
. . An' after that she ate Bill. . . . "
"Where's Lord Alfred?" one of the men
bellowed in his ear, shaking him roughly.
He shook his head slowly. "No, she didn't eat him. . . =
. He's
roostin' in a tree at the last camp."
"Dead?" the man shouted.
"An' in a box," Henry answered. He jerked his shoulder petulantly =
away from
the grip of his questioner.
"Say, you lemme alone. . . . I'm jes' plump tuckered out. . . .
Goo' night, everybody."
His eyes fluttered and went shut. His chin fell forward on his chest=
. And
even as they eased him down upon the blankets his snores were rising on the
frosty air.
But there was another sound. Far and faint it was, in the remot=
e distance,
the cry of the hungry wolf-pack as it took the trail of other meat than the=
man
it had just missed.
=
=
It was
the she-wolf who had first caught the sound of men's voices and the whining=
of
the sled-dogs; and it was the she-wolf who was first to spring away from the
cornered man in his circle of dying flame.=
The pack had been loath to forego the kill it had hunted down, and it
lingered for several minutes, making sure of the sounds, and then it, too,
sprang away on the trail made by the she-wolf.
Running at the forefront of the pack was a lar=
ge
grey wolf--one of its several leaders.&nbs=
p;
It was he who directed the pack's course on the heels of the
she-wolf. It was he who snarl=
ed
warningly at the younger members of the pack or slashed at them with his fa=
ngs
when they ambitiously tried to pass him.&n=
bsp;
And it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, n=
ow
trotting slowly across the snow.
She dropped in alongside by him, as though it =
were
her appointed position, and took the pace of the pack. He did not snarl at her, nor show =
his
teeth, when any leap of hers chanced to put her in advance of him. On the contrary, he seemed kindly
disposed toward her--too kindly to suit her, for he was prone to run near to
her, and when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her teeth.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Nor was she above slashing his sho=
ulder
sharply on occasion. At such =
times
he betrayed no anger. He mere=
ly
sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps, in carr=
iage
and conduct resembling an abashed country swain.
This was his one trouble in the running of the
pack; but she had other troubles.
On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf, grizzled and marked with the
scars of many battles. He ran
always on her right side. The=
fact
that he had but one eye, and that the left eye, might account for this. He, also, was addicted to crowding=
her,
to veering toward her till his scarred muzzle touched her body, or shoulder=
, or
neck. As with the running mat=
e on
the left, she repelled these attentions with her teeth; but when both besto=
wed
their attentions at the same time she was roughly jostled, being compelled,
with quick snaps to either side, to drive both lovers away and at the same =
time
to maintain her forward leap with the pack and see the way of her feet befo=
re
her. At such times her runnin=
g mates
flashed their teeth and growled threateningly across at each other. They mi=
ght
have fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more pressing
hunger-need of the pack.
After each repulse, when the old wolf sheered
abruptly away from the sharp-toothed object of his desire, he shouldered
against a young three- year-old that ran on his blind right side. This young wolf had attained his f=
ull
size; and, considering the weak and famished condition of the pack, he
possessed more than the average vigour and spirit. Nevertheless, he ran with his head=
even
with the shoulder of his one-eyed elder.&n=
bsp;
When he ventured to run abreast of the older wolf (which was seldom)=
, a
snarl and a snap sent him back even with the shoulder again. Sometimes, however, he dropped
cautiously and slowly behind and edged in between the old leader and the
she-wolf. This was doubly res=
ented,
even triply resented. When she
snarled her displeasure, the old leader would whirl on the three-year-old.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Sometimes she whirled with him.
At such times, confronted by three sets of sav=
age
teeth, the young wolf stopped precipitately, throwing himself back on his
haunches, with fore- legs stiff, mouth menacing, and mane bristling. This confusion in the front of the
moving pack always caused confusion in the rear. The wolves behind collided with the
young wolf and expressed their displeasure by administering sharp nips on h=
is
hind-legs and flanks. He was =
laying
up trouble for himself, for lack of food and short tempers went together; b=
ut
with the boundless faith of youth he persisted in repeating the manoeuvre e=
very
little while, though it never succeeded in gaining anything for him but
discomfiture.
Had there been food, love-making and fighting
would have gone on apace, and the pack-formation would have been broken
up. But the situation of the =
pack
was desperate. It was lean wi=
th
long-standing hunger. It ran =
below
its ordinary speed. At the re=
ar
limped the weak members, the very young and the very old. At the front were the strongest. Yet all were more like skeletons t=
han
full-bodied wolves. Neverthel=
ess,
with the exception of the ones that limped, the movements of the animals we=
re effortless
and tireless. Their stringy m=
uscles
seemed founts of inexhaustible energy.&nbs=
p;
Behind every steel-like contraction of a muscle, lay another steel-l=
ike
contraction, and another, and another, apparently without end.
They ran many miles that day. They ran through the night. And the next day found them still
running. They were running ov=
er the
surface of a world frozen and dead.
No life stirred. They =
alone
moved through the vast inertness.
They alone were alive, and they sought for other things that were al=
ive
in order that they might devour them and continue to live.
They crossed low divides and ranged a dozen sm=
all
streams in a lower-lying country before their quest was rewarded. Then they came upon moose. It was a big bull they first found=
. Here was meat and life, and it was
guarded by no mysterious fires nor flying missiles of flame. Splay hoofs and palmated antlers t=
hey
knew, and they flung their customary patience and caution to the wind. It was a brief fight and fierce. The big bull was beset on every
side. He ripped them open or =
split
their skulls with shrewdly driven blows of his great hoofs. He crushed them and broke them on =
his
large horns. He stamped them =
into
the snow under him in the wallowing struggle. But he was foredoomed, and he went=
down with
the she-wolf tearing savagely at his throat, and with other teeth fixed
everywhere upon him, devouring him alive, before ever his last struggles ce=
ased
or his last damage had been wrought.
There was food in plenty. The bull weighed over eight hundre=
d pounds--fully
twenty pounds of meat per mouth for the forty-odd wolves of the pack. But if they could fast prodigiousl=
y,
they could feed prodigiously, and soon a few scattered bones were all that
remained of the splendid live brute that had faced the pack a few hours bef=
ore.
There was now much resting and sleeping. With full stomachs, bickering and
quarrelling began among the younger males, and this continued through the f=
ew
days that followed before the breaking-up of the pack. The famine was over. The wolves were now in the country=
of
game, and though they still hunted in pack, they hunted more cautiously,
cutting out heavy cows or crippled old bulls from the small moose-herds they
ran across.
There came a day, in this land of plenty, when=
the
wolf-pack split in half and went in different directions. The she-wolf, the young leader on =
her
left, and the one-eyed elder on her right, led their half of the pack down =
to
the Mackenzie River and across into the lake country to the east. Each day =
this
remnant of the pack dwindled. Two
by two, male and female, the wolves were deserting. Occasionally a solitary male was d=
riven
out by the sharp teeth of his rivals.
In the end there remained only four: the she-wolf, the young leader,=
the
one-eyed one, and the ambitious three- year-old.
The she-wolf had by now developed a ferocious
temper. Her three suitors all=
bore
the marks of her teeth. Yet t=
hey
never replied in kind, never defended themselves against her. They turned their shoulders to her=
most savage
slashes, and with wagging tails and mincing steps strove to placate her
wrath. But if they were all
mildness toward her, they were all fierceness toward one another. The three-year-old grew too ambiti=
ous in
his fierceness. He caught the
one-eyed elder on his blind side and ripped his ear into ribbons. Though the grizzled old fellow cou=
ld see
only on one side, against the youth and vigour of the other he brought into
play the wisdom of long years of experience. His lost eye and his scarred muzzl=
e bore
evidence to the nature of his experience.&=
nbsp;
He had survived too many battles to be in doubt for a moment about w=
hat
to do.
The battle began fairly, but it did not end
fairly. There was no telling =
what
the outcome would have been, for the third wolf joined the elder, and toget=
her,
old leader and young leader, they attacked the ambitious three-year-old and
proceeded to destroy him. He =
was
beset on either side by the merciless fangs of his erstwhile comrades. Forgotten were the days they had h=
unted
together, the game they had pulled down, the famine they had suffered. That business was a thing of the
past. The business of love wa=
s at
hand--ever a sterner and crueller business than that of food-getting.
And in the meanwhile, the she-wolf, the cause =
of
it all, sat down contentedly on her haunches and watched. She was even pleased. This was her day--and it came not
often--when manes bristled, and fang smote fang or ripped and tore the yiel=
ding
flesh, all for the possession of her.
And in the business of love the three-year-old,
who had made this his first adventure upon it, yielded up his life. On either side of his body stood h=
is two
rivals. They were gazing at t=
he
she-wolf, who sat smiling in the snow.&nbs=
p;
But the elder leader was wise, very wise, in love even as in
battle. The younger leader tu=
rned
his head to lick a wound on his shoulder.&=
nbsp;
The curve of his neck was turned toward his rival. With his one eye the elder saw the
opportunity. He darted in low=
and
closed with his fangs. It was=
a
long, ripping slash, and deep as well.&nbs=
p;
His teeth, in passing, burst the wall of the great vein of the
throat. Then he leaped clear.=
The young leader snarled terribly, but his sna=
rl
broke midmost into a tickling cough.
Bleeding and coughing, already stricken, he sprang at the elder and
fought while life faded from him, his legs going weak beneath him, the ligh=
t of
day dulling on his eyes, his blows and springs falling shorter and shorter.=
And all the while the she-wolf sat on her haun=
ches
and smiled. She was made glad=
in
vague ways by the battle, for this was the love-making of the Wild, the
sex-tragedy of the natural world that was tragedy only to those that died.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> To those that survived it was not
tragedy, but realisation and achievement.
When the young leader lay in the snow and move=
d no
more, One Eye stalked over to the she-wolf. His carriage was one of mingled tr=
iumph
and caution. He was plainly
expectant of a rebuff, and he was just as plainly surprised when her teeth =
did
not flash out at him in anger. For the
first time she met him with a kindly manner. She sniffed noses with him, and ev=
en
condescended to leap about and frisk and play with him in quite puppyish
fashion. And he, for all his =
grey
years and sage experience, behaved quite as puppyishly and even a little mo=
re
foolishly.
Forgotten already were the vanquished rivals a=
nd
the love-tale red-written on the snow.&nbs=
p;
Forgotten, save once, when old One Eye stopped for a moment to lick =
his
stiffening wounds. Then it wa=
s that
his lips half writhed into a snarl, and the hair of his neck and shoulders =
involuntarily
bristled, while he half crouched for a spring, his claws spasmodically
clutching into the snow-surface for firmer footing. But it was all forgotten the next =
moment,
as he sprang after the she-wolf, who was coyly leading him a chase through =
the
woods.
After that they ran side by side, like good
friends who have come to an understanding.=
The days passed by, and they kept together, hunting their meat and
killing and eating it in common.
After a time the she-wolf began to grow restless. She seemed to be searching for som=
ething
that she could not find. The
hollows under fallen trees seemed to attract her, and she spent much time
nosing about among the larger snow-piled crevices in the rocks and in the c=
aves
of overhanging banks. Old One=
Eye was
not interested at all, but he followed her good-naturedly in her quest, and
when her investigations in particular places were unusually protracted, he
would lie down and wait until she was ready to go on.
They did not remain in one place, but travelled across country until they regained the Mackenzie River, down which they slo= wly went, leaving it often to hunt game along the small streams that entered it, but always returning to it again. Sometimes they chanced upon other wolves, usually in pairs; but there was no friendliness of intercourse displayed on either side, no gladness at meeting, no desire to return to the pack-formation. Several times they encountered sol= itary wolves. These were always males, and they = were pressingly insistent on joining with One Eye and his mate. This he resented, and when she sto= od shoulder to shoulder with him, bristling and showing her teeth, the aspiring solitary ones would back off, turn-tail, and continue on their lonely way.<= o:p>
One moonlight night, running through the quiet
forest, One Eye suddenly halted.
His muzzle went up, his tail stiffened, and his nostrils dilated as =
he
scented the air. One foot als=
o he
held up, after the manner of a dog.
He was not satisfied, and he continued to smell the air, striving to
understand the message borne upon it to him. One careless sniff had satisfied h=
is
mate, and she trotted on to reassure him.&=
nbsp;
Though he followed her, he was still dubious, and he could not forbe=
ar
an occasional halt in order more carefully to study the warning.
She crept out cautiously on the edge of a large
open space in the midst of the trees.
For some time she stood alone.
Then One Eye, creeping and crawling, every sense on the alert, every
hair radiating infinite suspicion, joined her. They stood side by side, watching =
and
listening and smelling.
To their ears came the sounds of dogs wrangling
and scuffling, the guttural cries of men, the sharper voices of scolding wo=
men,
and once the shrill and plaintive cry of a child. With the exception of the huge bul=
ks of
the skin-lodges, little could be seen save the flames of the fire, broken by
the movements of intervening bodies, and the smoke rising slowly on the qui=
et
air. But to their nostrils ca=
me the
myriad smells of an Indian camp, carrying a story that was largely
incomprehensible to One Eye, but every detail of which the she-wolf knew.
She was strangely stirred, and sniffed and sni=
ffed
with an increasing delight. B=
ut old
One Eye was doubtful. He betr=
ayed
his apprehension, and started tentatively to go. She turned and touched his neck wi=
th her
muzzle in a reassuring way, then regarded the camp again. A new wistfulness was in her face,=
but
it was not the wistfulness of hunger. She was thrilling to a desire that ur=
ged
her to go forward, to be in closer to that fire, to be squabbling with the
dogs, and to be avoiding and dodging the stumbling feet of men.
One Eye moved impatiently beside her; her unre=
st
came back upon her, and she knew again her pressing need to find the thing =
for
which she searched. She turne=
d and
trotted back into the forest, to the great relief of One Eye, who trotted a
little to the fore until they were well within the shelter of the trees.
As they slid along, noiseless as shadows, in t=
he
moonlight, they came upon a run-way.
Both noses went down to the footprints in the snow. These footprints
were very fresh. One Eye ran =
ahead
cautiously, his mate at his heels.
The broad pads of their feet were spread wide and in contact with the
snow were like velvet. One Eye
caught sight of a dim movement of white in the midst of the white. His sliding gait had been deceptiv=
ely
swift, but it was as nothing to the speed at which he now ran. Before him was bounding the faint =
patch
of white he had discovered.
They were running along a narrow alley flanked=
on
either side by a growth of young spruce.&n=
bsp;
Through the trees the mouth of the alley could be seen, opening out =
on a
moonlit glade. Old One Eye was
rapidly overhauling the fleeing shape of white. Bound by bound he gained. Now he was upon it. One leap more =
and
his teeth would be sinking into it.
But that leap was never made.
High in the air, and straight up, soared the shape of white, now a
struggling snowshoe rabbit that leaped and bounded, executing a fantastic d=
ance
there above him in the air and never once returning to earth.
One Eye sprang back with a snort of sudden fri=
ght,
then shrank down to the snow and crouched, snarling threats at this thing of
fear he did not understand. B=
ut the
she-wolf coolly thrust past him.
She poised for a moment, then sprang for the dancing rabbit. She, too, soared high, but not so =
high
as the quarry, and her teeth clipped emptily together with a metallic
snap. She made another leap, =
and
another.
Her mate had slowly relaxed from his crouch and was watching her. He now evin= ced displeasure at her repeated failures, and himself made a mighty spring upward. His teeth closed upon= the rabbit, and he bore it back to earth with him. But at the same time there was a suspicious crackling movement beside him, and his astonished eye saw a young spruce sapling bending down above him to strike him. His jaws let go their grip, and he= leaped backward to escape this strange danger, his lips drawn back from his fangs,= his throat snarling, every hair bristling with rage and fright. And in that moment the sapling rea= red its slender length upright and the rabbit soared dancing in the air again.<= o:p>
The she-wolf was angry. She sank her fangs into her mate's
shoulder in reproof; and he, frightened, unaware of what constituted this n=
ew onslaught,
struck back ferociously and in still greater fright, ripping down the side =
of
the she-wolf's muzzle. For hi=
m to
resent such reproof was equally unexpected to her, and she sprang upon him =
in
snarling indignation. Then he
discovered his mistake and tried to placate her. But she proceeded to punish
him roundly, until he gave over all attempts at placation, and whirled in a
circle, his head away from her, his shoulders receiving the punishment of h=
er
teeth.
In the meantime the rabbit danced above them in
the air. The she-wolf sat dow=
n in
the snow, and old One Eye, now more in fear of his mate than of the mysteri=
ous
sapling, again sprang for the rabbit.
As he sank back with it between his teeth, he kept his eye on the
sapling. As before, it follow=
ed him
back to earth. He crouched do=
wn
under the impending blow, his hair bristling, but his teeth still keeping t=
ight
hold of the rabbit. But the blow did not fall. The sapling remained bent above
him. When he moved it moved, =
and he
growled at it through his clenched jaws; when he remained still, it remained
still, and he concluded it was safer to continue remaining still. Yet the warm blood of the rabbit t=
asted
good in his mouth.
It was his mate who relieved him from the quan=
dary
in which he found himself. Sh=
e took
the rabbit from him, and while the sapling swayed and teetered threateningly
above her she calmly gnawed off the rabbit's head. At once the sapling shot=
up,
and after that gave no more trouble, remaining in the decorous and
perpendicular position in which nature had intended it to grow. Then, between them, the she-wolf a=
nd One
Eye devoured the game which the mysterious sapling had caught for them.
There were other run-ways and alleys where rab=
bits
were hanging in the air, and the wolf-pair prospected them all, the she-wolf
leading the way, old One Eye following and observant, learning the method of
robbing snares--a knowledge destined to stand him in good stead in the days=
to come.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>CHAPTER II--THE LAIR<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
= For two days the she-wolf and One Eye hung about the Indian camp. He was worried and apprehensive, y= et the camp lured his mate and she was loath to depart. But when, one morning, the air was= rent with the report of a rifle close at hand, and a bullet smashed against a tr= ee trunk several inches from One Eye's head, they hesitated no more, but went = off on a long, swinging lope that put quick miles between them and the danger.<= o:p>
They did not go far--a couple of days'
journey. The she-wolf's need =
to find
the thing for which she searched had now become imperative. She was getting very heavy, and co=
uld
run but slowly. Once, in the
pursuit of a rabbit, which she ordinarily would have caught with ease, she =
gave
over and lay down and rested. One
Eye came to her; but when he touched her neck gently with his muzzle she
snapped at him with such quick fierceness that he tumbled over backward and=
cut
a ridiculous figure in his effort to escape her teeth. Her temper was now shorter than ev=
er;
but he had become more patient than ever and more solicitous.
And then she found the thing for which she
sought. It was a few miles up=
a
small stream that in the summer time flowed into the Mackenzie, but that th=
en
was frozen over and frozen down to its rocky bottom--a dead stream of solid
white from source to mouth. T=
he
she-wolf was trotting wearily along, her mate well in advance, when she came
upon the overhanging, high clay-bank.
She turned aside and trotted over to it. The wear and tear of spring
storms and melting snows had underwashed the bank and in one place had made=
a
small cave out of a narrow fissure.
She paused at the mouth of the cave and looked=
the
wall over carefully. Then, on one side and the other, she ran along the bas=
e of
the wall to where its abrupt bulk merged from the softer-lined landscape. Returning to the cave, she entered=
its
narrow mouth. For a short thr=
ee
feet she was compelled to crouch, then the walls widened and rose higher in=
a little
round chamber nearly six feet in diameter.=
The roof barely cleared her head.&n=
bsp;
It was dry and cosey. =
She
inspected it with painstaking care, while One Eye, who had returned, stood =
in
the entrance and patiently watched her.&nb=
sp;
She dropped her head, with her nose to the ground and directed towar=
d a
point near to her closely bunched feet, and around this point she circled
several times; then, with a tired sigh that was almost a grunt, she curled =
her
body in, relaxed her legs, and dropped down, her head toward the entrance.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> One Eye, with pointed, interested =
ears,
laughed at her, and beyond, outlined against the white light, she could see=
the
brush of his tail waving good-naturedly.&n=
bsp;
Her own ears, with a snuggling movement, laid their sharp points
backward and down against the head for a moment, while her mouth opened and=
her
tongue lolled peaceably out, and in this way she expressed that she was ple=
ased
and satisfied.
One Eye was hungry. Though he lay down in the entrance=
and
slept, his sleep was fitful. =
He kept
awaking and cocking his ears at the bright world without, where the April s=
un
was blazing across the snow. =
When
he dozed, upon his ears would steal the faint whispers of hidden trickles o=
f running
water, and he would rouse and listen intently. The sun had come back, and all the
awakening Northland world was calling to him. Life was stirring. The feel of spring was in the air,=
the
feel of growing life under the snow, of sap ascending in the trees, of buds
bursting the shackles of the frost.
He cast anxious glances at his mate, but she
showed no desire to get up. He looked outside, and half a dozen snow-birds
fluttered across his field of vision.
He started to get up, then looked back to his mate again, and settled
down and dozed. A shrill and =
minute
singing stole upon his heating.
Once, and twice, he sleepily brushed his nose with his paw. Then he =
woke
up. There, buzzing in the air=
at
the tip of his nose, was a lone mosquito.&=
nbsp;
It was a full-grown mosquito, one that had lain frozen in a dry log =
all
winter and that had now been thawed out by the sun. He could resist the call of the wo=
rld no
longer. Besides, he was hungr=
y.
He crawled over to his mate and tried to persu=
ade
her to get up. But she only s=
narled
at him, and he walked out alone into the bright sunshine to find the
snow-surface soft under foot and the travelling difficult. He went up the frozen bed of the s=
tream,
where the snow, shaded by the trees, was yet hard and crystalline. He was gone eight hours, and he ca=
me
back through the darkness hungrier than when he had started. He had found game, but he had not =
caught
it. He had broken through the
melting snow crust, and wallowed, while the snowshoe rabbits had skimmed al=
ong
on top lightly as ever.
He paused at the mouth of the cave with a sudd=
en
shock of suspicion. Faint, strange sounds came from within. They were sounds not made by his m=
ate,
and yet they were remotely familiar.
He bellied cautiously inside and was met by a warning snarl from the
she-wolf. This he received wi=
thout
perturbation, though he obeyed it by keeping his distance; but he remained
interested in the other sounds--faint, muffled sobbings and slubberings.
His mate warned him irritably away, and he cur=
led
up and slept in the entrance. When
morning came and a dim light pervaded the lair, he again sought after the
source of the remotely familiar sounds.&nb=
sp;
There was a new note in his mate's warning snarl. It was a jealous note, and he was =
very careful
in keeping a respectful distance.
Nevertheless, he made out, sheltering between her legs against the
length of her body, five strange little bundles of life, very feeble, very
helpless, making tiny whimpering noises, with eyes that did not open to the
light. He was surprised. It was not the first time in his l=
ong
and successful life that this thing had happened. It had happened many times, yet ea=
ch
time it was as fresh a surprise as ever to him.
His mate looked at him anxiously. Every little while she emitted a l=
ow growl,
and at times, when it seemed to her he approached too near, the growl shot =
up
in her throat to a sharp snarl. Of
her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening; but in her
instinct, which was the experience of all the mothers of wolves, there lurk=
ed a
memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless progeny. It manifested itself as a fear str=
ong
within her, that made her prevent One Eye from more closely inspecting the =
cubs
he had fathered.
But there was no danger. Old One Eye was feeling the urge o=
f an
impulse, that was, in turn, an instinct that had come down to him from all =
the fathers
of wolves. He did not questio=
n it,
nor puzzle over it. It was th=
ere,
in the fibre of his being; and it was the most natural thing in the world t=
hat
he should obey it by turning his back on his new-born family and by trotting
out and away on the meat-trail whereby he lived.
Five or six miles from the lair, the stream
divided, its forks going off among the mountains at a right angle. Here, leading up the left fork, he=
came
upon a fresh track. He smelle=
d it
and found it so recent that he crouched swiftly, and looked in the directio=
n in
which it disappeared. Then he turned deliberately and took the right fork.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The footprint was much larger than=
the
one his own feet made, and he knew that in the wake of such a trail there w=
as
little meat for him.
Half a mile up the right fork, his quick ears
caught the sound of gnawing teeth.
He stalked the quarry and found it to be a porcupine, standing uprig=
ht
against a tree and trying his teeth on the bark. One Eye approached carefully but
hopelessly. He knew the breed,
though he had never met it so far north before; and never in his long life =
had porcupine
served him for a meal. But he=
had
long since learned that there was such a thing as Chance, or Opportunity, a=
nd
he continued to draw near. Th=
ere
was never any telling what might happen, for with live things events were
somehow always happening differently.
The porcupine rolled itself into a ball, radia=
ting
long, sharp needles in all directions that defied attack. In his youth One Eye had once snif=
fed too
near a similar, apparently inert ball of quills, and had the tail flick out
suddenly in his face. One qui=
ll he
had carried away in his muzzle, where it had remained for weeks, a rankling
flame, until it finally worked out.
So he lay down, in a comfortable crouching position, his nose fully a
foot away, and out of the line of the tail. Thus he waited, keeping perfectly
quiet. There was no telling.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Something might happen. The porcupine might unroll. There might be opportunity for a d=
eft
and ripping thrust of paw into the tender, unguarded belly.
But at the end of half an hour he arose, growl=
ed
wrathfully at the motionless ball, and trotted on. He had waited too often and futile=
ly in the
past for porcupines to unroll, to waste any more time. He continued up the right fork.
The urge of his awakened instinct of fatherhood
was strong upon him. He must =
find
meat. In the afternoon he blu=
ndered
upon a ptarmigan. He came out=
of a
thicket and found himself face to face with the slow-witted bird. It was sitting on a log, not a foot
beyond the end of his nose. Each saw the other. The bird made a startled rise, but=
he
struck it with his paw, and smashed it down to earth, then pounced upon it,=
and
caught it in his teeth as it scuttled across the snow trying to rise in the=
air
again. As his teeth crunched
through the tender flesh and fragile bones, he began naturally to eat. Then he remembered, and, turning o=
n the
back- track, started for home, carrying the ptarmigan in his mouth.
A mile above the forks, running velvet-footed =
as
was his custom, a gliding shadow that cautiously prospected each new vista =
of
the trail, he came upon later imprints of the large tracks he had discovere=
d in
the early morning. As the tra=
ck led
his way, he followed, prepared to meet the maker of it at every turn of the
stream.
He slid his head around a corner of rock, where
began an unusually large bend in the stream, and his quick eyes made out
something that sent him crouching swiftly down. It was the maker of the track, a l=
arge
female lynx. She was crouchin=
g as
he had crouched once that day, in front of her the tight-rolled ball of
quills. If he had been a glid=
ing
shadow before, he now became the ghost of such a shadow, as he crept and
circled around, and came up well to leeward of the silent, motionless pair.=
He lay down in the snow, depositing the ptarmi=
gan
beside him, and with eyes peering through the needles of a low-growing spru=
ce
he watched the play of life before him--the waiting lynx and the waiting
porcupine, each intent on life; and, such was the curiousness of the game, =
the
way of life for one lay in the eating of the other, and the way of life for=
the
other lay in being not eaten. While
old One Eye, the wolf crouching in the covert, played his part, too, in the
game, waiting for some strange freak of Chance, that might help him on the
meat-trail which was his way of life.
Half an hour passed, an hour; and nothing
happened. The balls of quills=
might
have been a stone for all it moved; the lynx might have been frozen to marb=
le;
and old One Eye might have been dead.
Yet all three animals were keyed to a tenseness of living that was
almost painful, and scarcely ever would it come to them to be more alive th=
an
they were then in their seeming petrifaction.
One Eye moved slightly and peered forth with
increased eagerness. Something was happening. The porcupine had at last decided =
that
its enemy had gone away. Slow=
ly,
cautiously, it was unrolling its ball of impregnable armour. It was agitated by no tremor of
anticipation. Slowly, slowly, the bristling ball straightened out and
lengthened. One Eye watching,=
felt
a sudden moistness in his mouth and a drooling of saliva, involuntary, exci=
ted
by the living meat that was spreading itself like a repast before him.
Not quite entirely had the porcupine unrolled =
when
it discovered its enemy. In t=
hat
instant the lynx struck. The =
blow
was like a flash of light. Th=
e paw,
with rigid claws curving like talons, shot under the tender belly and came =
back
with a swift ripping movement. Had
the porcupine been entirely unrolled, or had it not discovered its enemy a =
fraction
of a second before the blow was struck, the paw would have escaped unscathe=
d;
but a side-flick of the tail sank sharp quills into it as it was withdrawn.=
Everything had happened at once--the blow, the
counter-blow, the squeal of agony from the porcupine, the big cat's squall =
of
sudden hurt and astonishment. One
Eye half arose in his excitement, his ears up, his tail straight out and
quivering behind him. The lyn=
x's
bad temper got the best of her. She
sprang savagely at the thing that had hurt her. But the porcupine, squealing and
grunting, with disrupted anatomy trying feebly to roll up into its
ball-protection, flicked out its tail again, and again the big cat squalled
with hurt and astonishment. T=
hen
she fell to backing away and sneezing, her nose bristling with quills like =
a monstrous
pin-cushion. She brushed her =
nose
with her paws, trying to dislodge the fiery darts, thrust it into the snow,=
and
rubbed it against twigs and branches, and all the time leaping about, ahead,
sidewise, up and down, in a frenzy of pain and fright.
She sneezed continually, and her stub of a tail
was doing its best toward lashing about by giving quick, violent jerks. She quit her antics, and quieted d=
own
for a long minute. One Eye
watched. And even he could no=
t repress
a start and an involuntary bristling of hair along his back when she sudden=
ly
leaped, without warning, straight up in the air, at the same time emitting a
long and most terrible squall. Then
she sprang away, up the trail, squalling with every leap she made.
It was not until her racket had faded away in =
the
distance and died out that One Eye ventured forth. He walked as delicately as though =
all
the snow were carpeted with porcupine quills, erect and ready to pierce the=
soft
pads of his feet. The porcupi=
ne met
his approach with a furious squealing and a clashing of its long teeth. It had managed to roll up in a ball
again, but it was not quite the old compact ball; its muscles were too much
torn for that. It had been ri=
pped
almost in half, and was still bleeding profusely.
One Eye scooped out mouthfuls of the blood-soa=
ked
snow, and chewed and tasted and swallowed.=
This served as a relish, and his hunger increased mightily; but he w=
as
too old in the world to forget his caution. He waited. He lay down and waited, while the
porcupine grated its teeth and uttered grunts and sobs and occasional sharp
little squeals. In a little w=
hile,
One Eye noticed that the quills were drooping and that a great quivering had
set up. The quivering came to=
an
end suddenly. There was a fin=
al
defiant clash of the long teeth.
Then all the quills drooped quite down, and the body relaxed and mov=
ed
no more.
With a nervous, shrinking paw, One Eye stretch=
ed
out the porcupine to its full length and turned it over on its back. Nothing had happened. It was surely dead. He studied it intently for a momen=
t,
then took a careful grip with his teeth and started off down the stream, pa=
rtly
carrying, partly dragging the porcupine, with head turned to the side so as=
to
avoid stepping on the prickly mass.
He recollected something, dropped the burden, and trotted back to wh=
ere
he had left the ptarmigan. He did not hesitate a moment. He knew clearly what was to be don=
e, and
this he did by promptly eating the ptarmigan. Then he returned and took up his b=
urden.
When he dragged the result of his day's hunt i=
nto
the cave, the she-wolf inspected it, turned her muzzle to him, and lightly
licked him on the neck. But t=
he
next instant she was warning him away from the cubs with a snarl that was l=
ess
harsh than usual and that was more apologetic than menacing. Her instinctive fear of the father=
of
her progeny was toning down. =
He was
behaving as a wolf-father should, and manifesting no unholy desire to devour
the young lives she had brought into the world.
=
He was
different from his brothers and sisters.&n=
bsp;
Their hair already betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mot=
her,
the she-wolf; while he alone, in this particular, took after his father.
The grey cub's eyes had not been open long, yet
already he could see with steady clearness. And while his eyes were still close=
d, he
had felt, tasted, and smelled. He
knew his two brothers and his two sisters very well. He had begun to romp with them in a
feeble, awkward way, and even to squabble, his little throat vibrating with=
a
queer rasping noise (the forerunner of the growl), as he worked himself int=
o a
passion. And long before his =
eyes
had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to know his mother--a
fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She possessed a gentle, caressing =
tongue
that soothed him when it passed over his soft little body, and that impelled
him to snuggle close against her and to doze off to sleep.
Most of the first month of his life had been
passed thus in sleeping; but now he could see quite well, and he stayed awa=
ke
for longer periods of time, and he was coming to learn his world quite
well. His world was gloomy; b=
ut he
did not know that, for he knew no other world. It was dim- lighted; but his eyes =
had
never had to adjust themselves to any other light. His world was very small. Its limits were the walls of the l=
air; but
as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside, he was never oppressed by=
the
narrow confines of his existence.
But he had early discovered that one wall of h=
is
world was different from the rest.
This was the mouth of the cave and the source of light. He had discovered that it was diff=
erent
from the other walls long before he had any thoughts of his own, any consci=
ous
volitions. It had been an irr=
esistible
attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it. The light from it
had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the optic nerves had pulsat=
ed
to little, sparklike flashes, warm-coloured and strangely pleasing. The life of his body, and of every=
fibre
of his body, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was
apart from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged h=
is body
toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant urges it to=
ward
the sun.
Always, in the beginning, before his conscious
life dawned, he had crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And in this his brothers and siste=
rs
were one with him. Never, in =
that
period, did any of them crawl toward the dark corners of the back-wall. The light drew them as if they were
plants; the chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the light as a
necessity of being; and their little puppet-bodies crawled blindly and
chemically, like the tendrils of a vine.&n=
bsp;
Later on, when each developed individuality and became personally
conscious of impulsions and desires, the attraction of the light
increased. They were always c=
rawling
and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their mother.
It was in this way that the grey cub learned o=
ther
attributes of his mother than the soft, soothing, tongue. In his insistent crawling toward t=
he
light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge administered reb=
uke,
and later, a paw, that crushed him down and rolled him over and over with
swift, calculating stroke. Th=
us he
learned hurt; and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not
incurring the risk of it; and second, when he had incurred the risk, by dod=
ging
and by retreating. These were
conscious actions, and were the results of his first generalisations upon t=
he
world. Before that he had rec=
oiled automatically
from hurt, as he had crawled automatically toward the light. After that he recoiled from hurt b=
ecause
he knew that it was hurt.
He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat- killer=
s and
meat-eaters. His father and m=
other
lived wholly upon meat. The milk he had sucked with his first flickering li=
fe,
was milk transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his =
eyes
had been open for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat--meat ha=
lf-digested
by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs that already made t=
oo
great demand upon her breast.
But he was, further, the fiercest of the
litter. He could make a loude=
r rasping
growl than any of them. His t=
iny
rages were much more terrible than theirs.=
It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow- cub over
with a cunning paw-stroke. An=
d it
was he that first gripped another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and
growled through jaws tight-clenched.
And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most trouble in
keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave.
The fascination of the light for the grey cub
increased from day to day. He was perpetually departing on yard-long advent=
ures
toward the cave's entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he did not know it for an
entrance. He did not know any=
thing
about entrances--passages whereby one goes from one place to another
place. He did not know any ot=
her
place, much less of a way to get there.&nb=
sp;
So to him the entrance of the cave was a wall--a wall of light. As the sun was to the outside dwel=
ler,
this wall was to him the sun of his world.=
It attracted him as a candle attracts a moth. He was always striving to attain
it. The life that was so swif=
tly
expanding within him, urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew =
that
it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did not know anythi=
ng
about it. He did not know the=
re was
any outside at all.
There was one strange thing about this wall of
light. His father (he had alr=
eady
come to recognise his father as the one other dweller in the world, a creat=
ure
like his mother, who slept near the light and was a bringer of meat)--his
father had a way of walking right into the white far wall and
disappearing. The grey cub co=
uld
not understand this. Though never permitted by his mother to approach that
wall, he had approached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on
the end of his tender nose. T=
his
hurt. And after several such
adventures, he left the walls alone.
Without thinking about it, he accepted this disappearing into the wa=
ll
as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and half-digested meat were
peculiarities of his mother.
In fact, the grey cub was not given to
thinking--at least, to the kind of thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways. Yet his conclusions were as sharp =
and
distinct as those achieved by men.
He had a method of accepting things, without questioning the why and
wherefore. In reality, this was the act of classification. He was never disturbed over why a =
thing
happened. How it happened was
sufficient for him. Thus, whe=
n he
had bumped his nose on the back-wall a few times, he accepted that he would=
not
disappear into walls. In the =
same
way he accepted that his father could disappear into walls. But he was not in the least distur=
bed by
desire to find out the reason for the difference between his father and
himself. Logic and physics we=
re no
part of his mental make- up.
Like most creatures of the Wild, he early
experienced famine. There cam=
e a
time when not only did the meat-supply cease, but the milk no longer came f=
rom
his mother's breast. At first=
, the
cubs whimpered and cried, but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were r=
educed
to a coma of hunger. There we=
re no
more spats and squabbles, no more tiny rages nor attempts at growling; while
the adventures toward the far white wall ceased altogether. The cubs slept, while the life tha=
t was
in them flickered and died down.
One Eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept =
but
little in the lair that had now become cheerless and miserable. The she-wolf, too, left her litter=
and
went out in search of meat. I=
n the
first days after the birth of the cubs, One Eye had journeyed several times
back to the Indian camp and robbed the rabbit snares; but, with the melting=
of
the snow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, an=
d that
source of supply was closed to him.
When the grey cub came back to life and again =
took
interest in the far white wall, he found that the population of his world h=
ad
been reduced. Only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. As he grew stronger, he found hims=
elf
compelled to play alone, for the sister no longer lifted her head nor moved
about. His little body rounde=
d out
with the meat he now ate; but the food had come too late for her. She slept continuously, a tiny ske=
leton
flung round with skin in which the flame flickered lower and lower and at l=
ast
went out.
Then there came a time when the grey cub no lo=
nger
saw his father appearing and disappearing in the wall nor lying down asleep=
in
the entrance. This had happen=
ed at
the end of a second and less severe famine. The she-wolf knew why One Eye neve=
r came
back, but there was no way by which she could tell what she had seen to the
grey cub. Hunting herself for=
meat,
up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx, she had followed a day=
-old
trail of One Eye. And she had=
found
him, or what remained of him, at the end of the trail. There were many signs of the battl=
e that
had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair after having won =
the
victory. Before she went away=
, the
she-wolf had found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was insi=
de,
and she had not dared to venture in.
After that, the she-wolf in her hunting avoided
the left fork. For she knew t=
hat in
the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the lynx for a fierce,
bad-tempered creature and a terrible fighter. It was all very well for half a do=
zen
wolves to drive a lynx, spitting and bristling, up a tree; but it was quite=
a
different matter for a lone wolf to encounter a lynx--especially when the l=
ynx
was known to have a litter of hungry kittens at her back.
But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is
motherhood, at all times fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of =
it;
and the time was to come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub's sake, would
venture the left fork, and the lair in the rocks, and the lynx's wrath.
=
By the
time his mother began leaving the cave on hunting expeditions, the cub had
learned well the law that forbade his approaching the entrance. Not only had
this law been forcibly and many times impressed on him by his mother's nose=
and
paw, but in him the instinct of fear was developing. Never, in his brief cave-life, had=
he
encountered anything of which to be afraid. Yet fear was in him. It had come down to him from a rem=
ote
ancestry through a thousand thousand lives. It was a heritage he had received
directly from One Eye and the she-wolf; but to them, in turn, it had been
passed down through all the generations of wolves that had gone before. Fear!--that legacy of the Wild whi=
ch no animal
may escape nor exchange for pottage.
So the grey cub knew fear, though he knew not =
the
stuff of which fear was made.
Possibly he accepted it as one of the restrictions of life. For he had already learned that th=
ere
were such restrictions. Hunge=
r he
had known; and when he could not appease his hunger he had felt restriction=
. The
hard obstruction of the cave-wall, the sharp nudge of his mother's nose, the
smashing stroke of her paw, the hunger unappeased of several famines, had b=
orne
in upon him that all was not freedom in the world, that to life there was
limitations and restraints. T=
hese
limitations and restraints were laws.
To be obedient to them was to escape hurt and make for happiness.
He did not reason the question out in this man
fashion. He merely classified=
the
things that hurt and the things that did not hurt. And after such classification he a=
voided
the things that hurt, the restrictions and restraints, in order to enjoy the
satisfactions and the remunerations of life.
Thus it was that in obedience to the law laid =
down
by his mother, and in obedience to the law of that unknown and nameless thi=
ng,
fear, he kept away from the mouth of the cave. It remained to him a white wall of=
light. When his mother was absent, he sle=
pt
most of the time, while during the intervals that he was awake he kept very
quiet, suppressing the whimpering cries that tickled in his throat and stro=
ve
for noise.
Once, lying awake, he heard a strange sound in=
the
white wall. He did not know t=
hat it
was a wolverine, standing outside, all a-trembling with its own daring, and
cautiously scenting out the contents of the cave. The cub knew only that the sniff w=
as
strange, a something unclassified, therefore unknown and terrible--for the
unknown was one of the chief elements that went into the making of fear.
The hair bristled upon the grey cub's back, bu=
t it
bristled silently. How was he=
to
know that this thing that sniffed was a thing at which to bristle? It was not born of any knowledge o=
f his,
yet it was the visible expression of the fear that was in him, and for whic=
h,
in his own life, there was no accounting.&=
nbsp;
But fear was accompanied by another instinct--that of concealment. The cub was in a frenzy of terror,=
yet
he lay without movement or sound, frozen, petrified into immobility, to all=
appearances
dead. His mother, coming home,
growled as she smelt the wolverine's track, and bounded into the cave and
licked and nozzled him with undue vehemence of affection. And the cub felt that somehow he h=
ad escaped
a great hurt.
But there were other forces at work in the cub,
the greatest of which was growth.
Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded disobedience.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His mother and fear impelled him t=
o keep
away from the white wall. Gro=
wth is
life, and life is for ever destined to make for light. So there was no damming up the tid=
e of
life that was rising within him--rising with every mouthful of meat he
swallowed, with every breath he drew.
In the end, one day, fear and obedience were swept away by the rush =
of
life, and the cub straddled and sprawled toward the entrance.
Unlike any other wall with which he had had
experience, this wall seemed to recede from him as he approached. No hard surface collided with the =
tender
little nose he thrust out tentatively before him. The substance of the wall seemed as
permeable and yielding as light.
And as condition, in his eyes, had the seeming of form, so he entered
into what had been wall to him and bathed in the substance that composed it=
.
It was bewildering. He was sprawling through solidity.=
And ever the light grew brighter.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Fear urged him to go back, but gro=
wth
drove him on. Suddenly he found himself at the mouth of the cave. The wall, inside which he had thou=
ght
himself, as suddenly leaped back before him to an immeasurable distance.
A great fear came upon him. This was more of the terrible
unknown. He crouched down on =
the
lip of the cave and gazed out on the world. He was very much afraid. Because it was unknown, it was hos=
tile
to him. Therefore the hair stood up on end along his back and his lips wrin=
kled
weakly in an attempt at a ferocious and intimidating snarl. Out of his puniness and fright he
challenged and menaced the whole wide world.
Nothing happened. He continued to gaze, and in his
interest he forgot to snarl. =
Also,
he forgot to be afraid. For t=
he
time, fear had been routed by growth, while growth had assumed the guise of
curiosity. He began to notice=
near
objects--an open portion of the stream that flashed in the sun, the blasted
pine-tree that stood at the base of the slope, and the slope itself, that r=
an
right up to him and ceased two feet beneath the lip of the cave on which he
crouched.
Now the grey cub had lived all his days on a l=
evel
floor. He had never experienc=
ed the
hurt of a fall. He did not kn=
ow
what a fall was. So he stepped
boldly out upon the air. His
hind-legs still rested on the cave- lip, so he fell forward head downward.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The earth struck him a harsh blow =
on the
nose that made him yelp. Then=
he
began rolling down the slope, over and over. He was in a panic of terror. The unknown had caught him at last=
. It had gripped savagely hold of hi=
m and
was about to wreak upon him some terrific hurt. Growth was now routed by fear, and=
he
ki-yi'd like any frightened puppy.
The unknown bore him on he knew not to what
frightful hurt, and he yelped and ki-yi'd unceasingly. This was a different proposition f=
rom
crouching in frozen fear while the unknown lurked just alongside. Now the unknown had caught tight h=
old of
him. Silence would do no good=
. Besides, it was not fear, but terr=
or,
that convulsed him.
But the slope grew more gradual, and its base =
was
grass-covered. Here the cub l=
ost
momentum. When at last he cam=
e to a
stop, he gave one last agonised yell and then a long, whimpering wail. Also, and quite as a matter of cou=
rse,
as though in his life he had already made a thousand toilets, he proceeded =
to
lick away the dry clay that soiled him.
After that he sat up and gazed about him, as m=
ight
the first man of the earth who landed upon Mars. The cub had broken through the wal=
l of
the world, the unknown had let go its hold of him, and here he was without =
hurt. But the first man on Mars would ha=
ve
experienced less unfamiliarity than did he. Without any antecedent knowledge, =
without
any warning whatever that such existed, he found himself an explorer in a t=
otally
new world.
Now that the terrible unknown had let go of hi=
m,
he forgot that the unknown had any terrors. He was aware only of curiosity in =
all
the things about him. He insp=
ected
the grass beneath him, the moss-berry plant just beyond, and the dead trunk=
of
the blasted pine that stood on the edge of an open space among the trees. A squirrel, running around the bas=
e of
the trunk, came full upon him, and gave him a great fright. He cowered down=
and
snarled. But the squirrel was=
as
badly scared. It ran up the t=
ree,
and from a point of safety chattered back savagely.
This helped the cub's courage, and though the
woodpecker he next encountered gave him a start, he proceeded confidently on
his way. Such was his confide=
nce,
that when a moose-bird impudently hopped up to him, he reached out at it wi=
th a
playful paw. The result was a=
sharp
peck on the end of his nose that made him cower down and ki-yi. The noise he made was too much for=
the
moose-bird, who sought safety in flight.
But the cub was learning. His misty little mind had already =
made
an unconscious classification.
There were live things and things not alive. Also, he must watch out=
for
the live things. The things n=
ot
alive remained always in one place, but the live things moved about, and th=
ere was
no telling what they might do. The
thing to expect of them was the unexpected, and for this he must be prepare=
d.
He travelled very clumsily. He ran into sticks and things. A twig that he thought a long way =
off,
would the next instant hit him on the nose or rake along his ribs. There were inequalities of surface=
. Sometimes he overstepped and stubb=
ed his
nose. Quite as often he
understepped and stubbed his feet. Then there were the pebbles and sto=
nes
that turned under him when he trod upon them; and from them he came to know
that the things not alive were not all in the same state of stable equilibr=
ium
as was his cave--also, that small things not alive were more liable than la=
rge
things to fall down or turn over.
But with every mishap he was learning. The longer he walked, the better he
walked. He was adjusting hims=
elf. He was learning to calculate his o=
wn
muscular movements, to know his physical limitations, to measure distances
between objects, and between objects and himself.
His was the luck of the beginner. Born to be a hunter of meat (thoug=
h he did
not know it), he blundered upon meat just outside his own cave-door on his
first foray into the world. I=
t was
by sheer blundering that he chanced upon the shrewdly hidden ptarmigan
nest. He fell into it. He had essayed to walk along the t=
runk
of a fallen pine. The rotten =
bark gave
way under his feet, and with a despairing yelp he pitched down the rounded =
crescent,
smashed through the leafage and stalks of a small bush, and in the heart of=
the
bush, on the ground, fetched up in the midst of seven ptarmigan chicks.
They made noises, and at first he was frighten=
ed
at them. Then he perceived th=
at
they were very little, and he became bolder. They moved. He placed his paw on o=
ne,
and its movements were accelerated.
This was a source of enjoyment to him. He smelled it. He picked it up in his mouth. It struggled and tickled his
tongue. At the same time he w=
as made
aware of a sensation of hunger. His
jaws closed together. There w=
as a
crunching of fragile bones, and warm blood ran in his mouth. The taste of it was good. This was meat, the same as his mot=
her
gave him, only it was alive between his teeth and therefore better. So he ate the ptarmigan. Nor did he stop till he had devour=
ed the
whole brood. Then he licked h=
is
chops in quite the same way his mother did, and began to crawl out of the b=
ush.
He encountered a feathered whirlwind. He was confused and blinded by the=
rush
of it and the beat of angry wings.
He hid his head between his paws and yelped. The blows increased. The mother ptarmigan was in a fury=
. Then
he became angry. He rose up,
snarling, striking out with his paws. He sank his tiny teeth into one of the
wings and pulled and tugged sturdily.
The ptarmigan struggled against him, showering blows upon him with h=
er
free wing. It was his first
battle. He was elated. He forgot all about the unknown. He no longer was afraid of
anything. He was fighting, te=
aring
at a live thing that was striking at him.&=
nbsp;
Also, this live thing was meat.&nbs=
p;
The lust to kill was on him.
He had just destroyed little live things. He would now destroy a big live
thing. He was too busy and ha=
ppy to
know that he was happy. He was
thrilling and exulting in ways new to him and greater to him than any he had
known before.
He held on to the wing and growled between his
tight-clenched teeth. The pta=
rmigan
dragged him out of the bush. =
When
she turned and tried to drag him back into the bush's shelter, he pulled her
away from it and on into the open.
And all the time she was making outcry and striking with her free wi=
ng,
while feathers were flying like a snow-fall. The pitch to which he was aroused =
was
tremendous. All the fighting =
blood
of his breed was up in him and surging through him. This was living, though he did not=
know
it. He was realising his own
meaning in the world; he was doing that for which he was made--killing meat=
and
battling to kill it. He was j=
ustifying
his existence, than which life can do no greater; for life achieves its sum=
mit
when it does to the uttermost that which it was equipped to do.
After a time, the ptarmigan ceased her
struggling. He still held her=
by the
wing, and they lay on the ground and looked at each other. He tried to growl threateningly,
ferociously. She pecked on his
nose, which by now, what of previous adventures was sore. He winced but held on. She pecked him again and again.
He lay down to rest on the other side of the o=
pen,
near the edge of the bushes, his tongue lolling out, his chest heaving and
panting, his nose still hurting him and causing him to continue his
whimper. But as he lay there,
suddenly there came to him a feeling as of something terrible impending.
While he lay in the bush, recovering from his
fright and peering fearfully out, the mother-ptarmigan on the other side of=
the
open space fluttered out of the ravaged nest. It was because of her loss that sh=
e paid
no attention to the winged bolt of the sky. But the cub saw, and it was a warn=
ing
and a lesson to him--the swift downward swoop of the hawk, the short skim of
its body just above the ground, the strike of its talons in the body of the
ptarmigan, the ptarmigan's squawk of agony and fright, and the hawk's rush
upward into the blue, carrying the ptarmigan away with it
It was a long time before the cub left its
shelter. He had learned much.=
Live
things were meat. They were g=
ood to
eat. Also, live things when t=
hey
were large enough, could give hurt.
It was better to eat small live things like ptarmigan chicks, and to=
let
alone large live things like ptarmigan hens. Nevertheless he felt a little pric=
k of
ambition, a sneaking desire to have another battle with that ptarmigan
hen--only the hawk had carried her away.&n=
bsp;
May be there were other ptarmigan hens. He would go and see.
He came down a shelving bank to the stream.
He came to the surface, and the sweet air rush=
ed
into his open mouth. He did n=
ot go
down again. Quite as though i=
t had
been a long-established custom of his he struck out with all his legs and b=
egan
to swim. The near bank was a =
yard
away; but he had come up with his back to it, and the first thing his eyes
rested upon was the opposite bank, toward which he immediately began to
swim. The stream was a small =
one,
but in the pool it widened out to a score of feet.
Midway in the passage, the current picked up t=
he
cub and swept him downstream. He
was caught in the miniature rapid at the bottom of the pool. Here was little chance for
swimming. The quiet water had
become suddenly angry. Someti=
mes he
was under, sometimes on top. =
At all
times he was in violent motion, now being turned over or around, and again,=
being
smashed against a rock. And w=
ith
every rock he struck, he yelped. His progress was a series of yelps, from w=
hich
might have been adduced the number of rocks he encountered.
Below the rapid was a second pool, and here,
captured by the eddy, he was gently borne to the bank, and as gently deposi=
ted
on a bed of gravel. He crawled
frantically clear of the water and lay down. He had learned some more about the
world. Water was not alive. Yet it moved. Also, it looked as solid as the ea=
rth,
but was without any solidity at all.
His conclusion was that things were not always what they appeared to
be. The cub's fear of the unk=
nown
was an inherited distrust, and it had now been strengthened by experience.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Thenceforth, in the nature of thin=
gs, he
would possess an abiding distrust of appearances. He would have to learn the reality=
of a
thing before he could put his faith into it.
One other adventure was destined for him that
day. He had recollected that =
there
was such a thing in the world as his mother. And then there came to him a feeli=
ng
that he wanted her more than all the rest of the things in the world. Not only was his body tired with t=
he
adventures it had undergone, but his little brain was equally tired. In all the days he had lived it ha=
d not
worked so hard as on this one day.
Furthermore, he was sleepy.
So he started out to look for the cave and his mother, feeling at the
same time an overwhelming rush of loneliness and helplessness.
He was sprawling along between some bushes, wh=
en
he heard a sharp intimidating cry.
There was a flash of yellow before his eyes. He saw a weasel leaping swiftly aw=
ay
from him. It was a small live
thing, and he had no fear. Th=
en,
before him, at his feet, he saw an extremely small live thing, only several
inches long, a young weasel, that, like himself, had disobediently gone out
adventuring. It tried to retr=
eat
before him. He turned it over with his paw. It made a queer, grating noise.
While he yelped and ki-yi'd and scrambled
backward, he saw the mother- weasel leap upon her young one and disappear w=
ith
it into the neighbouring thicket.
The cut of her teeth in his neck still hurt, but his feelings were h=
urt
more grievously, and he sat down and weakly whimpered. This mother-weasel was so small an=
d so
savage. He was yet to learn t=
hat
for size and weight the weasel was the most ferocious, vindictive, and terr=
ible
of all the killers of the Wild. But
a portion of this knowledge was quickly to be his.
He was still whimpering when the mother-weasel
reappeared. She did not rush =
him,
now that her young one was safe.
She approached more cautiously, and the cub had full opportunity to
observe her lean, snakelike body, and her head, erect, eager, and snake-like
itself. Her sharp, menacing c=
ry
sent the hair bristling along his back, and he snarled warningly at her.
At first he snarled and tried to fight; but he=
was
very young, and this was only his first day in the world, and his snarl bec=
ame
a whimper, his fight a struggle to escape.=
The weasel never relaxed her hold.&=
nbsp;
She hung on, striving to press down with her teeth to the great vein
where his life-blood bubbled. The
weasel was a drinker of blood, and it was ever her preference to drink from=
the
throat of life itself.
The grey cub would have died, and there would =
have
been no story to write about him, had not the she-wolf come bounding through
the bushes. The weasel let go=
the
cub and flashed at the she-wolf's throat, missing, but getting a hold on the
jaw instead. The she-wolf fli=
rted
her head like the snap of a whip, breaking the weasel's hold and flinging it
high in the air. And, still i=
n the
air, the she-wolf's jaws closed on the lean, yellow body, and the weasel kn=
ew
death between the crunching teeth.
The cub experienced another access of affectio=
n on
the part of his mother. Her j=
oy at
finding him seemed even greater than his joy at being found. She nozzled him and caressed him a=
nd
licked the cuts made in him by the weasel's teeth. Then, between them, mother and cub=
, they
ate the blood-drinker, and after that went back to the cave and slept.
=
The
cub's development was rapid. =
He
rested for two days, and then ventured forth from the cave again. It was on this adventure that he f=
ound
the young weasel whose mother he had helped eat, and he saw to it that the
young weasel went the way of its mother.&n=
bsp;
But on this trip he did not get lost. When he grew tired, he found his w=
ay
back to the cave and slept. A=
nd
every day thereafter found him out and ranging a wider area.
He began to get accurate measurement of his
strength and his weakness, and to know when to be bold and when to be
cautious. He found it expedie=
nt to
be cautious all the time, except for the rare moments, when, assured of his=
own
intrepidity, he abandoned himself to petty rages and lusts.
He was always a little demon of fury when he
chanced upon a stray ptarmigan.
Never did he fail to respond savagely to the chatter of the squirrel=
he
had first met on the blasted pine.
While the sight of a moose-bird almost invariably put him into the
wildest of rages; for he never forgot the peck on the nose he had received =
from
the first of that ilk he encountered.
But there were times when even a moose-bird fa=
iled
to affect him, and those were times when he felt himself to be in danger fr=
om
some other prowling meat hunter. He
never forgot the hawk, and its moving shadow always sent him crouching into=
the
nearest thicket. He no longer=
sprawled
and straddled, and already he was developing the gait of his mother, slinki=
ng
and furtive, apparently without exertion, yet sliding along with a swiftness
that was as deceptive as it was imperceptible.
In the matter of meat, his luck had been all in
the beginning. The seven ptar=
migan
chicks and the baby weasel represented the sum of his killings. His desire =
to
kill strengthened with the days, and he cherished hungry ambitions for the
squirrel that chattered so volubly and always informed all wild creatures t=
hat
the wolf-cub was approaching. But
as birds flew in the air, squirrels could climb trees, and the cub could on=
ly
try to crawl unobserved upon the squirrel when it was on the ground.
The cub entertained a great respect for his
mother. She could get meat, a=
nd she
never failed to bring him his share.
Further, she was unafraid of things. It did not occur to him that this
fearlessness was founded upon experience and knowledge. Its effect on him was that of an i=
mpression
of power. His mother represen=
ted
power; and as he grew older he felt this power in the sharper admonishment =
of
her paw; while the reproving nudge of her nose gave place to the slash of h=
er
fangs. For this, likewise, he
respected his mother. She com=
pelled
obedience from him, and the older he grew the shorter grew her temper.
Famine came again, and the cub with clearer
consciousness knew once more the bite of hunger. The she-wolf ran herself thin in t=
he
quest for meat. She rarely slept any more in the cave, spending most of her
time on the meat-trail, and spending it vainly. This famine was not a long one, bu=
t it
was severe while it lasted. T=
he cub
found no more milk in his mother's breast, nor did he get one mouthful of m=
eat
for himself.
Before, he had hunted in play, for the sheer
joyousness of it; now he hunted in deadly earnestness, and found nothing. Yet the failure of it accelerated =
his
development. He studied the h=
abits
of the squirrel with greater carefulness, and strove with greater craft to
steal upon it and surprise it. He
studied the wood-mice and tried to dig them out of their burrows; and he
learned much about the ways of moose-birds and woodpeckers. And there came a day when the hawk=
's
shadow did not drive him crouching into the bushes. He had grown stronger and wiser, a=
nd
more confident. Also, he was =
desperate. So he sat on his haunches, conspic=
uously
in an open space, and challenged the hawk down out of the sky. For he knew that there, floating i=
n the
blue above him, was meat, the meat his stomach yearned after so
insistently. But the hawk ref=
used to
come down and give battle, and the cub crawled away into a thicket and whim=
pered
his disappointment and hunger.
The famine broke. The she-wolf brought home meat.
A full stomach conduces to inaction, and the c=
ub
lay in the cave, sleeping against his mother's side. He was aroused by her snarling. Ne=
ver
had he heard her snarl so terribly.
Possibly in her whole life it was the most terrible snarl she ever
gave. There was reason for it=
, and none
knew it better than she. A ly=
nx's
lair is not despoiled with impunity.
In the full glare of the afternoon light, crouching in the entrance =
of
the cave, the cub saw the lynx-mother.&nbs=
p;
The hair rippled up along his back at the sight. Here was fear, and it did not requ=
ire
his instinct to tell him of it. And
if sight alone were not sufficient, the cry of rage the intruder gave,
beginning with a snarl and rushing abruptly upward into a hoarse screech, w=
as
convincing enough in itself.
The cub felt the prod of the life that was in =
him,
and stood up and snarled valiantly by his mother's side. But she thrust him ignominiously a=
way
and behind her. Because of the
low-roofed entrance the lynx could not leap in, and when she made a crawling
rush of it the she-wolf sprang upon her and pinned her down. The cub saw little of the battle.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was a tremendous snarling and
spitting and screeching. The =
two
animals threshed about, the lynx ripping and tearing with her claws and usi=
ng
her teeth as well, while the she-wolf used her teeth alone.
Once, the cub sprang in and sank his teeth into
the hind leg of the lynx. He clung on, growling savagely. Though he did not know it, by the =
weight
of his body he clogged the action of the leg and thereby saved his mother m=
uch
damage. A change in the battle
crushed him under both their bodies and wrenched loose his hold. The next moment the two mothers
separated, and, before they rushed together again, the lynx lashed out at t=
he
cub with a huge fore-paw that ripped his shoulder open to the bone and sent=
him
hurtling sidewise against the wall.
Then was added to the uproar the cub's shrill yelp of pain and
fright. But the fight lasted =
so
long that he had time to cry himself out and to experience a second burst o=
f courage;
and the end of the battle found him again clinging to a hind-leg and furiou=
sly
growling between his teeth.
The lynx was dead. But the she-wolf was very weak and
sick. At first she caressed t=
he cub
and licked his wounded shoulder; but the blood she had lost had taken with =
it
her strength, and for all of a day and a night she lay by her dead foe's si=
de,
without movement, scarcely breathing.
For a week she never left the cave, except for water, and then her
movements were slow and painful. At
the end of that time the lynx was devoured, while the she-wolf's wounds had
healed sufficiently to permit her to take the meat-trail again.
The cub's shoulder was stiff and sore, and for
some time he limped from the terrible slash he had received. But the world now seemed changed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He went about in it with greater
confidence, with a feeling of prowess that had not been his in the days bef=
ore
the battle with the lynx. He =
had looked
upon life in a more ferocious aspect; he had fought; he had buried his teet=
h in
the flesh of a foe; and he had survived.&n=
bsp;
And because of all this, he carried himself more boldly, with a touc=
h of
defiance that was new in him. He
was no longer afraid of minor things, and much of his timidity had vanished,
though the unknown never ceased to press upon him with its mysteries and
terrors, intangible and ever-menacing.
He began to accompany his mother on the meat-t=
rail,
and he saw much of the killing of meat and began to play his part in it.
He saw the law operating around him on every
side. He had eaten the ptarmi=
gan
chicks. The hawk had eaten the
ptarmigan-mother. The hawk wo=
uld
also have eaten him. Later, w=
hen he
had grown more formidable, he wanted to eat the hawk. He had eaten the lynx kitten. The lynx-mother would have eaten h=
im had
she not herself been killed and eaten.&nbs=
p;
And so it went. The la=
w was
being lived about him by all live things, and he himself was part and parce=
l of
the law. He was a killer. His only food was meat, live meat,=
that
ran away swiftly before him, or flew into the air, or climbed trees, or hid=
in
the ground, or faced him and fought with him, or turned the tables and ran
after him.
Had the cub thought in man-fashion, he might h=
ave
epitomised life as a voracious appetite and the world as a place wherein ra=
nged
a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hun=
ted,
eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and d=
isorder,
a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planles=
s,
endless.
But the cub did not think in man-fashion. He did not look at things with wide
vision. He was single-purpose=
d, and
entertained but one thought or desire at a time. Besides the law of meat, there wer=
e a
myriad other and lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with surprise=
. The stir of the life that was in h=
im,
the play of his muscles, was an unending happiness. To run down meat was to experience
thrills and elations. His rag=
es and
battles were pleasures. Terror
itself, and the mystery of the unknown, led to his living.
And there were easements and satisfactions.
=
The
cub came upon it suddenly. It=
was
his own fault. He had been ca=
reless. He had left the cave and run down =
to the
stream to drink. It might hav=
e been
that he took no notice because he was heavy with sleep. (He had been out all
night on the meat-trail, and had but just then awakened.) And his carelessness might have be=
en due
to the familiarity of the trail to the pool. He had travelled it often, and not=
hing
had ever happened on it.
He went down past the blasted pine, crossed the
open space, and trotted in amongst the trees. Then, at the same instant, he saw =
and
smelt. Before him, sitting silently on their haunches, were five live thing=
s, the
like of which he had never seen before.&nb=
sp;
It was his first glimpse of mankind. But at the sight of him the five m=
en did
not spring to their feet, nor show their teeth, nor snarl. They did not move, but sat there, =
silent
and ominous.
Nor did the cub move. Every instinct of his nature would=
have
impelled him to dash wildly away, had there not suddenly and for the first =
time
arisen in him another and counter instinct. A great awe descended upon him.
The cub had never seen man, yet the instinct
concerning man was his. In di=
m ways
he recognised in man the animal that had fought itself to primacy over the
other animals of the Wild. Not
alone out of his own eyes, but out of the eyes of all his ancestors was the=
cub
now looking upon man--out of eyes that had circled in the darkness around
countless winter camp-fires, that had peered from safe distances and from t=
he hearts
of thickets at the strange, two-legged animal that was lord over living
things. The spell of the cub's
heritage was upon him, the fear and the respect born of the centuries of
struggle and the accumulated experience of the generations. The heritage was too compelling fo=
r a wolf
that was only a cub. Had he b=
een
full-grown, he would have run away.
As it was, he cowered down in a paralysis of fear, already half prof=
fering
the submission that his kind had proffered from the first time a wolf came =
in
to sit by man's fire and be made warm.
One of the Indians arose and walked over to him
and stooped above him. The cub cowered closer to the ground. It was the unknown, objectified at=
last,
in concrete flesh and blood, bending over him and reaching down to seize ho=
ld
of him. His hair bristled
involuntarily; his lips writhed back and his little fangs were bared. The hand, poised like doom above h=
im,
hesitated, and the man spoke laughing, "Wabam wabisca ip pit tah."=
; ("Look! The white fangs!")
The other Indians laughed loudly, and urged the
man on to pick up the cub. As=
the
hand descended closer and closer, there raged within the cub a battle of the
instincts. He experienced two=
great
impulsions--to yield and to fight.
The resulting action was a compromise. He did both. He yielded till the hand almost to=
uched
him. Then he fought, his teet=
h flashing
in a snap that sank them into the hand.&nb=
sp;
The next moment he received a clout alongside the head that knocked =
him
over on his side. Then all fight fled out of him. His puppyhood and the instinct of =
submission
took charge of him. He sat up=
on
his haunches and ki-yi'd. But the man whose hand he had bitten was angry. The cub received a clout on the ot=
her
side of his head. Whereupon h=
e sat
up and ki-yi'd louder than ever.
The four Indians laughed more loudly, while ev=
en
the man who had been bitten began to laugh. They surrounded the cub and laughe=
d at
him, while he wailed out his terror and his hurt. In the midst of it, he heard somet=
hing. The Indians heard it too. But the cub knew what it was, and =
with a
last, long wail that had in it more of triumph than grief, he ceased his no=
ise
and waited for the coming of his mother, of his ferocious and indomitable
mother who fought and killed all things and was never afraid. She was snarling as she ran. She had heard the cry of her cub a=
nd was
dashing to save him.
She bounded in amongst them, her anxious and
militant motherhood making her anything but a pretty sight. But to the cub the spectacle of he=
r protective
rage was pleasing. He uttered=
a
glad little cry and bounded to meet her, while the man-animals went back
hastily several steps. The sh=
e-wolf
stood over against her cub, facing the men, with bristling hair, a snarl
rumbling deep in her throat. =
Her
face was distorted and malignant with menace, even the bridge of the nose
wrinkling from tip to eyes so prodigious was her snarl.
Then it was that a cry went up from one of the
men. "Kiche!" was w=
hat he
uttered. It was an exclamatio=
n of
surprise. The cub felt his mo=
ther wilting
at the sound.
"Kiche!" the man cried again, this t=
ime
with sharpness and authority.
And then the cub saw his mother, the she-wolf,=
the
fearless one, crouching down till her belly touched the ground, whimpering,
wagging her tail, making peace signs.
The cub could not understand.
He was appalled. The a=
we of
man rushed over him again. His
instinct had been true. His m=
other
verified it. She, too, render=
ed
submission to the man- animals.
The man who had spoken came over to her. He put his hand upon her head, and=
she
only crouched closer. She did=
not
snap, nor threaten to snap. The other men came up, and surrounded her, and =
felt
her, and pawed her, which actions she made no attempt to resent. They were greatly excited, and mad=
e many
noises with their mouths. The=
se
noises were not indication of danger, the cub decided, as he crouched near =
his
mother still bristling from time to time but doing his best to submit.
"It is not strange," an Indian was
saying. "Her father was a
wolf. It is true, her mother =
was a
dog; but did not my brother tie her out in the woods all of three nights in=
the
mating season? Therefore was =
the
father of Kiche a wolf."
"It is a year, Grey Beaver, since she ran
away," spoke a second Indian.
"It is not strange, Salmon Tongue," =
Grey
Beaver answered. "It was=
the time
of the famine, and there was no meat for the dogs."
"She has lived with the wolves," sai=
d a
third Indian.
"So it would seem, Three Eagles," Gr=
ey
Beaver answered, laying his hand on the cub; "and this be the sign of
it."
The cub snarled a little at the touch of the h=
and,
and the hand flew back to administer a clout. Whereupon the cub covered its fang=
s, and
sank down submissively, while the hand, returning, rubbed behind his ears, =
and up
and down his back.
"This be the sign of it," Grey Beaver
went on. "It is plain th=
at his
mother is Kiche. But his fath=
er was
a wolf. Wherefore is there in=
him little
dog and much wolf. His fangs =
be
white, and White Fang shall be his name.&n=
bsp;
I have spoken. He is my
dog. For was not Kiche my bro=
ther's
dog? And is not my brother
dead?"
The cub, who had thus received a name in the
world, lay and watched. For a=
time
the man-animals continued to make their mouth-noises. Then Grey Beaver took a knife from=
a
sheath that hung around his neck, and went into the thicket and cut a
stick. White Fang watched him=
. He notched the stick at each end a=
nd in
the notches fastened strings of raw-hide. One string he tied around the thr=
oat
of Kiche. Then he led her to =
a small
pine, around which he tied the other string.
White Fang followed and lay down beside her. Salmon Tongue's hand reached out t=
o him
and rolled him over on his back.
Kiche looked on anxiously.
White Fang felt fear mounting in him again. He could not quite suppress a snar=
l, but
he made no offer to snap. The=
hand,
with fingers crooked and spread apart, rubbed his stomach in a playful way =
and rolled
him from side to side. It was
ridiculous and ungainly, lying there on his back with legs sprawling in the
air. Besides, it was a positi=
on of
such utter helplessness that White Fang's whole nature revolted against
it. He could do nothing to de=
fend
himself. If this man- animal =
intended
harm, White Fang knew that he could not escape it. How could he spring away with his =
four
legs in the air above him? Ye=
t submission
made him master his fear, and he only growled softly. This growl he could not suppress; =
nor
did the man-animal resent it by giving him a blow on the head. And furthermore, such was the
strangeness of it, White Fang experienced an unaccountable sensation of
pleasure as the hand rubbed back and forth. When he was rolled on his side he =
ceased
to growl, when the fingers pressed and prodded at the base of his ears the =
pleasurable
sensation increased; and when, with a final rub and scratch, the man left h=
im
alone and went away, all fear had died out of White Fang. He was to know fear many times in =
his
dealing with man; yet it was a token of the fearless companionship with man
that was ultimately to be his.
After a time, White Fang heard strange noises
approaching. He was quick in =
his
classification, for he knew them at once for man-animal noises. A few minutes later the remainder =
of the
tribe, strung out as it was on the march, trailed in. There were more men and many women=
and
children, forty souls of them, and all heavily burdened with camp equipage =
and outfit. Also there were many dogs; and the=
se,
with the exception of the part-grown puppies, were likewise burdened with c=
amp
outfit. On their backs, in ba=
gs
that fastened tightly around underneath, the dogs carried from twenty to th=
irty
pounds of weight.
White Fang had never seen dogs before, but at
sight of them he felt that they were his own kind, only somehow different.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But they displayed little differen=
ce
from the wolf when they discovered the cub and his mother. There was a rush. White Fang bristled and snarled and
snapped in the face of the open-mouthed oncoming wave of dogs, and went down
and under them, feeling the sharp slash of teeth in his body, himself bitin=
g and
tearing at the legs and bellies above him.=
There was a great uproar. He could hear the snarl of Kiche as she fo=
ught
for him; and he could hear the cries of the man-animals, the sound of clubs
striking upon bodies, and the yelps of pain from the dogs so struck.
Only a few seconds elapsed before he was on his
feet again. He could now see =
the
man-animals driving back the dogs with clubs and stones, defending him, sav=
ing
him from the savage teeth of his kind that somehow was not his kind. And though there was no reason in =
his
brain for a clear conception of so abstract a thing as justice, nevertheles=
s,
in his own way, he felt the justice of the man-animals, and he knew them fo=
r what
they were--makers of law and executors of law. Also, he appreciated the power with
which they administered the law.
Unlike any animals he had ever encountered, they did not bite nor
claw. They enforced their liv=
e strength
with the power of dead things. Dead
things did their bidding. Thu=
s,
sticks and stones, directed by these strange creatures, leaped through the =
air
like living things, inflicting grievous hurts upon the dogs.
To his mind this was power unusual, power
inconceivable and beyond the natural, power that was godlike. White Fang, in the very nature of =
him, could
never know anything about gods; at the best he could know only things that =
were
beyond knowing--but the wonder and awe that he had of these man-animals in =
ways
resembled what would be the wonder and awe of man at sight of some celestial
creature, on a mountain top, hurling thunderbolts from either hand at an
astonished world.
The last dog had been driven back. The hubbub died down. And White Fang licked his hurts and
meditated upon this, his first taste of pack-cruelty and his introduction to
the pack. He had never dreame=
d that
his own kind consisted of more than One Eye, his mother, and himself. They had constituted a kind apart,=
and
here, abruptly, he had discovered many more creatures apparently of his own
kind. And there was a subcons=
cious resentment
that these, his kind, at first sight had pitched upon him and tried to dest=
roy
him. In the same way he resen=
ted
his mother being tied with a stick, even though it was done by the superior
man-animals. It savoured of t=
he
trap, of bondage. Yet of the =
trap
and of bondage he knew nothing.
Freedom to roam and run and lie down at will, had been his heritage;=
and
here it was being infringed upon.
His mother's movements were restricted to the length of a stick, and=
by
the length of that same stick was he restricted, for he had not yet got bey=
ond
the need of his mother's side.
He did not like it. Nor did he like it when the man-an=
imals
arose and went on with their march; for a tiny man-animal took the other en=
d of
the stick and led Kiche captive behind him, and behind Kiche followed White=
Fang,
greatly perturbed and worried by this new adventure he had entered upon.
They went down the valley of the stream, far
beyond White Fang's widest ranging, until they came to the end of the valle=
y,
where the stream ran into the Mackenzie River. Here, where canoes were cached on =
poles
high in the air and where stood fish-racks for the drying of fish, camp was=
made;
and White Fang looked on with wondering eyes. The superiority of these man-anima=
ls
increased with every moment. =
There
was their mastery over all these sharp-fanged dogs. It breathed of power. But greater than that, to the wolf=
-cub,
was their mastery over things not alive; their capacity to communicate moti=
on
to unmoving things; their capacity to change the very face of the world.
It was this last that especially affected
him. The elevation of frames =
of
poles caught his eye; yet this in itself was not so remarkable, being done =
by
the same creatures that flung sticks and stones to great distances. But when the frames of poles were =
made
into tepees by being covered with cloth and skins, White Fang was
astounded. It was the colossa=
l bulk
of them that impressed him. T=
hey
arose around him, on every side, like some monstrous quick-growing form of
life. They occupied nearly the
whole circumference of his field of vision. He was afraid of them. They loomed ominously above him; a=
nd
when the breeze stirred them into huge movements, he cowered down in fear,
keeping his eyes warily upon them, and prepared to spring away if they
attempted to precipitate themselves upon him.
But in a short while his fear of the tepees pa=
ssed
away. He saw the women and ch=
ildren
passing in and out of them without harm, and he saw the dogs trying often to
get into them, and being driven away with sharp words and flying stones.
A moment later he was straying away again from=
his
mother. Her stick was tied to=
a peg
in the ground and she could not follow him. A part-grown puppy, somewhat large=
r and
older than he, came toward him slowly, with ostentatious and belligerent
importance. The puppy's name,=
as
White Fang was afterward to hear him called, was Lip-lip. He had had experience in puppy fig=
hts
and was already something of a bully.
Lip-lip was White Fang's own kind, and, being =
only
a puppy, did not seem dangerous; so White Fang prepared to meet him in a
friendly spirit. But when the
strangers walk became stiff-legged and his lips lifted clear of his teeth, =
White
Fang stiffened too, and answered with lifted lips. They half circled about each other,
tentatively, snarling and bristling.
This lasted several minutes, and White Fang was beginning to enjoy i=
t,
as a sort of game. But sudden=
ly,
with remarkable swiftness, Lip-lip leaped in, delivering a slashing snap, a=
nd
leaped away again. The snap h=
ad taken
effect on the shoulder that had been hurt by the lynx and that was still so=
re
deep down near the bone. The
surprise and hurt of it brought a yelp out of White Fang; but the next mome=
nt,
in a rush of anger, he was upon Lip-lip and snapping viciously.
But Lip-lip had lived his life in camp and had
fought many puppy fights. Three times, four times, and half a dozen times, =
his
sharp little teeth scored on the newcomer, until White Fang, yelping
shamelessly, fled to the protection of his mother. It was the first of the many fight=
s he
was to have with Lip-lip, for they were enemies from the start, born so, wi=
th natures
destined perpetually to clash.
Kiche licked White Fang soothingly with her
tongue, and tried to prevail upon him to remain with her. But his curiosity was rampant, and
several minutes later he was venturing forth on a new quest. He came upon one of the man-animal=
s,
Grey Beaver, who was squatting on his hams and doing something with sticks =
and
dry moss spread before him on the ground.&=
nbsp;
White Fang came near to him and watched. Grey Beaver made mouth-noises whic=
h White
Fang interpreted as not hostile, so he came still nearer.
Women and children were carrying more sticks a=
nd
branches to Grey Beaver. It was evidently an affair of moment. White Fang came in until he touche=
d Grey
Beaver's knee, so curious was he, and already forgetful that this was a
terrible man-animal. Suddenly=
he
saw a strange thing like mist beginning to arise from the sticks and moss
beneath Grey Beaver's hands. =
Then,
amongst the sticks themselves, appeared a live thing, twisting and turning,=
of
a colour like the colour of the sun in the sky. White Fang knew nothing abo=
ut
fire. It drew him as the ligh=
t, in
the mouth of the cave had drawn him in his early puppyhood. He crawled the several steps towar=
d the
flame. He heard Grey Beaver c=
huckle
above him, and he knew the sound was not hostile. Then his nose touched the flame, a=
nd at
the same instant his little tongue went out to it.
For a moment he was paralysed. The unknown, lurking in the midst =
of the
sticks and moss, was savagely clutching him by the nose. He scrambled backward, bursting ou=
t in
an astonished explosion of ki-yi's.
At the sound, Kiche leaped snarling to the end of her stick, and the=
re
raged terribly because she could not come to his aid. But Grey Beaver laughed loudly, and
slapped his thighs, and told the happening to all the rest of the camp, till
everybody was laughing uproariously.
But White Fang sat on his haunches and ki-yi'd and ki-yi'd, a forlorn
and pitiable little figure in the midst of the man-animals.
It was the worst hurt he had ever known. Both nose and tongue had been scor=
ched
by the live thing, sun-coloured, that had grown up under Grey Beaver's
hands. He cried and cried
interminably, and every fresh wail was greeted by bursts of laughter on the
part of the man-animals. He t=
ried
to soothe his nose with his tongue, but the tongue was burnt too, and the t=
wo
hurts coming together produced greater hurt; whereupon he cried more hopele=
ssly
and helplessly than ever.
And then shame came to him. He knew laughter and the meaning of
it. It is not given us to kno=
w how
some animals know laughter, and know when they are being laughed at; but it=
was
this same way that White Fang knew it.&nbs=
p;
And he felt shame that the man-animals should be laughing at him.
Twilight drew down and night came on, and White
Fang lay by his mother's side. His nose
and tongue still hurt, but he was perplexed by a greater trouble. He was homesick. He felt a vacancy in him, a need f=
or the
hush and quietude of the stream and the cave in the cliff. Life had become too populous. There were so many of the man-anim=
als,
men, women, and children, all making noises and irritations. And there were the dogs, ever squa=
bbling
and bickering, bursting into uproars and creating confusions. The restful loneliness of the only=
life
he had known was gone. Here t=
he
very air was palpitant with life.
It hummed and buzzed unceasingly.&n=
bsp;
Continually changing its intensity and abruptly variant in pitch, it
impinged on his nerves and senses, made him nervous and restless and worried
him with a perpetual imminence of happening.
He watched the man-animals coming and going and
moving about the camp. In fas=
hion
distantly resembling the way men look upon the gods they create, so looked
White Fang upon the man-animals before him. They were superior creatures, of a
verity, gods. To his dim
comprehension they were as much wonder-workers as gods are to men. They were creatures of mastery, po=
ssessing
all manner of unknown and impossible potencies, overlords of the alive and =
the
not alive--making obey that which moved, imparting movement to that which d=
id
not move, and making life, sun-coloured and biting life, to grow out of dead
moss and wood. They were
fire-makers! They were gods.
=
The
days were thronged with experience for White Fang. During the time that Kiche was tie=
d by
the stick, he ran about over all the camp, inquiring, investigating,
learning. He quickly came to =
know
much of the ways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed
contempt. The more he came to=
know
them, the more they vindicated their superiority, the more they displayed t=
heir
mysterious powers, the greater loomed their god-likeness.
To man has been given the grief, often, of see=
ing
his gods overthrown and his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild =
dog
that have come in to crouch at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whose gods are of the =
unseen
and the overguessed, vapours and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of
reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible
out-croppings of self into the realm of spirit--unlike man, the wolf and the
wild dog that have come in to the fire find their gods in the living flesh,
solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the
accomplishment of their ends and their existence. No effort of faith is necessary to
believe in such a god; no effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in s=
uch
a god. There is no getting aw=
ay
from it. There it stands, on =
its
two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful a=
nd
loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that
bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh.
And so it was with White Fang. The man-animals were gods unmistak=
able and
unescapable. As his mother, K=
iche,
had rendered her allegiance to them at the first cry of her name, so he was
beginning to render his allegiance.
He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitably theirs. When they
walked, he got out of their way.
When they called, he came. When they threatened, he cowered down.
He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to
them. His actions were theirs=
to
command. His body was theirs =
to
maul, to stamp upon, to tolerate.
Such was the lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It came hard, going as it did, cou=
nter
to much that was strong and dominant in his own nature; and, while he disli=
ked
it in the learning of it, unknown to himself he was learning to like it.
But it did not all happen in a day, this giving
over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego hi=
s wild
heritage and his memories of the Wild.&nbs=
p;
There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest and stood and
listened to something calling him far and away. And always he returned, restless a=
nd
uncomfortable, to whimper softly and wistfully at Kiche's side and to lick =
her
face with eager, questioning tongue.
White Fang learned rapidly the ways of the
camp. He knew the injustice a=
nd
greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be eaten.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He came to know that men were more=
just,
children more cruel, and women more kindly and more likely to toss him a bi=
t of
meat or bone. And after two or
three painful adventures with the mothers of part-grown puppies, he came in=
to
the knowledge that it was always good policy to let such mothers alone, to =
keep
away from them as far as possible, and to avoid them when he saw them comin=
g.
But the bane of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger, Lip- =
lip
had selected White Fang for his special object of persecution. While Fang fought willingly enough=
, but
he was outclassed. His enemy =
was
too big. Lip-lip became a nig=
htmare
to him. Whenever he ventured =
away
from his mother, the bully was sure to appear, trailing at his heels, snarl=
ing at
him, picking upon him, and watchful of an opportunity, when no man- animal =
was
near, to spring upon him and force a fight. As Lip-lip invariably won, he enjo=
yed it
hugely. It became his chief d=
elight
in life, as it became White Fang's chief torment.
But the effect upon White Fang was not to cow
him. Though he suffered most =
of the
damage and was always defeated, his spirit remained unsubdued. Yet a bad effect was produced. He became malignant and morose.
The effect of all this was to rob White Fang of
much of his puppyhood and to make him in his comportment older than his
age. Denied the outlet, throu=
gh
play, of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed his mental
processes. He became cunning;=
he
had idle time in which to devote himself to thoughts of trickery. Prevented from obtaining his share=
of meat
and fish when a general feed was given to the camp-dogs, he became a clever
thief. He had to forage for
himself, and he foraged well, though he was oft-times a plague to the squaw=
s in
consequence. He learned to sn=
eak
about camp, to be crafty, to know what was going on everywhere, to see and =
to
hear everything and to reason accordingly, and successfully to devise ways =
and
means of avoiding his implacable persecutor.
It was early in the days of his persecution th=
at
he played his first really big crafty game and got there from his first tas=
te
of revenge. As Kiche, when wi=
th the
wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs from the camps of men, so White F=
ang,
in manner somewhat similar, lured Lip-lip into Kiche's avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip-lip, White F=
ang
made an indirect flight that led in and out and around the various tepees o=
f the
camp. He was a good runner, s=
wifter
than any puppy of his size, and swifter than Lip-lip. But he did not run his best in this
chase. He barely held his own=
, one
leap ahead of his pursuer.
Lip-lip, excited by the chase and by the
persistent nearness of his victim, forgot caution and locality. When he remembered locality, it wa=
s too
late. Dashing at top speed ar=
ound a
tepee, he ran full tilt into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp of consternation,=
and
then her punishing jaws closed upon him.&n=
bsp;
She was tied, but he could not get away from her easily. She rolled him off his legs so tha=
t he could
not run, while she repeatedly ripped and slashed him with her fangs.
When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of =
her,
he crawled to his feet, badly dishevelled, hurt both in body and in
spirit. His hair was standing=
out
all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood where he had arisen, open=
ed his
mouth, and broke out the long, heart-broken puppy wail. But even this he was not allowed to
complete. In the middle of it, White Fang, rushing in, sank his teeth into =
Lip-lip's
hind leg. There was no fight =
left
in Lip-lip, and he ran away shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and
worrying him all the way back to his own tepee. Here the squaws came to his aid, a=
nd
White Fang, transformed into a raging demon, was finally driven off only by=
a fusillade
of stones.
Came the day when Grey Beaver, deciding that t=
he
liability of her running away was past, released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with his =
mother's
freedom. He accompanied her
joyfully about the camp; and, so long as he remained close by her side, Lip=
-lip
kept a respectful distance.
White-Fang even bristled up to him and walked stiff-legged, but Lip-=
lip
ignored the challenge. He was=
no
fool himself, and whatever vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait unt=
il
he caught White Fang alone.
Later on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed
into the edge of the woods next to the camp. He had led his mother there, step =
by
step, and now when she stopped, he tried to inveigle her farther. The stream, the lair, and the quiet
woods were calling to him, and he wanted her to come. He ran on a few steps,
stopped, and looked back. She=
had
not moved. He whined pleading=
ly,
and scurried playfully in and out of the underbrush. He ran back to her, li=
cked
her face, and ran on again. A=
nd
still she did not move. He st=
opped
and regarded her, all of an intentness and eagerness, physically expressed,
that slowly faded out of him as she turned her head and gazed back at the c=
amp.
There was something calling to him out there in
the open. His mother heard it
too. But she heard also that =
other
and louder call, the call of the fire and of man--the call which has been g=
iven
alone of all animals to the wolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild-dog, w=
ho
are brothers.
Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward
camp. Stronger than the physi=
cal
restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her. Unseen and
occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would not let her go.=
White Fang sat down in the shadow =
of a
birch and whimpered softly. T=
here
was a strong smell of pine, and subtle wood fragrances filled the air,
reminding him of his old life of freedom before the days of his bondage.
In the Wild the time of a mother with her youn=
g is
short; but under the dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Thus it was with White Fang. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Thr=
ee
Eagles. Three Eagles was goin=
g away
on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A strip of scarlet cloth, a bearsk=
in,
twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay the debt. White Fang saw his mother taken ab=
oard
Three Eagles' canoe, and tried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles knocked h=
im
backward to the land. The can=
oe
shoved off. He sprang into the
water and swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Even a man- animal, a god, White F=
ang
ignored, such was the terror he was in of losing his mother.
But gods are accustomed to being obeyed, and G=
rey
Beaver wrathfully launched a canoe in pursuit. When he overtook White Fang, he re=
ached down
and by the nape of the neck lifted him clear of the water. He did not deposit him at once in =
the
bottom of the canoe. Holding =
him suspended
with one hand, with the other hand he proceeded to give him a beating. And it was a beating. His hand was heavy. Every blow was shrewd to hurt; and=
he
delivered a multitude of blows.
Impelled by the blows that rained upon him, now
from this side, now from that, White Fang swung back and forth like an erra=
tic
and jerky pendulum. Varying were the emotions that surged through him. At first, he had known surprise. Then came a momentary fear, when he
yelped several times to the impact of the hand. But this was quickly followed by
anger. His free nature assert=
ed
itself, and he showed his teeth and snarled fearlessly in the face of the
wrathful god. This but served=
to
make the god more wrathful. T=
he
blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd to hurt.
Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang
continued to snarl. But this =
could
not last for ever. One or the=
other
must give over, and that one was White Fang. Fear surged through him again. For the first time he was being re=
ally
man-handled. The occasional b=
lows
of sticks and stones he had previously experienced were as caresses compared
with this. He broke down and =
began
to cry and yelp. For a time e=
ach blow
brought a yelp from him; but fear passed into terror, until finally his yel=
ps
were voiced in unbroken succession, unconnected with the rhythm of the puni=
shment.
At last Grey Beaver withheld his hand. White Fang, hanging limply, contin=
ued to
cry. This seemed to satisfy h=
is
master, who flung him down roughly in the bottom of the canoe. In the meantime the canoe had drif=
ted
down the stream. Grey Beaver =
picked
up the paddle. White Fang was=
in
his way. He spurned him savag=
ely
with his foot. In that moment=
White
Fang's free nature flashed forth again, and he sank his teeth into the
moccasined foot.
The beating that had gone before was as nothing
compared with the beating he now received.=
Grey Beaver's wrath was terrible; likewise was White Fang's fright.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Not only the hand, but the hard wo=
oden
paddle was used upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body
when he was again flung down in the canoe.=
Again, and this time with purpose, did Grey Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his atta=
ck on
the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no matter what the circumst=
ance,
must he dare to bite the god who was lord and master over him; the body of =
the
lord and master was sacred, not to be defiled by the teeth of such as he. That was evidently the crime of cr=
imes,
the one offence there was no condoning nor overlooking.
When the canoe touched the shore, White Fang l=
ay
whimpering and motionless, waiting the will of Grey Beaver. It was Grey Beaver's will that he =
should
go ashore, for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on his side and hurting
his bruises afresh. He crawled
tremblingly to his feet and stood whimpering. Lip-lip, who had watched the whole
proceeding from the bank, now rushed upon him, knocking him over and sinking
his teeth into him. White Fan=
g was
too helpless to defend himself, and it would have gone hard with him had not
Grey Beaver's foot shot out, lifting Lip-lip into the air with its violence=
so
that he smashed down to earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animal's justice;=
and
even then, in his own pitiable plight, White Fang experienced a little grat=
eful
thrill. At Grey Beaver's heel=
s he
limped obediently through the village to the tepee. And so it came that White Fang lea=
rned
that the right to punish was something the gods reserved for themselves and
denied to the lesser creatures under them.
That night, when all was still, White Fang
remembered his mother and sorrowed for her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up=
Grey
Beaver, who beat him. After t=
hat he
mourned gently when the gods were around.&=
nbsp;
But sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he =
gave
vent to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings.
It was during this period that he might have
harkened to the memories of the lair and the stream and run back to the
Wild. But the memory of his m=
other
held him. As the hunting
man-animals went out and came back, so she would come back to the village s=
ome
time. So he remained in his b=
ondage
waiting for her.
But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was much to interest him.
Nay, Grey Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a
piece of meat, and defended him against the other dogs in the eating of
it. And such a piece of meat =
was of
value. It was worth more, in =
some
strange way, then a dozen pieces of meat from the hand of a squaw. Grey Beaver never petted nor
caressed. Perhaps it was the =
weight
of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the sheer power of him, and perha=
ps
it was all these things that influenced White Fang; for a certain tie of
attachment was forming between him and his surly lord.
Insidiously, and by remote ways, as well as by=
the
power of stick and stone and clout of hand, were the shackles of White Fang=
's
bondage being riveted upon him. The
qualities in his kind that in the beginning made it possible for them to co=
me
in to the fires of men, were qualities capable of development. They were developing in him, and t=
he
camp-life, replete with misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself to =
him
all the time. But White Fang =
was
unaware of it. He knew only g=
rief
for the loss of Kiche, hope for her return, and a hungry yearning for the f=
ree life
that had been his.
=
Lip-lip
continued so to darken his days that White Fang became wickeder and more
ferocious than it was his natural right to be. Savageness was a part of his make-=
up,
but the savageness thus developed exceeded his make- up. He acquired a reputation for wicke=
dness
amongst the man-animals themselves.
Wherever there was trouble and uproar in camp, fighting and squabbli=
ng
or the outcry of a squaw over a bit of stolen meat, they were sure to find
White Fang mixed up in it and usually at the bottom of it. They did not bot=
her
to look after the causes of his conduct.&n=
bsp;
They saw only the effects, and the effects were bad. He was a sneak and a thief, a
mischief-maker, a fomenter of trouble; and irate squaws told him to his fac=
e,
the while he eyed them alert and ready to dodge any quick-flung missile, th=
at
he was a wolf and worthless and bound to come to an evil end.
He found himself an outcast in the midst of the
populous camp. All the young =
dogs
followed Lip-lip's lead. Ther=
e was
a difference between White Fang and them.&=
nbsp;
Perhaps they sensed his wild-wood breed, and instinctively felt for =
him
the enmity that the domestic dog feels for the wolf. But be that as it may, they joined=
with
Lip-lip in the persecution. A=
nd,
once declared against him, they found good reason to continue declared agai=
nst
him. One and all, from time to
time, they felt his teeth; and to his credit, he gave more than he
received. Many of them he cou=
ld
whip in single fight; but single fight was denied him. The beginning of such a fight was a
signal for all the young dogs in camp to come running and pitch upon him.
Out of this pack-persecution he learned two
important things: how to take care of himself in a mass-fight against him--=
and
how, on a single dog, to inflict the greatest amount of damage in the brief=
est
space of time. To keep one's =
feet
in the midst of the hostile mass meant life, and this he learnt well. He became cat-like in his ability =
to
stay on his feet. Even grown =
dogs
might hurtle him backward or sideways with the impact of their heavy bodies;
and backward or sideways he would go, in the air or sliding on the ground, =
but
always with his legs under him and his feet downward to the mother earth.
When dogs fight, there are usually preliminari=
es
to the actual combat--snarlings and bristlings and stiff-legged
struttings. But White Fang le=
arned
to omit these preliminaries. =
Delay
meant the coming against him of all the young dogs. He must do his work quickly and get
away. So he learnt to give no=
warning
of his intention. He rushed i=
n and
snapped and slashed on the instant, without notice, before his foe could
prepare to meet him. Thus he
learned how to inflict quick and severe damage. Also he learned the value of
surprise. A dog, taken off it=
s guard,
its shoulder slashed open or its ear ripped in ribbons before it knew what =
was
happening, was a dog half whipped.
Furthermore, it was remarkably easy to overthr=
ow a
dog taken by surprise; while a dog, thus overthrown, invariably exposed for=
a
moment the soft underside of its neck--the vulnerable point at which to str=
ike
for its life. White Fang knew=
this
point. It was a knowledge
bequeathed to him directly from the hunting generation of wolves. So it was that White Fang's method=
when
he took the offensive, was: first to find a young dog alone; second, to
surprise it and knock it off its feet; and third, to drive in with his teet=
h at
the soft throat.
Being but partly grown his jaws had not yet be=
come
large enough nor strong enough to make his throat-attack deadly; but many a
young dog went around camp with a lacerated throat in token of White Fang's
intention. And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the
woods, he managed, by repeatedly overthrowing him and attacking the throat,=
to cut
the great vein and let out the life.
There was a great row that night.&n=
bsp;
He had been observed, the news had been carried to the dead dog's ma=
ster,
the squaws remembered all the instances of stolen meat, and Grey Beaver was
beset by many angry voices. B=
ut he
resolutely held the door of his tepee, inside which he had placed the culpr=
it,
and refused to permit the vengeance for which his tribespeople clamoured.
White Fang became hated by man and dog. During this period of his developm=
ent he
never knew a moment's security. The
tooth of every dog was against him, the hand of every man. He was greeted with snarls by his =
kind,
with curses and stones by his gods.
He lived tensely. He w=
as always
keyed up, alert for attack, wary of being attacked, with an eye for sudden =
and
unexpected missiles, prepared to act precipitately and coolly, to leap in w=
ith
a flash of teeth, or to leap away with a menacing snarl. As for snarling he could snarl more terribly t=
han
any dog, young or old, in camp. The
intent of the snarl is to warn or frighten, and judgment is required to know
when it should be used. White=
Fang
knew how to make it and when to make it.&n=
bsp;
Into his snarl he incorporated all that was vicious, malignant, and
horrible. With nose serrulate=
d by
continuous spasms, hair bristling in recurrent waves, tongue whipping out l=
ike
a red snake and whipping back again, ears flattened down, eyes gleaming hat=
red,
lips wrinkled back, and fangs exposed and dripping, he could compel a pause=
on
the part of almost any assailant. =
span>A
temporary pause, when taken off his guard, gave him the vital moment in whi=
ch
to think and determine his action.
But often a pause so gained lengthened out until it evolved into a
complete cessation from the attack.
And before more than one of the grown dogs White Fang's snarl enabled
him to beat an honourable retreat. An outcast himself from the pack of the part-g=
rown
dogs, his sanguinary methods and remarkable efficiency made the pack pay for
its persecution of him. Not
permitted himself to run with the pack, the curious state of affairs obtain=
ed
that no member of the pack could run outside the pack. White Fang would not
permit it. What of his bushwh=
acking
and waylaying tactics, the young dogs were afraid to run by themselves. With the exception of Lip-lip, the=
y were
compelled to hunch together for mutual protection against the terrible enemy
they had made. A puppy alone =
by the
river bank meant a puppy dead or a puppy that aroused the camp with its shr=
ill
pain and terror as it fled back from the wolf-cub that had waylaid it. But White Fang's reprisals did not cease, even
when the young dogs had learned thoroughly that they must stay together.
=
Young
dogs are bound to play, and out of the exigencies of the situation they
realised their play in this mimic warfare.=
Thus it was that the hunt of White Fang became their chief game--a
deadly game, withal, and at all times a serious game. He, on the other hand, being the f=
astest-footed,
was unafraid to venture anywhere.
During the period that he waited vainly for his mother to come back,=
he
led the pack many a wild chase through the adjacent woods. But the pack invariably lost him.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Its noise and outcry warned him of=
its
presence, while he ran alone, velvet- footed, silently, a moving shadow amo=
ng
the trees after the manner of his father and mother before him. Further he was more directly conne=
cted with
the Wild than they; and he knew more of its secrets and stratagems. A favou=
rite
trick of his was to lose his trail in running water and then lie quietly in=
a
near-by thicket while their baffled cries arose around him.
Hated by his kind and by mankind, indomitable,
perpetually warred upon and himself waging perpetual war, his development w=
as
rapid and one-sided. This was=
no
soil for kindliness and affection to blossom in. Of such things he had not =
the
faintest glimmering. The code=
he
learned was to obey the strong and to oppress the weak. Grey Beaver was a god, and strong.=
Therefore White Fang obeyed him. But the dog younger or smaller than
himself was weak, a thing to be destroyed.=
His development was in the direction of power. In order to face the constant dang=
er of hurt
and even of destruction, his predatory and protective faculties were unduly
developed. He became quicker =
of
movement than the other dogs, swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lit=
he,
more lean with ironlike muscle and sinew, more enduring, more cruel, more
ferocious, and more intelligent. He
had to become all these things, else he would not have held his own nor sur=
vive
the hostile environment in which he found himself.
=
In the
fall of the year, when the days were shortening and the bite of the frost w=
as
coming into the air, White Fang got his chance for liberty. For several days
there had been a great hubbub in the village. The summer camp was being dismantl=
ed,
and the tribe, bag and baggage, was preparing to go off to the fall
hunting. White Fang watched i=
t all
with eager eyes, and when the tepees began to come down and the canoes were=
loading
at the bank, he understood. A=
lready
the canoes were departing, and some had disappeared down the river.
Quite deliberately he determined to stay
behind. He waited his opportu=
nity
to slink out of camp to the woods.
Here, in the running stream where ice was beginning to form, he hid =
his
trail. Then he crawled into t=
he
heart of a dense thicket and waited.
The time passed by, and he slept intermittently for hours. Then he was aroused by Grey Beaver=
's
voice calling him by name. Th=
ere
were other voices. White Fang=
could
hear Grey Beaver's squaw taking part in the search, and Mit-sah, who was Gr=
ey
Beaver's son.
White Fang trembled with fear, and though the
impulse came to crawl out of his hiding-place, he resisted it. After a time the voices died away,=
and
some time after that he crept out to enjoy the success of his undertaking.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Darkness was coming on, and for a =
while
he played about among the trees, pleasuring in his freedom. Then, and quite suddenly, he became
aware of loneliness. He sat d=
own to
consider, listening to the silence of the forest and perturbed by it. That nothing moved nor sounded, se=
emed
ominous. He felt the lurking =
of
danger, unseen and unguessed. He
was suspicious of the looming bulks of the trees and of the dark shadows th=
at
might conceal all manner of perilous things.
Then it was cold. Here was no warm side of a tepee a=
gainst
which to snuggle. The frost w=
as in
his feet, and he kept lifting first one fore- foot and then the other. He curved his bushy tail around to=
cover
them, and at the same time he saw a vision. There was nothing strange about it=
. Upon his inward sight was impresse=
d a
succession of memory-pictures. He saw the camp again, the tepees, and the b=
laze
of the fires. He heard the sh=
rill
voices of the women, the gruff basses of the men, and the snarling of the
dogs. He was hungry, and he
remembered pieces of meat and fish that had been thrown him. Here was no meat, nothing but a th=
reatening
and inedible silence.
His bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him.=
He had forgotten how to shift for
himself. The night yawned abo=
ut
him. His senses, accustomed t=
o the
hum and bustle of the camp, used to the continuous impact of sights and sou=
nds,
were now left idle. There was=
nothing
to do, nothing to see nor hear.
They strained to catch some interruption of the silence and immobili=
ty
of nature. They were appalled=
by
inaction and by the feel of something terrible impending.
He gave a great start of fright. A colossal and formless something =
was rushing
across the field of his vision. It
was a tree-shadow flung by the moon, from whose face the clouds had been
brushed away. Reassured, he
whimpered softly; then he suppressed the whimper for fear that it might att=
ract
the attention of the lurking dangers.
A tree, contracting in the cool of the night, =
made
a loud noise. It was directly=
above
him. He yelped in his fright.=
A panic seized him, and he ran mad=
ly
toward the village. He knew an
overpowering desire for the protection and companionship of man. In his nostrils was the smell of t=
he
camp-smoke. In his ears the
camp-sounds and cries were ringing loud. He passed out of the forest and in=
to
the moonlit open where were no shadows nor darknesses. But no village greeted his eyes. He had forgotten. The village had gone away.
His wild flight ceased abruptly. There was no place to which to
flee. He slunk forlornly thro=
ugh
the deserted camp, smelling the rubbish-heaps and the discarded rags and ta=
gs
of the gods. He would have be=
en
glad for the rattle of stones about him, flung by an angry squaw, glad for =
the
hand of Grey Beaver descending upon him in wrath; while he would have welco=
med with
delight Lip-lip and the whole snarling, cowardly pack.
He came to where Grey Beaver's tepee had
stood. In the centre of the s=
pace
it had occupied, he sat down. He
pointed his nose at the moon. His throat
was afflicted by rigid spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart- broken cry
bubbled up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all his past sorro=
ws
and miseries as well as his apprehension of sufferings and dangers to
come. It was the long wolf-ho=
wl,
full-throated and mournful, the first howl he had ever uttered.
The coming of daylight dispelled his fears but
increased his loneliness. The naked earth, which so shortly before had been=
so
populous; thrust his loneliness more forcibly upon him. It did not take him long to make u=
p his
mind. He plunged into the for=
est
and followed the river bank down the stream. All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on for ever.=
His iron-like body ignored fatigue=
. And even after fatigue came, his
heritage of endurance braced him to endless endeavour and enabled him to dr=
ive
his complaining body onward.
Where the river swung in against precipitous
bluffs, he climbed the high mountains behind. Rivers and streams that entered th=
e main
river he forded or swam. Ofte=
n he
took to the rim-ice that was beginning to form, and more than once he crash=
ed
through and struggled for life in the icy current. Always he was on the lookout for t=
he trail
of the gods where it might leave the river and proceed inland.
White Fang was intelligent beyond the average =
of
his kind; yet his mental vision was not wide enough to embrace the other ba=
nk
of the Mackenzie. What if the trail of the gods led out on that side? It never entered his head. Later on, when he had travelled mo=
re and
grown older and wiser and come to know more of trails and rivers, it might =
be
that he could grasp and apprehend such a possibility. But that mental power was yet in t=
he future. Just now he ran blindly, his own b=
ank of
the Mackenzie alone entering into his calculations.
All night he ran, blundering in the darkness i=
nto
mishaps and obstacles that delayed but did not daunt. By the middle of the second day he=
had been
running continuously for thirty hours, and the iron of his flesh was giving
out. It was the endurance of =
his
mind that kept him going. He =
had
not eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. The repeated drenchings in the icy=
water
had likewise had their effect on him.
His handsome coat was draggled.&nbs=
p;
The broad pads of his feet were bruised and bleeding. He had begun to limp, and this limp
increased with the hours. To make it worse, the light of the sky was obscur=
ed
and snow began to fall--a raw, moist, melting, clinging snow, slippery under
foot, that hid from him the landscape he traversed, and that covered over t=
he inequalities
of the ground so that the way of his feet was more difficult and painful.
Grey Beaver had intended camping that night on=
the
far bank of the Mackenzie, for it was in that direction that the hunting
lay. But on the near bank, sh=
ortly
before dark, a moose coming down to drink, had been espied by Kloo-kooch, w=
ho
was Grey Beaver's squaw. Now,=
had
not the moose come down to drink, had not Mit-sah been steering out of the
course because of the snow, had not Kloo-kooch sighted the moose, and had n=
ot Grey
Beaver killed it with a lucky shot from his rifle, all subsequent things wo=
uld
have happened differently. Gr=
ey
Beaver would not have camped on the near side of the Mackenzie, and White F=
ang
would have passed by and gone on, either to die or to find his way to his w=
ild brothers
and become one of them--a wolf to the end of his days.
Night had fallen. The snow was flying more thickly, =
and
White Fang, whimpering softly to himself as he stumbled and limped along, c=
ame
upon a fresh trail in the snow. So
fresh was it that he knew it immediately for what it was. Whining with eagerness, he followe=
d back
from the river bank and in among the trees. The camp-sounds came to his ears.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He saw the blaze of the fire, Kloo=
-kooch
cooking, and Grey Beaver squatting on his hams and mumbling a chunk of raw
tallow. There was fresh meat =
in camp!
White Fang expected a beating. He crouched and bristled a little =
at the
thought of it. Then he went f=
orward
again. He feared and disliked=
the beating
he knew to be waiting for him. But
he knew, further, that the comfort of the fire would be his, the protection=
of
the gods, the companionship of the dogs--the last, a companionship of enmit=
y,
but none the less a companionship and satisfying to his gregarious needs.
He came cringing and crawling into the
firelight. Grey Beaver saw hi=
m, and
stopped munching the tallow. =
White
Fang crawled slowly, cringing and grovelling in the abjectness of his abase=
ment
and submission. He crawled st=
raight
toward Grey Beaver, every inch of his progress becoming slower and more
painful. At last he lay at the
master's feet, into whose possession he now surrendered himself, voluntaril=
y,
body and soul. Of his own cho=
ice,
he came in to sit by man's fire and to be ruled by him. White Fang trembled,
waiting for the punishment to fall upon him. There was a movement of the hand a=
bove
him. He cringed involuntarily=
under
the expected blow. It did not
fall. He stole a glance
upward. Grey Beaver was break=
ing
the lump of tallow in half! G=
rey
Beaver was offering him one piece of the tallow! Very gently and somewhat suspiciou=
sly,
he first smelled the tallow and then proceeded to eat it. Grey Beaver ordered meat to be bro=
ught
to him, and guarded him from the other dogs while he ate. After that, grateful and content, =
White
Fang lay at Grey Beaver's feet, gazing at the fire that warmed him, blinking
and dozing, secure in the knowledge that the morrow would find him, not
wandering forlorn through bleak forest-stretches, but in the camp of the
man-animals, with the gods to whom he had given himself and upon whom he was
now dependent.
=
When
December was well along, Grey Beaver went on a journey up the Mackenzie.
White Fang had seen the camp-dogs toiling in t=
he
harness, so that he did not resent overmuch the first placing of the harness
upon himself. About his neck =
was
put a moss-stuffed collar, which was connected by two pulling-traces to a s=
trap
that passed around his chest and over his back. It was to this that was
fastened the long rope by which he pulled at the sled.
There were seven puppies in the team. The others had been born earlier i=
n the
year and were nine and ten months old, while White Fang was only eight mont=
hs
old. Each dog was fastened to=
the
sled by a single rope. No two=
ropes
were of the same length, while the difference in length between any two rop=
es
was at least that of a dog's body.
Every rope was brought to a ring at the front end of the sled. The sled itself was without runner=
s,
being a birch-bark toboggan, with upturned forward end to keep it from
ploughing under the snow. This
construction enabled the weight of the sled and load to be distributed over=
the
largest snow-surface; for the snow was crystal-powder and very soft. Observing the same principle of wi=
dest
distribution of weight, the dogs at the ends of their ropes radiated
fan-fashion from the nose of the sled, so that no dog trod in another's
footsteps.
There was, furthermore, another virtue in the
fan-formation. The ropes of v=
arying
length prevented the dogs attacking from the rear those that ran in front of
them. For a dog to attack ano=
ther,
it would have to turn upon one at a shorter rope. In which case it would find itself=
face
to face with the dog attacked, and also it would find itself facing the whi=
p of
the driver. But the most pecu=
liar
virtue of all lay in the fact that the dog that strove to attack one in fro=
nt
of him must pull the sled faster, and that the faster the sled travelled, t=
he
faster could the dog attacked run away.&nb=
sp;
Thus, the dog behind could never catch up with the one in front. The faster he ran, the faster ran =
the
one he was after, and the faster ran all the dogs. Incidentally, the sled went faster=
, and thus,
by cunning indirection, did man increase his mastery over the beasts.
Mit-sah resembled his father, much of whose gr=
ey
wisdom he possessed. In the p=
ast he
had observed Lip-lip's persecution of White Fang; but at that time Lip-lip =
was
another man's dog, and Mit-sah had never dared more than to shy an occasion=
al
stone at him. But now Lip-lip=
was
his dog, and he proceeded to wreak his vengeance on him by putting him at t=
he
end of the longest rope. This=
made
Lip-lip the leader, and was apparently an honour! but in reality it took aw=
ay
from him all honour, and instead of being bully and master of the pack, he =
now
found himself hated and persecuted by the pack.
Because he ran at the end of the longest rope,=
the
dogs had always the view of him running away before them. All that they saw of him was his b=
ushy
tail and fleeing hind legs--a view far less ferocious and intimidating than=
his
bristling mane and gleaming fangs.
Also, dogs being so constituted in their mental ways, the sight of h=
im
running away gave desire to run after him and a feeling that he ran away fr=
om
them.
The moment the sled started, the team took aft=
er
Lip-lip in a chase that extended throughout the day. At first he had been prone to turn=
upon
his pursuers, jealous of his dignity and wrathful; but at such times Mit-sa=
h would
throw the stinging lash of the thirty-foot cariboo-gut whip into his face a=
nd
compel him to turn tail and run on.
Lip-lip might face the pack, but he could not face that whip, and all
that was left him to do was to keep his long rope taut and his flanks ahead=
of
the teeth of his mates.
But a still greater cunning lurked in the rece=
sses
of the Indian mind. To give p=
oint
to unending pursuit of the leader, Mit-sah favoured him over the other
dogs. These favours aroused i=
n them
jealousy and hatred. In their
presence Mit-sah would give him meat and would give it to him only. This was
maddening to them. They would=
rage
around just outside the throwing-distance of the whip, while Lip-lip devour=
ed
the meat and Mit- sah protected him.
And when there was no meat to give, Mit-sah would keep the team at a
distance and make believe to give meat to Lip-lip.
White Fang took kindly to the work. He had travelled a greater distanc=
e than
the other dogs in the yielding of himself to the rule of the gods, and he h=
ad
learned more thoroughly the futility of opposing their will. In addition, t=
he
persecution he had suffered from the pack had made the pack less to him in =
the
scheme of things, and man more. He
had not learned to be dependent on his kind for companionship. Besides, Kiche was well-nigh forgo=
tten;
and the chief outlet of expression that remained to him was in the allegian=
ce
he tendered the gods he had accepted as masters. So he worked hard, learned discipl=
ine,
and was obedient. Faithfulness and willingness characterised his toil. These are essential traits of the =
wolf
and the wild-dog when they have become domesticated, and these traits White
Fang possessed in unusual measure.
A companionship did exist between White Fang a=
nd
the other dogs, but it was one of warfare and enmity. He had never learned to play with =
them. He
knew only how to fight, and fight with them he did, returning to them a
hundred-fold the snaps and slashes they had given him in the days when Lip-=
lip
was leader of the pack. But L=
ip-lip
was no longer leader--except when he fled away before his mates at the end =
of
his rope, the sled bounding along behind.&=
nbsp;
In camp he kept close to Mit-sah or Grey Beaver or Kloo-kooch. He did not dare venture away from =
the
gods, for now the fangs of all dogs were against him, and he tasted to the
dregs the persecution that had been White Fang's.
With the overthrow of Lip-lip, White Fang could
have become leader of the pack. But
he was too morose and solitary for that.&n=
bsp;
He merely thrashed his team-mates.&=
nbsp;
Otherwise he ignored them.
They got out of his way when he came along; nor did the boldest of t=
hem ever
dare to rob him of his meat. =
On the
contrary, they devoured their own meat hurriedly, for fear that he would ta=
ke
it away from them. White Fang=
knew
the law well: to oppress the weak and obey the strong. He ate his share of meat as rapidl=
y as
he could. And then woe the do=
g that
had not yet finished! A snarl=
and a
flash of fangs, and that dog would wail his indignation to the uncomforting
stars while White Fang finished his portion for him.
Every little while, however, one dog or another
would flame up in revolt and be promptly subdued. Thus White Fang was kept in
training. He was jealous of t=
he
isolation in which he kept himself in the midst of the pack, and he fought
often to maintain it. But such
fights were of brief duration. He
was too quick for the others. They
were slashed open and bleeding before they knew what had happened, were whi=
pped
almost before they had begun to fight.
As rigid as the sled-discipline of the gods, w=
as
the discipline maintained by White Fang amongst his fellows. He never allowed them any latitude=
. He compelled them to an unremitting
respect for him. They might d=
o as
they pleased amongst themselves.
That was no concern of his. But it was his concern that they leave h=
im
alone in his isolation, get out of his way when he elected to walk among th=
em,
and at all times acknowledge his mastery over them. A hint of stiff-leggedness on thei=
r part,
a lifted lip or a bristle of hair, and he would be upon them, merciless and
cruel, swiftly convincing them of the error of their way.
He was a monstrous tyrant. His mastery was rigid as steel.
The months passed by. Still continued the journey of Grey
Beaver. White Fang's strength=
was
developed by the long hours on trail and the steady toil at the sled; and it
would have seemed that his mental development was well-nigh complete. He had come to know quite thorough=
ly the
world in which he lived. His
outlook was bleak and materialistic.
The world as he saw it was a fierce and brutal world, a world without
warmth, a world in which caresses and affection and the bright sweetnesses =
of
the spirit did not exist.
He had no affection for Grey Beaver. True, he was a god, but a most sav=
age
god. White Fang was glad to
acknowledge his lordship, but it was a lordship based upon superior
intelligence and brute strength.
There was something in the fibre of White Fang's being that made his
lordship a thing to be desired, else he would not have come back from the W=
ild
when he did to tender his allegiance.
There were deeps in his nature which had never been sounded. A kind word, a caressing touch of =
the
hand, on the part of Grey Beaver, might have sounded these deeps; but Grey
Beaver did not caress, nor speak kind words. It was not his way. His primacy was savage, and savage=
ly he
ruled, administering justice with a club, punishing transgression with the =
pain
of a blow, and rewarding merit, not by kindness, but by withholding a blow.=
So White Fang knew nothing of the heaven a man=
's
hand might contain for him.
Besides, he did not like the hands of the man-animals. He was suspicious of them. It was true that they sometimes ga=
ve
meat, but more often they gave hurt.
Hands were things to keep away from. They hurled stones, wielded sticks=
and
clubs and whips, administered slaps and clouts, and, when they touched him,
were cunning to hurt with pinch and twist and wrench. In strange villages he had encount=
ered
the hands of the children and learned that they were cruel to hurt. Also, he had once nearly had an eye
poked out by a toddling papoose.
From these experiences he became suspicious of all children. He could not tolerate them. When they came near with their omi=
nous
hands, he got up.
It was in a village at the Great Slave Lake, t=
hat,
in the course of resenting the evil of the hands of the man-animals, he cam=
e to
modify the law that he had learned from Grey Beaver: namely, that the
unpardonable crime was to bite one of the gods. In this village, after the custom =
of all
dogs in all villages, White Fang went foraging, for food. A boy was chopping frozen moose-me=
at
with an axe, and the chips were flying in the snow. White Fang, sliding by in quest of=
meat,
stopped and began to eat the chips.
He observed the boy lay down the axe and take up a stout club. White Fang sprang clear, just in t=
ime to
escape the descending blow. T=
he boy
pursued him, and he, a stranger in the village, fled between two tepees to =
find
himself cornered against a high earth bank.
There was no escape for White Fang. The only way out was between the t=
wo tepees,
and this the boy guarded. Hol=
ding
his club prepared to strike, he drew in on his cornered quarry. White Fang was furious. He faced the boy, bristling and
snarling, his sense of justice outraged.&n=
bsp;
He knew the law of forage.
All the wastage of meat, such as the frozen chips, belonged to the d=
og
that found it. He had done no
wrong, broken no law, yet here was this boy preparing to give him a
beating. White Fang scarcely =
knew
what happened. He did it in a=
surge
of rage. And he did it so qui=
ckly
that the boy did not know either.
All the boy knew was that he had in some unaccountable way been
overturned into the snow, and that his club-hand had been ripped wide open =
by
White Fang's teeth.
But White Fang knew that he had broken the law=
of
the gods. He had driven his t=
eeth
into the sacred flesh of one of them, and could expect nothing but a most
terrible punishment. He fled =
away
to Grey Beaver, behind whose protecting legs he crouched when the bitten boy
and the boy's family came, demanding vengeance. But they went away with vengeance
unsatisfied. Grey Beaver defe=
nded
White Fang. So did Mit-sah and
Kloo-kooch. White Fang, liste=
ning
to the wordy war and watching the angry gestures, knew that his act was
justified. And so it came tha=
t he learned
there were gods and gods. The=
re
were his gods, and there were other gods, and between them there was a
difference. Justice or injust=
ice,
it was all the same, he must take all things from the hands of his own
gods. But he was not compelle=
d to
take injustice from the other gods.
It was his privilege to resent it with his teeth. And this also was a law of the god=
s.
Before the day was out, White Fang was to learn
more about this law. Mit- sah,
alone, gathering firewood in the forest, encountered the boy that had been
bitten. With him were other
boys. Hot words passed. Then all the boys attacked Mit-sah=
. It was going hard with him. Blows were raining upon him from a=
ll
sides. White Fang looked on at
first. This was an affair of =
the
gods, and no concern of his. =
Then
he realised that this was Mit-sah, one of his own particular gods, who was
being maltreated. It was no
reasoned impulse that made White Fang do what he then did. A mad rush of anger sent him leapi=
ng in
amongst the combatants. Five
minutes later the landscape was covered with fleeing boys, many of whom dri=
pped
blood upon the snow in token that White Fang's teeth had not been idle. When Mit-sah told the story in cam=
p,
Grey Beaver ordered meat to be given to White Fang. He ordered much meat to be given, =
and
White Fang, gorged and sleepy by the fire, knew that the law had received i=
ts
verification.
It was in line with these experiences that Whi=
te
Fang came to learn the law of property and the duty of the defence of
property. From the protection=
of
his god's body to the protection of his god's possessions was a step, and t=
his
step he made. What was his go=
d's
was to be defended against all the world--even to the extent of biting other
gods. Not only was such an act
sacrilegious in its nature, but it was fraught with peril. The gods were all-powerful, and a =
dog
was no match against them; yet White Fang learned to face them, fiercely
belligerent and unafraid. Duty rose above fear, and thieving gods learned to
leave Grey Beaver's property alone.
One thing, in this connection, White Fang quic=
kly
learnt, and that was that a thieving god was usually a cowardly god and pro=
ne
to run away at the sounding of the alarm.&=
nbsp;
Also, he learned that but brief time elapsed between his sounding of=
the
alarm and Grey Beaver coming to his aid.&n=
bsp;
He came to know that it was not fear of him that drove the thief awa=
y,
but fear of Grey Beaver. Whit=
e Fang
did not give the alarm by barking.
He never barked. His m=
ethod
was to drive straight at the intruder, and to sink his teeth in if he
could. Because he was morose =
and
solitary, having nothing to do with the other dogs, he was unusually fitted=
to guard
his master's property; and in this he was encouraged and trained by Grey
Beaver. One result of this wa=
s to
make White Fang more ferocious and indomitable, and more solitary.
The months went by, binding stronger and stron=
ger
the covenant between dog and man.
This was the ancient covenant that the first wolf that came in from =
the
Wild entered into with man. A=
nd,
like all succeeding wolves and wild dogs that had done likewise, White Fang
worked the covenant out for himself.
The terms were simple. For
the possession of a flesh-and- blood god, he exchanged his own liberty. Food and fire, protection and comp=
anionship,
were some of the things he received from the god. In return, he guarded the god's
property, defended his body, worked for him, and obeyed him.
The possession of a god implies service. White Fang's was a service of duty=
and
awe, but not of love. He did =
not
know what love was. He had no=
experience
of love. Kiche was a remote
memory. Besides, not only had=
he abandoned
the Wild and his kind when he gave himself up to man, but the terms of the
covenant were such that if ever he met Kiche again he would not desert his =
god
to go with her. His allegianc=
e to
man seemed somehow a law of his being greater than the love of liberty, of =
kind
and kin.
=
The
spring of the year was at hand when Grey Beaver finished his long journey.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was April, and White Fang was a=
year
old when he pulled into the home villages and was loosed from the harness by
Mit-sah. Though a long way fr=
om his
full growth, White Fang, next to Lip-lip, was the largest yearling in the v=
illage. Both from his father, the wolf, an=
d from
Kiche, he had inherited stature and strength, and already he was measuring =
up
alongside the full-grown dogs. But
he had not yet grown compact. His
body was slender and rangy, and his strength more stringy than massive, His
coat was the true wolf-grey, and to all appearances he was true wolf
himself. The quarter-strain o=
f dog
he had inherited from Kiche had left no mark on him physically, though it h=
ad
played its part in his mental make-up.
He wandered through the village, recognising w=
ith
staid satisfaction the various gods he had known before the long journey. Then there were the dogs, puppies
growing up like himself, and grown dogs that did not look so large and
formidable as the memory pictures he retained of them. Also, he stood less in fear of the=
m than
formerly, stalking among them with a certain careless ease that was as new =
to
him as it was enjoyable.
There was Baseek, a grizzled old fellow that in
his younger days had but to uncover his fangs to send White Fang cringing a=
nd
crouching to the right about. From
him White Fang had learned much of his own insignificance; and from him he =
was
now to learn much of the change and development that had taken place in
himself. While Baseek had bee=
n growing
weaker with age, White Fang had been growing stronger with youth.
It was at the cutting-up of a moose, fresh-kil=
led,
that White Fang learned of the changed relations in which he stood to the
dog-world. He had got for him=
self a
hoof and part of the shin-bone, to which quite a bit of meat was attached.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Withdrawn from the immediate scram=
ble of
the other dogs--in fact out of sight behind a thicket--he was devouring his=
prize,
when Baseek rushed in upon him.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had slashed the intruder twice =
and
sprung clear. Baseek was surp=
rised by
the other's temerity and swiftness of attack. He stood, gazing stupidly across at
White Fang, the raw, red shin-bone between them.
Baseek was old, and already he had come to know
the increasing valour of the dogs it had been his wont to bully. Bitter experiences these, which, p=
erforce,
he swallowed, calling upon all his wisdom to cope with them. In the old days he would have spru=
ng
upon White Fang in a fury of righteous wrath. But now his waning powers would not
permit such a course. He bris=
tled
fiercely and looked ominously across the shin-bone at White Fang. And White Fang, resurrecting quite=
a
deal of the old awe, seemed to wilt and to shrink in upon himself and grow
small, as he cast about in his mind for a way to beat a retreat not too
inglorious.
And right here Baseek erred. Had he contented himself with look=
ing fierce
and ominous, all would have been well.&nbs=
p;
White Fang, on the verge of retreat, would have retreated, leaving t=
he
meat to him. But Baseek did n=
ot
wait. He considered the victo=
ry
already his and stepped forward to the meat. As he bent his head carelessly to =
smell
it, White Fang bristled slightly.
Even then it was not too late for Baseek to retrieve the situation.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Had he merely stood over the meat,=
head
up and glowering, White Fang would ultimately have slunk away. But the fresh meat was strong in
Baseek's nostrils, and greed urged him to take a bite of it.
This was too much for White Fang. Fresh upon his months of mastery o=
ver his
own team-mates, it was beyond his self-control to stand idly by while anoth=
er
devoured the meat that belonged to him.&nb=
sp;
He struck, after his custom, without warning. With the first slash, Baseek's rig=
ht ear
was ripped into ribbons. He w=
as astounded
at the suddenness of it. But =
more things,
and most grievous ones, were happening with equal suddenness. He was knocked off his feet. His throat was bitten. While he was struggling to his fee=
t the
young dog sank teeth twice into his shoulder. The swiftness of it was
bewildering. He made a futile=
rush
at White Fang, clipping the empty air with an outraged snap. The next moment his nose was laid =
open,
and he was staggering backward away from the meat.
The situation was now reversed. White Fang stood over the shin-bon=
e, bristling
and menacing, while Baseek stood a little way off, preparing to retreat.
The effect on White Fang was to give him a gre=
ater
faith in himself, and a greater pride.&nbs=
p;
He walked less softly among the grown dogs; his attitude toward them=
was
less compromising. Not that h=
e went
out of his way looking for trouble.
Far from it. But upon =
his
way he demanded consideration. He
stood upon his right to go his way unmolested and to give trail to no dog.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had to be taken into account, t=
hat
was all. He was no longer to =
be
disregarded and ignored, as was the lot of puppies, and as continued to be =
the
lot of the puppies that were his team-mates. They got out of the way, gave
trail to the grown dogs, and gave up meat to them under compulsion. But White Fang, uncompanionable,
solitary, morose, scarcely looking to right or left, redoubtable, forbiddin=
g of
aspect, remote and alien, was accepted as an equal by his puzzled elders. T=
hey
quickly learned to leave him alone, neither venturing hostile acts nor maki=
ng
overtures of friendliness. If=
they
left him alone, he left them alone--a state of affairs that they found, aft=
er a
few encounters, to be pre-eminently desirable.
In midsummer White Fang had an experience. Trotting along in his silent way to
investigate a new tepee which had been erected on the edge of the village w=
hile
he was away with the hunters after moose, he came full upon Kiche. He paused and looked at her. He remembered her vaguely, but he =
remembered
her, and that was more than could be said for her. She lifted her lip at him in the o=
ld
snarl of menace, and his memory became clear. His forgotten cubhood, all that was
associated with that familiar snarl, rushed back to him. Before he had known the gods, she =
had
been to him the centre-pin of the universe. The old familiar feelings of that =
time
came back upon him, surged up within him.&=
nbsp;
He bounded towards her joyously, and she met him with shrewd fangs t=
hat
laid his cheek open to the bone. He
did not understand. He backed=
away,
bewildered and puzzled.
But it was not Kiche's fault. A wolf-mother was not made to reme=
mber her
cubs of a year or so before. =
So she
did not remember White Fang. =
He was
a strange animal, an intruder; and her present litter of puppies gave her t=
he
right to resent such intrusion.
One of the puppies sprawled up to White Fang.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They were half-brothers, only they=
did
not know it. White Fang sniff=
ed the
puppy curiously, whereupon Kiche rushed upon him, gashing his face a second
time. He backed farther away.=
All the old memories and associati=
ons
died down again and passed into the grave from which they had been
resurrected. He looked at Kic=
he
licking her puppy and stopping now and then to snarl at him. She was without value to him. He had learned to get along withou=
t her. Her meaning was forgotten. There was no place for her in his =
scheme
of things, as there was no place for him in hers.
He was still standing, stupid and bewildered, =
the
memories forgotten, wondering what it was all about, when Kiche attacked hi=
m a
third time, intent on driving him away altogether from the vicinity. And White Fang allowed himself to =
be
driven away. This was a femal=
e of
his kind, and it was a law of his kind that the males must not fight the
females. He did not know anyt=
hing
about this law, for it was no generalisation of the mind, not a something
acquired by experience of the world.
He knew it as a secret prompting, as an urge of instinct--of the same
instinct that made him howl at the moon and stars of nights, and that made =
him
fear death and the unknown.
The months went by. White Fang grew stronger, heavier,=
and
more compact, while his character was developing along the lines laid down =
by
his heredity and his environment.
His heredity was a life-stuff that may be likened to clay. It possessed many possibilities, w=
as
capable of being moulded into many different forms. Environment served to model the cl=
ay, to
give it a particular form. Th=
us,
had White Fang never come in to the fires of man, the Wild would have mould=
ed
him into a true wolf. But the=
gods
had given him a different environment, and he was moulded into a dog that w=
as
rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf.
And so, according to the clay of his nature and
the pressure of his surroundings, his character was being moulded into a
certain particular shape. The=
re was
no escaping it. He was becomi=
ng
more morose, more uncompanionable, more solitary, more ferocious; while the
dogs were learning more and more that it was better to be at peace with him
than at war, and Grey Beaver was coming to prize him more greatly with the =
passage
of each day.
White Fang, seeming to sum up strength in all =
his
qualities, nevertheless suffered from one besetting weakness. He could not stand being laughed a=
t. The laughter of men was a hateful
thing. They might laugh among=
themselves
about anything they pleased except himself, and he did not mind. But the moment laughter was turned=
upon
him he would fly into a most terrible rage. Grave, dignified, sombre, a laugh =
made
him frantic to ridiculousness. It
so outraged him and upset him that for hours he would behave like a demon.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And woe to the dog that at such ti=
mes
ran foul of him. He knew the =
law
too well to take it out of Grey Beaver; behind Grey Beaver were a club and
godhead. But behind the dogs =
there was
nothing but space, and into this space they flew when White Fang came on the
scene, made mad by laughter.
In the third year of his life there came a gre=
at
famine to the Mackenzie Indians. In
the summer the fish failed. I=
n the
winter the cariboo forsook their accustomed track. Moose were scarce, the rabbits alm=
ost disappeared,
hunting and preying animals perished.
Denied their usual food-supply, weakened by hunger, they fell upon a=
nd
devoured one another. Only the strong survived. White Fang's gods were always hunt=
ing
animals. The old and the weak of them died of hunger. There was wailing in the village, =
where
the women and children went without in order that what little they had migh=
t go
into the bellies of the lean and hollow-eyed hunters who trod the forest in=
the
vain pursuit of meat.
To such extremity were the gods driven that th=
ey
ate the soft-tanned leather of their mocassins and mittens, while the dogs =
ate
the harnesses off their backs and the very whip-lashes. Also, the dogs ate one another, an=
d also
the gods ate the dogs. The we=
akest
and the more worthless were eaten first.&n=
bsp;
The dogs that still lived, looked on and understood. A few of the boldest and wisest fo=
rsook
the fires of the gods, which had now become a shambles, and fled into the
forest, where, in the end, they starved to death or were eaten by wolves.
In this time of misery, White Fang, too, stole
away into the woods. He was b=
etter
fitted for the life than the other dogs, for he had the training of his cub=
hood
to guide him. Especially adep=
t did
he become in stalking small living things.=
He would lie concealed for hours, following every movement of a caut=
ious
tree-squirrel, waiting, with a patience as huge as the hunger he suffered f=
rom,
until the squirrel ventured out upon the ground. Even then, White Fang was not prem=
ature.
He waited until he was sure of striking before the squirrel could gain a tr=
ee-refuge. Then, and not until then, would he=
flash
from his hiding- place, a grey projectile, incredibly swift, never failing =
its
mark--the fleeing squirrel that fled not fast enough.
Successful as he was with squirrels, there was=
one
difficulty that prevented him from living and growing fat on them. There were not enough squirrels. So he was driven to hunt still sma=
ller
things. So acute did his hung=
er
become at times that he was not above rooting out wood-mice from their burr=
ows
in the ground. Nor did he sco=
rn to
do battle with a weasel as hungry as himself and many times more ferocious.=
In the worst pinches of the famine he stole ba=
ck
to the fires of the gods. But=
he
did not go into the fires. He
lurked in the forest, avoiding discovery and robbing the snares at the rare
intervals when game was caught. He
even robbed Grey Beaver's snare of a rabbit at a time when Grey Beaver
staggered and tottered through the forest, sitting down often to rest, what=
of
weakness and of shortness of breath.
One day While Fang encountered a young wolf, g=
aunt
and scrawny, loose- jointed with famine.&n=
bsp;
Had he not been hungry himself, White Fang might have gone with him =
and
eventually found his way into the pack amongst his wild brethren. As it was, he ran the young wolf d=
own
and killed and ate him.
Fortune seemed to favour him. Always, when hardest pressed for f=
ood,
he found something to kill. A=
gain,
when he was weak, it was his luck that none of the larger preying animals
chanced upon him. Thus, he was
strong from the two days' eating a lynx had afforded him when the hungry wo=
lf- pack
ran full tilt upon him. It wa=
s a
long, cruel chase, but he was better nourished than they, and in the end ou=
tran
them. And not only did he out=
run
them, but, circling widely back on his track, he gathered in one of his
exhausted pursuers.
After that he left that part of the country and
journeyed over to the valley wherein he had been born. Here, in the old lair, he encounte=
red Kiche. Up to her old tricks, she, too, ha=
d fled
the inhospitable fires of the gods and gone back to her old refuge to give
birth to her young. Of this litter but one remained alive when White Fang c=
ame
upon the scene, and this one was not destined to live long. Young life had little chance in su=
ch a
famine.
Kiche's greeting of her grown son was anything=
but
affectionate. But White Fang =
did
not mind. He had outgrown his
mother. So he turned tail phi=
losophically
and trotted on up the stream. At
the forks he took the turning to the left, where he found the lair of the l=
ynx
with whom his mother and he had fought long before. Here, in the abandoned lair, he se=
ttled
down and rested for a day.
During the early summer, in the last days of t=
he
famine, he met Lip-lip, who had likewise taken to the woods, where he had e=
ked
out a miserable existence.
White Fang came upon him unexpectedly. Trotting in opposite directions al=
ong
the base of a high bluff, they rounded a corner of rock and found themselves
face to face. They paused with
instant alarm, and looked at each other suspiciously.
White Fang was in splendid condition. His hunting had been good, and for=
a
week he had eaten his fill. H=
e was
even gorged from his latest kill. But in the moment he looked at Lip-lip his
hair rose on end all along his back.
It was an involuntary bristling on his part, the physical state that=
in
the past had always accompanied the mental state produced in him by Lip-lip=
's
bullying and persecution. As =
in the
past he had bristled and snarled at sight of Lip-lip, so now, and
automatically, he bristled and snarled.&nb=
sp;
He did not waste any time.
The thing was done thoroughly and with despatch. Lip-lip essayed to back away, but =
White
Fang struck him hard, shoulder to shoulder. Lip-lip was overthrown and rolled =
upon his
back. White Fang's teeth drov=
e into
the scrawny throat. There was=
a death-struggle,
during which White Fang walked around, stiff-legged and observant. Then he resumed his course and tro=
tted
on along the base of the bluff.
One day, not long after, he came to the edge of
the forest, where a narrow stretch of open land sloped down to the
Mackenzie. He had been over t=
his
ground before, when it was bare, but now a village occupied it. Still hidden
amongst the trees, he paused to study the situation. Sights and sounds and scents were
familiar to him. It was the o=
ld
village changed to a new place. But
sights and sounds and smells were different from those he had last had when=
he
fled away from it. There was =
no whimpering
nor wailing. Contented sounds
saluted his ear, and when he heard the angry voice of a woman he knew it to=
be
the anger that proceeds from a full stomach. And there was a smell in the air of
fish. There was food. The famine was gone. He came out boldly from the forest=
and trotted
into camp straight to Grey Beaver's tepee.=
Grey Beaver was not there; but Kloo-kooch welcomed him with glad cri=
es
and the whole of a fresh-caught fish, and he lay down to wait Grey Beaver's
coming.
=
Had
there been in White Fang's nature any possibility, no matter how remote, of=
his
ever coming to fraternise with his kind, such possibility was irretrievably
destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team. For now the dogs hated him--hated =
him
for the extra meat bestowed upon him by Mit-sah; hated him for all the real=
and
fancied favours he received; hated him for that he fled always at the head =
of
the team, his waving brush of a tail and his perpetually retreating
hind-quarters for ever maddening their eyes.
And White Fang just as bitterly hated them
back. Being sled-leader was a=
nything
but gratifying to him. To be
compelled to run away before the yelling pack, every dog of which, for three
years, he had thrashed and mastered, was almost more than he could endure.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But endure it he must, or perish, =
and
the life that was in him had no desire to perish out. The moment Mit-sah gave his order =
for
the start, that moment the whole team, with eager, savage cries, sprang for=
ward
at White Fang.
There was no defence for him. If he turned upon them, Mit-sah wo=
uld throw
the stinging lash of the whip into his face. Only remained to him to run away.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He could not encounter that howling
horde with his tail and hind-quarters.&nbs=
p;
These were scarcely fit weapons with which to meet the many merciless
fangs. So run away he did,
violating his own nature and pride with every leap he made, and leaping all=
day
long.
One cannot violate the promptings of one's nat=
ure
without having that nature recoil upon itself. Such a recoil is like that of a ha=
ir,
made to grow out from the body, turning unnaturally upon the direction of i=
ts growth
and growing into the body--a rankling, festering thing of hurt. And so with
White Fang. Every urge of his=
being
impelled him to spring upon the pack that cried at his heels, but it was the
will of the gods that this should not be; and behind the will, to enforce i=
t,
was the whip of cariboo-gut with its biting thirty-foot lash. So White Fang could only eat his h=
eart
in bitterness and develop a hatred and malice commensurate with the ferocity
and indomitability of his nature.
If ever a creature was the enemy of its kind,
White Fang was that creature. He
asked no quarter, gave none. =
He was
continually marred and scarred by the teeth of the pack, and as continually=
he
left his own marks upon the pack.
Unlike most leaders, who, when camp was made and the dogs were
unhitched, huddled near to the gods for protection, White Fang disdained su=
ch
protection. He walked boldly =
about
the camp, inflicting punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the
day. In the time before he was made leader of the team, the pack had learne=
d to
get out of his way. But now i=
t was
different. Excited by the day=
- long
pursuit of him, swayed subconsciously by the insistent iteration on their
brains of the sight of him fleeing away, mastered by the feeling of mastery
enjoyed all day, the dogs could not bring themselves to give way to him.
When Mit-sah cried out his command for the tea=
m to
stop, White Fang obeyed. At f=
irst
this caused trouble for the other dogs.&nb=
sp;
All of them would spring upon the hated leader only to find the tabl=
es
turned. Behind him would be
Mit-sah, the great whip singing in his hand. So the dogs came to understand tha=
t when
the team stopped by order, White Fang was to be let alone. But when White Fang stopped without
orders, then it was allowed them to spring upon him and destroy him if they
could. After several experien=
ces,
White Fang never stopped without orders.&n=
bsp;
He learned quickly. It=
was
in the nature of things, that he must learn quickly if he were to survive t=
he
unusually severe conditions under which life was vouchsafed him.
But the dogs could never learn the lesson to l=
eave
him alone in camp. Each day, pursuing him and crying defiance at him, the
lesson of the previous night was erased, and that night would have to be
learned over again, to be as immediately forgotten. Besides, there was a greater consi=
stence
in their dislike of him. They=
sensed
between themselves and him a difference of kind--cause sufficient in itself=
for
hostility. Like him, they were
domesticated wolves. But they=
had
been domesticated for generations.
Much of the Wild had been lost, so that to them the Wild was the unk=
nown,
the terrible, the ever-menacing and ever warring. But to him, in appearance and acti=
on and
impulse, still clung the Wild. He symbolised
it, was its personification: so that when they showed their teeth to him th=
ey
were defending themselves against the powers of destruction that lurked in =
the
shadows of the forest and in the dark beyond the camp-fire.
But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, a=
nd
that was to keep together. Wh=
ite
Fang was too terrible for any of them to face single- handed. They met him with the mass-formati=
on,
otherwise he would have killed them, one by one, in a night. As it was, he never had a chance t=
o kill
them. He might roll a dog off=
its
feet, but the pack would be upon him before he could follow up and deliver =
the
deadly throat-stroke. At the =
first
hint of conflict, the whole team drew together and faced him. The dogs had
quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when trouble was brewing
with White Fang.
On the other hand, try as they would, they cou=
ld
not kill White Fang. He was t=
oo
quick for them, too formidable, too wise.&=
nbsp;
He avoided tight places and always backed out of it when they bade f=
air
to surround him. While, as for getting him off his feet, there was no dog a=
mong
them capable of doing the trick.
His feet clung to the earth with the same tenacity that he clung to
life. For that matter, life a=
nd
footing were synonymous in this unending warfare with the pack, and none kn=
ew
it better than White Fang.
So he became the enemy of his kind, domesticat=
ed
wolves that they were, softened by the fires of man, weakened in the shelte=
ring
shadow of man's strength. Whi=
te
Fang was bitter and implacable. The
clay of him was so moulded. He
declared a vendetta against all dogs.
And so terribly did he live this vendetta that Grey Beaver, fierce
savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang's ferocity. Never, he swore, had there been th=
e like
of this animal; and the Indians in strange villages swore likewise when they
considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs. When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey
Beaver took him on another great journey, and long remembered was the havoc=
he
worked amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie, across th=
e Rockies,
and down the Porcupine to the Yukon.
He revelled in the vengeance he wreaked upon his kind. They were ordinary, unsuspecting d=
ogs. They were not prepared for his swi=
ftness
and directness, for his attack without warning. They did not know him for what he =
was, a
lightning-flash of slaughter. They
bristled up to him, stiff-legged and challenging, while he, wasting no time=
on
elaborate preliminaries, snapping into action like a steel spring, was at t=
heir
throats and destroying them before they knew what was happening and while t=
hey
were yet in the throes of surprise. He became an adept at fighting. He economised. He never wasted his strength, never
tussled. He was in too quickl=
y for
that, and, if he missed, was out again too quickly. The dislike of the wolf for close =
quarters
was his to an unusual degree. He
could not endure a prolonged contact with another body. It smacked of danger. It made him frantic. He must be aw=
ay,
free, on his own legs, touching no living thing. It was the Wild still clinging to =
him,
asserting itself through him. This feeling
had been accentuated by the Ishmaelite life he had led from his puppyhood.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Danger lurked in contacts. It was the trap, ever the trap, th=
e fear
of it lurking deep in the life of him, woven into the fibre of him.
In consequence, the strange dogs he encountered
had no chance against him. He
eluded their fangs. He got th=
em, or
got away, himself untouched in either event. In the natural course of things th=
ere
were exceptions to this. Ther=
e were
times when several dogs, pitching on to him, punished him before he could g=
et
away; and there were times when a single dog scored deeply on him. But these were accidents. In the main, so efficient a fighte=
r had
he become, he went his way unscathed.
Another advantage he possessed was that of
correctly judging time and distance.
Not that he did this consciously, however. He did not calculate such things.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was all automatic. His eyes saw correctly, and the ne=
rves
carried the vision correctly to his brain.=
The parts of him were better adjusted than those of the average
dog. They worked together more
smoothly and steadily. His wa=
s a
better, far better, nervous, mental, and muscular co-ordination. When his eyes conveyed to his brai=
n the
moving image of an action, his brain without conscious effort, knew the spa=
ce
that limited that action and the time required for its completion. Thus, he could avoid the leap of a=
nother
dog, or the drive of its fangs, and at the same moment could seize the
infinitesimal fraction of time in which to deliver his own attack. Body and brain, his was a more per=
fected
mechanism. Not that he was to=
be
praised for it. Nature had been more generous to him than to the average
animal, that was all.
It was in the summer that White Fang arrived at
Fort Yukon. Grey Beaver had c=
rossed
the great watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the late winter, and
spent the spring in hunting among the western outlying spurs of the
Rockies. Then, after the brea=
k-up
of the ice on the Porcupine, he had built a canoe and paddled down that str=
eam
to where it effected its junction with the Yukon just under the Artic
circle. Here stood the old Hu=
dson's
Bay Company fort; and here were many Indians, much food, and unprecedented
excitement. It was the summer=
of
1898, and thousands of gold-hunters were going up the Yukon to Dawson and t=
he Klondike. Still hundreds of miles from their=
goal,
nevertheless many of them had been on the way for a year, and the least any=
of
them had travelled to get that far was five thousand miles, while some had =
come
from the other side of the world.
Here Grey Beaver stopped. A whisper of the gold-rush had rea=
ched
his ears, and he had come with several bales of furs, and another of gut-se=
wn mittens
and moccasins. He would not h=
ave
ventured so long a trip had he not expected generous profits. But what he had expected was nothi=
ng to what
he realised. His wildest drea=
ms had
not exceeded a hundred per cent. profit; he made a thousand per cent. And like a true Indian, he settled=
down
to trade carefully and slowly, even if it took all summer and the rest of t=
he
winter to dispose of his goods.
It was at Fort Yukon that White Fang saw his f=
irst
white men. As compared with t=
he
Indians he had known, they were to him another race of beings, a race of
superior gods. They impressed=
him
as possessing superior power, and it is on power that godhead rests. White Fang did not reason it out, =
did
not in his mind make the sharp generalisation that the white gods were more
powerful. It was a feeling, n=
othing
more, and yet none the less potent.
As, in his puppyhood, the looming bulks of the tepees, man-reared, h=
ad
affected him as manifestations of power, so was he affected now by the hous=
es
and the huge fort all of massive logs.&nbs=
p;
Here was power. Those =
white
gods were strong. They posses=
sed
greater mastery over matter than the gods he had known, most powerful among
which was Grey Beaver. And ye=
t Grey
Beaver was as a child-god among these white- skinned ones.
To be sure, White Fang only felt these
things. He was not conscious =
of them. Yet it is upon feeling, more often=
than
thinking, that animals act; and every act White Fang now performed was based
upon the feeling that the white men were the superior gods. In the first place he was very
suspicious of them. There was=
no
telling what unknown terrors were theirs, what unknown hurts they could
administer. He was curious to=
observe
them, fearful of being noticed by them.&nb=
sp;
For the first few hours he was content with slinking around and watc=
hing
them from a safe distance. Th=
en he
saw that no harm befell the dogs that were near to them, and he came in clo=
ser.
In turn he was an object of great curiosity to
them. His wolfish appearance =
caught
their eyes at once, and they pointed him out to one another. This act of pointing put White Fan=
g on
his guard, and when they tried to approach him he showed his teeth and back=
ed
away. Not one succeeded in la=
ying a
hand on him, and it was well that they did not.
White Fang soon learned that very few of these
gods--not more than a dozen--lived at this place. Every two or three days a steamer
(another and colossal manifestation of power) came into the bank and stopped
for several hours. The white =
men
came from off these steamers and went away on them again. There seemed untold numbers of the=
se
white men. In the first day o=
r so,
he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his life; and as the da=
ys
went by they continued to come up the river, stop, and then go on up the ri=
ver
out of sight.
But if the white gods were all-powerful, their
dogs did not amount to much. =
This
White Fang quickly discovered by mixing with those that came ashore with th=
eir
masters. They were irregular =
shapes
and sizes. Some were
short-legged--too short; others were long-legged--too long. They had hair instead of fur, and =
a few
had very little hair at that. And none
of them knew how to fight.
As an enemy of his kind, it was in White Fang's
province to fight with them. =
This
he did, and he quickly achieved for them a mighty contempt. They were soft =
and
helpless, made much noise, and floundered around clumsily trying to accompl=
ish
by main strength what he accomplished by dexterity and cunning. They rushed bellowing at him. He sprang to the side. They did not know what had become =
of
him; and in that moment he struck them on the shoulder, rolling them off th=
eir
feet and delivering his stroke at the throat.
Sometimes this stroke was successful, and a
stricken dog rolled in the dirt, to be pounced upon and torn to pieces by t=
he
pack of Indian dogs that waited.
White Fang was wise. H=
e had
long since learned that the gods were made angry when their dogs were
killed. The white men were no=
exception
to this. So he was content, w=
hen he
had overthrown and slashed wide the throat of one of their dogs, to drop ba=
ck
and let the pack go in and do the cruel finishing work. It was then that the white men rus=
hed in,
visiting their wrath heavily on the pack, while White Fang went free. He wo=
uld
stand off at a little distance and look on, while stones, clubs, axes, and =
all
sorts of weapons fell upon his fellows.&nb=
sp;
White Fang was very wise.
But his fellows grew wise in their own way; an=
d in
this White Fang grew wise with them.
They learned that it was when a steamer first tied to the bank that =
they
had their fun. After the firs=
t two
or three strange dogs had been downed and destroyed, the white men hustled
their own animals back on board and wrecked savage vengeance on the
offenders. One white man, hav=
ing
seen his dog, a setter, torn to pieces before his eyes, drew a revolver.
White Fang enjoyed it all. He did not love his kind, and he w=
as
shrewd enough to escape hurt himself.
At first, the killing of the white men's dogs had been a diversion.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> After a time it became his
occupation. There was no work=
for
him to do. Grey Beaver was bu=
sy
trading and getting wealthy. =
So
White Fang hung around the landing with the disreputable gang of Indian dog=
s,
waiting for steamers. With the
arrival of a steamer the fun began.
After a few minutes, by the time the white men had got over their
surprise, the gang scattered. The
fun was over until the next steamer should arrive.
But it can scarcely be said that White Fang wa= s a member of the gang. He did not mingle with it, but remained aloof, always himself, and was even feared by it. It is true, he worked with it. He picked the quarrel wit= h the strange dog while the gang waited. <= /span>And when he had overthrown the strange dog the gang went in to finish it. But it is equally true that he then withdrew, leaving the gang to receive the punishment of the outraged gods.<= o:p>
It did not require much exertion to pick these
quarrels. All he had to do, w=
hen
the strange dogs came ashore, was to show himself. When they saw him they rushed for
him. It was their instinct. He was the Wild--the unknown, the
terrible, the ever-menacing, the thing that prowled in the darkness around =
the
fires of the primeval world when they, cowering close to the fires, were
reshaping their instincts, learning to fear the Wild out of which they had
come, and which they had deserted and betrayed. Generation by generation, d=
own
all the generations, had this fear of the Wild been stamped into their
natures. For centuries the Wi=
ld had
stood for terror and destruction.
And during all this time free licence had been theirs, from their
masters, to kill the things of the Wild.&n=
bsp;
In doing this they had protected both themselves and the gods whose =
companionship
they shared.
And so, fresh from the soft southern world, th=
ese
dogs, trotting down the gang-plank and out upon the Yukon shore had but to =
see
White Fang to experience the irresistible impulse to rush upon him and dest=
roy
him. They might be town-reared dogs, but the instinctive fear of the Wild w=
as theirs
just the same. Not alone with=
their
own eyes did they see the wolfish creature in the clear light of day, stand=
ing
before them. They saw him wit=
h the
eyes of their ancestors, and by their inherited memory they knew White Fang=
for
the wolf, and they remembered the ancient feud.
All of which served to make White Fang's days
enjoyable. If the sight of him
drove these strange dogs upon him, so much the better for him, so much the
worse for them. They looked u=
pon
him as legitimate prey, and as legitimate prey he looked upon them.
Not for nothing had he first seen the light of=
day
in a lonely lair and fought his first fights with the ptarmigan, the weasel,
and the lynx. And not for not=
hing
had his puppyhood been made bitter by the persecution of Lip-lip and the wh=
ole
puppy pack. It might have been
otherwise, and he would then have been otherwise. Had Lip-lip not existed, he would =
have passed
his puppyhood with the other puppies and grown up more doglike and with more
liking for dogs. Had Grey Bea=
ver
possessed the plummet of affection and love, he might have sounded the deep=
s of
White Fang's nature and brought up to the surface all manner of kindly
qualities. But these things h=
ad not
been so. The clay of White Fa=
ng had
been moulded until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and
ferocious, the enemy of all his kind.
=
A
small number of white men lived in Fort Yukon. These men had been long in the
country. They called themselv=
es
Sour-doughs, and took great pride in so classifying themselves. For other men, new in the land, th=
ey
felt nothing but disdain. The=
men
who came ashore from the steamers were newcomers. They were known as chechaquos, and=
they
always wilted at the application of the name. They made their bread with
baking-powder. This was the invidious distinction between them and the
Sour-doughs, who, forsooth, made their bread from sour-dough because they h=
ad
no baking- powder.
All of which is neither here nor there. The men in the fort disdained the
newcomers and enjoyed seeing them come to grief. Especially did they enjoy the havoc
worked amongst the newcomers' dogs by White Fang and his disreputable
gang. When a steamer arrived,=
the
men of the fort made it a point always to come down to the bank and see the
fun. They looked forward to i=
t with
as much anticipation as did the Indian dogs, while they were not slow to
appreciate the savage and crafty part played by White Fang.
But there was one man amongst them who
particularly enjoyed the sport. He would
come running at the first sound of a steamboat's whistle; and when the last
fight was over and White Fang and the pack had scattered, he would return
slowly to the fort, his face heavy with regret. Sometimes, when a soft southland d=
og
went down, shrieking its death-cry under the fangs of the pack, this man wo=
uld
be unable to contain himself, and would leap into the air and cry out with
delight. And always he had a =
sharp and
covetous eye for White Fang.
This man was called "Beauty" by the
other men of the fort. No one=
knew his
first name, and in general he was known in the country as Beauty Smith. But he was anything save a beauty.=
To antithesis was due his naming.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He was pre-eminently unbeautiful.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Nature had been niggardly with him=
. He was a small man to begin with; =
and
upon his meagre frame was deposited an even more strikingly meagre head.
Backward, from the apex, his head slanted down=
to
his neck and forward it slanted uncompromisingly to meet a low and remarkab=
ly
wide forehead. Beginning here, as though regretting her parsimony, Nature h=
ad
spread his features with a lavish hand.&nb=
sp;
His eyes were large, and between them was the distance of two eyes.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His face, in relation to the rest =
of
him, was prodigious. In order=
to
discover the necessary area, Nature had given him an enormous prognathous
jaw. It was wide and heavy, a=
nd
protruded outward and down until it seemed to rest on his chest. Possibly this appearance was due t=
o the
weariness of the slender neck, unable properly to support so great a burden=
.
This jaw gave the impression of ferocious
determination. But something =
lacked. Perhaps it was from excess. Perhaps the jaw was too large. At any rate, it was a lie. Beauty Smith was known far and wid=
e as
the weakest of weak-kneed and snivelling cowards. To complete his description, his t=
eeth
were large and yellow, while the two eye-teeth, larger than their fellows,
showed under his lean lips like fangs.&nbs=
p;
His eyes were yellow and muddy, as though Nature had run short on
pigments and squeezed together the dregs of all her tubes. It was the same with his hair, spa=
rse
and irregular of growth, muddy-yellow and dirty-yellow, rising on his head =
and
sprouting out of his face in unexpected tufts and bunches, in appearance li=
ke
clumped and wind-blown grain.
In short, Beauty Smith was a monstrosity, and =
the
blame of it lay elsewhere. He=
was
not responsible. The clay of =
him
had been so moulded in the making.
He did the cooking for the other men in the fort, the dish-washing a=
nd
the drudgery. They did not de=
spise
him. Rather did they tolerate=
him
in a broad human way, as one tolerates any creature evilly treated in the
making. Also, they feared him=
. His cowardly rages made them dread=
a
shot in the back or poison in their coffee. But somebody had to do the cooking=
, and
whatever else his shortcomings, Beauty Smith could cook.
This was the man that looked at White Fang,
delighted in his ferocious prowess, and desired to possess him. He made overtures to White Fang fr=
om the
first. White Fang began by ig=
noring
him. Later on, when the overt=
ures
became more insistent, White Fang bristled and bared his teeth and backed
away. He did not like the man=
. The feel of him was bad. He sensed the evil in him, and fea=
red
the extended hand and the attempts at soft-spoken speech. Because of all this, he hated the =
man.
With the simpler creatures, good and bad are
things simply understood. The good stands for all things that bring easement
and satisfaction and surcease from pain.&n=
bsp;
Therefore, the good is liked.
The bad stands for all things that are fraught with discomfort, mena=
ce,
and hurt, and is hated accordingly.
White Fang's feel of Beauty Smith was bad. From the man's distorted body and
twisted mind, in occult ways, like mists rising from malarial marshes, came
emanations of the unhealth within.
Not by reasoning, not by the five senses alone, but by other and rem=
oter
and uncharted senses, came the feeling to White Fang that the man was omino=
us with
evil, pregnant with hurtfulness, and therefore a thing bad, and wisely to be
hated.
White Fang was in Grey Beaver's camp when Beau=
ty
Smith first visited it. At the faint sound of his distant feet, before he c=
ame
in sight, White Fang knew who was coming and began to bristle. He had been lying down in an aband=
on of
comfort, but he arose quickly, and, as the man arrived, slid away in true
wolf-fashion to the edge of the camp.
He did not know what they said, but he could see the man and Grey Be=
aver
talking together. Once, the m=
an
pointed at him, and White Fang snarled back as though the hand were just
descending upon him instead of being, as it was, fifty feet away. The man laughed at this; and White=
Fang
slunk away to the sheltering woods, his head turned to observe as he glided
softly over the ground.
Grey Beaver refused to sell the dog. He had grown rich with his trading=
and
stood in need of nothing. Bes=
ides,
White Fang was a valuable animal, the strongest sled-dog he had ever owned,=
and
the best leader. Furthermore, there was no dog like him on the Mackenzie nor
the Yukon. He could fight.
But Beauty Smith knew the ways of Indians. He visited Grey Beaver's camp ofte=
n, and
hidden under his coat was always a black bottle or so. One of the potencies of whisky is =
the
breeding of thirst. Grey Beav=
er got
the thirst. His fevered membr=
anes
and burnt stomach began to clamour for more and more of the scorching fluid;
while his brain, thrust all awry by the unwonted stimulant, permitted him t=
o go
any length to obtain it. The =
money
he had received for his furs and mittens and moccasins began to go. It went
faster and faster, and the shorter his money-sack grew, the shorter grew his
temper.
In the end his money and goods and temper were=
all
gone. Nothing remained to him=
but
his thirst, a prodigious possession in itself that grew more prodigious with
every sober breath he drew. T=
hen it
was that Beauty Smith had talk with him again about the sale of White Fang;=
but
this time the price offered was in bottles, not dollars, and Grey Beaver's =
ears
were more eager to hear.
"You ketch um dog you take um all
right," was his last word.
The bottles were delivered, but after two
days. "You ketch um dog,=
"
were Beauty Smith's words to Grey Beaver.
White Fang slunk into camp one evening and dro=
pped
down with a sigh of content. =
The
dreaded white god was not there.
For days his manifestations of desire to lay hands on him had been
growing more insistent, and during that time White Fang had been compelled =
to
avoid the camp. He did not kn=
ow
what evil was threatened by those insistent hands. He knew only that they did threate=
n evil
of some sort, and that it was best for him to keep out of their reach.
But scarcely had he lain down when Grey Beaver
staggered over to him and tied a leather thong around his neck. He sat down beside White Fang, hol=
ding
the end of the thong in his hand.
In the other hand he held a bottle, which, from time to time, was
inverted above his head to the accompaniment of gurgling noises.
An hour of this passed, when the vibrations of
feet in contact with the ground foreran the one who approached. White Fang heard it first, and he =
was
bristling with recognition while Grey Beaver still nodded stupidly. White F=
ang
tried to draw the thong softly out of his master's hand; but the relaxed
fingers closed tightly and Grey Beaver roused himself.
Beauty Smith strode into camp and stood over W=
hite
Fang. He snarled softly up at=
the
thing of fear, watching keenly the deportment of the hands. One hand extended outward and bega=
n to
descend upon his head. His so=
ft
snarl grew tense and harsh. T=
he
hand continued slowly to descend, while he crouched beneath it, eyeing it
malignantly, his snarl growing shorter and shorter as, with quickening brea=
th,
it approached its culmination.
Suddenly he snapped, striking with his fangs like a snake. The hand =
was
jerked back, and the teeth came together emptily with a sharp click. Beauty Smith was frightened and
angry. Grey Beaver clouted Wh=
ite
Fang alongside the head, so that he cowered down close to the earth in
respectful obedience.
White Fang's suspicious eyes followed every
movement. He saw Beauty Smith=
go
away and return with a stout club.
Then the end of the thong was given over to him by Grey Beaver. Beauty Smith started to walk away.=
The
thong grew taut. White Fang
resisted it. Grey Beaver clou=
ted
him right and left to make him get up and follow. He obeyed, but with a rush, hurling
himself upon the stranger who was dragging him away. Beauty Smith did not jump away.
He did not rush a second time. One smash from the club was suffic=
ient
to convince him that the white god knew how to handle it, and he was too wi=
se
to fight the inevitable. So he
followed morosely at Beauty Smith's heels, his tail between his legs, yet
snarling softly under his breath. But Beauty Smith kept a wary eye on him, =
and
the club was held always ready to strike.
At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied
and went in to bed. White Fang
waited an hour. Then he appli=
ed his
teeth to the thong, and in the space of ten seconds was free. He had wasted no time with his tee=
th. There
had been no useless gnawing. =
The
thong was cut across, diagonally, almost as clean as though done by a
knife. White Fang looked up a=
t the fort,
at the same time bristling and growling.&n=
bsp;
Then he turned and trotted back to Grey Beaver's camp. He owed no allegiance to this stra=
nge
and terrible god. He had given
himself to Grey Beaver, and to Grey Beaver he considered he still belonged.=
But what had occurred before was repeated--wit=
h a
difference. Grey Beaver again=
made
him fast with a thong, and in the morning turned him over to Beauty Smith.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And here was where the difference =
came
in. Beauty Smith gave him a
beating. Tied securely, White=
Fang
could only rage futilely and endure the punishment. Club and whip were both used upon =
him,
and he experienced the worst beating he had ever received in his life. Even the big beating given him in =
his
puppyhood by Grey Beaver was mild compared with this.
Beauty Smith enjoyed the task. He delighted in it. He gloated over his victim, and hi=
s eyes
flamed dully, as he swung the whip or club and listened to White Fang's cri=
es
of pain and to his helpless bellows and snarls. For Beauty Smith was cruel in the =
way
that cowards are cruel. Cringing and snivelling himself before the blows or
angry speech of a man, he revenged himself, in turn, upon creatures weaker =
than
he. All life likes power, and
Beauty Smith was no exception.
Denied the expression of power amongst his own kind, he fell back up=
on
the lesser creatures and there vindicated the life that was in him. But Beauty Smith had not created
himself, and no blame was to be attached to him. He had come into the world with a
twisted body and a brute intelligence. This had constituted the clay of him,
and it had not been kindly moulded by the world.
White Fang knew why he was being beaten. When Grey Beaver tied the thong ar=
ound
his neck, and passed the end of the thong into Beauty Smith's keeping, White
Fang knew that it was his god's will for him to go with Beauty Smith. And when Beauty Smith left him tied
outside the fort, he knew that it was Beauty Smith's will that he should re=
main
there. Therefore, he had disobeyed the will of both the gods, and earned th=
e consequent
punishment. He had seen dogs =
change
owners in the past, and he had seen the runaways beaten as he was being
beaten. He was wise, and yet =
in the
nature of him there were forces greater than wisdom. One of these was fidelity. He did not love Grey Beaver, yet, =
even
in the face of his will and his anger, he was faithful to him. He could not help it. This faithfu=
lness
was a quality of the clay that composed him. It was the quality that was peculi=
arly
the possession of his kind; the quality that set apart his species from all
other species; the quality that has enabled the wolf and the wild dog to co=
me
in from the open and be the companions of man.
After the beating, White Fang was dragged back=
to
the fort. But this time Beauty
Smith left him tied with a stick.
One does not give up a god easily, and so with White Fang. Grey Beaver was his own particular=
god, and,
in spite of Grey Beaver's will, White Fang still clung to him and would not
give him up. Grey Beaver had
betrayed and forsaken him, but that had no effect upon him. Not for nothing had he surrendered
himself body and soul to Grey Beaver.
There had been no reservation on White Fang's part, and the bond was=
not
to be broken easily.
So, in the night, when the men in the fort were
asleep, White Fang applied his teeth to the stick that held him. The wood was seasoned and dry, and=
it
was tied so closely to his neck that he could scarcely get his teeth to
it. It was only by the severe=
st
muscular exertion and neck- arching that he succeeded in getting the wood
between his teeth, and barely between his teeth at that; and it was only by=
the
exercise of an immense patience, extending through many hours, that he
succeeded in gnawing through the stick.&nb=
sp;
This was something that dogs were not supposed to do. It was unprecedented. But White Fang did it, trotting aw=
ay
from the fort in the early morning, with the end of the stick hanging to his
neck.
He was wise.&=
nbsp;
But had he been merely wise he would not have gone back to Grey Beav=
er
who had already twice betrayed him.
But there was his faithfulness, and he went back to be betrayed yet a
third time. Again he yielded =
to the
tying of a thong around his neck by Grey Beaver, and again Beauty Smith cam=
e to
claim him. And this time he w=
as
beaten even more severely than before.
Grey Beaver looked on stolidly while the white=
man
wielded the whip. He gave no
protection. It was no longer =
his
dog. When the beating was ove=
r White
Fang was sick. A soft southla=
nd dog
would have died under it, but not he.
His school of life had been sterner, and he was himself of sterner
stuff. He had too great
vitality. His clutch on life =
was
too strong. But he was very
sick. At first he was unable =
to
drag himself along, and Beauty Smith had to wait half-an-hour for him. And then, blind and reeling, he fo=
llowed
at Beauty Smith's heels back to the fort.
But now he was tied with a chain that defied h=
is
teeth, and he strove in vain, by lunging, to draw the staple from the timber
into which it was driven. Aft=
er a
few days, sober and bankrupt, Grey Beaver departed up the Porcupine on his =
long
journey to the Mackenzie. Whi=
te
Fang remained on the Yukon, the property of a man more than half mad and all
brute. But what is a dog to k=
now in
its consciousness of madness? To
White Fang, Beauty Smith was a veritable, if terrible, god. He was a mad god at best, but Whit=
e Fang
knew nothing of madness; he knew only that he must submit to the will of th=
is
new master, obey his every whim and fancy.
=
Under
the tutelage of the mad god, White Fang became a fiend. He was kept chained in a pen at th=
e rear
of the fort, and here Beauty Smith teased and irritated and drove him wild =
with
petty torments. The man early
discovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter, and made it a point aft=
er
painfully tricking him, to laugh at him.&n=
bsp;
This laughter was uproarious and scornful, and at the same time the =
god
pointed his finger derisively at White Fang. At such times reason fled from Whi=
te
Fang, and in his transports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith.=
Formerly, White Fang had been merely the enemy=
of
his kind, withal a ferocious enemy.
He now became the enemy of all things, and more ferocious than
ever. To such an extent was he
tormented, that he hated blindly and without the faintest spark of reason.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He hated the chain that bound him,=
the
men who peered in at him through the slats of the pen, the dogs that
accompanied the men and that snarled malignantly at him in his
helplessness. He hated the ve=
ry
wood of the pen that confined him.
And, first, last, and most of all, he hated Beauty Smith.
But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he =
did
to White Fang. One day a numb=
er of
men gathered about the pen. B=
eauty
Smith entered, club in hand, and took the chain off from White Fang's
neck. When his master had gon=
e out,
White Fang turned loose and tore around the pen, trying to get at the men
outside. He was magnificently
terrible. Fully five feet in =
length,
and standing two and one-half feet at the shoulder, he far outweighed a wol=
f of
corresponding size. From his =
mother
he had inherited the heavier proportions of the dog, so that he weighed,
without any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety
pounds. It was all muscle, bo=
ne,
and sinew-fighting flesh in the finest condition.
The door of the pen was being opened again. He waited. The door was opened wider. Then a huge dog was thrust inside,=
and
the door was slammed shut behind him. White Fang had never seen such a dog =
(it
was a mastiff); but the size and fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter
him. Here was some thing, not=
wood
nor iron, upon which to wreak his hate.&nb=
sp;
He leaped in with a flash of fangs that ripped down the side of the
mastiff's neck. The mastiff s=
hook
his head, growled hoarsely, and plunged at White Fang. But White Fang was here, there, an=
d everywhere,
always evading and eluding, and always leaping in and slashing with his fan=
gs
and leaping out again in time to escape punishment.
The men outside shouted and applauded, while
Beauty Smith, in an ecstasy of delight, gloated over the ripping and mangli=
ng
performed by White Fang. Ther=
e was
no hope for the mastiff from the first.&nb=
sp;
He was too ponderous and slow.
In the end, while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back with a club, the
mastiff was dragged out by its owner.
Then there was a payment of bets, and money clinked in Beauty Smith's
hand.
White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the
gathering of the men around his pen.
It meant a fight; and this was the only way that was now vouchsafed =
him
of expressing the life that was in him.&nb=
sp;
Tormented, incited to hate, he was kept a prisoner so that there was=
no
way of satisfying that hate except at the times his master saw fit to put a=
nother
dog against him. Beauty Smith=
had
estimated his powers well, for he was invariably the victor. One day, three dogs were turned in=
upon him
in succession. Another day a
full-grown wolf, fresh-caught from the Wild, was shoved in through the door=
of
the pen. And on still another=
day
two dogs were set against him at the same time. This was his severest fight, and t=
hough
in the end he killed them both he was himself half killed in doing it.
In the fall of the year, when the first snows =
were
falling and mush-ice was running in the river, Beauty Smith took passage for
himself and White Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson. White Fang had now achieved a repu=
tation
in the land. As "the Fig=
hting
Wolf" he was known far and wide, and the cage in which he was kept on =
the
steam-boat's deck was usually surrounded by curious men. He raged and snarled at them, or l=
ay
quietly and studied them with cold hatred.=
Why should he not hate them?
He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate and lost himself=
in
the passion of it. Life had b=
ecome
a hell to him. He had not bee=
n made
for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of men. And yet it was in precisely this w=
ay
that he was treated. Men star=
ed at
him, poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then laughed at h=
im.
They were his environment, these men, and they
were moulding the clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been
intended by Nature. Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Where many another animal would ha=
ve
died or had its spirit broken, he adjusted himself and lived, and at no exp=
ense
of the spirit. Possibly Beauty
Smith, arch-fiend and tormentor, was capable of breaking White Fang's spiri=
t,
but as yet there were no signs of his succeeding.
If Beauty Smith had in him a devil, White Fang=
had
another; and the two of them raged against each other unceasingly. In the days before, White Fang had=
had
the wisdom to cower down and submit to a man with a club in his hand; but t=
his
wisdom now left him. The mere=
sight
of Beauty Smith was sufficient to send him into transports of fury. And when they came to close quarte=
rs,
and he had been beaten back by the club, he went on growling and snarling, =
and
showing his fangs. The last g=
rowl
could never be extracted from him.
No matter how terribly he was beaten, he had always another growl; a=
nd
when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew, the defiant growl followed after hi=
m,
or White Fang sprang at the bars of the cage bellowing his hatred.
When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fa=
ng
went ashore. But he still liv=
ed a
public life, in a cage, surrounded by curious men. He was exhibited as "the Figh=
ting
Wolf," and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to sleep, he was s=
tirred
up by a sharp stick--so that the audience might get its money's worth. In order to make the exhibition
interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time. But worse than all this, was the
atmosphere in which he lived. He
was regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts, and this was borne in to h=
im
through the bars of the cage. Every
word, every cautious action, on the part of the men, impressed upon him his=
own
terrible ferocity. It was so =
much
added fuel to the flame of his fierceness.=
There could be but one result, and that was that his ferocity fed up=
on
itself and increased. It was
another instance of the plasticity of his clay, of his capacity for being
moulded by the pressure of environment.
In addition to being exhibited he was a
professional fighting animal. At irregular
intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was taken out of his cage=
and
led off into the woods a few miles from town. Usually this occurred at night, so=
as to
avoid interference from the mounted police of the Territory. After a few hours of waiting, when
daylight had come, the audience and the dog with which he was to fight
arrived. In this manner it ca=
me
about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It was a savage land, the men were
savage, and the fights were usually to the death.
Since White Fang continued to fight, it is obv=
ious
that it was the other dogs that died.
He never knew defeat. =
His
early training, when he fought with Lip-lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood=
him
in good stead. There was the tenacity with which he clung to the earth. No dog could make him lose his
footing. This was the favouri=
te
trick of the wolf breeds--to rush in upon him, either directly or with an
unexpected swerve, in the hope of striking his shoulder and overthrowing hi=
m. Mackenzie
hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes--all tried it on hi=
m,
and all failed. He was never =
known
to lose his footing. Men told this to one another, and looked each time to =
see
it happen; but White Fang always disappointed them.
Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendous advantage=
over
his antagonists. No matter wh=
at
their fighting experience, they had never encountered a dog that moved so
swiftly as he. Also to be reckoned with, was the immediateness of his
attack. The average dog was
accustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling and growling, and=
the
average dog was knocked off his feet and finished before he had begun to fi=
ght
or recovered from his surprise. So
often did this happen, that it became the custom to hold White Fang until t=
he other
dog went through its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even made the f=
irst
attack.
But greatest of all the advantages in White Fa=
ng's
favour, was his experience. H=
e knew
more about fighting than did any of the dogs that faced him. He had fought more fights, knew ho=
w to
meet more tricks and methods, and had more tricks himself, while his own me=
thod
was scarcely to be improved upon.
As the time went by, he had fewer and fewer
fights. Men despaired of matc=
hing
him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pit wolves against
him. These were trapped by the
Indians for the purpose, and a fight between White Fang and a wolf was alwa=
ys
sure to draw a crowd. Once, a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this =
time
White Fang fought for his life. Her
quickness matched his; her ferocity equalled his; while he fought with his
fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp- clawed feet as well.
But after the lynx, all fighting ceased for Wh=
ite
Fang. There were no more anim=
als
with which to fight--at least, there was none considered worthy of fighting
with him. So he remained on
exhibition until spring, when one Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived in the
land. With him came the first
bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike. That this dog and White Fang shoul=
d come
together was inevitable, and for a week the anticipated fight was the
mainspring of conversation in certain quarters of the town.
=
Beauty
Smith slipped the chain from his neck and stepped back.
For once White Fang did not make an immediate
attack. He stood still, ears
pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal that faced
him. He had never seen such a=
dog
before. Tim Keenan shoved the
bull-dog forward with a muttered "Go to it." The animal waddled toward the cent=
re of
the circle, short and squat and ungainly.&=
nbsp;
He came to a stop and blinked across at White Fang.
There were cries from the crowd of, "Go to
him, Cherokee! Sick 'm, Chero=
kee! Eat 'm up!"
But Cherokee did not seem anxious to fight.
Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee,
fondling him on both sides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against =
the
grain of the hair and that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so many suggestions.
This was not without its effect on White
Fang. The hair began to rise =
on his
neck and across the shoulders. Tim
Keenan gave a final shove forward and stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherok=
ee
forward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition, in a swi=
ft, bow-legged
run. Then White Fang struck.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> A cry of startled admiration went
up. He had covered the distan=
ce and
gone in more like a cat than a dog; and with the same cat-like swiftness he=
had
slashed with his fangs and leaped clear.
The bull-dog was bleeding back of one ear from=
a
rip in his thick neck. He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but turned and
followed after White Fang. The
display on both sides, the quickness of the one and the steadiness of the o=
ther,
had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd, and the men were making new b=
ets
and increasing original bets.
Again, and yet again, White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away
untouched, and still his strange foe followed after him, without too great
haste, not slowly, but deliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sor=
t of
way. There was purpose in his method--something for him to do that he was i=
ntent
upon doing and from which nothing could distract him.
His whole demeanour, every action, was stamped
with this purpose. It puzzled=
White
Fang. Never had he seen such a
dog. It had no hair protectio=
n. It was soft, and bled easily. There was no thick mat of fur to b=
affle
White Fang's teeth as they were often baffled by dogs of his own breed. Each time that his teeth struck th=
ey
sank easily into the yielding flesh, while the animal did not seem able to
defend itself. Another disconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such=
as
he had been accustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or a grunt, the dog=
took
its punishment silently. And =
never
did it flag in its pursuit of him.
Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn and whirl swiftly en=
ough,
but White Fang was never there.
Cherokee was puzzled, too.
He had never fought before with a dog with which he could not
close. The desire to close had
always been mutual. But here =
was a
dog that kept at a distance, dancing and dodging here and there and all
about. And when it did get its
teeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and darted away aga=
in.
But White Fang could not get at the soft under=
side
of the throat. The bull-dog s=
tood
too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection. White Fang darted in and out unsca=
thed,
while Cherokee's wounds increased.
Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. He bled freely, but showed no sign=
s of
being disconcerted. He contin=
ued
his plodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a full
stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging his stu=
mp
of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.
In that moment White Fang was in upon him and =
out,
in passing ripping his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation of ang=
er, Cherokee
took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of the circle White Fang w=
as
making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip on White Fang's throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair's-br=
eadth,
and cries of praise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in=
the
opposite direction.
The time went by. White Fang still danced on, dodgin=
g and
doubling, leaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage. And still the bull-dog, with grim
certitude, toiled after him. =
Sooner
or later he would accomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the
battle. In the meantime, he
accepted all the punishment the other could deal him. His tufts of ears had become tasse=
ls,
his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places, and his very lips
were cut and bleeding--all from these lightning snaps that were beyond his
foreseeing and guarding.
Time and again White Fang had attempted to kno=
ck
Cherokee off his feet; but the difference in their height was too great. For the first time in his fighting
history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned a half-somers=
ault
in the air, and he would have landed on his back had he not twisted, catlik=
e,
still in the air, in the effort to bring his feet to the earth. As it was, he struck heavily on his
side. The next instant he was on his feet, but in that instant Cherokee's t=
eeth
closed on his throat.
It was not a good grip, being too low down tow=
ard
the chest; but Cherokee held on.
White Fang sprang to his feet and tore wildly around, trying to shake
off the bull-dog's body. It m=
ade
him frantic, this clinging, dragging weight. It bound his movements, restricted=
his
freedom. It was like the trap=
, and
all his instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was a mad revolt.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> For several minutes he was to all
intents insane. The basic life that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body surg=
ed
over him. He was dominated by=
this
mere flesh-love of life. All
intelligence was gone. It was=
as
though he had no brain. His r=
eason
was unseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move, at all
hazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the expression of its
existence.
Round and round he went, whirling and turning =
and
reversing, trying to shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his
throat. The bull- dog did lit=
tle
but keep his grip. Sometimes,=
and
rarely, he managed to get his feet to the earth and for a moment to brace
himself against White Fang. B=
ut the
next moment his footing would be lost and he would be dragging around in the
whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokee identified himself with
his instinct. He knew that he=
was
doing the right thing by holding on, and there came to him certain blissful=
thrills
of satisfaction. At such mome=
nts he
even closed his eyes and allowed his body to be hurled hither and thither,
willy-nilly, careless of any hurt that might thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip was the thing, and the gr=
ip he
kept.
White Fang ceased only when he had tired himse=
lf
out. He could do nothing, and=
he
could not understand. Never, =
in all
his fighting, had this thing happened.&nbs=
p;
The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. With them it was
snap and slash and get away, snap and slash and get away. He lay partly on his side, panting=
for
breath. Cherokee still holdin=
g his
grip, urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on his side. White Fang resisted, and he could =
feel
the jaws shifting their grip, slightly relaxing and coming together again i=
n a
chewing movement. Each shift brought the grip closer to his throat. The bull-dog's method was to hold =
what
he had, and when opportunity favoured to work in for more. Opportunity favoured when White Fa=
ng
remained quiet. When White Fa=
ng
struggled, Cherokee was content merely to hold on.
The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the on=
ly
portion of his body that White Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where =
the neck
comes out from the shoulders; but he did not know the chewing method of
fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it.=
He spasmodically ripped and tore with his fangs for a space. Then a change in their position di=
verted
him. The bull-dog had managed=
to
roll him over on his back, and still hanging on to his throat, was on top of
him. Like a cat, White Fang b=
owed
his hind-quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his enemy's abdomen a=
bove
him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. Cherokee might well have b=
een
disembowelled had he not quickly pivoted on his grip and got his body off of
White Fang's and at right angles to it.
There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself, and as in=
exorable. Slowly it shifted up along the
jugular. All that saved White=
Fang
from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur that covered
it. This served to form a lar=
ge
roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur of which well-nigh defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever the chance
offered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. The result was that he was slowly
throttling White Fang. The la=
tter's
breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by=
.
It began to look as though the battle were
over. The backers of Cherokee=
waxed
jubilant and offered ridiculous odds.
White Fang's backers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bet=
s of
ten to one and twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wag=
er
of fifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and p=
ointed
his finger at White Fang. The=
n he
began to laugh derisively and scornfully. This produced the desired
effect. White Fang went wild =
with
rage. He called up his reserv=
es of
strength, and gained his feet. As
he struggled around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on =
his
throat, his anger passed on into panic.&nb=
sp;
The basic life of him dominated him again, and his intelligence fled=
before
the will of his flesh to live. Round and round and back again, stumbling and
falling and rising, even uprearing at times on his hind-legs and lifting his
foe clear of the earth, he struggled vainly to shake off the clinging death=
.
At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted;=
and
the bull-dog promptly shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and
more of the fur- folded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than
ever. Shouts of applause went=
up
for the victor, and there were many cries of "Cherokee!" "Ch=
erokee!" To this Cherokee responded by vigo=
rous
wagging of the stump of his tail.
But the clamour of approval did not distract him. There was no sympathetic relation
between his tail and his massive jaws.&nbs=
p;
The one might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White
Fang's throat.
It was at this time that a diversion came to t=
he
spectators. There was a jingl=
e of
bells. Dog-mushers' cries were
heard. Everybody, save Beauty=
Smith,
looked apprehensively, the fear of the police strong upon them. But they sa=
w,
up the trail, and not down, two men running with sled and dogs. They were evidently coming down the
creek from some prospecting trip.
At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over and join=
ed
it, curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musher wore a moustache, b=
ut the
other, a taller and younger man, was smooth- shaven, his skin rosy from the
pounding of his blood and the running in the frosty air.
White Fang had practically ceased struggling.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Now and again he resisted spasmodi=
cally
and to no purpose. He could g=
et
little air, and that little grew less and less under the merciless grip that
ever tightened. In spite of his armour of fur, the great vein of his throat
would have long since been torn open, had not the first grip of the bull-dog
been so low down as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a long time =
to
shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog his jaws w=
ith
fur and skin-fold.
In the meantime, the abysmal brute in Beauty S=
mith
had been rising into his brain and mastering the small bit of sanity that he
possessed at best. When he saw
White Fang's eyes beginning to glaze, he knew beyond doubt that the fight w=
as
lost. Then he broke loose.
"You cowards!" he cried. "You beasts!"
He was in a rage himself--a sane rage. His grey eyes seemed metallic and =
steel-like
as they flashed upon the crowd.
Beauty Smith regained his feet and came toward him, sniffling and
cowardly. The new-comer did n=
ot understand. He did not know how abject a cowar=
d the
other was, and thought he was coming back intent on fighting. So, with a "You beast!" =
he
smashed Beauty Smith over backward with a second blow in the face. Beauty S=
mith
decided that the snow was the safest place for him, and lay where he had
fallen, making no effort to get up.
"Come on, Matt, lend a hand," the
newcomer called the dog-musher, who had followed him into the ring.
Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, read=
y to
pull when Cherokee's jaws should be loosened. This the younger man endeavoured to
accomplish by clutching the bulldog's jaws in his hands and trying to spread
them. It was a vain
undertaking. As he pulled and=
tugged
and wrenched, he kept exclaiming with every expulsion of breath, "Beas=
ts!"
The crowd began to grow unruly, and some of the
men were protesting against the spoiling of the sport; but they were silenc=
ed
when the newcomer lifted his head from his work for a moment and glared at
them.
"You damn beasts!" he finally explod=
ed,
and went back to his task.
"It's no use, Mr. Scott, you can't break =
'm
apart that way," Matt said at last.
The pair paused and surveyed the locked dogs.<= o:p>
"Ain't bleedin' much," Matt
announced. "Ain't got al=
l the
way in yet."
"But he's liable to any moment," Sco=
tt
answered. "There, did yo=
u see that! He shifted his grip in a bit."=
;
The younger man's excitement and apprehension =
for
White Fang was growing. He struck Cherokee about the head savagely again and
again. But that did not loose=
n the
jaws. Cherokee wagged the stu=
mp of
his tail in advertisement that he understood the meaning of the blows, but =
that
he knew he was himself in the right and only doing his duty by keeping his =
grip.
"Won't some of you help?" Scott cried
desperately at the crowd.
But no help was offered. Instead, the crowd began sarcastic=
ally
to cheer him on and showered him with facetious advice.
"You'll have to get a pry," Matt
counselled.
The other reached into the holster at his hip,
drew his revolver, and tried to thrust its muzzle between the bull-dog's
jaws. He shoved, and shoved h=
ard,
till the grating of the steel against the locked teeth could be distinctly
heard. Both men were on their
knees, bending over the dogs. Tim
Keenan strode into the ring. =
He
paused beside Scott and touched him on the shoulder, saying ominously:
"Don't break them teeth, stranger."<= o:p>
"Then I'll break his neck," Scott
retorted, continuing his shoving and wedging with the revolver muzzle.
"I said don't break them teeth," the
faro-dealer repeated more ominously than before.
But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not
work. Scott never desisted fr=
om his
efforts, though he looked up coolly and asked:
"Your dog?"
The faro-dealer grunted.
"Then get in here and break this grip.&qu=
ot;
"Well, stranger," the other drawled
irritatingly, "I don't mind telling you that's something I ain't worked
out for myself. I don't know =
how to
turn the trick."
"Then get out of the way," was the
reply, "and don't bother me.
I'm busy."
Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Sc=
ott
took no further notice of his presence.&nb=
sp;
He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws on one side, and
was trying to get it out between the jaws on the other side. This accomplished, he pried gently=
and
carefully, loosening the jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time,
extricated White Fang's mangled neck.
"Stand by to receive your dog," was
Scott's peremptory order to Cherokee's owner.
The faro-dealer stooped down obediently and go=
t a
firm hold on Cherokee.
"Now!" Scott warned, giving the final
pry.
The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog strugg=
ling
vigorously.
"Take him away," Scott commanded, and
Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back into the crowd.
White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to=
get
up. Once he gained his feet, =
but
his legs were too weak to sustain him, and he slowly wilted and sank back i=
nto
the snow. His eyes were half
closed, and the surface of them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through t=
hem
the tongue protruded, draggled and limp.&n=
bsp;
To all appearances he looked like a dog that had been strangled to
death. Matt examined him.
"Just about all in," he announced;
"but he's breathin' all right."
Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come ov=
er
to look at White Fang.
"Matt, how much is a good sled-dog
worth?" Scott asked.
The dog-musher, still on his knees and stooped
over White Fang, calculated for a moment.
"Three hundred dollars," he answered=
.
"And how much for one that's all chewed up
like this one?" Scott asked, nudging White Fang with his foot.
"Half of that," was the dog-musher's
judgment. Scott turned upon B=
eauty Smith.
"Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I'm going to take your dog from yo=
u, and
I'm going to give you a hundred and fifty for him."
He opened his pocket-book and counted out the
bills.
Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back,
refusing to touch the proffered money.
"I ain't a-sellin'," he said.
"Oh, yes you are," the other assured
him. "Because I'm buying=
. Here's your money. The dog's mine."
Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, bega=
n to
back away.
Scott sprang toward him, drawing his fist back=
to
strike. Beauty Smith cowered =
down
in anticipation of the blow.
"I've got my rights," he whimpered.<= o:p>
"You've forfeited your rights to own that
dog," was the rejoinder.
"Are you going to take the money? or do I have to hit you
again?"
"All right," Beauty Smith spoke up w=
ith
the alacrity of fear. "B=
ut I take
the money under protest," he added.&n=
bsp;
"The dog's a mint. I
ain't a- goin' to be robbed. A
man's got his rights."
"Correct," Scott answered, passing t=
he
money over to him. "A ma=
n's
got his rights. But you're no=
t a
man. You're a beast."
"Wait till I get back to Dawson," Be=
auty
Smith threatened. "I'll =
have the
law on you."
"If you open your mouth when you get back=
to
Dawson, I'll have you run out of town.&nbs=
p;
Understand?"
Beauty Smith replied with a grunt.
"Understand?" the other thundered wi=
th
abrupt fierceness.
"Yes," Beauty Smith grunted, shrinki=
ng
away.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, sir," Beauty Smith snarled.
"Look out! He'll bite!" some one shouted=
, and
a guffaw of laughter went up.
Scott turned his back on him, and returned to =
help
the dog-musher, who was working over White Fang.
Some of the men were already departing; others
stood in groups, looking on and talking.&n=
bsp;
Tim Keenan joined one of the groups.
"Who's that mug?" he asked.
"Weedon Scott," some one answered.
"And who in hell is Weedon Scott?" t=
he
faro-dealer demanded.
"Oh, one of them crackerjack minin'
experts. He's in with all the=
big bugs. If you want to keep out of trouble,
you'll steer clear of him, that's my talk.=
He's all hunky with the officials.&=
nbsp;
The Gold Commissioner's a special pal of his."
"I thought he must be somebody," was=
the
faro-dealer's comment. "=
That's
why I kept my hands offen him at the start."
=
"It's
hopeless," Weedon Scott confessed.
He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at =
the
dog-musher, who responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.
Together they looked at White Fang at the end =
of
his stretched chain, bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the
sled-dogs. Having received su=
ndry
lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means of a club, the
sled-dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone; and even then they were ly=
ing
down at a distance, apparently oblivious of his existence.
"It's a wolf and there's no taming it,&qu=
ot;
Weedon Scott announced.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt
objected. "Might be a lo=
t of
dog in 'm, for all you can tell.
But there's one thing I know sure, an' that there's no gettin' away
from."
The dog-musher paused and nodded his head
confidentially at Moosehide Mountain.
"Well, don't be a miser with what you
know," Scott said sharply, after waiting a suitable length of time.
The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a
backward thrust of his thumb.
"Wolf or dog, it's all the same--he's ben
tamed 'ready."
"No!"
"I tell you yes, an' broke to harness.
"You're right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Sm=
ith
got hold of him."
"And there's not much reason against his
bein' a sled-dog again."
"What d'ye think?" Scott queried
eagerly. Then the hope died d=
own as
he added, shaking his head, "We've had him two weeks now, and if anyth=
ing he's
wilder than ever at the present moment."
"Give 'm a chance," Matt
counselled. "Turn 'm loo=
se for
a spell."
The other looked at him incredulously.
"Yes," Matt went on, "I know yo=
u've
tried to, but you didn't take a club."
"You try it then."
The dog-musher secured a club and went over to=
the
chained animal. White Fang wa=
tched
the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip of its trainer.=
"See 'm keep his eye on that club," =
Matt
said. "That's a good
sign. He's no fool. Don't dast tackle me so long as I =
got
that club handy. He's not cle=
an
crazy, sure."
As the man's hand approached his neck, White F=
ang
bristled and snarled and crouched down.&nb=
sp;
But while he eyed the approaching hand, he at the same time contrive=
d to
keep track of the club in the other hand, suspended threateningly above
him. Matt unsnapped the chain=
from
the collar and stepped back.
White Fang could scarcely realise that he was
free. Many months had gone by=
since
he passed into the possession of Beauty Smith, and in all that period he had
never known a moment of freedom except at the times he had been loosed to f=
ight
with other dogs. Immediately =
after
such fights he had always been imprisoned again.
He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new devilry of the go=
ds was
about to be perpetrated on him. He
walked slowly and cautiously, prepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know what to do, it was=
all
so unprecedented. He took the
precaution to sheer off from the two watching gods, and walked carefully to=
the
corner of the cabin. Nothing happened.&nbs=
p;
He was plainly perplexed, and he came back again, pausing a dozen fe=
et
away and regarding the two men intently.
"Won't he run away?" his new owner
asked.
Matt shrugged his shoulders. "Got to take a gamble. Only way to find out is to find
out."
"Poor devil," Scott murmured
pityingly. "What he need=
s is
some show of human kindness," he added, turning and going into the cab=
in.
He came out with a piece of meat, which he tos=
sed
to White Fang. He sprang away=
from
it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.
"Hi-yu, Major!" Matt shouted warning=
ly,
but too late.
Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on =
it,
White Fang struck him. He was
overthrown. Matt rushed in, b=
ut quicker
than he was White Fang. Major
staggered to his feet, but the blood spouting from his throat reddened the =
snow
in a widening path.
"It's too bad, but it served him right,&q=
uot;
Scott said hastily.
But Matt's foot had already started on its way=
to
kick White Fang. There was a =
leap,
a flash of teeth, a sharp exclamation.&nbs=
p;
White Fang, snarling fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards,
while Matt stooped and investigated his leg.
"He got me all right," he announced,
pointing to the torn trousers and undercloths, and the growing stain of red=
.
"I told you it was hopeless, Matt,"
Scott said in a discouraged voice. "I've thought about it off and on,
while not wanting to think of it.
But we've come to it now.
It's the only thing to do."
As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew=
his
revolver, threw open the cylinder, and assured himself of its contents.
"Look here, Mr. Scott," Matt objecte=
d;
"that dog's ben through hell.
You can't expect 'm to come out a white an' shinin' angel. Give 'm time."
"Look at Major," the other rejoined.=
The dog-musher surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow in the
circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp.
"Served 'm right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take White Fang's meat=
, an'
he's dead-O. That was to be
expected. I wouldn't give two
whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat."
"But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but=
we
must draw the line somewhere."
"Served me right," Matt argued
stubbornly. "What'd I wa=
nt to
kick 'm for? You said yoursel=
f that
he'd done right. Then I had no
right to kick 'm."
"It would be a mercy to kill him," S=
cott
insisted. "He's untamabl=
e."
"Now look here, Mr. Scott, give the poor
devil a fightin' chance. He a=
in't
had no chance yet. He's just =
come
through hell, an' this is the first time he's ben loose. Give 'm a fair chance, an' if he d=
on't deliver
the goods, I'll kill 'm myself. There!"
"God knows I don't want to kill him or ha=
ve
him killed," Scott answered, putting away the revolver. "We'll let him run loose and =
see
what kindness can do for him. And
here's a try at it."
He walked over to White Fang and began talking=
to
him gently and soothingly.
"Better have a club handy," Matt war=
ned.
Scott shook his head and went on trying to win
White Fang's confidence.
White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this god's dog, bitt=
en his
companion god, and what else was to be expected than some terrible
punishment? But in the face o=
f it
he was indomitable. He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his
whole body wary and prepared for anything.=
The god had no club, so he suffered him to approach quite near. The god's hand had come out and was
descending upon his head. Whi=
te
Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under it. Here was danger, some treachery or
something. He knew the hands =
of the
gods, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there was his old antipat=
hy to
being touched. He snarled more
menacingly, crouched still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to bite the hand, =
and he
endured the peril of it until his instinct surged up in him, mastering him =
with
its insatiable yearning for life.
Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick en=
ough
to avoid any snap or slash. B=
ut he
had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang, who struck with the
certainty and swiftness of a coiled snake.
Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching
his torn hand and holding it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and spra=
ng to his
side. White Fang crouched dow=
n, and
backed away, bristling, showing his fangs, his eyes malignant with menace.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Now he could expect a beating as f=
earful
as any he had received from Beauty Smith.
"Here!&n=
bsp;
What are you doing?" Scott cried suddenly.
Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out wi=
th a
rifle.
"Nothin'," he said slowly, with a
careless calmness that was assumed, "only goin' to keep that promise I
made. I reckon it's up to me =
to
kill 'm as I said I'd do."
"No you don't!"
"Yes I do. Watch me."
As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had
been bitten, it was now Weedon Scott's turn to plead.
"You said to give him a chance. Well, give it to him. We've only just started, and we ca=
n't
quit at the beginning. It ser=
ved me
right, this time. And--look at
him!"
White Fang, near the corner of the cabin and f=
orty
feet away, was snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but =
at
the dog- musher.
"Well, I'll be everlastingly
gosh-swoggled!" was the dog-musher's expression of astonishment.
"Look at the intelligence of him," S=
cott
went on hastily. "He kno=
ws the
meaning of firearms as well as you do.&nbs=
p;
He's got intelligence and we've got to give that intelligence a
chance. Put up the gun."=
"All right, I'm willin'," Matt agree=
d,
leaning the rifle against the woodpile.
"But will you look at that!" he
exclaimed the next moment.
White Fang had quieted down and ceased
snarling. "This is worth=
investigatin'. Watch."
Matt, reached for the rifle, and at the same
moment White Fang snarled. He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang's
lifted lips descended, covering his teeth.
"Now, just for fun."
Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise =
it
to his shoulder. White Fang's
snarling began with the movement, and increased as the movement approached =
its
culmination. But the moment b=
efore
the rifle came to a level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of t=
he
cabin. Matt stood staring alo=
ng the
sights at the empty space of snow which had been occupied by White Fang.
The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, th=
en
turned and looked at his employer.
"I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to
kill."
=
As
White Fang watched Weedon Scott approach, he bristled and snarled to advert=
ise
that he would not submit to punishment.&nb=
sp;
Twenty-four hours had passed since he had slashed open the hand that=
was
now bandaged and held up by a sling to keep the blood out of it. In the past White Fang had experie=
nced
delayed punishments, and he apprehended that such a one was about to befall
him. How could it be
otherwise? He had committed w=
hat was
to him sacrilege, sunk his fangs into the holy flesh of a god, and of a
white-skinned superior god at that.
In the nature of things, and of intercourse with gods, something
terrible awaited him.
The god sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing dange=
rous in
that. When the gods administe=
red
punishment they stood on their legs.
Besides, this god had no club, no whip, no firearm. And furthermore, he himself was
free. No chain nor stick bound
him. He could escape into saf=
ety
while the god was scrambling to his feet.&=
nbsp;
In the meantime he would wait and see.
The god remained quiet, made no movement; and
White Fang's snarl slowly dwindled to a growl that ebbed down in his throat=
and
ceased. Then the god spoke, a=
nd at
the first sound of his voice, the hair rose on White Fang's neck and the gr=
owl
rushed up in his throat. But =
the
god made no hostile movement, and went on calmly talking. For a time White Fang growled in u=
nison
with him, a correspondence of rhythm being established between growl and
voice. But the god talked on
interminably. He talked to Wh=
ite
Fang as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked softly and soothingly, w=
ith a
gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pr=
icking
warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had a feeling of security that =
was
belied by all his experience with men.
After a long time, the god got up and went into
the cabin. White Fang scanned=
him
apprehensively when he came out. He
had neither whip nor club nor weapon.
Nor was his uninjured hand behind his back hiding something. He sat down as before, in the same=
spot,
several feet away. He held out a small piece of meat. White Fang pricked his ears and in=
vestigated
it suspiciously, managing to look at the same time both at the meat and the
god, alert for any overt act, his body tense and ready to spring away at the
first sign of hostility.
Still the punishment delayed. The god merely held near to his no=
se a piece
of meat. And about the meat t=
here
seemed nothing wrong. Still W=
hite
Fang suspected; and though the meat was proffered to him with short inviting
thrusts of the hand, he refused to touch it. The gods were all- wise, and there=
was
no telling what masterful treachery lurked behind that apparently harmless
piece of meat. In past experi=
ence,
especially in dealing with squaws, meat and punishment had often been
disastrously related.
In the end, the god tossed the meat on the sno=
w at
White Fang's feet. He smelled=
the meat
carefully; but he did not look at it.
While he smelled it he kept his eyes on the god. Nothing happened. He took the meat into his mouth and
swallowed it. Still nothing
happened. The god was actually
offering him another piece of meat.
Again he refused to take it from the hand, and again it was tossed to
him. This was repeated a numb=
er of
times. But there came a time =
when
the god refused to toss it. He kept it in his hand and steadfastly proffered
it.
The meat was good meat, and White Fang was hun=
gry. Bit by bit, infinitely cautious, he
approached the hand. At last =
the
time came that he decided to eat the meat from the hand. He never took his eyes from the go=
d,
thrusting his head forward with ears flattened back and hair involuntarily
rising and cresting on his neck.
Also a low growl rumbled in his throat as warning that he was not to=
be
trifled with. He ate the meat=
, and
nothing happened. Piece by pi=
ece,
he ate all the meat, and nothing happened.=
Still the punishment delayed.
He licked his chops and waited. The god went on talking. In his voice was kindness--somethi=
ng of
which White Fang had no experience whatever. And within him it aroused feel=
ings
which he had likewise never experienced before. He was aware of a certain strange =
satisfaction,
as though some need were being gratified, as though some void in his being =
were
being filled. Then again came=
the
prod of his instinct and the warning of past experience. The gods were ever crafty, and the=
y had unguessed
ways of attaining their ends.
Ah, he had thought so! There it came now, the god's hand,
cunning to hurt, thrusting out at him, descending upon his head. But the god went on talking. His voice was soft and soothing. In spite of the menacing hand, the=
voice
inspired confidence. And in s=
pite
of the assuring voice, the hand inspired distrust. White Fang was torn by conflicting
feelings, impulses. It seemed=
he
would fly to pieces, so terrible was the control he was exerting, holding
together by an unwonted indecision the counter- forces that struggled within
him for mastery.
He compromised. He snarled and bristled and flatte=
ned
his ears. But he neither snap=
ped
nor sprang away. The hand
descended. Nearer and nearer =
it
came. It touched the ends of =
his
upstanding hair. He shrank do=
wn under
it. It followed down after hi=
m,
pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering, he still
managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched =
him
and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that h=
ad
been wrought him at the hands of men.
But it was the will of the god, and he strove to submit.
The hand lifted and descended again in a patti=
ng,
caressing movement. This continued, but every time the hand lifted, the hair
lifted under it. And every time the hand descended, the ears flattened down=
and
a cavernous growl surged in his throat.&nb=
sp;
White Fang growled and growled with insistent warning. By this means he announced that he=
was
prepared to retaliate for any hurt he might receive. There was no telling when the god's
ulterior motive might be disclosed.
At any moment that soft, confidence-inspiring voice might break fort=
h in
a roar of wrath, that gentle and caressing hand transform itself into a
vice-like grip to hold him helpless and administer punishment.
But the god talked on softly, and ever the hand
rose and fell with non- hostile pats.
White Fang experienced dual feelings. It was distasteful to his instinct=
. It restrained him, opposed the wil=
l of
him toward personal liberty. =
And
yet it was not physically painful.
On the contrary, it was even pleasant, in a physical way. The patting movement slowly and
carefully changed to a rubbing of the ears about their bases, and the physi=
cal
pleasure even increased a little.
Yet he continued to fear, and he stood on guard, expectant of ungues=
sed
evil, alternately suffering and enjoying as one feeling or the other came
uppermost and swayed him.
"Well, I'll be gosh-swoggled!"
So spoke Matt, coming out of the cabin, his
sleeves rolled up, a pan of dirty dish-water in his hands, arrested in the =
act
of emptying the pan by the sight of Weedon Scott patting White Fang.
At the instant his voice broke the silence, Wh=
ite
Fang leaped back, snarling savagely at him.
Matt regarded his employer with grieved
disapproval.
"If you don't mind my expressin' my feeli=
n's,
Mr. Scott, I'll make free to say you're seventeen kinds of a damn fool an' =
all
of 'em different, an' then some."
Weedon Scott smiled with a superior air, gained
his feet, and walked over to White Fang.&n=
bsp;
He talked soothingly to him, but not for long, then slowly put out h=
is
hand, rested it on White Fang's head, and resumed the interrupted patting.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> White Fang endured it, keeping his=
eyes
fixed suspiciously, not upon the man that patted him, but upon the man that=
stood
in the doorway.
"You may be a number one, tip-top minin'
expert, all right all right," the dog-musher delivered himself oracula=
rly,
"but you missed the chance of your life when you was a boy an' didn't =
run
off an' join a circus."
White Fang snarled at the sound of his voice, =
but
this time did not leap away from under the hand that was caressing his head=
and
the back of his neck with long, soothing strokes.
It was the beginning of the end for White
Fang--the ending of the old life and the reign of hate. A new and incomprehensibly fairer =
life
was dawning. It required much
thinking and endless patience on the part of Weedon Scott to accomplish
this. And on the part of Whit=
e Fang
it required nothing less than a revolution. He had to ignore the urges and pro=
mptings
of instinct and reason, defy experience, give the lie to life itself.
Life, as he had known it, not only had had no
place in it for much that he now did; but all the currents had gone counter=
to
those to which he now abandoned himself.&n=
bsp;
In short, when all things were considered, he had to achieve an
orientation far vaster than the one he had achieved at the time he came
voluntarily in from the Wild and accepted Grey Beaver as his lord. At that time he was a mere puppy, =
soft
from the making, without form, ready for the thumb of circumstance to begin=
its
work upon him. But now it was
different. The thumb of
circumstance had done its work only too well. By it he had been formed and harde=
ned
into the Fighting Wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving and unlovable. To accomplish the change was like a
reflux of being, and this when the plasticity of youth was no longer his; w=
hen
the fibre of him had become tough and knotty; when the warp and the woof of=
him
had made of him an adamantine texture, harsh and unyielding; when the face =
of
his spirit had become iron and all his instincts and axioms had crystallised
into set rules, cautions, dislikes, and desires.
Yet again, in this new orientation, it was the
thumb of circumstance that pressed and prodded him, softening that which had
become hard and remoulding it into fairer form. Weedon Scott was in truth this
thumb. He had gone to the roo=
ts of
White Fang's nature, and with kindness touched to life potencies that had l=
anguished
and well-nigh perished. One s=
uch potency
was love. It took the place of
like, which latter had been the highest feeling that thrilled him in his
intercourse with the gods.
But this love did not come in a day. It began with like and out of it s=
lowly
developed. White Fang did not=
run
away, though he was allowed to remain loose, because he liked this new
god. This was certainly bette=
r than
the life he had lived in the cage of Beauty Smith, and it was necessary tha=
t he
should have some god. The lor=
dship
of man was a need of his nature.
The seal of his dependence on man had been set upon him in that early
day when he turned his back on the Wild and crawled to Grey Beaver's feet to
receive the expected beating. This
seal had been stamped upon him again, and ineradicably, on his second return
from the Wild, when the long famine was over and there was fish once more in
the village of Grey Beaver.
And so, because he needed a god and because he
preferred Weedon Scott to Beauty Smith, White Fang remained. In acknowledgment of fealty, he pr=
oceeded
to take upon himself the guardianship of his master's property. He prowled
about the cabin while the sled-dogs slept, and the first night- visitor to =
the
cabin fought him off with a club until Weedon Scott came to the rescue. But White Fang soon learned to
differentiate between thieves and honest men, to appraise the true value of
step and carriage. The man who travelled, loud-stepping, the direct line to=
the
cabin door, he let alone--though he watched him vigilantly until the door
opened and he received the endorsement of the master. But the man who went softly, by
circuitous ways, peering with caution, seeking after secrecy--that was the =
man
who received no suspension of judgment from White Fang, and who went away
abruptly, hurriedly, and without dignity.
Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redee=
ming
White Fang--or rather, of redeeming mankind from the wrong it had done White
Fang. It was a matter of prin=
ciple
and conscience. He felt that =
the
ill done White Fang was a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid.
At first suspicious and hostile, White Fang gr=
ew
to like this petting. But there was one thing that he never outgrew--his
growling. Growl he would, fro=
m the
moment the petting began till it ended.&nb=
sp;
But it was a growl with a new note in it. A stranger could not hear this not=
e, and
to such a stranger the growling of White Fang was an exhibition of primordi=
al
savagery, nerve-racking and blood-curdling. But White Fang's throat had become
harsh-fibred from the making of ferocious sounds through the many years sin=
ce
his first little rasp of anger in the lair of his cubhood, and he could not
soften the sounds of that throat now to express the gentleness he felt. Nevertheless, Weedon Scott's ear a=
nd sympathy
were fine enough to catch the new note all but drowned in the fierceness--t=
he
note that was the faintest hint of a croon of content and that none but he
could hear.
As the days went by, the evolution of like into
love was accelerated. White Fang himself began to grow aware of it, though =
in
his consciousness he knew not what love was. It manifested itself to him as a v=
oid in
his being--a hungry, aching, yearning void that clamoured to be filled. It was a pain and an unrest; and it
received easement only by the touch of the new god's presence. At such times love was joy to him,=
a
wild, keen- thrilling satisfaction.
But when away from his god, the pain and the unrest returned; the vo=
id
in him sprang up and pressed against him with its emptiness, and the hunger
gnawed and gnawed unceasingly.
White Fang was in the process of finding himse=
lf. In spite of the maturity of his yea=
rs and
of the savage rigidity of the mould that had formed him, his nature was
undergoing an expansion. Ther=
e was
a burgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwonted impulses. His old code of conduct was changi=
ng. In the past he had liked comfort a=
nd surcease
from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he had adjusted his actions
accordingly. But now it was
different. Because of this ne=
w feeling
within him, he ofttimes elected discomfort and pain for the sake of his
god. Thus, in the early morni=
ng,
instead of roaming and foraging, or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait
for hours on the cheerless cabin-stoop for a sight of the god's face. At night, when the god returned ho=
me,
White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had burrowed in the snow =
in
order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and the word of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would f=
orego
to be with his god, to receive a caress from him or to accompany him down i=
nto
the town.
Like had been replaced by love. And love was the plummet dropped d=
own
into the deeps of him where like had never gone. And responsive out of his deeps ha=
d come
the new thing--love. That whi=
ch was
given unto him did he return. This
was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant god, in whose light White
Fang's nature expanded as a flower expands under the sun.
But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly moulded=
, to
become adept at expressing himself in new ways. He was too self-possessed, too str=
ongly
poised in his own isolation. =
Too
long had he cultivated reticence, aloofness, and moroseness. He had never barked in his life, a=
nd he
could not now learn to bark a welcome when his god approached. He was never in the way, never ext=
ravagant
nor foolish in the expression of his love.=
He never ran to meet his god.
He waited at a distance; but he always waited, was always there. His love partook of the nature of
worship, dumb, inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by the steady regard of his e=
yes
did he express his love, and by the unceasing following with his eyes of his
god's every movement. Also, a=
t times,
when his god looked at him and spoke to him, he betrayed an awkward
self-consciousness, caused by the struggle of his love to express itself and
his physical inability to express it.
He learned to adjust himself in many ways to h=
is
new mode of life. It was born=
e in
upon him that he must let his master's dogs alone. Yet his dominant nature asserted i=
tself,
and he had first to thrash them into an acknowledgment of his superiority a=
nd
leadership. This accomplished=
, he had
little trouble with them. The=
y gave
trail to him when he came and went or walked among them, and when he assert=
ed
his will they obeyed.
In the same way, he came to tolerate Matt--as a
possession of his master. His master rarely fed him. Matt did that, it was his business=
; yet
White Fang divined that it was his master's food he ate and that it was his=
master
who thus fed him vicariously. Matt
it was who tried to put him into the harness and make him haul sled with the
other dogs. But Matt failed.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was not until Weedon Scott put =
the
harness on White Fang and worked him, that he understood. He took it as his master's will th=
at Matt
should drive him and work him just as he drove and worked his master's other
dogs.
Different from the Mackenzie toboggans were the
Klondike sleds with runners under them.&nb=
sp;
And different was the method of driving the dogs. There was no
fan-formation of the team. Th=
e dogs
worked in single file, one behind another, hauling on double traces. And here, in the Klondike, the lea=
der
was indeed the leader. The wi=
sest
as well as strongest dog was the leader, and the team obeyed him and feared
him. That White Fang should q=
uickly
gain this post was inevitable. He
could not be satisfied with less, as Matt learned after much inconvenience =
and
trouble. White Fang picked ou=
t the
post for himself, and Matt backed his judgment with strong language after t=
he
experiment had been tried. Bu=
t,
though he worked in the sled in the day, White Fang did not forego the guar=
ding
of his master's property in the night.&nbs=
p;
Thus he was on duty all the time, ever vigilant and faithful, the mo=
st
valuable of all the dogs.
"Makin' free to spit out what's in me,&qu=
ot;
Matt said one day, "I beg to state that you was a wise guy all right w=
hen
you paid the price you did for that dog.&n=
bsp;
You clean swindled Beauty Smith on top of pushin' his face in with y=
our
fist."
A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Sco=
tt's
grey eyes, and he muttered savagely, "The beast!"
In the late spring a great trouble came to Whi=
te
Fang. Without warning, the
love-master disappeared. Ther=
e had
been warning, but White Fang was unversed in such things and did not unders=
tand
the packing of a grip. He rem=
embered
afterwards that his packing had preceded the master's disappearance; but at=
the
time he suspected nothing. Th=
at
night he waited for the master to return.&=
nbsp;
At midnight the chill wind that blew drove him to shelter at the rea=
r of
the cabin. There he drowsed, =
only half
asleep, his ears keyed for the first sound of the familiar step. But, at tw=
o in
the morning, his anxiety drove him out to the cold front stoop, where he
crouched, and waited.
But no master came. In the morning the door opened and=
Matt
stepped outside. White Fang g=
azed
at him wistfully. There was no
common speech by which he might learn what he wanted to know. The days came and went, but never =
the
master. White Fang, who had n=
ever
known sickness in his life, became sick.&n=
bsp;
He became very sick, so sick that Matt was finally compelled to bring
him inside the cabin. Also, in
writing to his employer, Matt devoted a postscript to White Fang.
Weedon Scott reading the letter down in Circle
City, came upon the following:
"That dam wolf won't work. Won't eat. Aint got no spunk left. All the dogs is licking him. Wants to know what has become of y=
ou,
and I don't know how to tell him.
Mebbe he is going to die."
It was as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost
heart, and allowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on the floor n=
ear
the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in life. Matt might talk
gently to him or swear at him, it was all the same; he never did more than =
turn
his dull eyes upon the man, then drop his head back to its customary positi=
on
on his fore-paws.
And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself =
with
moving lips and mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White
Fang. He had got upon his fee=
t, his
ears cocked towards the door, and he was listening intently. A moment later, Matt heard a
footstep. The door opened, an=
d Weedon
Scott stepped in. The two men=
shook
hands. Then Scott looked arou=
nd the
room.
"Where's the wolf?" he asked.
Then he discovered him, standing where he had =
been
lying, near to the stove. He =
had
not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He stood, watching and waiting.
"Holy smoke!" Matt exclaimed. "Look at 'm wag his tail!&quo=
t;
Weedon Scott strode half across the room toward
him, at the same time calling him.
White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet quickly. He was awakened from self-consciou=
sness,
but as he drew near, his eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an incommunicable vastn=
ess of
feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light and shone forth.
"He never looked at me that way all the t=
ime
you was gone!" Matt commented.
Weedon Scott did not hear. He was squatting down on his heels=
, face
to face with White Fang and petting him--rubbing at the roots of the ears, =
making
long caressing strokes down the neck to the shoulders, tapping the spine ge=
ntly
with the balls of his fingers. And
White Fang was growling responsively, the crooning note of the growl more
pronounced than ever.
But that was not all. What of his joy, the great love in=
him,
ever surging and struggling to express itself, succeeding in finding a new =
mode
of expression. He suddenly th=
rust
his head forward and nudged his way in between the master's arm and body. And here, confined, hidden from vi=
ew all
except his ears, no longer growling, he continued to nudge and snuggle.
The two men looked at each other. Scott's eyes were shining.
"Gosh!" said Matt in an awe-stricken
voice.
A moment later, when he had recovered himself,=
he
said, "I always insisted that wolf was a dog. Look at 'm!"
With the return of the love-master, White Fang=
's
recovery was rapid. Two night=
s and
a day he spent in the cabin. =
Then
he sallied forth. The sled- d=
ogs
had forgotten his prowess. Th=
ey
remembered only the latest, which was his weakness and sickness. At the sight of him as he came out=
of
the cabin, they sprang upon him.
"Talk about your rough-houses," Matt
murmured gleefully, standing in the doorway and looking on.
"Give 'm hell, you wolf! Give 'm hell!--an' then some!"=
;
White Fang did not need the encouragement. The return of the love-master was
enough. Life was flowing thro=
ugh
him again, splendid and indomitable.
He fought from sheer joy, finding in it an expression of much that he
felt and that otherwise was without speech. There could be but one ending. The team dispersed in ignominious
defeat, and it was not until after dark that the dogs came sneaking back, o=
ne
by one, by meekness and humility signifying their fealty to White Fang.
Having learned to snuggle, White Fang was guil=
ty
of it often. It was the final
word. He could not go beyond
it. The one thing of which he=
had always
been particularly jealous was his head.&nb=
sp;
He had always disliked to have it touched. It was the Wild in him, the fear o=
f hurt
and of the trap, that had given rise to the panicky impulses to avoid
contacts. It was the mandate =
of his
instinct that that head must be free.
And now, with the love-master, his snuggling was the deliberate act =
of
putting himself into a position of hopeless helplessness. It was an expression of perfect
confidence, of absolute self-surrender, as though he said: "I put myse=
lf
into thy hands. Work thou thy=
will
with me."
One night, not long after the return, Scott and
Matt sat at a game of cribbage preliminary to going to bed. "Fifteen-two, fifteen-four an=
' a pair
makes six," Mat was pegging up, when there was an outcry and sound of
snarling without. They looked=
at
each other as they started to rise to their feet.
"The wolf's nailed somebody," Matt s=
aid.
A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened the=
m.
"Bring a light!" Scott shouted, as he
sprang outside.
Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light =
they
saw a man lying on his back in the snow.&n=
bsp;
His arms were folded, one above the other, across his face and
throat. Thus he was trying to
shield himself from White Fang's teeth.&nb=
sp;
And there was need for it.
White Fang was in a rage, wickedly making his attack on the most
vulnerable spot. From shoulde=
r to
wrist of the crossed arms, the coat-sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershi=
rt
were ripped in rags, while the arms themselves were terribly slashed and st=
reaming
blood.
All this the two men saw in the first
instant. The next instant Wee=
don Scott
had White Fang by the throat and was dragging him clear. White Fang struggled and snarled, =
but
made no attempt to bite, while he quickly quieted down at a sharp word from=
the
master.
Matt helped the man to his feet. As he arose he lowered his crossed=
arms,
exposing the bestial face of Beauty Smith.=
The dog-musher let go of him precipitately, with action similar to t=
hat
of a man who has picked up live fire.
Beauty Smith blinked in the lamplight and looked about him. He caught sight of White Fang and =
terror
rushed into his face.
At the same moment Matt noticed two objects ly=
ing
in the snow. He held the lamp=
close
to them, indicating them with his toe for his employer's benefit--a steel
dog-chain and a stout club.
Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The dog-musher laid his hand on Be=
auty Smith's
shoulder and faced him to the right about.=
No word needed to be spoken.
Beauty Smith started.
In the meantime the love-master was patting Wh=
ite
Fang and talking to him.
"Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't have it! Well, well, he made a mistake, did=
n't
he?"
"Must 'a' thought he had hold of seventeen
devils," the dog-musher sniggered.
White Fang, still wrought up and bristling,
growled and growled, the hair slowly lying down, the crooning note remote a=
nd
dim, but growing in his throat.
=
It was
in the air. White Fang sensed=
the
coming calamity, even before there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon=
him
that a change was impending. =
He
knew not how nor why, yet he got his feel of the oncoming event from the go=
ds
themselves. In ways subtler t=
han
they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that haunted the
cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin, knew what wen=
t on
inside their brains.
"Listen to that, will you!" the
dug-musher exclaimed at supper one night.
Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxio=
us
whine, like a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the long sniff, as White=
Fang
reassured himself that his god was still inside and had not yet taken himse=
lf
off in mysterious and solitary flight.
"I do believe that wolf's on to you,"
the dog-musher said.
Weedon Scott looked across at his companion wi=
th
eyes that almost pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.
"What the devil can I do with a wolf in
California?" he demanded.
"That's what I say," Matt answered.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "What the devil can you do wi=
th a wolf
in California?"
But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging him=
in a
non-committal sort of way.
"White man's dogs would have no show agai=
nst
him," Scott went on.
"He'd kill them on sight.
If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged suits, the authorities would t=
ake
him away from me and electrocute him."
"He's a downright murderer, I know,"=
was
the dog-musher's comment.
Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.
"It would never do," he said decisiv=
ely.
"It would never do!" Matt
concurred. "Why you'd ha=
ve to
hire a man 'specially to take care of 'm."
The other suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence that followed, the =
low,
half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then the long, questing sniff.=
"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a=
lot
of you," Matt said.
The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my own mind and what's
best!"
"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "=
"Only what?" Scott snapped out.
"Only . . . " the dog-musher began
softly, then changed his mind and betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all=
-fired
het up about it. Judgin' by y=
our
actions one'd think you didn't know your own mind."
Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while,=
and
then said more gently: "You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that=
's
what's the trouble."
"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for=
me
to take that dog along," he broke out after another pause.
"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's
answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him.
"But how in the name of the great Sardana=
polis
he knows you're goin' is what gets me," the dog-musher continued
innocently.
"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answer=
ed,
with a mournful shake of the head.
Then came the day when, through the open cabin
door, White Fang saw the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing
things into it. Also, there w=
ere
comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the cabin was ve=
xed
with strange perturbations and unrest.&nbs=
p;
Here was indubitable evidence.
White Fang had already scented it.&=
nbsp;
He now reasoned it. Hi=
s god
was preparing for another flight.
And since he had not taken him with him before, so, now, he could lo=
ok
to be left behind.
That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy day=
s,
when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished and naug=
ht
but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so now he point=
ed
his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.
Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to =
bed.
"He's gone off his food again," Matt
remarked from his bunk.
There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, an=
d a
stir of blankets.
"From the way he cut up the other time you
went away, I wouldn't wonder this time but what he died."
The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritab=
ly.
"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out throu=
gh
the darkness. "You nag w=
orse
than a woman."
"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-mus=
her
answered, and Weedon Scott was not quite sure whether or not the other had
snickered.
The next day White Fang's anxiety and restless=
ness
were even more pronounced. He
dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and haunted the front
stoop when he remained inside.
Through the open door he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the
floor. The grip had been join=
ed by
two large canvas bags and a box.
Matt was rolling the master's blankets and fur robe inside a small
tarpaulin. White Fang whined =
as he watched
the operation.
Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they
shouldered the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried =
the bedding
and the grip. But White Fang =
did
not follow them. The master w=
as
still in the cabin. After a t=
ime,
Matt returned. The master cam=
e to the
door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said gently,
rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, =
old
man, where you cannot follow. Now
give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl."
But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, sear=
ching look,
he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the master's arm and
body.
"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse
bellowing of a river steamboat.
"You've got to cut it short.&n=
bsp;
Be sure and lock the front door.&nb=
sp;
I'll go out the back. =
Get a
move on!"
The two doors slammed at the same moment, and
Weedon Scott waited for Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low wh=
ining
and sobbing. Then there were =
long,
deep-drawn sniffs.
"You must take good care of him, Matt,&qu=
ot;
Scott said, as they started down the hill.=
"Write and let me know how he gets along."
"Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will
you!"
Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs how=
l when
their masters lie dead. He was
voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great heart-breaking rushe=
s,
dying down into quavering misery, and bursting upward again with a rush upon
rush of grief.
The Aurora was the first steamboat of the year=
for
the Outside, and her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and brok=
en
gold seekers, all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been
originally to get to the Inside.
Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with Matt, who was
preparing to go ashore. But M=
att's
hand went limp in the other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixe=
d on
something behind him. Scott t=
urned
to see. Sitting on the deck s=
everal
feet away and watching wistfully was White Fang.
The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken a=
ccents. Scott could only look in wonder.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt
demanded. The other nodded, a=
nd asked,
"How about the back?"
"You just bet I did," was the fervent
reply.
White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, =
but
remained where he was, making no attempt to approach.
"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me.&quo=
t;
Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang,=
but
the latter slid away from him. The
dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged between the legs of a g=
roup
of men. Ducking, turning, dou=
bling,
he slid about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.
But when the love-master spoke, White Fang cam=
e to
him with prompt obedience.
"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all
these months," the dog-musher muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed=
'm
after them first days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he wor=
ks it
out that you're the boss."
Scott, who had been patting White Fang, sudden=
ly
bent closer and pointed out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash betwe=
en
the eyes.
Matt bent over and passed his hand along White
Fang's belly.
"We plump forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath=
. Must 'a' butted clean through it,
b'gosh!"
But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The Aurora's whistle hooted a final
announcement of departure. Me=
n were
scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana from his=
own
neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott grasped the dog-musher's han=
d.
"Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write.=
You see, I've . . . !"
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?=
"
"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about him."=
Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.
"He'll never stand the climate!" he
shouted back. "Unless yo=
u clip
'm in warm weather!"
The gang-plank was hauled in, and the Aurora s=
wung
out from the bank. Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White=
Fang,
standing by his side.
"Now growl, damn you, growl," he sai=
d,
as he patted the responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears.
=
White
Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled. Deep in him, belo=
w any
reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had associated power with
godhead. And never had the wh=
ite
men seemed such marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of =
San
Francisco. The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings.=
The streets were crowded with
perils--waggons, carts, automobiles; great, straining horses pulling huge
trucks; and monstrous cable and electric cars hooting and clanging through =
the
midst, screeching their insistent menace after the manner of the lynxes he =
had
known in the northern woods.
All this was the manifestation of power. Through it all, behind it all, was=
man,
governing and controlling, expressing himself, as of old, by his mastery ov=
er
matter. It was colossal,
stunning. White Fang was awed=
. Fear
sat upon him. As in his cubho=
od he
had been made to feel his smallness and puniness on the day he first came in
from the Wild to the village of Grey Beaver, so now, in his full-grown stat=
ure
and pride of strength, he was made to feel small and puny. And there were so many gods! He was made dizzy by the swarming =
of
them. The thunder of the stre=
ets
smote upon his ears. He was
bewildered by the tremendous and endless rush and movement of things. As never before, he felt his depen=
dence
on the love-master, close at whose heels he followed, no matter what happen=
ed
never losing sight of him.
But White Fang was to have no more than a
nightmare vision of the city--an experience that was like a bad dream, unre=
al
and terrible, that haunted him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage-car by t=
he master,
chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises. Here a squat=
and
brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks and boxes about, drag=
ging
them in through the door and tossing them into the piles, or flinging them =
out
of the door, smashing and crashing, to other gods who awaited them.
And here, in this inferno of luggage, was White
Fang deserted by the master. =
Or at
least White Fang thought he was deserted, until he smelled out the master's
canvas clothes-bags alongside of him, and proceeded to mount guard over the=
m.
"'Bout time you come," growled the g=
od
of the car, an hour later, when Weedon Scott appeared at the door. "That dog of yourn won't let =
me lay
a finger on your stuff."
White Fang emerged from the car. He was astonished. The nightmare city was gone. The car had been to him no more th=
an a
room in a house, and when he had entered it the city had been all around
him. In the interval the city=
had
disappeared. The roar of it no
longer dinned upon his ears. Before him was smiling country, streaming with
sunshine, lazy with quietude. But
he had little time to marvel at the transformation. He accepted it as he accepted all =
the
unaccountable doings and manifestations of the gods. It was their way.
There was a carriage waiting. A man and a woman approached the m=
aster.
The woman's arms went out and clutched the master around the neck--a hostile
act! The next moment Weedon S=
cott
had torn loose from the embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a
snarling, raging demon.
"It's all right, mother," Scott was
saying as he kept tight hold of White Fang and placated him. "He thought you were going to
injure me, and he wouldn't stand for it.&n=
bsp;
It's all right. It's a=
ll
right. He'll learn soon
enough."
"And in the meantime I may be permitted to
love my son when his dog is not around," she laughed, though she was p=
ale
and weak from the fright.
She looked at White Fang, who snarled and bris=
tled
and glared malevolently.
"He'll have to learn, and he shall, witho=
ut
postponement," Scott said.
He spoke softly to White Fang until he had qui=
eted
him, then his voice became firm.
"Down, sir! Down with you!"
This had been one of the things taught him by =
the
master, and White Fang obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly.=
"Now, mother."
Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eye=
s on
White Fang.
"Down!" he warned. "Down!"
White Fang, bristling silently, half-crouching=
as
he rose, sank back and watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the=
embrace
from the strange man-god that followed.&nb=
sp;
Then the clothes-bags were taken into the carriage, the strange gods=
and
the love-master followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly
behind, now bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was
there to see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the
earth.
At the end of fifteen minutes, the carriage sw=
ung
in through a stone gateway and on between a double row of arched and
interlacing walnut trees. On =
either
side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and there by great
sturdy-limbed oaks. In the ne=
ar
distance, in contrast with the young-green of the tended grass, sunburnt
hay-fields showed tan and gold; while beyond were the tawny hills and upland
pastures. From the head of the
lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley-level, looked down the
deep-porched, many-windowed house.
Little opportunity was given White Fang to see=
all
this. Hardly had the carriage
entered the grounds, when he was set upon by a sheep-dog, bright- eyed,
sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry. It was between him and the master,
cutting him off. White Fang s=
narled
no warning, but his hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush.
But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise. Being a female, she possessed no s=
uch
instinct. On the other hand, =
being
a sheep-dog, her instinctive fear of the Wild, and especially of the wolf, =
was
unusually keen. White Fang wa=
s to
her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed upon her flocks from the
time sheep were first herded and guarded by some dim ancestor of hers. And so, as he abandoned his rush a=
t her
and braced himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him. He snarled involuntarily as he fel=
t her
teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made no offer to hurt her. He backed away, stiff-legged with s=
elf-consciousness,
and tried to go around her. He
dodged this way and that, and curved and turned, but to no purpose. She remained always between him an=
d the
way he wanted to go.
"Here, Collie!" called the strange m=
an
in the carriage.
Weedon Scott laughed.
"Never mind, father. It is good discipline. White Fang will have to learn many
things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll adjust himself all right.&qu=
ot;
The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocke=
d White
Fang's way. He tried to outru=
n her
by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but she ran on the inner =
and
smaller circle, and was always there, facing him with her two rows of gleam=
ing
teeth. Back he circled, acros=
s the
drive to the other lawn, and again she headed him off.
The carriage was bearing the master away. White Fang caught glimpses of it
disappearing amongst the trees. The
situation was desperate. He e=
ssayed
another circle. She followed,
running swiftly. And then, su=
ddenly,
he turned upon her. It was hi=
s old
fighting trick. Shoulder to
shoulder, he struck her squarely.
Not only was she overthrown.
So fast had she been running that she rolled along, now on her back,=
now
on her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and cry=
ing
shrilly her hurt pride and indignation.
White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, and that was al=
l he
had wanted. She took after hi=
m,
never ceasing her outcry. It =
was
the straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could te=
ach
her things. She ran frantical=
ly,
hysterically, straining to the utmost, advertising the effort she was making
with every leap: and all the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her
silently, without effort, gliding like a ghost over the ground.
As he rounded the house to the porte-cochere, =
he
came upon the carriage. It had
stopped, and the master was alighting.&nbs=
p;
At this moment, still running at top speed, White Fang became sudden=
ly
aware of an attack from the side.
It was a deer-hound rushing upon him. White Fang tried to face it. But he was going too fast, and the=
hound
was too close. It struck him =
on the
side; and such was his forward momentum and the unexpectedness of it, White
Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled clear over. He came out of the tangle a specta=
cle of
malignancy, ears flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth
clipping together as the fangs barely missed the hound's soft throat.
The master was running up, but was too far awa=
y;
and it was Collie that saved the hound's life. Before White Fang could spring in =
and
deliver the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Co=
llie
arrived. She had been
out-manoeuvred and out-run, to say nothing of her having been unceremonious=
ly
tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was like that of a tornado--made up =
of
offended dignity, justifiable wrath, and instinctive hatred for this maraud=
er
from the Wild. She struck Whi=
te Fang
at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked off his
feet and rolled over.
The next moment the master arrived, and with o=
ne
hand held White Fang, while the father called off the dogs.
"I say, this is a pretty warm reception f=
or a
poor lone wolf from the Arctic," the master said, while White Fang cal=
med
down under his caressing hand.
"In all his life he's only been known once to go off his feet, =
and
here he's been rolled twice in thirty seconds."
The carriage had driven away, and other strange
gods had appeared from out the house.
Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two of them, wom=
en,
perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master around the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning=
to
tolerate this act. No harm se=
emed
to come of it, while the noises the gods made were certainly not
threatening. These gods also =
made
overtures to White Fang, but he warned them off with a snarl, and the master
did likewise with word of mouth. At
such times White Fang leaned in close against the master's legs and received
reassuring pats on the head.
The hound, under the command, "Dick! Lie down, sir!" had gone up t=
he steps
and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and keeping a sullen
watch on the intruder. Collie=
had
been taken in charge by one of the woman-gods, who held arms around her neck
and petted and caressed her; but Collie was very much perplexed and worried,
whining and restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and
confident that the gods were making a mistake.
All the gods started up the steps to enter the
house. White Fang followed cl=
osely
at the master's heels. Dick, =
on the
porch, growled, and White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back.
"Take Collie inside and leave the two of =
them
to fight it out," suggested Scott's father. "After that they'll be
friends."
"Then White Fang, to show his friendship,
will have to be chief mourner at the funeral," laughed the master.
The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at
White Fang, then at Dick, and finally at his son.
"You mean . . .?"
Weedon nodded his head. "I mean just that. You'd have a dead Dick inside one
minute--two minutes at the farthest."
He turned to White Fang. "Come on, you wolf. It's you that'll have to come
inside."
White Fang walked stiff-legged up the steps and
across the porch, with tail rigidly erect, keeping his eyes on Dick to guard
against a flank attack, and at the same time prepared for whatever fierce
manifestation of the unknown that might pounce out upon him from the interi=
or
of the house. But no thing of=
fear
pounced out, and when he had gained the inside he scouted carefully around,
looking at it and finding it not. Then he lay down with a contented grunt at
the master's feet, observing all that went on, ever ready to spring to his =
feet
and fight for life with the terrors he felt must lurk under the trap-roof of
the dwelling.
=
Not
only was White Fang adaptable by nature, but he had travelled much, and knew
the meaning and necessity of adjustment.&n=
bsp;
Here, in Sierra Vista, which was the name of Judge Scott's place, Wh=
ite
Fang quickly began to make himself at home. He had no further serious trouble =
with
the dogs. They knew more about the ways of the Southland gods than did he, =
and
in their eyes he had qualified when he accompanied the gods inside the hous=
e. Wolf that he was, and unprecedente=
d as
it was, the gods had sanctioned his presence, and they, the dogs of the god=
s,
could only recognise this sanction.
Dick, perforce, had to go through a few stiff
formalities at first, after which he calmly accepted White Fang as an addit=
ion
to the premises. Had Dick had=
his
way, they would have been good friends.&nb=
sp;
All but White Fang was averse to friendship. All he asked of other dogs was to =
be let
alone. His whole life he had =
kept
aloof from his kind, and he still desired to keep aloof. Dick's overtures bothered him, so =
he
snarled Dick away. In the nor=
th he
had learned the lesson that he must let the master's dogs alone, and he did=
not
forget that lesson now. But h=
e insisted
on his own privacy and self-seclusion, and so thoroughly ignored Dick that =
that
good-natured creature finally gave him up and scarcely took as much interes=
t in
him as in the hitching-post near the stable.
Not so with Collie. While she accepted him because it =
was the
mandate of the gods, that was no reason that she should leave him in
peace. Woven into her being w=
as the
memory of countless crimes he and his had perpetrated against her
ancestry. Not in a day nor a
generation were the ravaged sheepfolds to be forgotten. All this was a spur to her, pricki=
ng her
to retaliation. She could not=
fly
in the face of the gods who permitted him, but that did not prevent her from
making life miserable for him in petty ways. A feud, ages old, was between them=
, and
she, for one, would see to it that he was reminded.
So Collie took advantage of her sex to pick up=
on
White Fang and maltreat him. =
His
instinct would not permit him to attack her, while her persistence would not
permit him to ignore her. Whe=
n she
rushed at him he turned his fur-protected shoulder to her sharp teeth and
walked away stiff-legged and stately.
When she forced him too hard, he was compelled to go about in a circ=
le,
his shoulder presented to her, his head turned from her, and on his face an=
d in
his eyes a patient and bored expression. Sometimes, however, a nip on his
hind-quarters hastened his retreat and made it anything but stately. But as a rule he managed to mainta=
in a dignity
that was almost solemnity. He
ignored her existence whenever it was possible, and made it a point to keep=
out
of her way. When he saw or he=
ard
her coming, he got up and walked off.
There was much in other matters for White Fang=
to
learn. Life in the Northland =
was
simplicity itself when compared with the complicated affairs of Sierra
Vista. First of all, he had to
learn the family of the master. In
a way he was prepared to do this.
As Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch had belonged to Grey Beaver, sharing his f=
ood,
his fire, and his blankets, so now, at Sierra Vista, belonged to the love-m=
aster
all the denizens of the house.
But in this matter there was a difference, and
many differences. Sierra Vist=
a was
a far vaster affair than the tepee of Grey Beaver. There were many persons to be
considered. There was Judge S=
cott,
and there was his wife. There=
were
the master's two sisters, Beth and Mary.&n=
bsp;
There was his wife, Alice, and then there were his children, Weedon =
and
Maud, toddlers of four and six.
There was no way for anybody to tell him about all these people, and=
of
blood-ties and relationship he knew nothing whatever and never would be cap=
able
of knowing. Yet he quickly wo=
rked
it out that all of them belonged to the master. Then, by observation, whenever opp=
ortunity
offered, by study of action, speech, and the very intonations of the voice,=
he
slowly learned the intimacy and the degree of favour they enjoyed with the
master. And by this ascertain=
ed
standard, White Fang treated them accordingly. What was of value to the master he=
valued;
what was dear to the master was to be cherished by White Fang and guarded
carefully.
Thus it was with the two children. All his life he had disliked child=
ren. He hated and feared their hands. The lessons were not tender that h=
e had
learned of their tyranny and cruelty in the days of the Indian villages.
Yet White Fang was never effusively
affectionate. He yielded to t=
he master's
children with an ill but honest grace, and endured their fooling as one wou=
ld
endure a painful operation. W=
hen he
could no longer endure, he would get up and stalk determinedly away from
them. But after a time, he gr=
ew
even to like the children. St=
ill he
was not demonstrative. He wou=
ld not
go up to them. On the other h=
and,
instead of walking away at sight of them, he waited for them to come to
him. And still later, it was
noticed that a pleased light came into his eyes when he saw them approachin=
g,
and that he looked after them with an appearance of curious regret when they
left him for other amusements.
All this was a matter of development, and took
time. Next in his regard, aft=
er the
children, was Judge Scott. Th=
ere
were two reasons, possibly, for this.
First, he was evidently a valuable possession of the master's, and n=
ext,
he was undemonstrative. White=
Fang
liked to lie at his feet on the wide porch when he read the newspaper, from
time to time favouring White Fang with a look or a word--untroublesome toke=
ns
that he recognised White Fang's presence and existence. But this was only when the master =
was
not around. When the master
appeared, all other beings ceased to exist so far as White Fang was concern=
ed.
White Fang allowed all the members of the fami=
ly
to pet him and make much of him; but he never gave to them what he gave to =
the
master. No caress of theirs c=
ould
put the love-croon into his throat, and, try as they would, they could never
persuade him into snuggling against them.&=
nbsp;
This expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he rese=
rved
for the master alone. In fact=
, he
never regarded the members of the family in any other light than possession=
s of
the love-master.
Also White Fang had early come to differentiate
between the family and the servants of the household. The latter were afraid of him, whi=
le he merely
refrained from attacking them. This
because he considered that they were likewise possessions of the master.
Outside the household there was even more for
White Fang to learn. The mast=
er's
domain was wide and complex, yet it had its metes and bounds. The land itse=
lf
ceased at the county road. Ou=
tside
was the common domain of all gods--the roads and streets. Then inside other fences were the =
particular
domains of other gods. A myri=
ad
laws governed all these things and determined conduct; yet he did not know =
the
speech of the gods, nor was there any way for him to learn save by
experience. He obeyed his nat=
ural
impulses until they ran him counter to some law. When this had been done a few time=
s, he
learned the law and after that observed it.
But most potent in his education was the cuff =
of
the master's hand, the censure of the master's voice. Because of White Fang's very great=
love,
a cuff from the master hurt him far more than any beating Grey Beaver or Be=
auty
Smith had ever given him. The=
y had
hurt only the flesh of him; beneath the flesh the spirit had still raged,
splendid and invincible. But with the master the cuff was always too light =
to
hurt the flesh. Yet it went
deeper. It was an expression =
of the
master's disapproval, and White Fang's spirit wilted under it.
In point of fact, the cuff was rarely
administered. The master's vo=
ice was
sufficient. By it White Fang =
knew
whether he did right or not. =
By it
he trimmed his conduct and adjusted his actions. It was the compass by which he ste=
ered
and learned to chart the manners of a new land and life.
In the Northland, the only domesticated animal=
was
the dog. All other animals li=
ved in
the Wild, and were, when not too formidable, lawful spoil for any dog. All his days White Fang had foraged
among the live things for food. It
did not enter his head that in the Southland it was otherwise. But this he was to learn early in =
his
residence in Santa Clara Valley.
Sauntering around the corner of the house in the early morning, he c=
ame
upon a chicken that had escaped from the chicken-yard. White Fang's natural
impulse was to eat it. A coup=
le of
bounds, a flash of teeth and a frightened squawk, and he had scooped in the
adventurous fowl. It was farm=
-bred
and fat and tender; and White Fang licked his chops and decided that such f=
are
was good.
Later in the day, he chanced upon another stray
chicken near the stables. One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know White Fang's breed=
, so
for weapon he took a light buggy-whip.&nbs=
p;
At the first cut of the whip, White Fang left the chicken for the
man. A club might have stopped
White Fang, but not a whip.
Silently, without flinching, he took a second cut in his forward rus=
h,
and as he leaped for the throat the groom cried out, "My God!" and
staggered backward. He droppe=
d the
whip and shielded his throat with his arms. In consequence, his forearm was ri=
pped
open to the bone.
The man was badly frightened. It was not so much White Fang's fe=
rocity
as it was his silence that unnerved the groom. Still protecting his throat and fa=
ce
with his torn and bleeding arm, he tried to retreat to the barn. And it would have gone hard with h=
im had
not Collie appeared on the scene.
As she had saved Dick's life, she now saved the groom's. She rushed =
upon
White Fang in frenzied wrath. She
had been right. She had known
better than the blundering gods.
All her suspicions were justified.&=
nbsp;
Here was the ancient marauder up to his old tricks again.
The groom escaped into the stables, and White =
Fang
backed away before Collie's wicked teeth, or presented his shoulder to them=
and
circled round and round. But =
Collie
did not give over, as was her wont, after a decent interval of chastisement=
. On the contrary, she grew more exc=
ited and
angry every moment, until, in the end, White Fang flung dignity to the winds
and frankly fled away from her across the fields.
"He'll learn to leave chickens alone,&quo=
t;
the master said. "But I =
can't give
him the lesson until I catch him in the act."
Two nights later came the act, but on a more
generous scale than the master had anticipated. White Fang had observed closely th=
e chicken-yards
and the habits of the chickens. In
the night-time, after they had gone to roost, he climbed to the top of a pi=
le
of newly hauled lumber. From =
there
he gained the roof of a chicken-house, passed over the ridgepole and droppe=
d to
the ground inside. A moment l=
ater
he was inside the house, and the slaughter began.
In the morning, when the master came out on to=
the
porch, fifty white Leghorn hens, laid out in a row by the groom, greeted his
eyes. He whistled to himself,
softly, first with surprise, and then, at the end, with admiration. His eyes were likewise greeted by =
White
Fang, but about the latter there were no signs of shame nor guilt. He carried himself with pride, as
though, forsooth, he had achieved a deed praiseworthy and meritorious. There was about him no consciousne=
ss of
sin. The master's lips tighte=
ned as
he faced the disagreeable task.
Then he talked harshly to the unwitting culprit, and in his voice th=
ere
was nothing but godlike wrath.
Also, he held White Fang's nose down to the slain hens, and at the s=
ame
time cuffed him soundly.
White Fang never raided a chicken-roost
again. It was against the law=
, and
he had learned it. Then the m=
aster
took him into the chicken-yards. White Fang's natural impulse, when he saw =
the
live food fluttering about him and under his very nose, was to spring upon
it. He obeyed the impulse, bu=
t was
checked by the master's voice. They
continued in the yards for half an hour.&n=
bsp;
Time and again the impulse surged over White Fang, and each time, as=
he
yielded to it, he was checked by the master's voice. Thus it was he learned the law, an=
d ere
he left the domain of the chickens, he had learned to ignore their existenc=
e.
"You can never cure a
chicken-killer." Judge S=
cott
shook his head sadly at luncheon table, when his son narrated the lesson he=
had
given White Fang. "Once
they've got the habit and the taste of blood . . ." Again he shook his head sadly.
But Weedon Scott did not agree with his
father. "I'll tell you w=
hat
I'll do," he challenged finally.
"I'll lock White Fang in with the chickens all afternoon."=
"But think of the chickens," objected
the judge.
"And furthermore," the son went on,
"for every chicken he kills, I'll pay you one dollar gold coin of the
realm."
"But you should penalise father, too,&quo=
t;
interpose Beth.
Her sister seconded her, and a chorus of appro=
val arose
from around the table. Judge =
Scott
nodded his head in agreement.
"All right." Weedon Scott pondered f=
or a
moment. "And if, at the =
end of
the afternoon White Fang hasn't harmed a chicken, for every ten minutes of =
the
time he has spent in the yard, you will have to say to him, gravely and with
deliberation, just as if you were sitting on the bench and solemnly passing
judgment, 'White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.'"
From hidden points of vantage the family watch=
ed
the performance. But it was a
fizzle. Locked in the yard and
there deserted by the master, White Fang lay down and went to sleep. Once he got up and walked over to =
the trough
for a drink of water. The chi=
ckens
he calmly ignored. So far as =
he was
concerned they did not exist. At
four o'clock he executed a running jump, gained the roof of the chicken-hou=
se
and leaped to the ground outside, whence he sauntered gravely to the
house. He had learned the law=
. And on the porch, before the delig=
hted
family, Judge Scott, face to face with White Fang, said slowly and solemnly,
sixteen times, "White Fang, you are smarter than I thought."
But it was the multiplicity of laws that befud=
dled
White Fang and often brought him into disgrace. He had to learn that he must not t=
ouch
the chickens that belonged to other gods.&=
nbsp;
Then there were cats, and rabbits, and turkeys; all these he must let
alone. In fact, when he had b=
ut partly
learned the law, his impression was that he must leave all live things
alone. Out in the back-pastur=
e, a
quail could flutter up under his nose unharmed. All tense and trembling with eager=
ness
and desire, he mastered his instinct and stood still. He was obeying the will of the god=
s.
And then, one day, again out in the back-pastu=
re,
he saw Dick start a jackrabbit and run it.=
The master himself was looking on and did not interfere. Nay, he encouraged White Fang to j=
oin in
the chase. And thus he learne=
d that
there was no taboo on jackrabbits.
In the end he worked out the complete law. Between him and all domestic anima=
ls
there must be no hostilities. If
not amity, at least neutrality must obtain. But the other animals--the squirre=
ls,
and quail, and cottontails, were creatures of the Wild who had never yielded
allegiance to man. They were =
the lawful
prey of any dog. It was only =
the
tame that the gods protected, and between the tame deadly strife was not
permitted. The gods held the =
power
of life and death over their subjects, and the gods were jealous of their
power.
Life was complex in the Santa Clara Valley aft=
er
the simplicities of the Northland.
And the chief thing demanded by these intricacies of civilisation was
control, restraint--a poise of self that was as delicate as the fluttering =
of
gossamer wings and at the same time as rigid as steel. Life had a thousand faces, and Whi=
te
Fang found he must meet them all--thus, when he went to town, in to San Jos=
e,
running behind the carriage or loafing about the streets when the carriage
stopped. Life flowed past him=
, deep
and wide and varied, continually impinging upon his senses, demanding of him
instant and endless adjustments and correspondences, and compelling him, al=
most
always, to suppress his natural impulses.
There were butcher-shops where meat hung within
reach. This meat he must not
touch. There were cats at the
houses the master visited that must be let alone. And there were dogs everywhere that
snarled at him and that he must not attack. And then, on the crowded sidewalks=
there
were persons innumerable whose attention he attracted. They would stop and look at him, p=
oint
him out to one another, examine him, talk of him, and, worst of all, pat
him. And these perilous conta=
cts
from all these strange hands he must endure. Yet this endurance he achieved. Fu=
rthermore,
he got over being awkward and self-conscious. In a lofty way he received the
attentions of the multitudes of strange gods. With condescension he accepted the=
ir
condescension. On the other h=
and,
there was something about him that prevented great familiarity. They patted him on the head and pa=
ssed
on, contented and pleased with their own daring.
But it was not all easy for White Fang. Running behind the carriage in the
outskirts of San Jose, he encountered certain small boys who made a practic=
e of
flinging stones at him. Yet h=
e knew
that it was not permitted him to pursue and drag them down. Here he was compelled to violate h=
is
instinct of self-preservation, and violate it he did, for he was becoming t=
ame
and qualifying himself for civilisation.
Nevertheless, White Fang was not quite satisfi=
ed
with the arrangement. He had =
no
abstract ideas about justice and fair play. But there is a certain sense of eq=
uity
that resides in life, and it was this sense in him that resented the unfair=
ness
of his being permitted no defence against the stone-throwers. He forgot that in the covenant ent=
ered
into between him and the gods they were pledged to care for him and defend =
him. But one day the master sprang from=
the
carriage, whip in hand, and gave the stone-throwers a thrashing. After that they threw stones no mo=
re,
and White Fang understood and was satisfied.
One other experience of similar nature was
his. On the way to town, hang=
ing
around the saloon at the cross-roads, were three dogs that made a practice =
of
rushing out upon him when he went by.
Knowing his deadly method of fighting, the master had never ceased
impressing upon White Fang the law that he must not fight. As a result, having learned the le=
sson
well, White Fang was hard put whenever he passed the cross-roads saloon. One day they openly sicked the dog=
s on
him. The master stopped the
carriage.
"Go to it," he said to White Fang.
But White Fang could not believe. He looked at the master, and he lo=
oked at
the dogs. Then he looked back
eagerly and questioningly at the master.
The master nodded his head. "Go to them, old fellow. Eat them up."
White Fang no longer hesitated. He turned and leaped silently amon=
g his enemies. All three faced him. There was a great snarling and gro=
wling,
a clashing of teeth and a flurry of bodies. The dust of the road arose in a cl=
oud
and screened the battle. But =
at the
end of several minutes two dogs were struggling in the dirt and the third w=
as
in full flight. He leaped a d=
itch,
went through a rail fence, and fled across a field. White Fang followed, sliding over =
the
ground in wolf fashion and with wolf speed, swiftly and without noise, and =
in
the centre of the field he dragged down and slew the dog.
With this triple killing his main troubles with
dogs ceased. The word went up=
and
down the valley, and men saw to it that their dogs did not molest the Fight=
ing
Wolf.
=
The
months came and went. There w=
as
plenty of food and no work in the Southland, and White Fang lived fat and
prosperous and happy. Not alo=
ne was
he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the Southland of life. Human kindness was like a sun shin=
ing
upon him, and he flourished like a flower planted in good soil.
And yet he remained somehow different from oth= er dogs. He knew the law even be= tter than did the dogs that had known no other life, and he observed the law more punctiliously; but still there was about him a suggestion of lurking feroci= ty, as though the Wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.<= o:p>
He never chummed with other dogs. Lonely he had lived, so far as his=
kind
was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live. In his puppyhood, under the persec=
ution
of Lip-lip and the puppy-pack, and in his fighting days with Beauty Smith, =
he
had acquired a fixed aversion for dogs.&nb=
sp;
The natural course of his life had been diverted, and, recoiling from
his kind, he had clung to the human.
Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him wi=
th
suspicion. He aroused in them=
their
instinctive fear of the Wild, and they greeted him always with snarl and gr=
owl
and belligerent hatred. He, o=
n the
other hand, learned that it was not necessary to use his teeth upon them. His naked fangs and writhing lips =
were
uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to send a bellowing on-rushing dog ba=
ck
on its haunches.
But there was one trial in White Fang's
life--Collie. She never gave =
him a
moment's peace. She was not so
amenable to the law as he. She
defied all efforts of the master to make her become friends with White Fang=
. Ever
in his ears was sounding her sharp and nervous snarl. She had never forgiven him the
chicken-killing episode, and persistently held to the belief that his
intentions were bad. She foun=
d him
guilty before the act, and treated him accordingly. She became a pest to him, like a p=
oliceman
following him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even so much as
glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an outcry of
indignation and wrath. His
favourite way of ignoring her was to lie down, with his head on his fore-pa=
ws,
and pretend sleep. This always
dumfounded and silenced her.
With the exception of Collie, all things went =
well
with White Fang. He had learn=
ed
control and poise, and he knew the law.&nb=
sp;
He achieved a staidness, and calmness, and philosophic tolerance.
He missed the snow without being aware of it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "An unduly long summer,"=
would
have been his thought had he thought about it; as it was, he merely missed =
the
snow in a vague, subconscious way.
In the same fashion, especially in the heat of summer when he suffer=
ed
from the sun, he experienced faint longings for the Northland. Their only effect upon him, howeve=
r, was
to make him uneasy and restless without his knowing what was the matter.
White Fang had never been very demonstrative.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Beyond his snuggling and the throw=
ing of
a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no way of expressing his love.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Yet it was given him to discover a=
third
way. He had always been susce=
ptible
to the laughter of the gods.
Laughter had affected him with madness, made him frantic with rage.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But he did not have it in him to be
angry with the love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a
good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed. He could feel the pricking and sti=
nging
of the old anger as it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against
love. He could not be angry; =
yet he
had to do something. At first=
he
was dignified, and the master laughed the harder. Then he tried to be more dignified=
, and
the master laughed harder than before.&nbs=
p;
In the end, the master laughed him out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips
lifted a little, and a quizzical expression that was more love than humour =
came
into his eyes. He had learned=
to
laugh.
Likewise he learned to romp with the master, t=
o be
tumbled down and rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough
tricks. In return he feigned =
anger,
bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth together in snaps
that had all the seeming of deadly intention. But he never forgot himself. Those snaps were always delivered =
on the
empty air. At the end of such=
a
romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl were last and furious, they wou=
ld
break off suddenly and stand several feet apart, glaring at each other. And then, just as suddenly, like t=
he sun
rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh. This would always culminate with t=
he
master's arms going around White Fang's neck and shoulders while the latter
crooned and growled his love-song.
But nobody else ever romped with White Fang. He did not permit it. He stood on his dignity, and when =
they
attempted it, his warning snarl and bristling mane were anything but
playful. That he allowed the =
master
these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here a=
nd
loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time. He loved with single heart and ref=
used
to cheapen himself or his love.
The master went out on horseback a great deal,=
and
to accompany him was one of White Fang's chief duties in life. In the Northland he had evidenced =
his
fealty by toiling in the harness; but there were no sleds in the Southland,=
nor
did dogs pack burdens on their backs.
So he rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the master's
horse. The longest day never =
played
White Fang out. His was the g=
ait of
the wolf, smooth, tireless and effortless, and at the end of fifty miles he
would come in jauntily ahead of the horse.
It was in connection with the riding, that Whi=
te
Fang achieved one other mode of expression--remarkable in that he did it but
twice in all his life. The fi=
rst
time occurred when the master was trying to teach a spirited thoroughbred t=
he
method of opening and closing gates without the rider's dismounting. Time and again and many times he r=
anged
the horse up to the gate in the effort to close it and each time the horse
became frightened and backed and plunged away. It grew more nervous and excited e=
very
moment. When it reared, the m=
aster
put the spurs to it and made it drop its fore-legs back to earth, whereupon=
it
would begin kicking with its hind-legs.&nb=
sp;
White Fang watched the performance with increasing anxiety until he
could contain himself no longer, when he sprang in front of the horse and
barked savagely and warningly.
Though he often tried to bark thereafter, and =
the
master encouraged him, he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the
master's presence. A scamper =
across
the pasture, a jackrabbit rising suddenly under the horse's feet, a violent
sheer, a stumble, a fall to earth, and a broken leg for the master, was the
cause of it. White Fang spran=
g in a
rage at the throat of the offending horse, but was checked by the master's
voice.
"Home!&n=
bsp;
Go home!" the master commanded when he had ascertained his inju=
ry.
White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of writing a no=
te,
but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper. Again he commanded White Fang to go
home.
The latter regarded him wistfully, started awa=
y,
then returned and whined softly.
The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his ear=
s,
and listened with painful intentness.
"That's all right, old fellow, you just r=
un
along home," ran the talk. "Go on home and tell them what's happe=
ned
to me. Home with you, you wol=
f. Get along home!"
White Fang knew the meaning of "home,&quo=
t;
and though he did not understand the remainder of the master's language, he
knew it was his will that he should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly
away. Then he stopped, undeci=
ded,
and looked back over his shoulder.
"Go home!" came the sharp command, a=
nd
this time he obeyed.
The family was on the porch, taking the cool of
the afternoon, when White Fang arrived.&nb=
sp;
He came in among them, panting, covered with dust.
"Weedon's back," Weedon's mother ann=
ounced.
The children welcomed White Fang with glad cri=
es
and ran to meet him. He avoid=
ed
them and passed down the porch, but they cornered him against a rocking-cha=
ir
and the railing. He growled a=
nd
tried to push by them. Their mother looked apprehensively in their directio=
n.
"I confess, he makes me nervous around the
children," she said. &qu=
ot;I
have a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day."
Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the
corner, overturning the boy and the girl.&=
nbsp;
The mother called them to her and comforted them, telling them not to
bother White Fang.
"A wolf is a wolf!" commented Judge
Scott. "There is no trus=
ting
one."
"But he is not all wolf," interposed
Beth, standing for her brother in his absence.
"You have only Weedon's opinion for
that," rejoined the judge.
"He merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White F=
ang;
but as he will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his appearance--"
He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growl=
ing fiercely.
"Go away! Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott
commanded.
White Fang turned to the love-master's wife. She screamed with fright as he sei=
zed
her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric tore away. By this time he had become the cen=
tre of
interest.
He had ceased from his growling and stood, head
up, looking into their faces. His
throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he struggled with all=
his
body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of the incommunicable someth=
ing
that strained for utterance.
"I hope he is not going mad," said
Weedon's mother. "I told
Weedon that I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic
animal."
"He's trying to speak, I do believe,"
Beth announced.
At this moment speech came to White Fang, rush=
ing
up in a great burst of barking.
"Something has happened to Weedon," =
his
wife said decisively.
They were all on their feet now, and White Fang
ran down the steps, looking back for them to follow. For the second and last time in hi=
s life
he had barked and made himself understood.
After this event he found a warmer place in the
hearts of the Sierra Vista people, and even the groom whose arm he had slas=
hed
admitted that he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf. Judge Scott still held to the same
opinion, and proved it to everybody's dissatisfaction by measurements and
descriptions taken from the encyclopaedia and various works on natural hist=
ory.
The days came and went, streaming their unbrok=
en
sunshine over the Santa Clara Valley.
But as they grew shorter and White Fang's second winter in the South=
land
came on, he made a strange discovery.
Collie's teeth were no longer sharp. There was a playfulness about her =
nips
and a gentleness that prevented them from really hurting him. He forgot that she had made life a
burden to him, and when she disported herself around him he responded solem=
nly,
striving to be playful and becoming no more than ridiculous.
One day she led him off on a long chase through
the back-pasture land into the woods.
It was the afternoon that the master was to ride, and White Fang knew
it. The horse stood saddled a=
nd
waiting at the door. White Fang hesitated.=
But there was that in him deeper than all the law he had learned, th=
an
the customs that had moulded him, than his love for the master, than the ve=
ry
will to live of himself; and when, in the moment of his indecision, Collie
nipped him and scampered off, he turned and followed after. The master rode alone that day; an=
d in
the woods, side by side, White Fang ran with Collie, as his mother, Kiche, =
and
old One Eye had run long years before in the silent Northland forest.
CHAPTER
V--THE SLEEPING WOLF
=
It was
about this time that the newspapers were full of the daring escape of a con=
vict
from San Quentin prison. He w=
as a
ferocious man. He had been il=
l-made
in the making. He had not bee=
n born
right, and he had not been helped any by the moulding he had received at the
hands of society. The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striki=
ng
sample of its handiwork. He w=
as a
beast--a human beast, it is true, but nevertheless so terrible a beast that=
he
can best be characterised as carnivorous.
In San Quentin prison he had proved
incorrigible. Punishment fail=
ed to break
his spirit. He could die dumb=
-mad
and fighting to the last, but he could not live and be beaten. The more fiercely he fought, the m=
ore harshly
society handled him, and the only effect of harshness was to make him
fiercer. Straight-jackets,
starvation, and beatings and clubbings were the wrong treatment for Jim Hal=
l;
but it was the treatment he received.
It was the treatment he had received from the time he was a little p=
ulpy
boy in a San Francisco slum--soft clay in the hands of society and ready to=
be
formed into something.
It was during Jim Hall's third term in prison =
that
he encountered a guard that was almost as great a beast as he. The guard treated him unfairly, li=
ed
about him to the warden, lost his credits, persecuted him. The difference between them was th=
at the
guard carried a bunch of keys and a revolver. Jim Hall had only his naked hands =
and
his teeth. But he sprang upon=
the
guard one day and used his teeth on the other's throat just like any jungle
animal.
After this, Jim Hall went to live in the incor=
rigible
cell. He lived there three
years. The cell was of iron, =
the
floor, the walls, the roof. He never left this cell. He never saw the sky nor the
sunshine. Day was a twilight =
and
night was a black silence. He=
was
in an iron tomb, buried alive. He
saw no human face, spoke to no human thing. When his food was shoved in to him=
, he
growled like a wild animal. He
hated all things. For days and nights he bellowed his rage at the
universe. For weeks and month=
s he
never made a sound, in the black silence eating his very soul. He was a man=
and
a monstrosity, as fearful a thing of fear as ever gibbered in the visions o=
f a
maddened brain.
And then, one night, he escaped. The warders said it was impossible=
, but nevertheless
the cell was empty, and half in half out of it lay the body of a dead
guard. Two other dead guards =
marked
his trail through the prison to the outer walls, and he had killed with his
hands to avoid noise.
He was armed with the weapons of the slain
guards--a live arsenal that fled through the hills pursued by the organised
might of society. A heavy pri=
ce of
gold was upon his head. Avari=
cious
farmers hunted him with shot-guns.
His blood might pay off a mortgage or send a son to college. Public-spirited citizens took down=
their
rifles and went out after him. A
pack of bloodhounds followed the way of his bleeding feet. And the
sleuth-hounds of the law, the paid fighting animals of society, with teleph=
one,
and telegraph, and special train, clung to his trail night and day.
Sometimes they came upon him, and men faced him
like heroes, or stampeded through barbed-wire fences to the delight of the
commonwealth reading the account at the breakfast table. It was after such encounters that =
the dead
and wounded were carted back to the towns, and their places filled by men e=
ager
for the man-hunt.
And then Jim Hall disappeared. The bloodhounds vainly quested on =
the lost
trail. Inoffensive ranchers in
remote valleys were held up by armed men and compelled to identify
themselves. While the remains=
of
Jim Hall were discovered on a dozen mountain-sides by greedy claimants for
blood- money.
In the meantime the newspapers were read at Si=
erra
Vista, not so much with interest as with anxiety. The women were afraid. Judge Scott pooh- poohed and laugh=
ed, but
not with reason, for it was in his last days on the bench that Jim Hall had
stood before him and received sentence.&nb=
sp;
And in open court-room, before all men, Jim Hall had proclaimed that=
the
day would come when he would wreak vengeance on the Judge that sentenced hi=
m.
For once, Jim Hall was right. He was innocent of the crime for w=
hich
he was sentenced. It was a ca=
se, in
the parlance of thieves and police, of "rail-roading." Jim Hall was being
"rail-roaded" to prison for a crime he had not committed. Because of the two prior convictio=
ns
against him, Judge Scott imposed upon him a sentence of fifty years.
Judge Scott did not know all things, and he did
not know that he was party to a police conspiracy, that the evidence was
hatched and perjured, that Jim Hall was guiltless of the crime charged. And Jim Hall, on the other hand, d=
id not
know that Judge Scott was merely ignorant.=
Jim Hall believed that the judge knew all about it and was hand in g=
love
with the police in the perpetration of the monstrous injustice. So it was, when the doom of fifty =
years
of living death was uttered by Judge Scott, that Jim Hall, hating all thing=
s in
the society that misused him, rose up and raged in the court-room until dra=
gged
down by half a dozen of his blue- coated enemies. To him, Judge Scott was the keysto=
ne in
the arch of injustice, and upon Judge Scott he emptied the vials of his wra=
th
and hurled the threats of his revenge yet to come. Then Jim Hall went to his living d=
eath .
. . and escaped.
Of all this White Fang knew nothing. But between him and Alice, the mas=
ter's
wife, there existed a secret. Each
night, after Sierra Vista had gone to bed, she rose and let in White Fang to
sleep in the big hall. Now White Fang was not a house-dog, nor was he permi=
tted
to sleep in the house; so each morning, early, she slipped down and let him=
out
before the family was awake.
On one such night, while all the house slept,
White Fang awoke and lay very quietly.&nbs=
p;
And very quietly he smelled the air and read the message it bore of a
strange god's presence. And t=
o his
ears came sounds of the strange god's movements. White Fang burst into no furious
outcry. It was not his way. The strange god walked softly, but=
more
softly walked White Fang, for he had no clothes to rub against the flesh of=
his
body. He followed silently. I=
n the
Wild he had hunted live meat that was infinitely timid, and he knew the
advantage of surprise.
The strange god paused at the foot of the great
staircase and listened, and White Fang was as dead, so without movement was=
he
as he watched and waited. Up =
that
staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love- master's dearest
possessions. White Fang brist=
led,
but waited. The strange god's=
foot
lifted. He was beginning the
ascent.
Then it was that White Fang struck. He gave no warning, with no snarl =
anticipated
his own action. Into the air =
he
lifted his body in the spring that landed him on the strange god's back.
Sierra Vista awoke in alarm. The noise from downstairs was as t=
hat of
a score of battling fiends. T=
here
were revolver shots. A man's =
voice screamed
once in horror and anguish. T=
here
was a great snarling and growling, and over all arose a smashing and crashi=
ng
of furniture and glass.
But almost as quickly as it had arisen, the
commotion died away. The stru=
ggle
had not lasted more than three minutes.&nb=
sp;
The frightened household clustered at the top of the stairway. From below, as from out an abyss o=
f blackness,
came up a gurgling sound, as of air bubbling through water. Sometimes this gurgle became sibil=
ant,
almost a whistle. But this, too, quickly died down and ceased. Then naught came up out of the bla=
ckness
save a heavy panting of some creature struggling sorely for air.
Weedon Scott pressed a button, and the stairca=
se
and downstairs hall were flooded with light. Then he and Judge Scott, revolvers=
in
hand, cautiously descended. T=
here
was no need for this caution. White
Fang had done his work. In the
midst of the wreckage of overthrown and smashed furniture, partly on his si=
de,
his face hidden by an arm, lay a man.
Weedon Scott bent over, removed the arm and turned the man's face up=
ward. A gaping throat explained the mann=
er of
his death.
"Jim Hall," said Judge Scott, and fa=
ther
and son looked significantly at each other.
Then they turned to White Fang. He, too, was lying on his side.
"He's all in, poor devil," muttered =
the
master.
"We'll see about that," asserted the
Judge, as he started for the telephone.
"Frankly, he has one chance in a
thousand," announced the surgeon, after he had worked an hour and a ha=
lf
on White Fang.
Dawn was breaking through the windows and dimm=
ing
the electric lights. With the exception of the children, the whole family w=
as
gathered about the surgeon to hear his verdict.
"One broken hind-leg," he went on. "Three broken ribs, one at le=
ast of
which has pierced the lungs. =
He has
lost nearly all the blood in his body.&nbs=
p;
There is a large likelihood of internal injuries. He must have been jumped upon. To say nothing of three bullet hol=
es
clear through him. One chance=
in a
thousand is really optimistic. He
hasn't a chance in ten thousand."
"But he mustn't lose any chance that migh=
t be
of help to him," Judge Scott exclaimed. "Never mind expense. Put him under the X-ray--anything.=
Weedon,
telegraph at once to San Francisco for Doctor Nichols. No reflection on you, doctor, you
understand; but he must have the advantage of every chance."
The surgeon smiled indulgently. "Of course I understand. He deserves all that can be done f=
or
him. He must be nursed as you=
would
nurse a human being, a sick child.
And don't forget what I told you about temperature. I'll be back at ten o'clock again.=
"
White Fang received the nursing. Judge Scott's suggestion of a trai=
ned nurse
was indignantly clamoured down by the girls, who themselves undertook the
task. And White Fang won out =
on the
one chance in ten thousand denied him by the surgeon.
The latter was not to be censured for his
misjudgment. All his life he =
had
tended and operated on the soft humans of civilisation, who lived sheltered
lives and had descended out of many sheltered generations. Compared with Wh=
ite
Fang, they were frail and flabby, and clutched life without any strength in
their grip. White Fang had co=
me
straight from the Wild, where the weak perish early and shelter is vouchsaf=
ed
to none. In neither his father nor his mother was there any weakness, nor in
the generations before them. A
constitution of iron and the vitality of the Wild were White Fang's
inheritance, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, =
in
spirit and in flesh, with the tenacity that of old belonged to all creature=
s.
Bound down a prisoner, denied even movement by=
the
plaster casts and bandages, White Fang lingered out the weeks. He slept long hours and dreamed mu=
ch,
and through his mind passed an unending pageant of Northland visions. All the ghosts of the past arose a=
nd
were with him. Once again he lived in the lair with Kiche, crept trembling =
to
the knees of Grey Beaver to tender his allegiance, ran for his life before
Lip-lip and all the howling bedlam of the puppy-pack.
He ran again through the silence, hunting his
living food through the months of famine; and again he ran at the head of t=
he
team, the gut-whips of Mit-sah and Grey Beaver snapping behind, their voices
crying "Ra! Raa!" when they came to a narrow passage and the team
closed together like a fan to go through.&=
nbsp;
He lived again all his days with Beauty Smith and the fights he had
fought. At such times he whim=
pered
and snarled in his sleep, and they that looked on said that his dreams were
bad.
But there was one particular nightmare from wh=
ich
he suffered--the clanking, clanging monsters of electric cars that were to =
him
colossal screaming lynxes. He=
would
lie in a screen of bushes, watching for a squirrel to venture far enough ou=
t on
the ground from its tree-refuge. Then, when he sprang out upon it, it would
transform itself into an electric car, menacing and terrible, towering over=
him
like a mountain, screaming and clanging and spitting fire at him. It was the same when he challenged=
the
hawk down out of the sky. Dow=
n out
of the blue it would rush, as it dropped upon him changing itself into the
ubiquitous electric car. Or a=
gain,
he would be in the pen of Beauty Smith.&nb=
sp;
Outside the pen, men would be gathering, and he knew that a fight was
on. He watched the door for h=
is
antagonist to enter. The door=
would
open, and thrust in upon him would come the awful electric car. A thousand times this occurred, an=
d each
time the terror it inspired was as vivid and great as ever.
Then came the day when the last bandage and the
last plaster cast were taken off.
It was a gala day. All
Sierra Vista was gathered around.
The master rubbed his ears, and he crooned his love-growl. The master's wife called him the
"Blessed Wolf," which name was taken up with acclaim and all the
women called him the Blessed Wolf.
He tried to rise to his feet, and after several
attempts fell down from weakness.
He had lain so long that his muscles had lost their cunning, and all=
the
strength had gone out of them. He
felt a little shame because of his weakness, as though, forsooth, he were
failing the gods in the service he owed them. Because of this he made heroic eff=
orts
to arise and at last he stood on his four legs, tottering and swaying back =
and
forth.
"The Blessed Wolf!" chorused the wom=
en.
Judge Scott surveyed them triumphantly.
"Out of your own mouths be it," he
said. "Just as I contend=
ed
right along. No mere dog coul=
d have
done what he did. He's a
wolf."
"A Blessed Wolf," amended the Judge's
wife.
"Yes, Blessed Wolf," agreed the
Judge. "And henceforth t=
hat
shall be my name for him."
"He'll have to learn to walk again,"
said the surgeon; "so he might as well start in right now. It won't hurt him. Take him outside."
And outside he went, like a king, with all Sie=
rra
Vista about him and tending on him.
He was very weak, and when he reached the lawn he lay down and rested
for a while.
Then the procession started on, little spurts =
of
strength coming into White Fang's muscles as he used them and the blood beg=
an
to surge through them. The st=
ables
were reached, and there in the doorway, lay Collie, a half-dozen pudgy pupp=
ies
playing about her in the sun.
White Fang looked on with a wondering eye. Collie snarled warningly at him, a=
nd he
was careful to keep his distance.
The master with his toe helped one sprawling puppy toward him. He bristled suspiciously, but the =
master
warned him that all was well.
Collie, clasped in the arms of one of the women, watched him jealous=
ly
and with a snarl warned him that all was not well.
The puppy sprawled in front of him. He cocked his ears and watched it =
curiously. Then their noses touched, and he f=
elt
the warm little tongue of the puppy on his jowl. White Fang's tongue went out, he k=
new
not why, and he licked the puppy's face.
Hand-clapping and pleased cries from the gods
greeted the performance. He w=
as
surprised, and looked at them in a puzzled way. Then his weakness asserted itself,=
and
he lay down, his ears cocked, his head on one side, as he watched the
puppy. The other puppies came
sprawling toward him, to Collie's great disgust; and he gravely permitted t=
hem
to clamber and tumble over him. At
first, amid the applause of the gods, he betrayed a trifle of his old
self-consciousness and awkwardness.
This passed away as the puppies' antics and mauling continued, and he
lay with half-shut patient eyes, drowsing in the sun.