Литагент «АСТ»c9a05514-1ce6-11e2-86b3-b737ee03444a Джек Лондон / Jack London. Белый клык / White Fang АСТ Москва 2014 978-5-17-086545-1

Джек Лондон / Jack London

Белый клык / White Fang

Адаптация текста, составление комментариев, упражнений и словаря Д. А. Демидовой

© Д. А. Демидова, адаптация текста, комментарии, упражнения, словарь

© ООО «Издательство АСТ»

Part I

Chapter I. The Trail of the Meat

Dark forest was on both sides of the waterway. The trees had been damaged by a recent wind and seemed to lean on each other. Silence ruled over the land. The land itself was lifeless, so lonely and cold that it was not even sad. There was laughter in it, but laughter more terrible than any sadness. It was the masterful wisdom of eternity laughing at the uselessness of life. It was the frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

But there was life. Down the frozen waterway ran a string of dogs. Their fur was in frost. Their breath froze in the air. Leather harness was on the dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged behind. On the sled there was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things – blankets, an axe, a coffee-pot and a frying-pan; but the long and narrow oblong box occupied the most space.

Before the dogs, on wide snowshoes, walked a man. Behind the sled walked a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose walk was over, – a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten. Life is an offence to the Wild, because life is movement; and the Wild wants to destroy movement. It freezes the water; it drives the sap out of the trees; and most terribly of all it treats man – man who is the most active of life.

But before and after the dogs walked the two men who were not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and leather; eyelashes, cheeks and lips were covered with the crystals from their frozen breath; so they looked like undertakers at the funeral of some ghost. But they were men, going through the land of silence, adventurers on colossal adventure.

They travelled on without speaking to save their breath. On every side was the pressing silence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It pressed all the false self-values of the human soul out of them, like juices from the grape. They felt small, having little wisdom against the great blind elements.

An hour went by, and a second hour. The light of the short sunless day was beginning to fade, when a faint far cry sounded on the air and then slowly died away. There was anger and hunger in it. The front man turned his head and his eyes met the eyes of the man behind. And then, across the narrow oblong box, they nodded to each other.

There was a second cry, somewhere behind. A third and answering cry sounded in the air.

“They’re after us, Bill,” said the man at the front.

“There’s little meat,” answered his comrade. “I haven’t seen a rabbit for days.”

They spoke no more, but listened attentively.

When it became dark they took the dogs into a cluster of trees and made a camp. The coffin served for seat and table. The dogs clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled among themselves, but didn’t go into the darkness.

“Seems to me, they’re staying remarkably close to camp,” Bill said.

His companion nodded, then took his seat on the coffin and began to eat.

“Henry, did you notice how the dogs behaved when I was feeding them?”

“They played more than usual.”

“How many dogs have we got, Henry?”

“Six.”

“Well, Henry…” Bill stopped for a moment, in order to sound more significant. “As I was saying, I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, and, Henry, I was one fish short.”

“You counted wrong.”

“We’ve got six dogs. I took out six fish. One Ear didn’t get a fish. I came back to the bag afterward and got him his fish.”

“We’ve only got six dogs,” Henry said.

“Then there were seven of them that got fish.”

Henry stopped eating to count the dogs.

“There’s only six now,” he said.

“I saw the other one run off. I saw seven.”

Henry looked at him and said, “I’ll be very glad when this trip is over.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that our load is getting on your nerves,[1] and you’re beginning to see things.[2]”

“But I saw its tracks on the snow. I can show them to you.”

Henry didn’t reply at once. He had a final cup of coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Then you think it was one of them?”

Bill nodded.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Henry said.

“Henry…” he paused. “Henry, I was thinking he was much luckier than you and me.” He pointed at the box on which they sat, “When we die, we’ll be lucky if we get enough stones over our bodies to keep the dogs off of us.”

“But we don’t have people, money and all the rest, like him. Long-distance funerals is something we can’t afford.”

“What worries me, Henry, is why a chap like this, who is a kind of lord in his own country, comes to the end of the earth.”

“Yes, he might have lived to old age if he’d stayed at home.”

Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead, he pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every side. Nothing could be seen there but a pair of eyes gleaming like coals. Henry indicated with his head a second pair, and a third. A circle of the gleaming eyes was around their camp.

The unrest of the dogs was increasing. One of them came too close to the fire and yelped with pain and fright. The circle of eyes withdraw a bit, but it appeared again when the dogs became quiet.

“Henry, it’s a misfortune to be out of ammunition.”

Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his companion to spread the bed of fur and blanket.

“How many cartridges did you leave?” Henry asked.

“Three. And I wish it was three hundred!”

He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and put his moccasins before the fire.

“And I wish it was not so cold” he went on. “It has been fifty below zero for two weeks now. And I wish I’d never started on this trip, Henry. I don’t like it. And I wish the trip was over, and you and I were sitting by the fire in Fort McGurry and playing cards.”

Henry grunted and crawled into bed. Then he was woken by his comrade’s voice.

“Say, Henry, that other one that came in and got a fish – why didn’t the dogs bite it? That’s what’s bothering me.”

“You’re bothering too much, Bill. Just shut up now, and go to sleep. You have a stomach ache, that’s what’s bothering you.”

The men slept, breathing heavily, side by side, under the one covering. The fire died down, and the gleaming eyes drew closer. The dogs kept together in fear. Once their noise became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully and threw more wood on the fire. The circle of eyes drew back. He glanced at the dogs, then rubbed his eyes and looked at them again. Then he crawled back into the blankets.

“Henry,” he said. “Oh, Henry.”

Henry groaned, “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing, only there’s seven of them again. I just counted.”

Henry grunted again and fell asleep.

In the morning it was he who awoke first and woke up his companion. It was still dark, though it was already six o’clock; and Henry started preparing breakfast, while Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready.

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

“Six.”

“Wrong,” Bill said triumphantly.

“Seven again?”

“No, five; one’s gone.”

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

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

“He always was a fool dog.”

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

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

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

Chapter II. The She-Wolf

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

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

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

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

“What did it look like?”

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

“Must be a tame wolf, I reckon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frog’s gone.”

“No.”

“I tell you yes.”

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

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

“And he was no fool,” Henry added.

And so it was the second epitaph in two days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It must be.”

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

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

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

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

“I’ll wait for a dead shot.”

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

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

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

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

“Has it run out?”

“Nope.”

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

“Nope.”

“Then explain yourself,[7]” Bill said angrily.

“Spanker’s gone.”

Bill slowly turned his head and counted the dogs.

“One Ear, the damned dog! Just because he couldn’t free himself, he freed Spanker.”

“Well, Spanker’s troubles are over anyway; I guess he’s digested by this time,” was Henry’s epitaph on this, the latest lost dog. “Have some coffee, Bill.”

“No. I said I wouldn’t drink it if any dog is missing, and I won’t.”

And he ate a dry breakfast with curses at One Ear for the trick he had played.

“I’ll tie them up out of reach of each other tonight,” Bill said, as they started off again.

They had travelled little more than a hundred yards, when Henry, who was in front, picked up something from the ground.

“Maybe you’ll need that,” he said.

It was all that was left of Spanker – the stick with which he had been tied.

“They ate him all,” Bill announced. “They’re damn hungry, Henry. I’m not feeling special enthusiastic.”

“You’re unwell, that’s what’s the matter with you,” Henry dogmatised. “What you need is quinine.”

Bill disagreed with the diagnosis, and didn’t say anything.

The day was like all the days. It was just after the sun’s attempt to appear, that Bill took the rifle and said:

“You go on, Henry, but I’m going to see what I can see.”

“You’d better go after the sled. You’ve only got three cartridges, and nobody knows what might happen.”

“Who’s croaking now?”[8]

Henry said nothing, and toiled on alone, though often he looked back. An hour later, Bill arrived.

“I’ve seen some of them. They’re very thin. They hadn’t had food for weeks, I think, save the meat of Fatty and Frog and Spanker. They’ll be going mad, yet, and then watch out.”

A few minutes later, Henry, who was now travelling behind the sled, gave a warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then stopped the dogs. Behind them trotted a furry form. Its nose was to the trail. When they stopped, it stopped, too, and watched them.

“It’s the she-wolf,” Bill said.

The animal trotted forward a few steps, and then, after a pause, a few more steps, and then a few more. It looked at them in a strangely wistful way, like a dog; but there was none of the dog’s affection. It was hungry and cruel.

It was large for a wolf and had a true wolf-coat. The main colour was grey, with a red– dish hue – a hue that appeared and disappeared, like an illusion of the vision, now grey, really grey, and then again showing some redness of colour.

“Looks like a big husky sled-dog,” Bill commented. “Hello, you husky!” he shouted, “Come here, you whatever-your-name-is.”

The animal showed no fear. For it they were meat, and it was hungry; and it would like to go in and eat them.

“Look here, Henry,” Bill said, “We’ve got three cartridges. But it’s a dead shot. Couldn’t miss it. It’s got away with three of our dogs, and we must put a stop to it. What do you say?”

Henry nodded. Bill cautiously took the gun. The gun was on the way to his shoulder, but it never got there. For in that instant the she-wolf jumped sidewise from the trail and disappeared.

The two men looked at each other. Henry whistled.

“I might have known it,” Bill said as he replaced the gun. “Of course a wolf that knows enough to come with the dogs at feeding time, would know all about guns. I tell you, Henry, that creature’s the cause of all our trouble. We would have six dogs instead of three, if it wasn’t because of her. And, Henry, I’m going to get her. She’s too smart to be shot in the open. But I’ll get her as sure as my name is Bill.”

They camped early that night. Three dogs could not go so fast nor for so long hours as could six, and they were showing unmistakable signs of weariness. And the men went early to bed, after Bill had made sure that the dogs were tied out of reach of one another.

But the wolves were growing bolder, and the men woke more than once from their sleep. So near did the wolves approach, that the dogs became mad with terror, and it was necessary to keep the fire burning.

“They’re going to get us, Henry,” Bill remarked.

“You’re half eaten when you’re saying such things, Bill, so shut up your croaking.”

Henry rolled over angrily on his side, but Bill said nothing. Usually he was easily angered by sharp words. Henry thought long over it before he went to sleep: “There’s no doubt Bill’s not well. I’ll have to cheer him up tomorrow.”

Chapter III. The Hunger Cry

They had lost no dogs during the night, and Bill seemed to have forgotten his troubles when, at midday, they came to a bad piece of trail. It was an awkward mix-up. The sled was upside down and stuck between a tree-trunk and a huge rock, and they had to unharness the dogs. The two men were bent over the sled and trying to right it, when Henry observed One Ear going away.

“Here, you, One Ear!” he cried.

But One Ear was already running across the snow. And there, on their back track, was the she-wolf waiting for him.

At first One Ear was cautious and dubious. She seemed to smile at him, showing her teeth in a welcoming rather than a menacing way. She moved toward him a few steps and stopped. One Ear came nearer, his tail and ears in the air, his head high. He tried to sniff noses[9] with her, but she retreated playfully. Every advance on his part was accompanied by a corresponding retreat on her part. Step by step she was leading him away from the security of his human companionship. Once he turned his head and looked back at the sled, at his team-mates, and at the two men who were calling to him, but the she-wolf sniffed noses with him for an instant, and then continued her playful retreat.

In the meantime, Bill remembered of the rifle. But it was stuck beneath 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 realized his mistake. Suddenly, the two men saw him turn and start to run back toward them. Then they saw a dozen wolves around. The she-wolf’s playfulness disappeared. With a snarl she sprang upon One Ear. His retreat was cut off, so he changed his course, trying to circle around. More wolves were appearing every moment and joining the chase. The she-wolf was one leap behind One Ear.

“Where are you going?” Henry asked Bill and tried to stop him.

“I won’t stand it. They won’t get any more of our dogs.”

Henry remained behind after Bill had gone. He judged One Ear’s case to be hopeless. He could not break the circle of his pursuers.

Henry sat on the sled. And too quickly, far more quickly than he had expected, it happened. He heard a shot, then two more shots, and he knew that Bill’s ammunition was gone. Then he heard a great outcry of snarls. He recognised One Ear’s yell of pain and terror, and he heard a wolf-cry of an injured animal. And that was all. The snarls ceased. Silence fell down again on 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[10] and quickly got the axe out from the sled. But for some time longer he sat and brooded, the two remaining dogs crouching and trembling at his feet.

At last he arose wearily, as though all the determination had gone out of his body, and fastened the dogs to the sled. He passed a rope over his shoulder, and pulled with the dogs. He did not go far. At the first hint of darkness he made a camp and prepared a generous supply of firewood. He fed the dogs, cooked and ate his supper, and made his bed close to the fire.

But he could not enjoy that bed. The wolves were around him and the fire, in a narrow circle, and he saw them plainly: lying down, sitting up, crawling forward on their bellies, or going around. They even slept. Here and there he could see one curled up in the snow like a dog, taking the sleep that he could not now afford.

He kept the fire blazing, because he knew that it alone was between the flesh of his body and their hungry fangs. His two dogs stayed close by him, one on either side, whimpering and snarling desperately. Bit by bit, an inch[11] at a time, with here a wolf bellying forward, and there a wolf bellying forward, the circle narrowed until the man started taking brands from the fire and throwing them into the brutes.

Morning found him tired and worn. He cooked breakfast in the darkness, and at nine o’clock, when the wolves drew back, he started doing what he had planned through the night. He made a wooden scaffold and fixed it high up to the trunks of trees. With the use of a rope, and with the aid of the dogs, he put the coffin to the top of the scaffold.

“They got Bill, and they may get me, but they’ll never get you, young man,” he said, addressing the dead body in the coffin.

Then he took the trail with the lightened sled. Dogs were willing to pull, for they, too, knew that safety was in Fort McGurry. The wolves were now more open in their pursuit. They were very lean – so lean that Henry wondered how they still kept their feet.

He did not dare travel after dark. In grey daylight and dim twilight he prepared 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.[12] He dozed, crouching 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 front of him, not a dozen feet away, a big grey wolf, one of the largest of the pack. The brute deliberately stretched himself, like a lazy dog, looking upon him as if, in truth, he were just a delayed meal that was soon to be eaten.

The wolves reminded Henry of children gathered around a table and waiting for the permission to begin to eat. And he was the food they were to eat! He wondered how and when the meal would begin.

He grew suddenly fond of his body, of his flesh that worked so fine. Then he looked fearfully at the wolf-circle drawn around him: this wonderful body of his was no more than much meat, to be torn by their hungry fangs, like the moose or the rabbit.

He came out of a doze to see the red-hued she-wolf before 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. There was nothing scary about her. She just looked at him with a great wistfulness of hunger. He was the food, and the sight of him excited her. Her mouth opened, the saliva dropped down in anticipation.

A spasm of fear went through him. He reached for a brand to throw at her, but before his fingers had closed on it, she sprang back into safety. He glanced at the hand that held the brand, and in the same instant he seemed to see a vision of those same fingers being crushed and torn by the white teeth of the she-wolf. Never before had he been so fond of his body.

All night, with burning brands, he fought off the hungry pack. Morning came, but for the first time the light of day did not frighten the wolves. The man waited in vain for them to go. They remained in a circle about him and his fire, showing an arrogance of possession that shook his courage.

He made one desperate attempt to go on the trail. But the moment he left the fire, the boldest wolf leaped for him. He saved himself by springing back, the jaws snapping together six inches from his leg.

The night was a repetition of the night before, save that the need for sleep was too great. The snarling of his dogs was losing its efficacy. Once he suddenly awoke to see the she-wolf was less than a yard[13] from him. Mechanically, without letting go of it, he thrust a brand into her open mouth. She sprang away, yelling with pain.

Before he dozed again, he tied a burning pine-knot to his right hand. His eyes were closed only a few minutes when the flame on his flesh awakened him. Every time he was thus awakened he drove back the wolves with flying brands, checked the fire, and rearranged the pine-knot on his hand. All worked well, but once he tied the pine-knot badly. As his eyes closed it fell away from his hand.

He dreamed. It seemed to him that he was in Fort McGurry. It was warm and comfortable, and he was playing cards with the Factor. Also, it seemed to him that the fort was besieged by wolves. They were howling at the gates, and sometimes he and the Factor paused from the game to listen and laugh at them. And suddenly the door was burst open. He could see the wolves coming into the big living-room. They were leaping straight for him and the Factor. Their howling now followed him everywhere.

And then he awoke to find the howling real. The wolves were all about him and upon him. The teeth of one had closed upon his arm. Instinctively he leaped into the fire, and as he leaped, he felt the sharp teeth that tore through the flesh of his leg. Then there began a fire fight. His mittens temporarily protected his hands, and he threw burning coals into the air in all directions, until the campfire looked like a volcano. But it could not last long. The heat was becoming unbearable to his feet. With a burning brand in each hand, he sprang to the edge of the fire. The wolves had been driven back, and many of them stepped on the fallen coals, crying with pain.

The man thrust his brands at the nearest of his enemies, then thrust his mittens and legs into the snow to cool them. His two dogs were missing, and he well knew that they had served as a course in the meal which had begun days before with Fatty, and the last course of which would likely be himself in the days to follow.

“You haven’t got me yet!” he cried, shaking his fist at the hungry beasts; and at the sound of his voice the whole circle was agitated, and the she-wolf came close to him and watched him with hungry wistfulness.

Henry extended the fire into a large circle and crouched inside it. The whole pack came closer to see what had become of him. They could not cross the fire, and they now settled down in a close-drawn circle, like dogs, blinking and yawning and stretching their lean bodies in the warmth. Then the she-wolf sat down, pointed her nose at a star, and began to howl. One by one the wolves joined her, till the whole pack was howling.

Dawn came, and daylight. The fire was burning low. The fuel had run out, and there was need to get more. The man could not step out of the circle of fire or drive the wolves back. As he gave up and sat 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 same time snarling, and jumped back to cool its paws in the snow.

The man sat down on his blankets. His shoulders relaxed and drooped, his head was on his knees: he had given up the struggle. Now and again he raised his head and watched the fire dying. The circle of flame and coals was breaking into segments with openings in between.

“I guess you can come and get me any time,” he said. “Anyway, I’m going to sleep.”

Once he awakened, and in an opening in the circle, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him.

Again he awakened, a little later, though it seemed hours to him. A mysterious change had taken place. He could not understand at first. Then he discovered it. The wolves were gone. Only the traces on the snow showed how closely they had come.

There were cries of men and sounds of sleds and harnesses, and the whimpering of dogs. Four sleds with half a dozen men approached the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire. They were shaking him into consciousness. He looked at them like a drunken man and said sleepily:

“Red she-wolf… Come in with the dogs at feeding time… First she ate the dog-food… Then she ate the dogs… And after that she ate Bill…”

“Where’s Lord Alfred?” one of the men shouted in his ear, shaking him roughly.

He shook his head slowly. “No, she didn’t eat him… He’s in a tree at the last camp.”

“Dead?”

“And in a box,” Henry jerked his shoulder away from the grip of his questioner. “Leave alone… Good night, everybody.”

His eyes closed. And even as they put him down upon the blankets his snores sounded in the frosty air.

But there was another sound: a far and faint cry of the hungry wolf-pack as it took the trail of other meat.

Part II

Chapter I. The Battle of the Fangs

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 man in his circle of dying fire. The pack followed her.

A large grey wolf – one of the pack’s several leaders – directed the wolves’ course on the heels[14] of the she-wolf. She went near him, as though it were her appointed position. He did not snarl at her, nor show his teeth, although he snarled at the younger wolves. On the contrary, when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her teeth. She could even slash his shoulder sharply on occasion. He showed no anger.

On the other side of the she-wolf ran an old wolf, marked with the scars of many battles. He ran always on her right side – perhaps because he had only one eye, and that was the left eye. Sometimes he and the grey wolf on the left showed their teeth and snarled across at each other. They might have fought, but now they were too hungry.

Also there was a young three-year-old that ran on the right side of the one-eyed wolf. When he dared to run abreast, a snarl sent him back. Sometimes he even edged in between the old leader and the she-wolf, but was stopped by three sets of savage teeth (the leader’s, the one-eyed wolf’s, and the she-wolf’s).

The situation of the pack was desperate. It was lean with hunger. It ran slower than usual. The weak members, the very young and the very old, ran behind. At the front were the strongest. Yet all were more like skeletons than wolves.

They ran night and day, over the surface of the frozen and dead world. They alone were alive there, and they looked for other things that were alive to eat them and continue living.

Finally they came upon a moose. It was a short and fierce fight. And after that there was plenty of food. The moose weighed over eight hundred pounds[15] – fully twenty pounds of meat per mouth for more than forty wolves of the pack.

There was now much resting and sleeping. The hunger was over. The wolves were in the country of game.[16]

There came a day when the pack divided 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 became smaller. Two by two, male and female, the wolves were leaving.

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 fierce temper. Her three suitors all had the marks of her teeth. But they never defended themselves against her.

The three-year-old grew too ambitious. He caught the one-eyed elder on his blind side and ripped his ear into ribbons.[17] The third wolf joined the elder, and together, old leader and young leader, they attacked the ambitious three-year-old and wanted to destroy him. Forgotten were the days when they had hunted together. The business of love was at hand – a crueller business than food-getting. And the three-year-old yielded up his life for it.

In the meanwhile, the she-wolf, the cause of it all, sat down on her haunches[18] and watched. She was even pleased. This was her day.

The younger leader turned his head to lick a wound on his shoulder. With his one eye the elder saw the opportunity. He jumped low and closed his fangs on the other’s neck. His teeth tore the great vein of the throat.

The young leader snarled terribly, but his snarl broke into a cough. Bleeding and coughing, he sprang at the elder and fought until life left him and the light of day dulled on his eyes.

And all the while the she-wolf sat on her haunches and smiled. This was the love-making of the Wild, the sex-tragedy of the natural world that was tragedy only to those that died. To those that survived it was not tragedy, but realization and achievement.

When the young leader lay in the snow and moved no more, One Eye went to the she-wolf. For the first time she met him kindly. She sniffed noses with him, and even leaped about and played with him in quite puppyish fashion. And he, for all his grey years and experience, behaved quite puppyishly and even a little foolishly. The fight was forgotten the moment as he sprang after the she-wolf, who was 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 became restless. She seemed to be searching for something that she could not find. The caves under fallen trees seemed to attract her. Old One Eye was not interested at all, but he followed her good-naturedly in her quest.

They did not stay in one place, but travelled across country until they came to the Mackenzie River. One moonlight night, running through the quiet forest, they heard the sounds of dogs, the cries of men, the sharper voices of women, and once a cry of a child. Little could be seen save the flames of the fire. But to their nostrils came the smells of an Indian camp, that was new to One Eye, but every detail of which the she-wolf knew.

She was strangely worried, and sniffed and sniffed with an increasing delight. But old One Eye was doubtful. A new wistfulness was in her face, but it was not the wistfulness of hunger. One Eye moved impatiently beside her; and she knew again her pressing need to find the thing for which she searched. She turned and trotted back into the forest, to the great relief of One Eye.

Chapter II. The Lair

For two days the she-wolf and One Eye hung about the Indian camp. He was worried, yet she didn’t want to depart. But when, one morning, a bullet passed several inches from One Eye’s head, they hesitated no more and left.

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 urgent. She was getting very heavy, and could run but slowly. Her temper was now shorter than ever; but he had become more patient.

And then she found the thing for which she looked. It was a few miles up a small stream that in the summer time flowed into the Mackenzie, but in winter it was frozen down to its rocky bottom – a dead stream of white from source to mouth. The she-wolf examined it and entered inside. For three feet she had to crouch, then the walls widened and rose higher in a little round chamber nearly six feet in diameter. It was dry and cosy. She inspected it with painstaking care, while One Eye stood in the entrance and patiently watched her. Then, with a tired sigh, she curled, relaxed her legs, and lay with her head toward the entrance. One Eye, with pointed, interested ears, laughed at her, and she could see his tail wagging good-naturedly. She was pleased and satisfied.

One Eye was hungry. He crawled over to his mate and tried to persuade her to get up. But she only snarled at him, and he walked out alone. He had found game, but he had not caught it, so he returned.

He paused at the mouth of the cave with a sudden shock of suspicion. Strange sounds came from within. They were sounds not made by his mate, and yet they were remotely familiar. He bellied carefully inside and was met by a warning snarl from the she-wolf. But he remained interested in the other sounds – faint and muffled.

His mate warned him away, and he curled up and slept in the entrance. When morning came, he again looked for the source of the sounds. 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 saw five strange little bundles of life, very helpless, making whimpering noises, with eyes that did not open to the light. He was surprised. It was not the first time in his long and successful life that this thing had happened. It had happened many times, yet each time it was as fresh a surprise as ever.

His mate looked at him anxiously. 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 was a memory of fathers that had eaten their new-born and helpless children.

But there was no danger. Old One Eye was feeling an instinct that had come down to him from all the fathers of wolves. He knew he should turn his back on his new-born family and look out for food.

Half a mile from the stream he saw a porcupine. One Eye approached carefully but hopelessly. But he knew that there was such a thing as Chance, or Opportunity, and he continued to draw near.

The porcupine rolled itself into a ball with long, sharp quills. One Eye knew it could be dangerous, so he lied down and waited. But at the end of half an hour he arose, growled at the motionless ball, and trotted on.

His awakened instinct of fatherhood was strong. He must find meat. In the afternoon he managed to catch a ptarmigan. As his teeth crunched through its flesh, he began naturally to eat. Then he remembered, and, turning on the back-track, started for home,[19] carrying the ptarmigan in his mouth.

Then he came upon large tracks and followed them, prepared to meet their maker at every turn of the stream. And he saw it. It was a large female lynx. She was crouching, as he had done before, in front the same ball of quills.

He lay down in the snow, put the ptarmigan beside him, and watched the waiting lynx and the waiting porcupine. Half an hour passed, an hour; and nothing happened.

The porcupine had at last decided that its enemy had gone away. Slowly, cautiously, it was unrolling its ball. Not quite entirely had it unrolled when it discovered the lynx. The lynx struck. The blow was like a flash of light. The paw with sharp claws went under the tender belly and came back with a quick movement.

Everything had happened at once – the blow, the counter-blow, the cry from the porcupine, the big cat’s cry of sudden hurt and astonishment. One Eye half arose in his excitement, his ears up, his tail straight out behind him. The lynx sprang at the thing that had hurt her, but squealed again. In her nose there were quills, like in a monstrous pin-cushion. She brushed it with her paws, put it into the snow, and rubbed it against twigs and branches, and all the time leaping about, ahead, sidewise, up and down, in pain and fright. Then she sprang away, up the trail, squalling with every leap she made.

When One Eye approached, the porcupine 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 ripped almost in half, and was still bleeding.

One Eye saw the bloody snow, and chewed it. Then he lied down and waited. In a little while, One Eye noticed that all the quills drooped down, and the body relaxed and moved no more. It was surely dead.

One Eye took it carefully with his teeth, then recollected something, dropped the burden, and trotted back to where he had left the ptarmigan. He did not hesitate a moment. He knew clearly what was to be done, and this he did by immediately eating the ptarmigan. Then he returned and took up his burden.

When he brought the result of his day’s hunt into the cave, the she-wolf inspected it and lightly licked him on the neck. But the next instant she was warning him away from the cubs with a snarl that was less sharp than usual and that was more apologetic than menacing. He was behaving as a wolf-father should.

Chapter III. The Grey Cub

He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother; while he alone took after his father.[20] He was the only grey cub of the litter. He was a real wolf – in fact, he was like One Eye himself.

The grey cub’s eyes had not been open long, yet already he could see clearly. And while his eyes were still closed, he had felt, tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very well. And long before his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to know his mother. She had a soft, caressing tongue that calmed him when it passed over his soft little body, and that made him sleepy.

Always, in the beginning, before his conscious life began, he had crawled toward the mouth of the cave. And his brothers and sisters did the same. The chemistry of the life that created them demanded the light.

Later the grey cub discovered that his mother also had a nose and a paw and could push and hit. Thus he learned hurt; and he learned to avoid hurt, first, by not risking; and second, when he had risked, by retreating. These were conscious actions, and were the results of his first generalisations upon the world.

He was a fierce little cub. So were his brothers and sisters. It was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal and came of a breed of meat-killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat. The milk he drank was transformed directly from meat.

But he was the fiercest of the litter. He could make a louder growl than any of them, and it was he who first learned many things. He was always going to the mouth of the cave – and was always stopped by his mother. To him the entrance of the cave was a wall – a wall of light; it attracted him as a candle attracts a moth. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he must choose.

Though never allowed by his mother to approach that wall, he had approached the other walls, and felt a hard obstacle on the end of his tender nose. This hurt. And after several such adventures, he left the walls alone.

In fact, the grey cub did not think – at least, not like men. Yet his conclusions were as sharp as those of men. He had a method of accepting things, without questioning ‘why’. In reality, this was the act of classification. He never asked why a thing happened. How it happened was enough for him. Thus, when he had touched back-wall a few times with his nose, he accepted that he would not disappear into walls. In the same way he accepted that his father could disappear into the wall of light. Logic and physics were no part of his mental make-up.

Like most creatures of the Wild, he early experienced hunger. Hunger came unexpectedly. At first, the cubs cried, but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were in a coma of hunger. The cubs slept, while the life that was in them was dying down.

One Eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept but little. The she-wolf, too, left her litter and went out in search of meat.

When the grey cub came back to life and again took interest in the far white wall, he found that only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. And soon she was gone, too.

Then there came a time when the grey cub no longer saw his father appearing and disappearing in the wall or lying down asleep in the entrance. The she-wolf knew why One Eye never came back, but there was no way by which she could tell what she had seen to the grey cub. Hunting herself for meat, she had followed a day-old trail of One Eye. And she had found him, or what remained of him. There were many signs of the battle, and of the lynx that came back to her lair after having won the victory. The she-wolf found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she did not dare to come in.

After that, the she-wolf avoided hunting there. She knew that in the lynx’s lair there was a litter of kittens. It was quite a different matter for a lone wolf to fight a lynx – especially when the lynx had a litter of hungry kittens.

But the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, and the time was to come when the she-wolf, for her grey cub’s sake,[21] would dare to go there.

Chapter IV. The Wall of the World

By the time his mother began leaving the cave on hunting expeditions, the cub had learned well the law that forbade him to approach the entrance. Not only had this law been impressed on him by his mother’s nose and paw, but in him the instinct of fear was developing. Fear! – that legacy of the Wild which no animal may escape.

In fact, the cub merely classified the things that hurt and the things that did not hurt. And after such classification he avoided the things that hurt in order to enjoy the satisfactions and the remunerations of life.

When his mother was absent, he slept most of the time, while during the intervals that he was awake he kept very quiet. Once, lying awake, he heard a strange sound in the white wall. He did not know that it was a wolverine, standing outside. The cub knew only that it was something unclassified, therefore unknown and terrible. The cub was terrified; he lay without movement or sound. His mother, coming home, growled as she smelt the wolverine’s track, and licked and caressed him more than ever. And the cub felt that somehow he had escaped a great hurt.

Another power within him was growth. Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded disobedience. His mother and fear made him keep away from the white wall. Growth is life, and life is always reaching for light.

So once he entered into the wall.

It was astonishing. He was going through solidity. Fear called him to go back, but growth drove him on. Suddenly he found himself at the mouth of the cave. The light had become painfully bright.

A great fear came upon him. He crouched down in the entrance and looked out on the world. He was very much afraid. Because it was unknown, it was hostile to him. Therefore the hair stood up on end along his back and his lips wrinkled in an attempt at a snarl. Out of his fright he challenged and menaced the whole wide world.

Nothing happened. He continued to look, and in his interest he forgot to snarl. Also, he forgot to be afraid. For the time, fear had been driven away by growth.

Now the grey cub had lived all his days on a level floor. He had never experienced the hurt of a fall. He did not know what a fall was. So he stepped boldly out upon the air. His hind-legs still were on the cave-lip, so he fell head downward. Then he began rolling down the slope, over and over. He was in a panic of terror. The unknown had caught him at last, and he gave a loud ‘ki-yi’ cry. And then he ki-yi’d again and again.

When at last he came to a stop, he gave one last ‘ki-yi’. Also, as though in his life he had already made a thousand toilets, he licked himself well.

Now that the terrible unknown had let go of him,[22] he forgot that the unknown had any terrors. He was aware only of curiosity in all the things about him. He inspected the grass, the plants around, and the dead trunk. A squirrel, running around the trunk, gave him a great fright. He cowered down and snarled. But the squirrel was scared as well, so it ran up a tree.

This helped the cub’s courage. He met a woodpecker, and then a moose-bird. It pecked him on the end of his nose.

But the cub was learning. His 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 not alive remained always in one place, but the live things moved about, and there was no telling what they might do. He must be prepared.

He travelled very awkwardly. Sometimes he overstepped and stubbed his nose. Quite as often he understepped and stubbed his feet. Then there were the stones that turned under him when he stepped upon them; and from them he learnt that the things not alive were not all in the same state of stability. But with every mistake he was learning. The longer he walked, the better he walked.

He had the beginner’s luck.[23] Born to be a hunter (though he did not know it), he found meat just outside his own cave-door. It was a ptarmigan nest. He fell into it, in the midst of seven ptarmigan chicks.

They made noises, and at first he was frightened. Then he understood that they were very little, and he became bolder. They moved. He placed his paw on one, and its movements were slowered. 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 felt hunger. His jaws closed together. There was a crunching of small bones, and warm blood ran in his mouth. The taste of it was good. This was meat, the same as his mother gave him, only it was alive between his teeth and therefore better. So he ate all the ptarmigan. Then he licked his chops[24] in quite the same way his mother did, and began to crawl out of the bush.

There, the mother ptarmigan was in a fury and tried to hit him. He became angry. He no longer was afraid of anything. He was fighting. He had just destroyed little live things. He would now destroy a big live thing. He was too busy and happy to know that he was happy.

But he lost the battle with ptarmigan. She pecked on his nose, again and again. A rain of pecks fell on his ill-used nose. So he released his prey, turned tail and made an inglorious retreat. But, while he was lying in the bush, he saw a terrible hawk that caught the mother-ptarmigan and carried it away.

Live things were meat. They were good to eat. Also, live things when they 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.

He came down a bank to the stream. He had never seen water before. The surface looked good. He stepped boldly out on it; and went down, crying with fear, into the embrace of the unknown. It was cold, and he gasped, breathing quickly. The water rushed into his lungs instead of the air. Like every animal of the Wild, he had the instinct of death. To him it was the greatest of hurts.

He came to the surface, and the sweet air rushed into his open mouth. He did not go down again. He fought frantically, going under water from time to time, but finally he reached the bank. He crawled from the water and lied down. He had learned some more about the world. Water was not alive. Yet it moved. Also, it looked as stable as the earth, but was without any stability at all. His conclusion was that things were not always what they seemed to be.

One other adventure was destined for him that day. He had remembered that there was such a thing in the world as his mother. And then there came to him a feeling that he wanted her more than all the rest of the things in the world. Not only his body and brain were tired with the adventure. So he started out to look for the cave and his mother, feeling lonely and helpless.

He was going through some bushes, when he heard a sharp cry. He saw a weasel leaping away from him. It was a small live thing, and he had no fear. Then, 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 on an adventure. He turned it over with his paw. It made a strange noise. The next moment he received a sharp blow on the side of the neck and felt the sharp teeth of the mother-weasel cut into his flesh.

Then the mother-weasel leaped upon her young one and disappeared with it. The cut of her teeth in his neck still hurt, but his feelings hurt more.

He was still whimpering when the mother-weasel reappeared. She approached cautiously, and the cub had full opportunity to observe her lean, snakelike body. She came closer and closer. The next moment she was at his throat, her teeth deep in his hair and flesh.

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 became a whimper, his fight – a struggle to escape. The weasel never relaxed her hold. She hung on, trying to press the great vein with her teeth. The weasel was a drinker of blood.

The grey cub would have died, and there would have been no story to write about him, had not the she-wolf come through the bushes. Then her jaws closed on the lean, yellow body, and the weasel knew death between the crunching teeth.

His mother’s joy at finding him seemed even greater than his joy at being found. She caressed him and licked the cuts made in him by the weasel’s teeth. Then they ate the blood-drinker, and after that went back to the cave and slept.

Chapter V. The Law of Meat

The cub’s development was rapid. He rested for two days, and then went out from the cave again. But on this trip he did not get lost. When he grew tired, he found his way back to the cave and slept. And every day after that he was ranging a wider area.

He began to understand his strength and his weakness, and to know when to be bold and when to be cautious.

He never forgot and was always ready to revenge the hurts by the ptarmigan, the moose-bird, the squirrel or the weasel. He never forgot the hawk. He studied their habits.

In the matter of meat, his luck had been all in the beginning. The seven ptarmigan chicks and – later – the baby weasel were the sum of his killings. His desire to kill strengthened with the days. He wanted a squirrel. But as birds flew in the air, squirrels could climb trees, and the cub could only try to crawl upon the squirrel when it was on the ground.

The cub had a great respect for his mother. She could get meat, and she never failed to bring him his share. She was unafraid of things. His mother represented power; besides, the older he grew the shorter grew her temper.

Once his mother brought strange meat. He didn’t know it was a lynx’s kitten, nor did he know the desperateness of what his mother did. He only knew it was meat.

With a full stomach, the cub lay in the cave, sleeping against his mother’s side. He was woken by her snarling. 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. In the afternoon light, crouching in the entrance of the cave, the cub saw the lynx-mother. He bristled.

Because of the low-roofed entrance the lynx could not go in, and, when she tried to, the she-wolf sprang upon her and threw her down. The cub saw little of the battle. There was an awful snarling. The two animals fought, the lynx ripping and tearing with her claws and using her teeth as well, while the she-wolf used only her teeth.

Once, the cub sprang in and sank his teeth into the hind leg of the lynx. He clung on, growling savagely, and thus probably saved his mother. The lynx’s huge fore-paw ripped his shoulder open to the bone. The fight lasted so long that he had time to cry himself out and to experience a second burst of courage; and in the end he was again clinging to a hind-leg and furiously growling between his teeth.

The lynx was dead. But the she-wolf was very weak and sick. 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 they ate the lynx, while the she-wolf’s wounds had healed.

The cub’s shoulder was stiff and sore. But the world now seemed changed. He now had greater confidence. He had fought; he had buried his teeth in the flesh of an enemy; and he had survived. And because of all this, he carried himself more boldly.

He began to accompany his mother on the meat-trail, and he saw much of the killing of meat and began to play his part in it. And he learned the law of meat. There were two kinds of life – his own kind and the other kind. His own kind included his mother and himself. The other kind included all live things that moved. But the other kind was divided. One portion was composed of the non-killers and the small killers. The other portion killed and ate his own kind, or was killed and eaten by his own kind. And out of this classification came the law. The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and those who were the eaten. The law was: EAT OR BE EATEN. He did not formulate the law; he merely lived the law without thinking about it at all.

He saw the law operating around him on every side. He had eaten the ptarmigan chicks. The hawk had eaten the ptarmigan-mother. The hawk would also have eaten him. Later, when he had grown, he wanted to eat the hawk. He had eaten the lynx kitten. The lynx-mother would have eaten him had she not herself been killed and eaten. And so it went.

The cub did not think in man-fashion. He was single-purposed, and had but one thought or desire at a time. Besides the law of meat, there were other and lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with surprise. The life that was in him, the play of his muscles, was happiness. To run down[25] meat was to experience happiness. His battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and the mystery of the unknown, led to his living.

And there were satisfactions. To have a full stomach, to lay lazily in the sunshine – such things were remuneration. They were expressions of life, and life is always happy when it is expressing itself. So the cub had no quarrel with his hostile environment. He was very much alive, very happy, and very proud of himself.

Part III

Chapter I. The Makers of Fire

The cub came upon it suddenly. It was his own fault. He had been careless. He had woken up, left the cave and run down to the stream to drink.

Before him, sitting silently on their haunches, were five live things. He had never seen such before. It was his first look at mankind. But at the sight of him the five men did not spring to their feet, nor show their teeth, nor snarl. They did not move.

Nor did the cub move. Every instinct of his nature told him to run away, but there was another instinct. He felt his own weakness. Here was mastery and power, something far and away beyond him.

The cub had never seen man, but he recognised in man the animal that had fought itself to primacy over the other animals of the Wild. With the eyes of all his ancestors was the cub now looking upon man. He felt the fear and the respect and the experience of the generations. Had he been full-grown, he would have run away. But now he lied down in a paralysis of fear.

One of the Indians walked over to him. The cub cowered closer to the ground. It was the unknown, in concrete flesh and blood, bending over him and reaching down to seize him. His hair bristled involuntarily; his lips wrinkled and his little fangs were bared. The man’s hand hesitated and he spoke laughing, “Wabam wabisca ip pit tah.” (“Look! The white fangs!”)

The other Indians laughed loudly, and asked the man on to pick up the cub. As the hand descended closer and closer, there was within the cub a battle of the instincts. He wanted to surrender and to fight. He did both. He surrendered till the hand almost touched him. Then he fought, and his teeth sank into the hand. The next moment he received a hit on the head. Then his puppyhood and the instinct of obedience mastered him. He sat up and cried. But the man whose hand he had bitten was angry. The cub received a hit on the other side of his head – and ki-yi’d louder than ever.

The four Indians laughed more loudly, and even the man who had been bitten began to laugh. They surrounded the cub and laughed at him, while he cried with terror and his hurt. Then he heard something. The Indians heard it too. But the cub knew what it was. In his last, long cry there was more triumph than grief. He stopped crying and waited for the coming of his mother, of his ferocious and invincible mother who fought and killed all things and was never afraid. She had heard the cry of her cub and was running to save him.

The man-animals went back several steps. The she-wolf stood over against her cub, facing the men.

Then one of the men cried: “Kiche!”

It was an exclamation of surprise. The cub felt his mother wilting at the sound.

“Kiche!” the man cried again, this time 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. The cub could not understand, but thought that his instinct had been true. His mother verified it. She, too, demonstrated obedience to the man-animals.

The man came over to her. He put his hand upon her head, and she only crouched closer. The other men came up, and surrounded her, and touched her, and she was glad. They were greatly excited, and made many noises with their mouths. These noises were not indication of danger, the cub decided.

“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?[26] The father of Kiche was 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 hunger, and there was no meat for the dogs.”

“She has lived with the wolves,” said a third Indian.

“So it seems, Three Eagles,” Grey Beaver answered, laying his hand on the cub; “and this is the sign of it. It is plain that his mother is Kiche. But his father was a wolf. In him there is little dog and much wolf. His fangs are white, and White Fang shall be his name. I have spoken. He is my dog. For was not Kiche my brother’s dog? And is not my brother dead?”

The cub, who had thus received a name in the world, lay and watched. Then Grey Beaver tied the she-wolf to the tree with a stick-bondage. White Fang followed and lied down beside her.

Salmon Tongue’s hand rolled him over on his back. Kiche looked on anxiously. The hand rubbed his stomach in a playful way. It was a position of such helplessness that White Fang’s whole nature protested against it. He could do nothing to defend himself. He was to know fear many times in his dealing with man; yet it was a sign of the fearless companionship with man.

After a time, White Fang heard strange noises. A few minutes later the remainder of the tribe came. There were more men and many women and children, forty of them. Also there were many dogs.

White Fang had never seen dogs before, but at sight of them he felt that they were his own kind, only somehow different. But they displayed little difference from the wolf when they discovered the cub and his mother. There was a rush. White Fang bristled and snarled in the face of the dogs, and went down and under them, feeling the sharp teeth in his body, himself biting and tearing at the legs and bellies above him. He could hear the snarl of Kiche as she fought for him; and he could hear the cries of the man-animals, the sound of clubs beating upon bodies, and the cries of pain from the dogs.

The men drove the dogs back and saved him from the savage teeth of his kind that somehow was not his kind. He thought the men had some unusual, astonishing, unnatural, god-like power (though, of course, he didn’t know anything about gods).

And White Fang licked his hurts and meditated upon his first taste of pack-cruelty and his introduction to the pack. He had never dreamed that his own kind consisted of more than One Eye, his mother, and himself. Here he had discovered many more creatures apparently of his own kind.

Of the bondage he had known nothing before, too. And he didn’t like it when the man-animals went on; for a tiny man-animal took the other end of a stick the she-wolf had been tied to, and led her behind him, and behind her followed White Fang, greatly worried by this new adventure.

They went down the valley of the stream, until they came to the end of the valley, where the stream ran into the Mackenzie River. Here a camp was made; and White Fang looked on with wondering eyes. The superiority of these man-animals increased with every moment. But greater than everything else seemed to the wolf-cub their power over things not alive. They made tepees, and canoes, and could dry fish.

At first tepees frightened him. He saw the women and children 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. After a time, he left Kiche’s side and crawled cautiously toward the wall of the nearest tepee. It was the curiosity of growth that made him move. At last his nose touched the canvas. He waited. Nothing happened. Then he smelled the strange fabric, saturated with the man-smell. He closed on the canvas with his teeth and gave a gentle tug. Nothing happened. He tugged harder. There was a greater movement. It was delightful. He tugged still harder, until the whole tepee was in motion. Then he heard a sharp woman’s cry from inside and ran back to Kiche. But after that he was afraid no more.

A moment later he was running away again from his mother. Her stick was tied to a stake in the ground and she could not follow him. A part-grown puppy, somewhat larger and older than he, came toward him slowly, with some importance. The puppy’s name, as White Fang afterward heard, was Lip-lip. He 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, crying shamelessly, fled to the protection of his mother. It was the first of the many fights he was to have with Lip-lip, for they were enemies from the start.

Kiche licked White Fang soothingly with her tongue, and tried to make him remain with her. But several minutes later he was looking for a new adventure. He came upon one of the man-animals, Grey Beaver, who was rubbing his hams and doing something with sticks and dry moss spread before him on the ground. White Fang came near to him and watched.

Women and children were carrying more sticks and branches to Grey Beaver. White Fang came in until he touched Grey Beaver’s knee, so curious was he. Suddenly he saw a strange thing like mist beginning to arise from the sticks and moss. Then there appeared a live moving thing, of the colour of the sun in the sky. White Fang knew nothing about fire. It drew him, as the light in the mouth of the cave had drawn him in his early puppyhood. Then his nose touched the flame, and 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 holding him by the nose. He jumped backward, with an astonished explosion of ki-yi’s. At the sound, Kiche leaped snarling to the end of her stick, but could not come to his aid. But Grey Beaver laughed loudly, and then everybody was laughing. But White Fang sat on his haunches and ki-yi’d and ki-yi’d, a forgotten little figure among the man-animals.

It was the worst hurt he had ever known. Both nose and tongue had been hurt by the live thing, sun-coloured, that had grown up under Grey Beaver’s hands. He cried and cried, and every new squeal was met by bursts of laughter. He tried to soothe his nose with his tongue, but the tongue was burnt too, and the two hurts coming together produced greater hurt; so he cried more hopelessly and helplessly than ever.

And he felt shame that the man-animals were laughing at him. He turned and fled away, not from the hurt of the fire, but from the laughter that sank even deeper, and hurt in the spirit of him. And he fled to Kiche, the one creature in the world who was not laughing at him.

Night came on, and White Fang lay by his mother’s side. His nose and tongue still hurt, but there was a greater trouble. He was homesick. He felt a need for the stream and their cave. Life had become too populous. There were so many of the man-animals, men, women, and children. And there were the dogs. The calm loneliness of the only life he had known was gone.

He watched the man-animals coming and going and moving about the camp.

They were fire-makers! They were gods.

Chapter II. The Bondage

During the time that Kiche was tied by the stick, White Fang ran about over all the camp. He quickly came to know much about the man-animals. It was easy to believe they were gods. As his mother, Kiche, had showed her loyalty to them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning to render his loyalty. When they walked, he got out of their way. When they called, he came. When they commanded him to go, he went away. For behind any wish of theirs was power to enforce that wish, power that hurt, power that expressed itself hits and clubs, in flying stones and whips.

He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to them. Such was the lesson that he learnt in the camp. It came hard. It was a placing of his destiny in another’s hands.

But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals. There were days when he went to the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and away. And always he returned, restless and 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 and greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be eaten. He knew that men were fairer, children crueller, and women kinder.

But the problem of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger, Lip-lip had selected White Fang for his special object of persecution. White Fang fought willingly enough, but his enemy was too big. Lip-lip became a nightmare to him.

But, though he was always defeated, his spirit remained unbroken. Yet a bad effect was produced. He became angry and morose. His temper had been savage by birth, but it became more savage under this persecution. The playful, puppyish side of him found little expression. He never played with the other puppies of the camp. Lip-lip did not let him to.

White Fang was robbed of much of his puppyhood and made older than his age. Having no outlet of his energies through play, he developed his mental processes. He became cunning. As he could not get his share of meat and fish when a general feed was given to the camp-dogs, he became a clever thief.

And, as Kiche, when she was with the wolves, had brought out to destruction the dogs from the camps of men, so White Fang brought Lip-lip into Kiche’s jaws. Lip-lip, excited by the chase, forgot caution and ran into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. She was tied, but he could not get away from her easily.

When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his feet, badly hurt both in body and in spirit. White Fang sank his teeth into his hind leg. He ran away shamelessly.

There came the day when Grey Beaver released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with his mother’s freedom. He accompanied her joyfully about the camp; and, as he remained close by her side, Lip-lip kept a respectful distance.

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 call 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 did not move. He whined pleadingly, and jumped playfully in and out of the underbrush. He ran back to her, licked her face, and ran on again. And still she did not move. She turned her head and looked back at the camp.

There was something calling to him out there in the open. His mother heard it too. But she heard also the call of the fire and of man, the call which has been given – of all animals – to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are brothers.

Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the physical bondage was the clutch of the camp upon her. White Fang sat down in the shadow of a tree and whimpered softly. There were wood smells reminding him of his old life of freedom. But he was still only a part-grown puppy, and stronger than the call either of man or of the Wild was the call of his mother. All his short life he had depended upon her. The time has not yet come for independence. So he trotted back to camp, pausing once, and twice, to sit down and whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in his ears.

In the Wild the time of a mother with her cub is short; but under the dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. Three Eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A piece of cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay the debt. White Fang saw his mother taken aboard Three Eagles’ canoe, and tried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles knocked him backward to the land. The canoe sailed off. He sprang into the water and swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return. White Fang ignored even a man-animal, a god, such was the terror of losing his mother.

But gods are used to being obeyed, and Grey Beaver pursued him in his canoe. He lifted him from water by the nape of the neck. Holding him with one hand, with the other hand he gave him a beating. And it was a beating. His hand was heavy. And White Fang snarled.

Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this could not last for ever. Finally he broke down and began to cry. For a time each blow brought a yell from him. At last Grey Beaver stopped. White Fang continued to cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who threw him down roughly in the bottom of the canoe. When Grey Beaver took the paddle and hit the cub savagely with his foot, White Fang’s free nature protested again, and he sank his teeth into the moccasined foot.

The beating that had gone before was nothing compared with the beating he now received. Grey Beaver’s wrath was terrible; likewise was White Fang’s fright. Not only the hand, but the hard wooden paddle was used upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body. Again, and this time with purpose, did Grey Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his attack on the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never must he dare to bite the god who was lord and master over him; the body of the lord and master was sacred.

On the bank Lip-lip tried to use the opportunity and revenge White Fang, but Grey Beaver’s foot lifted Lip-lip into the air, so that he fell down to earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animal’s justice. At Grey Beaver’s heels White Fang went obediently through the village to the tepee.

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 that he sorrowed silently when the gods were around. But sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave outlet to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings.

It was during this period that he might have run back to the Wild. But the memory of his mother held him. As the hunting man-animals went out and came back, so she could come back to the village some time. So he remained in his bondage waiting for her.

But it was not an absolutely unhappy bondage. There was much to interest him. Something was always happening. Besides, he was learning how to get along with Grey Beaver. Obedience was the main thing, and in return he escaped beatings and his existence was tolerated.

Grey Beaver himself sometimes gave him a piece of meat, and defended him against the other dogs. Grey Beaver never petted nor caressed. Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the power of him, and perhaps it was all these things that influenced White Fang; a certain tie of attachment was forming between him and his lord.

The qualities of a dog were developing in him. But White Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Kiche, hope for her return, and a hunger for the free life that had been his.

Chapter III. The Outcast

Lip-lip continued to darken his days. He found himself an outcast in the midst of the populous camp. All the young dogs followed Lip-lip’s lead. There was a difference between White Fang and them. Perhaps they sensed his wild-wood breed. They found good reason to continue the war. One by one, from time to time, they all felt his teeth; and to his credit,[27] he gave more than he received.

He learned two important things: how to take care of himself in a mass-fight against him – and how, on a single dog, to produce the greatest amount of damage in the shortest time.

He learned to give no warning of his intentions. Also he learned the value of surprise. So White Fang’s method was: first to find a young dog alone; second, to surprise it and knock it off its feet; and third, to sink his teeth in the soft throat.

His jaws had not yet become large enough nor strong enough to make his throat-attack deadly. And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the woods, he managed to cut the great vein and let out the life. There was a great row that night. He had been observed, the news had been carried to the dead dog’s master, the squaws remembered all the instances of stolen meat, and Grey Beaver heard many angry voices. But he placed White Fang inside his tepee, and refused to permit the vengeance.

White Fang became hated by man and dog. During this period of his development he never knew a moment’s security. The tooth of every dog was against him, the hand of every man. As for snarling, he could snarl more terribly than any dog, young or old.

He was an outcast from the pack of the dogs. But it was he who made them fear, and not on the contrary. They kept together, as they were afraid.

But the pack invariably lost him. Its noise warned him of its presence, while he ran alone, velvet-footed, silently, a moving shadow among the trees after the manner of his father and mother before him. He was more directly connected with the Wild than they; and he knew more of its secrets. His favourite trick was to lose his trail in running water and then lie quietly in a near-by bush while their cries sounded around him.

Hated by his kind and by mankind, in a state of endless war, his development was rapid and one-sided. There was no place for kindliness and affection. 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. He became quicker of movement than the other dogs, smarter, deadlier, crueller, leaner, with iron muscles, more enduring, and more intelligent. He had to become all these things, or he would not survive.

Chapter IV. The Trail of the Gods

In autumn White Fang got his chance for liberty. The tribe was preparing to go off to the autumn hunting. White Fang watched it all with eager eyes, and when the tepees began to come down and the canoes were loading at the bank, he understood. Already the canoes were departing, and some had disappeared down the river.

Quite deliberately he decided to stay behind. He waited his opportunity to ran out of camp to the woods. He crawled into the heart of a dense bush and waited. The time passed by, and he slept for hours. Then he was woken by Grey Beaver’s voice calling him by name. There were other voices. White Fang could hear Grey Beaver’s squaw taking part in the search, and Mit-sah, who was Grey Beaver’s son.

White Fang trembled with fear. He resisted the impulse to crawl out of his hiding-place. After a time the voices died away. For a while he played about among the trees, pleasuring in his freedom. Then, and quite suddenly, he felt lonely. And then it was cold. Here was no warm side of a tepee. He curved his bushy tail around to cover his legs, and at the same time he saw a vision. There was nothing strange about it. He saw the camp again, the tepees, and the blaze of the fires. He heard the voices of the women, the 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 to him. Here was no meat, nothing but scary silence.

His bondage had softened him, irresponsibility had weakened him. The night yawned about him. There was nothing to do, nothing to see or to hear.

He tried to stand it, but could not. Finally a shadow of a tree, then a loud noise of branches frightened him. A panic seized him, and he ran madly toward the village. He knew an overpowering desire for the protection and companionship of man. In his nostrils was the smell of the camp-smoke. In his ears the camp-sounds and cries were ringing loud. But no village met his eyes. He had forgotten. The village had gone away.

There was no place to which to flee. He would have been glad if somebody threw a stone in him or kicked him or shouted at him angrily. But there was nobody even for that.

He came to where Grey Beaver’s tepee had stood. In the centre of the space it had occupied, he sat down. He pointed his nose at the moon. His throat was afflicted by spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart-broken cry went up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all his past sorrows as well as his apprehension of sufferings and dangers in future. It was a long, mournful wolf-howl, the first howl he had ever uttered.

The coming of daylight broke his fears but increased his loneliness. It did not take him long to make up his mind.

All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on for ever. His iron-like body ignored tiredness.

White Fang was intelligent beyond the average of his kind; yet his mental vision was not wide enough to embrace the other bank of the Mackenzie. What if the trail of the gods led out on that side? It never entered his head. He was too young for such conclusions.

By the middle of the second day he had been running continuously for thirty hours. It was the endurance of his mind that kept him going. He had not eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. His handsome coat was in bad condition. The broad pads of his feet were bleeding. He had begun to limp. To make it worse, snow began to fall.

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, shortly before dark, Kloo-kooch (who was Grey Beaver’s squaw) saw a moose. They killed it. Otherwise Grey Beaver would not have camped on the near side of the Mackenzie, and White Fang would have passed by and gone on, either to die or to find his way to his wild brothers and become one of them – a wolf to the end of his days.

Night had fallen. The snow was flying more thickly. White Fang, whimpering softly to himself as he stumbled and limped along, came upon a fresh trail in the snow. He recognized it immediately. Whining with eagerness, he followed back from the river bank and in among the trees. The camp-sounds came to his ears. He saw the blaze of the fire, Kloo-kooch cooking, and Grey Beaver with a piece of raw meat. 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 forward again. 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 enemies.

He came crawling into the firelight. Grey Beaver saw him. White Fang crawled straight toward him, every inch of his progress becoming slower and more painful. At last he lied at the master’s feet, into whose possession he now surrendered himself, voluntarily, body and soul. Of his own choice, he came to sit by man’s fire and to be ruled by him. White Fang trembled, waiting for the punishment. There was a movement of the hand above him. He waited for the blow to fall. It did not fall. He looked upward. Grey Beaver was breaking the piece of meat in half! Grey Beaver was offering him one piece of it! Very gently and somewhat suspiciously, he first smelled the meat and then ate it. Grey Beaver ordered meat to be brought to him, and guarded him from the other dogs while he ate. After that White Fang lay at Grey Beaver’s feet, gazing at the fire that warmed him, secure in the knowledge that the morning would find him not wandering alone through forest, but in the camp of the man-animals, with the gods to whom he had given himself and upon whom he was now dependent.

Chapter V. The Covenant

In December Grey Beaver went on another journey up the Mackenzie. Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch went with him. One sled he drove himself. A second and smaller sled was driven by Mit-sah, and to this was harnessed a team of puppies, not adult dogs. It was more of a toy affair than anything else, yet it was the delight of Mit-sah, who felt that he was beginning to do a man’s work in the world. Also, he was learning to drive dogs and to train dogs.

White Fang did not protest. About his neck was put a collar, which was connected by two pulling-traces to a strap that passed around his chest and over his back. To this was fastened the long rope by which he pulled at the sled.

There were seven puppies in the team. They were nine and ten months old, while White Fang was only eight months old.

The dogs’ ropes were of different length, which prevented the dogs attacking from the behind those that ran in front of them. To attack another, a dog would have to turn upon one at a shorter rope. In which case it would find itself facing the whip of the driver.

Mit-sah looked like his father and had much of his grey wisdom. In the past he had observed Lip-lip’s persecution of White Fang, and he decided to wreak his vengeance on him by putting him at the end of the longest rope. This made Lip-lip the leader, and was apparently an honour, but in reality it took away from him all honour, and instead he now found himself hated and persecuted by the pack.

Because he ran at the end of the longest rope, the dogs always saw him running before them. All that they saw of him was his bushy tail and hind-legs – a view far less scary than his bristling mane and sharp fangs. Also, the sight of him running away gave the dogs desire to run after him and a feeling that he ran away from them.

The moment the sled started, the team took after Lip-lip in a chase that continued all day. 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 run.

To give point to the pursuit of the leader, Mit-sah favoured him over the other dogs. These favours woke in them jealousy and hatred. In their presence Mit-sah gave meat to him only. This was maddening to them, and they ran faster after Lip-lip.

White Fang took kindly to the work. The persecution he had suffered from the pack had made the pack less to him in the scheme of things, and man – more. Kiche was almost forgotten. So he worked hard, learned discipline, and was obedient. Faithfulness and willingness characterised him. These are essential features of the wolf and the wild-dog when they have become domesticated, and these features White Fang possessed in unusual measure.

A companionship did exist between White Fang and the other dogs, but it was war-like. He had never learned to play with them. He knew only how to fight. But now Lip-lip was no longer a leader. In camp he kept close to Mit-sah or Grey Beaver or Kloo-kooch. He did not dare to go away from the gods, for now the fangs of all dogs were against him, and he tasted the persecution that had been White Fang’s.

Now White Fang could have become the leader of the pack. But he was too morose and solitary for that.

White Fang knew the law well: to oppress the weak and obey the strong. He ate his share of meat as quickly as he could. And then came up to the dog that had not yet finished. A snarl and a flash of fangs, and White Fang finished his portion for him.

White Fang was jealous of the isolation in which he kept himself in the midst of the pack, and he fought often to preserve it. But such fights were short.

As strict as the sled-discipline of the gods, was the discipline kept by White Fang amongst his fellows. He never allowed them any familiarity. They had to feel respect for him.

He was a monstrous tyrant. He oppressed the weak easily. Not for nothing[28] had he struggled for life in his cubhood, when his mother and he had to survive in the Wild alone. He learned to walk softly when superior strength went by. He oppressed the weak, but he respected the strong.

The months passed by. Still continued the journey of Grey Beaver. White Fang’s strength was developed by the long hours on the trail, and it seemed that his mental development was nearly complete. The world as he saw it was a fierce and brutal world, a world without warmth, a world in which care and affection did not exist.

He had no affection for Grey Beaver. True, he was a god, but a most savage god. White Fang was glad to endure his lordship, but it was a lordship based upon superior intelligence and brute strength. His primacy was savage, and savagely he ruled, punishing with a blow, and rewarding merit, not by kindness, but by not giving a blow.

White Fang desired lordship.

However, he did not like the hands of the man-animals. He was suspicious of them. It was true that they sometimes gave meat, but more often they gave hurt. Hands were things to keep away from, even the hands of children.

It was in a village at the Great Slave Lake, that he modified 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 looking for food. A boy was cutting frozen moose-meat with an axe, and the chips were flying in the snow. White Fang, sliding by in quest of meat, stopped and began eating the chips. He saw the boy lay down the axe and take up a club. White Fang sprang aside, just in time to escape the blow. The 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. The only way out was between the two tepees, and the boy guarded it. White Fang was furious. All the wastage of meat, such as the frozen chips, belonged to the dog that found it. He had done no wrong, broken no law, yet here was this boy preparing to give him a beating. White Fang hardly understood what happened. And all the boy knew was that he had been overturned, 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 teeth into the sacred flesh of one of them, and could expect nothing but a most terrible punishment. He ran away to Grey Beaver, behind whose protecting legs he crouched when the bitten boy and the boy’s family came. But Grey Beaver defended White Fang. So did Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch. White Fang, listening to the wordy war and watching the angry gestures, knew that his act was justified. And so he learned there were gods and gods. There were his gods, and there were other gods, and between them there was a difference. But he did not have to take injustice from the other gods. And this also was a law of the gods.

Later that day Mit-sah, alone, came across the boy that had been bitten. With him were other boys. Then all the boys attacked Mit-sah. Blows were raining upon him from all sides. This was an affair of the gods, and no concern of his, White Fang decided. Then he saw that this was Mit-sah, one of his own particular gods. He was mad with anger. Five minutes later the boys ran away, many of them with the traces of his teeth on them. When Mit-sah told the story in camp, Grey Beaver ordered meat to be given to White Fang. He ordered much meat to be given, and White Fang knew that the law had got its verification.

It was in line with these experiences that White 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 this step he made.

The months went by, making stronger and stronger the relationship between dog and man. This was the ancient relationship that the first wolf that came in from the Wild knew. And White Fang understood it. The terms were simple. For the possession of a flesh-and-blood god, he exchanged his own liberty. Food and fire, protection and companionship, 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 means service. White Fang’s service was of duty, 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 left the Wild and his kind when he gave himself up to man, but the terms of the relationship were such that if ever he met Kiche again he would not leave his god to go with her. His loyalty to man seemed a greater law than the love of liberty, of kind and kin.

Chapter VI. The Famine

In spring Grey Beaver finished his long journey. It was April, and White Fang was a year old. He was not fully grown, but, next to Lip-lip, was the largest year-old dog in the village. From his parents he had inherited stature and strength, and already looked full-grown. But he had not yet grown compact. His body was slender, and his strength more sinewy than massive. His coat was the true wolf-grey, and generally he looked a true wolf himself. The quarter-strain of dog he had inherited from Kiche had left no mark on him physically, though it had played its part in his mental make-up.

He wandered through the village, recognising with satisfaction the various gods and dogs he had known before. The grown dogs now looked less frightening. While they had been growing weaker with age, White Fang had been growing stronger with youth.

It was at the cutting-up of a moose, fresh-killed, that White Fang learned of the changed relations in which he stood to the dog-world. He was eating his portion, when Baseek, one of the older dogs, rushed in upon him. Before he knew what he was doing, While Fand had slashed the intruder twice. In the old days Baseek would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury. But now he could only snarl and wait.

If he contended himself with snarling and looking fierce, all would have been well. White Fang would have retreated, leaving the meat to him. But Baseek did not wait. He considered the victory already his and stepped forward to the meat and take a bite of it.

This was too much for White Fang. His memory of his mastery over his team-mates at the sled was fresh. He struck, after his custom, without warning. Baseek’s right ear was ripped into ribbons. He was knocked off his feet. His throat was bitten. While he was struggling to his feet the young dog sank teeth twice into his shoulder. He made a rush at White Fang, giving the empty air a snap. The next moment his nose was bitten, too, and he stood aside. He dared not risk a fight with this young lightning-flash. His attempt to maintain his dignity was heroic. Calmly turning his back, he walked away. Until he was well out of sight, he didn’t stop to lick his bleeding wounds.

The effect on White Fang was to give him a greater faith in himself, and a greater pride. He walked less softly among the grown dogs; his attitude toward them was less compromising. No, he did not look for trouble. Far from it. He had to be taken into account, that was all. He was no longer to be disregarded and ignored, like his team-mates. White Fang, solitary, morose, hardly looking to right or left, was accepted as an equal by his elders. If they left him alone, he left them alone, too.

In midsummer White Fang had an experience. On the edge of the village he came upon Kiche. He paused and looked at her. He remembered her vaguely, but she did remember him. But she lifted her lip at him, snarling, and his memory became clear. His forgotten cubhood, all that was associated with that familiar snarl, came back to him. Before he had known the gods, she had been to him the centre of the universe. He came towards her joyously, and she met him with fangs that left his cheek open to the bone. He did not understand. He backed away, astonished and puzzled.

But it was not Kiche’s fault. A wolf-mother was not made to remember 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 the right to resent such intrusion.

One of the puppies came over to White Fang. They were half-brothers, only they did not know it. White Fang sniffed the puppy curiously, but Kiche rushed upon him, slashing his face a second time. He backed farther away. All the old memories and associations died down again and went into the grave from which they had come. He looked at Kiche licking her puppy. She was of no value to him. He had learned to live without her. 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 astonished, the memories forgotten, wondering what it was all about, when Kiche attacked him a third time. And White Fang allowed himself to be driven away. This was a female of his kind, and it was a law that the males must not fight the females. It was the same instinct that made him howl at the moon, and that made him fear death and the unknown.

The months went by. White Fang grew stronger, heavier, and more compact. Environment modelled the clay of his character. Thus, had White Fang never come in to the fires of man, the Wild would have made him a true wolf. But the gods had given him a different environment, and he was made a dog that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf. He was becoming 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 prized him more greatly each day.

White Fang nevertheless suffered from one weakness. He could not stand being laughed at. 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, and for hours he behaved like a demon.

In the third year of his life there came a great famine to the Mackenzie Indians. There was no meat to hunt for. The old and the weak died of hunger. There was cry in the village. To such extremity were the gods driven that they ate the leather of their mocassins and mittens, while the dogs ate the harnesses and whip-lashes. Also, the dogs ate one another. A few of the boldest and wisest dogs saw 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.

White Fang, too, went away into the woods. He was better fitted for the life than the other dogs. He was especially good at catching small living things. There was only one difficulty. There were not enough squirrels and weasels. So he had to hunt smaller things like mice.

But he did not go into the fires. He stayed in the forest, avoiding discovery and robbing his snares at when game was caught. He even robbed Grey Beaver’s snare of a rabbit.

One day he saw a young wolf. Had he not been hungry himself, White Fang might have gone with him and finally join the pack, his wild brothers. But he ran the young wolf down and killed and ate him.

Fortune seemed to favour him. Always he found something to kill. Again, when he was weak, it was his luck that none of the larger preying animals ate him. That’s why he was strong from eating a lynx two days ago when the hungry wolf-pack ran upon him. It was a long, cruel chase, but he ran better, and in the end he outran them. And not only did he outrun them, but managed to catch one of his pursuers.

After that he left that part of the country and went to the valley where he had been born. Here, in the old lair, he found Kiche. She, too, had fled from men and gone back to her old refuge to give birth to her young. Of this litter only one cub remained alive when White Fang came, and this one was not destined to live long. Young life had little chance in such a famine.

Kiche’s greeting of her grown son was not welcoming. But White Fang did not mind. He had outgrown his mother. So he turned tail philosophically and trotted on up the stream. He found the lair of the lynx with whom his mother and he had fought long before. Here, in the forgotten lair, he rested for a day.

During the early summer, in the last days of the famine, he met Lip-lip, who had also gone to the woods, where he had led a miserable life. Trotting in opposite directions along the base of a high rock, they rounded a corner and found themselves face to face. They paused with instant alarm, and looked at each other suspiciously.

White Fang was in splendid condition. He did not waste 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 drove 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 trotted on along the base of the bluff.

One day, not long after, he came to the edge of the forest near the Mackenzie. He had been there before, when it was bare, but now a village occupied it. Sights and sounds and scents were familiar to him. It was the old village changed to a new place. But sights and sounds and smells were different from those during the famine. There was no whimpering nor wailing. When he heard the angry voice of a woman he knew it to be the anger that comes from a full stomach. And there was a smell of fish. The famine was gone. He came out boldly from the forest and trotted straight to Grey Beaver’s tepee. Grey Beaver was not there; but Kloo-kooch welcomed him with glad cries and fresh-caught fish, and he lay down to wait Grey Beaver’s coming.

Part IV

Chapter I. The Enemy of His Kind

Even if there had been any possibility of that White Fang’s would be friendly with the dogs, such possibility was destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team. For now the dogs hated him – for the extra meat given to him, for all the real and fancied favours he received, for that he ran always at the head of the team, for his tail and hind legs. And White Fang hated them back. Being sled-leader was not gratifying to him. It was almost more than he could stand.

There was no defence for him. If he turned to them, Mit-sah would whip him. What remained to him was to run forward. So he ran, breaking his own nature and pride.

Unlike most leaders, who, when camp was made, lay near to the gods for protection, White Fang did not want such protection. He walked about the camp, giving punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the day. The dogs snarled at him with hatred. The very atmosphere he breathed was full of hatred and malice, and this increased the hatred and malice within him.

The sled-dogs understood that 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. So White Fang never stopped without orders. He learned quickly.

But the dogs could never leave him alone in camp. Like him, they were domesticated wolves. But they had been domesticated for generations. In him the Wild was too strong. He symbolised it, was its personification: so that when they showed their teeth to him they were defending themselves against the wild destruction.

But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, and that was to keep together. They had quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when White Fang was coming nearer.

On the other hand, try as they would, they could not kill White Fang. He was too quick for them, too wise.

So he became the enemy of his kind. His clay was modelled this way. He declared a vendetta against all dogs. Grey Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang’s fury.

When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey Beaver took him on another great journey, along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon.

White Fang was a very special dog. He could not endure a prolonged contact with another body. It made him frantic. He must be away, free, on his own legs, touching no one. Since his puppyhood, the Wild within him had known that contacts were danger. Also he economized energy. He moved fast. He could correctly judge time and distance. In consequence, the dogs he met had no chance against him. They were ordinary and unsuspecting dogs, not prepared for his strategies. Body and brain, his was a more perfected 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. Here stood the old Hudson’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 the Klondike.

Here Grey Beaver stopped. A whisper of the gold-rush had reached his ears, and he had come with furs, gut-sewn mittens and moccasins for sale. But in his wildest dreams the profit had not exceeded a hundred per cent; he made a thousand per cent.

It was at Fort Yukon that White Fang saw his first white men. As compared with the Indians he had known, they were to him another race, a race of superior gods. As, in his puppyhood, the tepees had seemed to him a manifestation of power, so was he affected now by the houses and the huge fort. Those white gods were strong. Even Grey Beaver was as a child-god among these white-skinned ones.

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. He was curious to observe them, but didn’t want to be noticed by them. Then he saw that no harm was done to the dogs that were near to them, and he came in closer.

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 Fang on his guard, and when they tried to approach him he showed his teeth and backed away. Not one could touch him.

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, and the white men came from off these steamers and went away on them again. There were many of them. In the first day or so, he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his life.

But if the white gods were all-powerful, their dogs were not. This White Fang quickly discovered by mixing with those that came ashore with their 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 White Fang’s duty to fight with them. They were soft and helpless, made much noise, and moved around clumsily. He sprang to the side. They did not know what had happened; and in that moment he struck them on the shoulder, rolling them off their feet and delivering his stroke at the throat.

Sometimes he was successful, and a stricken dog rolled in the dirt, to be torn to pieces by the pack of Indian dogs that waited. White Fang was wise. He had long since learned that the gods were angry when their dogs were killed. The white men were no exception. So he did not kill, he just hurt and let the pack go and do the cruel finishing work. Then the white men rushed to the pack in wraith, while White Fang went free. He would stand off at a little distance and look on, while all sorts of weapons fell upon his fellows. White Fang was very wise.

After the first two or three strange dogs had been destroyed, the white men took their own animals back on board and revenged the offenders. One white man, having seen his dog, a setter, torn to pieces before his eyes, drew a revolver. He fired quickly, six times, and six of the pack lay dead or dying – another manifestation of power that sank deep into White Fang’s consciousness.

White Fang enjoyed it all. He did not love his kind, and he was smart enough to escape hurt himself. At first, the killing of the white men’s dogs had been a diversion. After a time it became his occupation. There was no work for him to do. Grey Beaver was busy trading and getting wealthy. So White Fang ran around with the gang of Indian dogs, waiting for steamers. With the arrival of a steamer the fun began. After a few minutes the gang scattered. The fun was over until the next steamer.

But White Fang was not a member of the gang. And when he had overthrown the strange dog the gang went in to finish it. But he then went away, leaving the gang to receive the punishment.

It wasn’t difficult to start. All he had to do, when 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 thing that was in the darkness around the fires of the early world when they, keeping close to the fires, were changing their instincts, learning to fear the Wild out of which they had come, and which they had betrayed. Generation by generation this fear of the Wild had grown into their natures. And during all this time free licence had been theirs, from their masters, to kill the things of the Wild, for protection. They looked upon 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 nothing had his puppyhood been made bitter by the persecution of Lip-lip and the whole puppy pack. He might have up more doglike and like the dogs more. If Grey Beaver had demonstrated affection and love, White Fang would have had some kindly qualities. But these things had not been so. The clay of White Fang had been moulded until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and angry, the enemy of all his kind.

Chapter II. The Mad God

A small number of white men lived in Fort Yukon. These men had been long in the country. They called themselves Sour-doughs. For other men, new in the land, they felt nothing but disdain. The men who came ashore from the steamers were newcomers. They were known as chechaquos. They made their bread with baking-powder. This was the difference between them and the Sour-doughs, who made their bread from sour-dough because they had no baking-powder.

The men in the fort disdained the newcomers and enjoyed seeing them in grief. Especially did they enjoy the newcomers’ dogs torn by White Fang and his gang. When a steamer arrived, the men of the fort always came down to see the fun.

But there was one man among them who particularly enjoyed it. He came at the first sound of a steamboat’s whistle; and when the last fight was over he returned slowly to the fort. Sometimes, when a dog was dying under the fangs of the pack, this man was unable to contain himself,[29] and leaped into the air and cried out with delight. And always he looked at 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 as Beauty Smith. But he was anything but a beauty. He was a small man; and upon his small body was an even smaller head. The head was pointed on its top. Also he had a low and wide forehead, large eyes with a big distance between them, an enormous, very heavy jaw, lean lips and large yellow teeth. His eyes were yellow and muddy, and hair of the same colour.

In short, Beauty Smith was a monstrosity, but it wasn’t his blame. He did the cooking for the other men in the fort. They did not despise him. They tolerated him. Also, they feared him, although they knew he was a coward, because in his cowardly rage he could do terrible things. But somebody had to do the cooking, and Beauty Smith could cook.

White Fang began by ignoring him. He did not like the man. The feel of him was bad. He sensed the evil in him, and feared 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 are all things that bring satisfaction and ease pain. The bad are all things that are discomforting and hurting. White Fang’s feel of Beauty Smith was bad. From the man’s distorted body and mind, like mists rising from marshes, came emanations of the unhealth within.

White Fang was in Grey Beaver’s camp when Beauty Smith first visited it. He arose quickly, and, as the man arrived, went 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 Beaver talking together. Once, the man pointed at him, and White Fang snarled back as though the hand was near him and not fifty feet away.

Grey Beaver refused to sell the dog. He had grown rich with his trading and stood in need of nothing. Besides, 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 neither on the Mackenzie nor on the Yukon. He could fight. He killed other dogs as easily as men killed mosquitoes. (Beauty Smith’s eyes lighted up at this, and he licked his thin lips). No, White Fang was not for sale at any price.

But Beauty Smith knew Indians. He visited Grey Beaver’s camp often, and under his coat was always a bottle of whiskey. Soon Grey Beaver needed more and more of 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-bag grew, the shorter grew his temper.

In the end his money and goods and temper were all gone. Nothing remained to him but his addiction. Then it was that Beauty Smith had talk with him again about the sale of White Fang; but this time the price was in bottles, not dollars.

“You catch him, you take him all right,” was Grey Beaver’s last word.

White Fang had not seen Beauty Smith for several days and was relieved. But one evening Grey Beaver came over to him and tied a leather thong around his neck. He sat down beside White Fang, holding the end of the thong in his hand. In the other hand he held a bottle.

An hour later Beauty Smith came into camp and stood over White Fang. White Fang snarled softly. The man’s hand began to descend upon his head. His soft snarl grew tense and harsh. The hand continued slowly to descend, while he crouched beneath it, looking at it malignantly. Suddenly he snapped, striking with his fangs like a snake. The hand was jerked back,[30] and the teeth came together came together on nothing. Beauty Smith was frightened and angry. Grey Beaver hit White Fang on the head.

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 hit him to make him get up and follow. He obeyed, but with a rush. Beauty Smith did not jump away. He had been waiting for this. He used the club smartly, sending White Fang down upon the ground. Grey Beaver laughed and nodded approval. Beauty Smith tightened the thong again, and White Fang crawled to his feet.

He did not rush a second time. He now realized that the white god knew how to use the club, and he was too wise to fight the inevitable. So he followed Beauty Smith, his tail between his legs, yet snarling softly under his breath. But Beauty Smith held the club always ready to strike.

At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied and went to bed. White Fang waited an hour. Then he applied his teeth to the thong, and in ten seconds was free. Then he turned and trotted back to Grey Beaver’s camp. He owed no allegiance to this strange and terrible god. He had given himself to Grey Beaver, and to Grey Beaver he considered he still belonged.

But what had happen before was repeated. Grey Beaver again made him fast with a thong, and in the morning returned him to Beauty Smith. This time Beauty Smith gave him a beating. Tied securely, White Fang could only rage in vain and endure the punishment. Club and whip were both used upon him, and he experienced the worst beating he had ever had in his life.

Beauty Smith enjoyed the task. He delighted in it, when he hit or listened to White Fang’s cries of pain and to his helpless snarls. Beauty Smith was cruel – like many cowards. He revenged himself upon creatures weaker than he. All life likes power, and Beauty Smith was no exception.

White Fang knew why he was being beaten. When Grey Beaver tied the thong around his neck, and passed the end of the thong into Beauty Smith, White Fang knew that it was his god’s will that he should 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 remain there.

He was wise, but in his nature there were forces greater than wisdom. One of these was fidelity. He did not love Grey Beaver, but he was faithful to him. This faithfulness was a quality of the clay that composed him. It was the quality that marked his species from all other species; the quality that has helped the wolf and the wild dog to come and be the companions of man.

After the beating, White Fang was taken back to the fort. But this time Beauty Smith left him tied with a stick.

One does not give up[31] a god easily. Grey Beaver had betrayed him, but that had no effect upon him. Not for nothing had he surrendered himself body and soul to Grey Beaver. The bond was not to be broken easily. So, at night, when the men in the fort were asleep, White Fang applied his teeth to the stick that held him. It was very difficult. It was unprecedented. But White Fang did it, trotting away from the fort in the early morning, with the end of the stick hanging to his neck.

He was wise. But if he had been just wise he would not have gone back to Grey Beaver who had already twice betrayed him. But there was his faithfulness, and he was betrayed and beaten a third time. And Grey Beaver watched how the white man used the whip on White Fang. He gave no protection. It was no longer his dog.

When the beating was over White Fang was sick. Another dog would have died under it, but not he.

Now he was tied with a chain. After a few days, sober and bankrupt, Grey Beaver departed up the Porcupine on his long journey to the Mackenzie. White Fang remained on the Yukon, the property of a man more than half mad and all brute. To White Fang, Beauty Smith was a terrible, mad god.

Chapter III. The Reign of Hate

Under the mad god, White Fang became a devil. He was kept chained behind the fort, and here Beauty Smith teased and drove him wild with torments. The man early discovered that White Fang was susceptible to laughter.[32] He laughed at him, and pointed his finger at him, and reason left White Fang, and he became even more mad than Beauty Smith.

Formerly, White Fang had been the enemy of his kind. He now became the enemy of all things. To such an extent was he tormented, that he hated blindly and without reason. He hated everyone and everything. 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 number of men gathered about the pen that he was kept in. Beauty Smith took the chain off from White Fang’s neck. When his master had gone out, White Fang turned loose and ran around the pen, trying to get at the men outside. He was magnificently terrible. Five feet in length, two and half feet at the shoulder,[33] and over ninety pounds of weight – it was all muscle, bone, and sinewy flesh in the finest condition.

Something unusual was happening. A huge dog was thrust inside, and the door was shut behind him. White Fang had never seen such a dog (it was a mastiff); but its size and fierceness did not stop him. Here was something upon which he could wreak his hate.[34]

The men outside shouted and applauded. There was no hope for the mastiff from the first. He was too 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 flew in Beauty Smith’s hand.

For the White Fang this now was the only way to express the life that was in him. He was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of satisfying his hate except fighting. Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well, as White Fang always won. One day, three dogs were set against him, one by one. Another day – a full-grown wolf. And on still another day – two dogs at the same time. This was his severest fight, and though in the end he killed them both he was himself half killed.

In autumn Beauty Smith took White Fang on a steamboat up the Yukon to Dawson. White Fang had now achieved a reputation in the land. As “the Fighting 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 snarled at them, or studied them with cold hatred. Why should he not hate them? He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate. Life had become a hell to him. Men looked at him, put sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then laughed at him.

Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Another animal would have died or had its spirit broken. White Fang survived, and even Beauty Smith had not yet broken him.

In the days before, White Fang had the wisdom not to protest; but this wisdom now left him. Now just a sight of Beauty Smith was enough for him to go mad with hatred.

When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang was exhibited as “the Fighting Wolf,” and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. To make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time. Every word, every action of the men made him really feel the most dangerous beast in the world. It added fuel to the flame of his fierceness.

In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal. Whenever a fight could be arranged, he was led into the wood some miles from town. Usually this happened at night, to avoid interference from the police. 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.

White Fang never knew defeat. He was quick, experienced, and, besides, no dog could overturn him on his back. Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malemutes – all tried, and all failed. Men told this to one another, and each time hoped to see him lose the fight; but White Fang always disappointed them.

So, as the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired of matching him with an equal,[35] and Beauty Smith had to set wolves against him. Once it was a female lynx, and this time White Fang fought for his life. But after the lynx, all fighting ended for White Fang. There were no more animals which were worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition until spring, when Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived and brought the first bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike. The town prepared for the fight.

Chapter IV. The Clinging Death

Beauty Smith took off the chain from his neck and stepped back.

For the first time White Fang did not make an immediate attack. Before him was s bull-dog. He had never seen such a dog before.

There were cries from the crowd of, “Go to him, Cherokee! Eat him up!”

But Cherokee did not seem willing to fight. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it he was not used to fighting with the kind of dog like White Fang, and he was waiting for them to bring the real dog.

Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, took him on both sides of the shoulders with hands and made slight, pushing-forward movements. Their effect was irritating, so Cherokee began to growl, very softly, deep down in his throat.

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 push forward and stepped back again. Now Cherokee continued to go forward on his own. Then White Fang struck. Very quickly he slashed with his fangs and leaped back.

The bull-dog was bleeding from a rip in his neck. He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but turned and followed after White Fang. The men were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again and again White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and still his strange enemy followed after him, without too great haste, not slowly, but deliberately and determinedly, in a businesslike sort of way. There was purpose in his method, something from which nothing could distract him.

It puzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hair protection. It was soft, and bled easily. Each time that his teeth struck they sank easily into the flesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself. But it did not cry. Beyond a growl or a grunt, the dog was silent.

Cherokee was puzzled, too. Here was a dog that kept at a distance, dancing here and there and all about.

But White Fang could not get at the throat. Cherokee’s wounds increased. Both sides of his neck and head were ripped and slashed. He bled freely, but showed no signs of being disconcerted. He continued his pursuit. Once, for a moment, he stopped and looked at the men, wagging his tail as an expression of his willingness to fight.

In that moment White Fang was in upon him. But Cherokee pursuited him again, running on the inside of the circle White Fang was making, and aiming at White Fang’s throat. The bull-dog missed by a hair’s-breadth, and cries of praise went up as White Fang suddenly escaped in the opposite direction.

The time went by. White Fang still danced on, leaping in and out. And still the bull-dog went after him. Sooner or later he would get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime, he accepted all the injuries White Fang could make on him.

Again and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet; but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was too squat, too close to the ground. He caught Cherokee with head turned away. His shoulder was exposed. White Fang struck, but his own shoulder was high above. He struck with such force that his momentum threw him across Cherokee’s body. For the first time in his fighting history, men saw White Fang lose his footing. He fell heavily on his side. The next instant he was on his feet, but in that instant Cherokee’s teeth closed on his throat.

It was not a good grip, being too low down toward 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 was a mad revolt. For several minutes he was insane. The basic instinct that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body came over him. All intelligence was gone, as though he had no brain.

Round and round he went, trying to shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bull-dog did not do anything but kept his grip. Sometimes he managed to get his feet to the earth. Cherokee knew that the grip was the most important thing, nothing else mattered.

White Fang ceased only when he had tired himself out.[36] He could do nothing, and he could not understand. Never, in all his fighting, had this thing happened. He lay partly on his side, trying to breathe. Cherokee, still holding his grip, tried to get him over entirely on his side. Each moment brought the grip closer to White Fang’s throat. The bull-dog’s method was to wait for opportunity to grip more. It was easier when White Fang remained quiet.

He managed to strike the bull-dog’s neck. Yet 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 bowed his hind legs, and, with his enemy’s abdomen above him, he began to claw with long tearing-strokes. But Cherokee quickly jumped on the ground and resumed his grip.

There was no escaping that grip. It was like Fate itself. All that saved White Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck and the thick fur that covered it. But, as more and more of his skin got into the bull-dog’s mouth, he started slowly to suffocate.

It looked as though the battle were over. But there was one man who was rash enough to put fifty to one in White Fang’s favour. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh. This produced the necessary effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He got his reserves of strength, and stood up. Round and round and back again, falling and rising, he tried vainly to shake off the clinging death – the bull-dog – off his throat.

At last he fell, exhausted. The bull-dog’s grip got closer. There were shouts of applause and many cries of “Cherokee! Cherokee!”.

At this time there was a jingle of bells. The fear of the police was strong among the men. But they saw two men running with sled and dogs. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over. One of them wore a moustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-shaven.

White Fang had practically ceased struggling. Now and again he resisted spasmodically and to no purpose. He could get little air, and that little grew less and less under the merciless grip.

When Beauty Smith saw White Fang’s eyes beginning to glaze, he understood that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose.[37] He sprang upon White Fang and began to kick him. There were cries of protest from the crowd, but that was all. But then the tall young newcomer forced his way through,[38] shouldering men right and left without ceremony. When came into the ring, his fist stroke Beauty’s face. He fell, unable to keep his balance, because right at the moment one of his feet was on its way to White Fang’s side. The newcomer turned upon the crowd.

“You cowards!” he cried. “You beasts!”

He was in a sane rage[39] himself. Beauty Smith got up and came toward him, cowardly. The new-comer thought he was coming back to fight. So, with a “You beast!” he gave him a second blow in the face. Beauty Smith decided that the snow was the safest place for him, and lay where he had fallen.

“Come on, Matt, lend a hand,[40]” the newcomer called his friend, who had followed him into the ring.

Some of the men were protesting against the spoiling of the sport; but they were silenced when the newcomer lifted his head from his work for a moment and looked at them.

“It’s no use, Mr. Scott, you can’t break them apart that way,” Matt said at last. “He isn’t bleeding much, isn’t dying yet.”

“But he can any moment,” Scott answered.

The younger man’s excitement and apprehension for White Fang was growing. He struck Cherokee about the head again and again. But that did not open the jaws. Cherokee understood the meaning of the blows, but knew he was himself in the right.

“Won’t some of you help?” Scott cried desperately at the crowd.

But no help was offered.

“You’ll have to get a pry,” Matt said.

The other drew his revolver, and tried to put its muzzle between the bull-dog’s jaws. Tim Keenan came into the ring.

“Don’t break his teeth, stranger.”

“Then I’ll break his neck,” Scott answered.

“I said don’t break his teeth,” the faro-dealer repeated more menacingly.

“Your dog? Then come and break this grip.”

“Well, stranger, that’s something I can’t do myself. I don’t know how to do it.”

“Then get out of the way, and don’t bother me.”

Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice of his presence. He managed to put the muzzle between the jaws. Then he pried gently and carefully, loosening the jaws bit by bit, while Matt, bit by bit, made White Fang’s neck free.

“Stand by to receive your dog,” was Scott’s order to Cherokee’s owner.

The faro-dealer obediently got a firm hold on Cherokee.

“Now!” Scott warned, giving the final pry.

The dogs were drawn apart, the bull-dog struggling madly.

“Take him away,” Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan did so.

White Fang made several useless efforts to get up. Once he stood up, but his legs were too weak, and he slowly sank back into the snow. His eyes were half closed, and their surface was glassy. His jaws were apart, and the tongue was limp. He looked like a dog that was dying. Matt examined him.

“Awfully injured,” he announced; “but he’s breathing all right.”

Beauty Smith stood up and came over to look at White Fang.

“Matt, how much does a good sled-dog cost?” Scott asked.

“Three hundred dollars”.

“And how much for one that’s all chewed up like this one?”

“Half of that”.

Scott turned upon Beauty Smith.

“Did you hear, Mr. Beast? I’m going to take your dog from you, and I’m going to give you a hundred and fifty for him”.

He opened his pocket-book and counted out the bills.

“I’m not selling,” Beauty Smith said, with his hands behind his back.

“Oh, yes you are, because I’m buying. Here’s your money. The dog’s mine.”

Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him, ready to strike.

“I’ve got my rights,” whimpered Beauty.

“You have no more rights to own that dog. Are you going to take the money? Оr do I have to hit you again?”

“All right,” Beauty Smith said. “But that’s too little money. I’m not going to be robbed. A man’s got his rights.”

“Correct,” Scott answered, passing the money over to him. “But you’re not a man. You’re a beast.”

“Wait till I get back to Dawson. 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. Understand?”

“Yes,” Beauty Smith grunted.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir,” Beauty Smith snarled, like a dog.

“Look out! He can bite!” someone shouted, and people laughed.

Scott turned his back on him, and returned to help the his friend, who was working over White Fang.

Some of the men were already departing; others stood in groups. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups.

“Who’s that man?” he asked.

“Weedon Scott,” some one answered.

“And who is Weedon Scott?”

“Oh, one of the best mining experts. He’s in with all the big bugs.[41] If you want to keep out of trouble, you’ll stand clear of him”.

Chapter V. The Indomitable

“It’s hopeless,” Weedon Scott confessed.

He sat on the step of his cabin and looked at his friend the dog-musher, who responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless.

Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his chain, bristling, snarling, ferocious, trying to get at the sled-dogs.

“It’s a wolf and it can’t be tamed,” Weedon Scott announced.

“Wolf or dog, it’s all the same – he’s been tamed already.”

“No!”

“I tell you yes. Look close there. Do you see the marks across the chest?”

“You’re right, Matt. He was a sled-dog before Beauty Smith got him.”

“And there’s not much reason against his being a sled-dog again.”

“We’ve had him two weeks now, and nothing helps.”

“Give him a chance – yes, I know you’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 watched the club after the manner of a caged lion watching the whip of its trainer.

“See how he keeps his eye on that club,” Matt said. “That’s a good sign. He’s no fool. He’s not clean crazy, sure.”

As the man’s hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled and crouched down. But in Matt’s other hand was a club. Matt took off the chain from the animal’s neck and stepped back.

White Fang could hardly 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 fought with other dogs.

He did not know what to think of it. Perhaps it was some new devilry of the gods. He walked slowly and cautiously to the corner of the cabin. Nothing happened. He was puzzled, and he came back again, lookind at the two men intently.

“Won’t he run away?” his new owner asked.

Matt shrugged his shoulders. “Only way to find out is to find out.”

“Poor devil.[42] What he needs is human kindness,” Scott said, turning and going into the cabin.

He came out with a piece of meat, which he threw to White Fang. He sprang away from it, and from a distance studied it suspiciously.

“Hi-yu, Major!” Matt shouted, but too late.

Major, the dog, jumped for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but White Fang was quicker. Major stood up, but the blood from his throat reddened the snow.

“It’s too bad, but it served him right,” 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. White Fang, snarling fiercely, scrambled backward for several yards, while Matt investigated his leg.

“He got me all right,” he announced, pointing to the torn trousers, and the growing stain of red.

“I told you it was hopeless, Matt,” Scott said in a discouraged voice. “I’ve thought about it, while not wanting to think of it. But it’s the only thing to do.”

As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver.

“Look here, Mr. Scott,” Matt objected; “that dog’s been through hell. You can’t expect him to come out a white and shining angel. Give him time.”

“Look at Major,” the other said.

Major had sunk down on the snow in the circle of his blood and was obviously dying.

“Served him right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take White Fang’s meat, and he’s dead. That was to be expected.”

“But look at yourself, Matt. It’s all right about the dogs, but there must be a limit.”

“Served me right,” Matt argued stubbornly. “What did I want to kick him for? I had no right to kick him.”

“It would be a mercy to kill him. He can’t be tamed.”

“Mr. Scott, give the poor devil a chance. He didn’t have a chance yet. He’s just come through hell, and this is the first time he’s been loose. Give him a fair chance, and if he don’t deliver the goods, I’ll kill him myself.”

“God knows I don’t want to kill him or have him killed,” Scott answered, putting away the revolver. “We’ll let him run loose and see what kindness can do for him.”

He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently.

“Better have a club at hand,” Matt warned.

Scott shook his head and went on.

White Fang was suspicious. He had killed this god’s dog, bitten his companion god, and what else was to be expected than some terrible punishment? But he looked fierce. He bristled and showed his teeth. The god had no club, so he let him approach quite near. The god’s hand had come out and was descending upon his head. White Fang grew tense as he crouched under it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of the gods, their mastery, their ability to hurt. Besides, he still didn’t like being touched. He did not want to bite the hand, but in the end his instinct mastered him.

Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or slash. But he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang.

Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding it tightly in his other hand. White Fang crouched down, and backed away, showing his fangs. Now he could expect a beating as terrible as any he had received from Beauty Smith.

“Here! What are you doing?” Scott cried suddenly.

Matt had dashed into the cabin and come out with a rifle.

“Nothing,” he said slowly, “only going to keep that promise I made. I’ll kill him as I said I’d do.”

“No you don’t!”

“Yes I do. Watch me.”

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 can’t quit at the beginning. It served me right, this time. And – look at him!”

White Fang was snarling, not at Scott, but at the dog-musher.

“Look at the intelligence of him,” Scott went on hastily. “He knows the meaning of firearms. We’ve got to give that intelligence a chance.”

“All right,” Matt agreed, leaving the rifle. “But will you look at that!” he exclaimed the next moment.

White Fang had calmed down and stopped snarling. “This is interesting. Watch.”

Matt reached for the rifle, and at the same moment White Fang snarled. He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang ceased.

“Now, just for fun.”

Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White Fang’s snarled again. But the moment before the rifle came to a level on him, he leaped sidewise behind the corner of the cabin.

“I agree with you, Mr. Scott”, said Matt, “That dog’s too intelligent to kill.”

Chapter VI. The Love-Master

White Fang could not believe there would be no punishment. So when he saw Weedon Scott approach he snarled and bristled.

But the god came over and sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing dangerous in that. Besides, he himself was free, he could escape into safety any moment. In the meantime he would wait and see.

The god remained quiet, made no movement. White Fang snarled. Then the god spoke, and at the first sound of his voice, the hair rose on White Fang’s neck. But the god made no hostile movement. He talked to White Fang as White Fang had never been talked to before. He talked softly and soothingly, with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched White Fang. In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god.

After a long time, the god got up and went into the cabin. White Fang scanned him apprehensively when he came out. He had no weapon. He sat down as before, on the same place. He held out a small piece of meat. White Fang pricked his ears[43] and investigated it suspiciously, managing to look at the same time both at the meat and the god.

Still there was no punishment. And about the meat there seemed nothing wrong. Still White Fang suspected; and he refused to touch it. In past experience, especially with squaws, meat and punishment had often been related.

In the end, the god threw the meat 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 thrown to him. This was repeated a number of times. But finally the god refused to threw it.

The meat was good, and White Fang was hungry. Bit by bit, he approached the hand. At last he decided to eat the meat from the hand. He never took his eyes from the god. Also a low growl was in his throat as a warning. He ate the meat. Piece by piece, he ate all the meat, and nothing happened. Still there was no punishment.

He licked his chops and waited. The god went on talking. In his voice was kindness – something of which White Fang had no experience. He was aware of a strange satisfaction, as though some need were being satisfied, as though some empty space in him was being filled. Then again came in his instinct and the memory of past experience. The gods were cunning.

Ah, he had thought so! There it is now, the god’s hand, able to hurt, descending upon his head. But the god went on talking. His voice gave confidence, his hand gave distrust. White Fang was torn by conflicting feelings. It seemed he would fly to pieces,[44] so terrible was the conflict.

He compromised. He snarled and bristled. But he neither snapped nor sprang away. The hand descended nearer and nearer. It touched the ends of his hair. It passed more closely against him. Almost shivering, he still managed to hold himself together.[45] It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been done to him by the hands of men.

The hand lifted and descended again in a patting, caressing movement. White Fang growled and growled with warning. He did not believe.

It was awful to his instinct. And yet it was not physically painful. On the contrary, it was even pleasant. Patting movement slowly changed to a rubbing of the ears, and the physical pleasure even increased a little. Yet he continued to fear and to be tensed, expecting something evil.

And then there came Matt. He was surprised by the sight of Weedon Scott patting White Fang. At the moment his voice broke the silence, White Fang leaped back, snarling savagely at him.

Weedon Scott stood up and walked over to White Fang. He talked soothingly to him, but not for long, then slowly put his hand on White Fang’s head, and continued the interrupted patting. White Fang endured it, keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously, not upon the man that patted him, but upon his friend.

“You may be a number one mining expert,” the dog-musher said, “but you missed the chance of your life when you didn’t come to work in 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.

It was the beginning of the end for White Fang – the ending of the old life and the reign of hate. A new and fairer life was beginning. It required much thinking and endless patience on the part of Weedon Scott. And on the part of White Fang it required nothing less than a revolution. He had to ignore his instinct, reason and experience.

Weedon Scott had gone to the roots of White Fang’s nature, and with kindness touched the life potencies[46] that had been sleeping in him. One such potency was love – higher than just like.

But this love did not come in a day. It began with like and out of it slowly developed. White Fang did not run away, though he was allowed to remain loose, because he liked this new god. It was necessary that he should have some god. The seal of his dependence on man had been set upon him in that early day when he left the Wild and crawled to Grey Beaver’s feet to receive the expected beating. And so, because he needed a god and because he preferred Weedon Scott to Beauty Smith, White Fang remained.

He started with guarding his master’s property. He walked about the cabin while the sled-dogs slept, and the first night-visitor fought him off with a club until Weedon Scott came to help. But White Fang soon learned to differentiate between thieves and honest men.

Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redeeming White Fang – or rather, of redeeming mankind from the wrong it had done White Fang. It was a matter of principle and conscience. He felt that it was a debt that must be paid. So he was especially kind to the Fighting Wolf. Each day he caressed and petted him.

At first suspicious, White Fang grew to like this petting. But there was one thing that he never outgrew – his growling. But it was a growl with a new note in it – the note that was the faintest hint of content and that none except Weedon Scott could hear.

White Fang started feeling the necessity of love as well as he could feel hunger, pain or anger. In his new god’s absence, he felt that there was an empty space in him, a space to be filled.

Because of this new feeling, he sometimes chose discomfort for the sake of his god. Thus, in the early morning, he waited for hours on the cheerless cabin-stoop for a sight of the god’s face. At night, when the god returned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place in the snow to receive the friendly snap of fingers and the word of greeting. Meat, even meat itself, he would forego to be with his god, to receive a caress from him or to accompany him down into the town. Like had been replaced by love. This was a god indeed, a love-god, a warm and radiant god, in whose light White Fang’s nature opened as a flower opens under the sun.

But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly moulded, to express himself in new ways. He was too self-possessed, too morose. He never ran to meet his god. He waited at a distance; but he always waited, was always there.

He tolerated all possessions of his master, including his dogs and Matt. Matt tried to put him into the harness and make him pull the sled with the other dogs. But Matt failed. It was not until Weedon Scott put the harness on White Fang, that he understood. He took it as his master’s will.

The Klondike sleds were different from the Mackenzie toboggans. The dogs worked in single file, one behind another, on double traces. And here, in the Klondike, the leader was indeed the leader. The wisest as well as strongest dog was the leader, and the team obeyed him and feared him. That White Fang should quickly gain this post was inevitable. He could not be satisfied with less. But, though he worked in the sled in the day, White Fang did not forget to guard his master’s property in the night. Thus he was on duty all the time, ever faithful, the most valuable of all the dogs.

In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang. Without warning, the love-master disappeared. There had been warning, but White Fang did not understand the packing of bags. The days came and went, but never the master. White Fang, who had never known sickness in his life, became sick. He became very sick, so sick that Matt finally had to bring him inside the cabin. Also, in writing to his employer, Matt said about White Fang: “That damn wolf won’t work. Won’t eat. Wants to know what has happened to you, and I don’t know how to tell him. Maybe he is going to die.”

And then, one night, Matt heard a low whine from White Fang. He stood up, his ears cocked towards the door, and he was listening intently. A moment later, Matt heard a footstep. The door opened, and Weedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook hands. Then Scott looked around the room.

“Where’s the wolf?” he asked.

Then he saw him. He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He stood, watching and waiting. And – he wagged his tail.

Scott came half across the room. White Fang came to him. As he drew near, his eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an incommunicable vastness of feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light and shone there.

“He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone!” Matt commented.

Weedon Scott did not hear. He was 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 gently with the balls of his fingers. And White Fang was growling in response, the crooning note of the growl more pronounced than ever.

But that was not all. He suddenly put his head between the master’s arm and body. And here, satisfied, hidden from view all except his ears, no longer growling, he continued to snuggle.

The two men looked at each other. Scott’s eyes were shining.

A moment later Matt said, “I always insisted that wolf was a dog. Look at him!”

With the return of the love-master, White Fang’s recovery was rapid. Two nights and a day he spent in the cabin. Then he returned to living outdoors. It took him little time to remind the sled-dogs that he was the leader. Life was flowing through him again.

Having learned to snuggle, he often did it. 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 myself into your hands. Do what you will with me.”

One night, not long after the return, Scott and Matt were playing cards before going to bed. Suddenly there was a cry and sound of snarling from outside.

“The wolf’s nailed somebody,” Matt said.

“Bring a light!” Scott shouted.

Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying on his back in the snow. His arms were folded, one above the other, across his face and throat. He was trying to protect himself from White Fang’s teeth. White Fang was in a rage. From shoulder to wrist of the crossed arms, the coat-sleeve, blue flannel shirt and undershirt were ripped in rags, while the arms themselves were terribly slashed.

White Fang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt to bite, and quickly quieted down at a sharp word from the master.

Matt helped the man to his feet. It was Beauty Smith. He blinked in the lamplight and looked about him. Then he saw White Fang and terror rushed into his face.

At the same moment Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow: a steel dog-chain and a stout club.

Weedon Scott saw and nodded. The dog-musher laid his hand on Beauty Smith’s shoulder and faced him to the right about. No word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith went away.

In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking to him.

“Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn’t have it! Well, well, he made a mistake, didn’t he?”

White Fang, still wrought up and bristling, growled and growled, the hair slowly lying down.

Part V

Chapter I. The Long Trail

It was in the air. White Fang sensed it, even before there was evidence of it. A change was coming. He waited for the oncoming event from the gods themselves.

One night, as they talked over supper, Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with almost pleading eyes.

“What can I do with a wolf in California?” he demanded.

“That’s what I say,” Matt answered. “What the devil can you do with a wolf in California?”

But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott.

“He’ll kill white men’s dogs as soon as he sees them,” Scott went on. “If he doesn’t bankrupt me, the authorities will take him away from me and kill him.”

“He’s a murderer, I know,” was the dog-musher’s comment.

Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.

“It would never do,” he said decisively.

“It would never do!” Matt agreed. “Why you’d have to hire a man especially to take care of him.”

In the silence that followed, White Fang’s low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then the long, questing sniff. He was outside, listening.

“Yes, he thinks 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 agreeing with you, only…”

“Only what?”

“Only… Well, judging by your actions one’d think you didn’t know your own mind.”

Weedon Scott paused, 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 crazy for me to take that dog with me,” he broke out after another pause.

“I’m agreeing with you,” was Matt’s answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him.

Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the fatal bag on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. He now reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had not taken him with him before, so, now, he would be left behind.

That night he gave the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy days, when he came back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished, so now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told them his tragedy.

Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.

“He’s gone off his food again,” Matt remarked from his bed.

There was a grunt from Weedon Scott’s bed, and a stir of blankets.

“I wouldn’t wonder if this time he dies without you.”

The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.

“Oh, shut up!” Scott cried out through the darkness. “You are worse than a woman.”

The next day White Fang’s anxiety was even more pronounced. He followed his master everywhere. Through the open door he could see the luggage on the floor. Later on two Indians arrived. They took 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 was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came 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 going 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, he snuggled in, putting his head out of sight between the master’s arm and body.

From the Yukon arose the signal of a river steamboat. “Be quick and lock the front door. I’ll go out the back”, Matt cried.

The two doors closed at the same moment. From inside the door came a low whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.

“You must take good care of him, Matt,” 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 howl when their masters lie dead, in great heart-manner of a true grief.

The Aurora was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken 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 Matt’s hand went limp as he looked past his master and fixed on something behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away and watching wistfully was White Fang.

The dog-musher swore softly. Scott could only look in wonder.

“Did you lock the front door?” Matt demanded. The other nodded, and asked, “How about the back?”

“I did”.

White Fang flattened his ears, but remained where he was.

“I’ll have to take him ashore with me.”

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 group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid about the deck, escaping Matt.

But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with obedience.

“Won’t come to the hand that has fed him all these months,” the dog-musher muttered. “And you – you have never fed him after the first days of getting acquainted. I can’t see how he works it out that you’re the boss.”

Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed out fresh cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.

Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang’s belly.

“We forgot the window. He’s all cut underneath. Must have jumped out clean through the glass!”

But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking. The Aurora’s whistle gave the final announcement of departure. Matt took the bandana off his own neck and started to put it around White Fang’s. Scott grasped the dog-musher’s hand.

“Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf – you needn’t write. You see, I’ve…!”

“What!” Matt 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.

The Aurora swung 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 said, as he patted the head and rubbed the ears.

Chapter II. The Southland

White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was shocked. Never had the white men seemed such marvellous gods as now. There were towering buildings, the streets were crowded with perils – waggons, carts, automobiles; great horses and monstrous cable and electric cars, crying like lynxes he had known in the northern woods.

Behind it all was Man. It was colossal. Fear sat upon White Fang. As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his smallness on the day he first came in from the Wild to the village of Grey Beaver, so now, in his pride of strength, he was made to feel small. And there were so many gods! As never before, he felt his dependence on the love-master, whom he followed everywhere.

But then White Fang had a terrible experience of travelling in a baggage car, chained in a corner, among bags and noise, thinking that his master had left him. By it was just a nightmare that was soon over.

Now before him was smiling country, lazy and sunny. He accepted it as he accepted all the doings of the gods. It was their way.

There was a carriage waiting. A man and a woman approached the master. The woman’s arms went out and clutched the master around the neck – a hostile act! The next moment Weedon Scott had torn loose from the embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a snarling demon.

“It’s all right, mother,” Scott said as he kept tight hold of White Fang. “He thought you were going to injure me. 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 pale from the fright.

“He’ll have to learn, and he shall, now,” Scott said.

He spoke softly to White Fang until he had calmed him, then his voice became firm.

“Down, sir! Down![47]”

White Fang obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly.

“Now, mother.”

Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eyes on White Fang.

“Down!” he warned. “Down!”

White Fang, bristling silently, lay back and watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the embrace from the strange man-god that followed. Then the bags were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master followed, and White Fang pursued, sometimes bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to see that no harm is done to his master.

In fifteen minutes, the carriage went in through a stone gateway and to a big, many-windowed house.

As soon as the carriage entered the park, White Fang was met by a sheep-dog. White Fang did not snarl or rush. He stopped awkwardly, because it was a female, and the law of his kind forbade him to fight females. For him to attack her would mean nothing less than a violation of his instinct.

But with the sheep-dog it was not so. Being a female, she had no such instinct. Moreover, being a sheep-dog, she instinctively hated wolves. And she sprang upon him. He snarled as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but did not do anything else, just tried to go around her. But she remained always between him and the way he wanted to go.

“Here, Collie!” called the strange man in the carriage.

Weedon Scott laughed.

“Never mind, father. White Fang will have to learn many things, and it’s just as well that he begins now. He’ll manage.”

The carriage drove on, taking the master away. The situation was desperate.

White Fang made another circle. Collie followed. And then, suddenly, he turned upon her. It was his old fighting trick. He struck her. She was overthrown and ran away quickly, falling and rising again, crying with indignation.

White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, that was all he had wanted. She ran after him, never ceasing her outcry. He could teach her things.[48] Without much effort, gliding like a ghost over the ground, he overran her and reached the carriage just in time to see the master going out of it. At this moment, still running at top speed, White Fang was attacked by a deer-hound. It struck him on the side; and because of his speed and the unexpectedness of the attack, White Fang fell on the ground and rolled over. Now he was really angry, and his fangs barely missed the hound’s throat.

The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie that saved the hound’s life. Before White Fang could make the fatal stroke, she came like a tornado – a tornado made up of offended dignity, sane rage and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild. She struck White Fang in the midst of his spring, and again fell and rolled over.

The next moment the master arrived, and held White Fang, while his father called off the dogs.

“This is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the Arctic,” the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his caressing hand. “In all his life he’s only been known to fell once, and here he’s been rolled twice in thirty seconds.”

Other strange gods had appeared from out the house. Some of them stood respectfully at a distance; but two of them, women, clutched the master around the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this. No harm seemed to come of it.

The deer-hound, under the command, “Dick! Lie down, sir!” had gone up the steps and lain down, still growling and watching the intruder. One of the woman-gods held her arms around Collie’s neck and petted and caressed her; but Collie was very much worried by the presence of this wolf. She was sure that the gods were making a mistake.

White Fang could not be left outside – it would have been the death of Dick. So the master let him enter the house. At first he was very cautious, but then he lay down with a contented grunt at the master’s feet, ready to spring to his feet and fight for life with the terrors that must have been in that house.

Chapter III. The God’s Domain

White Fang was adaptable by nature. He had travelled much, and knew the meaning and necessity of adjustment. Here, in Sierra Vista, which was the name of Judge Scott’s place, White Fang quickly began to make himself at home. He had no further serious trouble with the dogs.

Dick soon accepted White Fang as an inevitable problem. They did not become friends. Dick bothered him, so White Fang snarled him away. In the north he had learned the lesson that he must let the master’s dogs alone, and he did not forget that lesson now, so he did not hurt them. But he insisted on his own privacy, so he ignored Dick, and Dick ignored him.

Not so with Collie. She accepted him because it was the order of the gods, but she did not leave him in peace. She had a memory of crimes that wolves had committed against her ancestry. So Collie took advantage[49] of her sex to fight White Fang. When she rushed at him he turned his fur-protected shoulder to her sharp teeth and walked away stately. He ignored her existence whenever it was possible. When he saw or heard her coming, he walked off.

Life in the Northland was simplicity itself when compared with 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 food, his fire, and his blankets, so now, at Sierra Vista, all who lived the house belonged to the love-master.

But Sierra Vista was bigger than the tepee of Grey Beaver. There were many people. There was Judge Scott, and there was his wife. There were the master’s two sisters, Beth and Mary. There was master’s wife, Alice, and then there were his children, Weedon and Maud, of four and six years old. Of blood-ties White Fang knew nothing but he quickly understood that all of them belonged to the master. Then he slowly learned the intimacy they enjoyed with the master. And he treated them accordingly.

Thus it was with the two children. All his life he had disliked children. He hated and feared their hands. When Weedon and Maud had first approached him, he growled warningly and looked fierce. But he had to obey and tolerate them. Later, he observed that the boy and girl were of great value in the master’s eyes. Since then no sharp word was necessary before they could pat him.

White Fang was never affectionate. When he could no longer endure children, he got up and walked away from them. But after a time, he grew even to like the children. Still he was not demonstrative. He would not go up to them. On the other hand, he waited for them to come to him.

All this took time. Next, after the children, was Judge Scott. First, he was evidently a valuable possession of the master’s, and next, he was undemonstrative. White Fang liked to lie at his feet when he read the newspaper. But this was only when the master was away. When the master appeared, all other beings ceased to exist for him.

White Fang allowed all the members of the family to pet him; but he never gave to them what he gave to the master. No caress of theirs could put the love-croon into his throat, and they could never persuade him into snuggling. This expression of absolute trust he left for the master alone.

Also White Fang had early come to differentiate between the family and the servants. Between him and the servants existed a neutrality and no more. They cooked for the master and washed the dishes and did other things just as Matt had done up in the Klondike.

Outside the household there was even more for White Fang to learn. The master’s domain was big. Outside was the common domain of all gods – the roads and streets. Then inside other fences were the particular domains of other gods.

But most potent in his education was the master’s hand, the change 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 Beauty Smith had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of him. But the master’s cuff was always too light to hurt the flesh. It went deeper. It was an expression of the master’s disapproval. In fact, the cuff was rarely given. The master’s voice was enough. It was the compass by which White Fang learned the new land and life.

In the Northland, the only domesticated animal was the dog. All other animals lived in the Wild, and anyone could eat them. So, when White Fang saw a chicken that had escaped from the chicken-yard, his natural impulse was to eat it. Later in the day, he saw another chicken. One of the grooms ran to the rescue.[50] In consequence, his forearm was ripped open to the bone. Then Collie appeared on the scene. As she had saved Dick’s life, she now saved the groom’s. She rushed upon White Fang in wrath. She had been right. She had known better than the gods. All her suspicions were justified. Here was the son of ancient marauders.

Two nights later White Fang studied the chicken-yards and the habits of the chickens. In the night-time, he got to the roof of a chicken-house, and from there got inside.

In the morning, when the master came, fifty white 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. White Fang had no signs of shame or guilt. He carried himself with pride, as though he had done something good. The master’s lips tightened. Then he talked harshly to the culprit, with godlike wrath. Also, he held White Fang’s nose down to the killed hens, and at the same time cuffed him soundly.

White Fang never raided a chicken-roost again. It was against the law, and he had learned it.

“You can never cure a chicken-killer.” Judge Scott shook his head at luncheon table, when his son told about the lesson he had given White Fang.

But Weedon Scott did not agree with his father. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll lock White Fang in with the chickens all afternoon.”

“But think of the chickens!”

“And furthermore,” the son went on, “for every chicken he kills, I’ll pay you one dollar gold coin.”

“But you should penalize father as well”, said Beth.

“All right.” Weedon Scott said. “If at the end of the afternoon White Fang hasn’t killed 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 solemnly passing judgment,[51] ‘White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.’”

But, 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 drink. The chickens he calmly ignored. So far as he was concerned they did not exist. At four o’clock he returned to the house. And on the porch, before the delighted family, Judge Scott said to him, slowly and solemnly, sixteen times, “White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.”

White Fang had to learn yet a lot. He had to learn that he must not touch the chickens that belonged to other gods. Then there were cats, and rabbits, and turkeys; all these he must let alone. In fact, when he had but partly learned the law, his impression was that he must leave all live things alone. A quail could fly up under his nose unharmed. All tense and trembling, he mastered his instinct and stood still. He was obeying the will of the gods.

And then, one day, he saw Dick start a jackrabbit and run it. The master himself encouraged White Fang to join in the chase. And thus he learned that there was no taboo on jackrabbits. In the end he worked out the complete law. Between him and all domestic animals there must be no hostility. But the other animals – the squirrels, and quail, and cottontails, were creatures of the Wild. They were the lawful prey of any dog.

Life was complex in the Santa Clara Valley after the Northland. Life had a thousand faces, and White Fang found he must meet them all. In the town of San Jose, life flowed past him, deep and wide and varied, and he had almost always to suppress his natural impulses.

There were butcher-shops, there were cats, and there were dogs everywhere that snarled at him and that he must not attack. And then, on the crowded pavements there were a lot of people whose attention he attracted. They stopped and looked at him, pointed at him, talked of him, and, worst of all, patted him. And all this he had to endure. And he did. Furthermore, he got over his awkwardness and behaved normally. But there was something about him that prevented familiarity. They patted him and passed on, 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 saw small boys who threw stones at him. Yet he knew that it was not permitted him to pursue and drag them down. Here he had to violate his instinct of self-preservation.

Nevertheless, White Fang was not quite satisfied. He had no ideas about justice and fair play. He forgot that the gods, too, were 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 more, and White Fang understood and was satisfied.

On the way to town, near the saloon at the cross-roads, were three dogs that made a practice of rushing out upon him when he went by. The master always reminded White Fang of the law that he must not fight. He obeyed the law. His snarl kept the three dogs at a distance. The men at the saloon always told the dogs on to attack White Fang. One day they openly sicked the dogs[52] 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 looked at the dogs, then he looked back 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 among his enemies. All three faced him. There was a great snarling and growling, and clashing of teeth. The dust of the road arose in a cloud and screened the battle. But in several minutes two dogs were dead and the third was in running away. White Fang followed, sliding over the ground in wolf manner and with wolf speed, and in the centre of the field he dragged down and slew the dog.

With this triple killing his main troubles with dogs ceased.

Chapter IV. The Call of Kind

The months came and went. There was plenty of food and no work in the Southland, and White Fang lived fat and prosperous and happy. He was not only in the geographical Southland, bu in the Southland of life. Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him, and he flourished like a flower in good soil.

And yet he was different from other dogs, as though the Wild still was in him and the wolf in him merely slept.

He never played with other dogs. He could not like them, they had always been his enemies. Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion, because he aroused in them their instinctive fear of the Wild. But he tolerated them.

But there was one problem in White Fang’s life – Collie. She never gave him a moment’s peace. She had never forgiven him the chicken-killing episode, and believed that his intentions were bad. She became a policeman following him everywhere. His favourite way of ignoring her was to lie down, with his head on his fore-paws, and pretend sleep. This always silenced her.

With the exception of Collie, all things went well with White Fang. He had learned control, and he knew the law. He achieved calmness and philosophic tolerance. He no longer lived in a hostile environment. Danger and hurt and death did not lurk everywhere around him.

He missed the snow without knowing it. Sometimes, when he suffered from the sun, he experienced faint longings for the Northland. But it didn’t produce much effect upon him.

White Fang had never been very demonstrative. Beyond his snuggling and the crooning note into his love-growl, he had no way of expressing his love. Yet he discovered a third way. He had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods. Laughter made him frantic with rage. But he could not be angry with the love-master, and when that god laughed at him good-naturedly, he was tolerant. He could feel the stinging of the old anger as it rose up in him, but it fought against love. He could not be angry; yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the master laughed more. Then he tried to be more dignified, and the master laughed more than before. In the end, the master laughed him out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a little, and a quizzical expression – more love than humour – came into his eyes. He had learned to laugh.

Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In return he pretended to be angry, bristling, growling, clipping his teeth together. But he never forgot himself. Those snaps were always on the empty air. At the end of such a romp, they broke off suddenly and stood several feet apart, looking at each other. And then, just as suddenly they began to laugh. Then the master embraced him, while White Fang crooned 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 not playful. The fact that he allowed the master these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here and loving there. He loved only one person, wholeheartedly, and refused to cheapen himself or his love.

The master went out on horseback[53] a lot, and to accompany him was one of White Fang’s main duties. There were no sleds in the Southland, and he could not be a sled-dog, so he showed his loyalty in the new way, by running with the master’s horse.

Once the master was trying to teach his horse the method of opening and closing gates without the rider’s dismounting. Many times he ranged the horse up to the gate in the effort to close it and each time the horse became frightened and backed away. It grew more nervous and excited every moment. White Fang watched anxiously until he could contain himself no longer, so he sprang in front of the horse and barked savagely and warningly.

The horse ran across the pasture. Suddenly a jackrabbit leaped under its feet. The horse stumbled, the master fell and apparently broke his leg. White Fang sprang in a rage at the throat of the offending horse, but was stopped by the master’s voice.

“Home! Go home!” the master commanded.

White Fang did not want to leave. The master thought of writing a note, but had no pencil and paper in his pockets. Again he commanded White Fang to go home.

The latter regarded him wistfully, started going, then returned and whined softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he listened with painful attention.

“That’s all right, old fellow, you just run home. Go home and tell them what’s happened to me. Home with you, you wolf. Go home!”

White Fang knew the meaning of “home” and he knew it was the master’s will that he should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly away. Then he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

“Go home!” came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed.

The family was on the porch, when White Fang arrived. He came to them, panting, covered with dust.

“Weedon’s back,” Weedon’s mother announced.

The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet him. He avoided them and passed down the porch, but they blocked his way. He growled and tried to push by them.

“I confess, he makes me nervous around the children,” their mother said. “I fear that he will hurt them unexpectedly someday.”

Growling savagely, White Fang sprang, overturning the boy and the girl. The mother called them and comforted them, telling them not to bother White Fang.

“A wolf is a wolf!” commented Judge Scott.

“But he is not all wolf,” objected Beth, standing for her brother[54] in his absence.

“He just supposes that there is some part of dog in White Fang; but he knows nothing about it,” said the judge. “As for his appearance – ”

He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling fiercely.

“Go away! Lie down, sir!” Judge Scott commanded.

White Fang turned to the love-master’s wife. She screamed with fright as he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the fabric tore away. By this time he had become the centre of interest.

He had ceased growling and stood, head up, looking into their faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he tried to verbalize something.

“I hope he is not going mad,” said Weedon’s mother. “I told Weedon that I was afraid the warm climate would be bad for an Arctic animal.”

“He’s trying to speak, I believe,” Beth announced.

At this moment speech came to White Fang, and he barked.

“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 his 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 slashed admitted that he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf.

As White Fang’s second winter in the Southland came on, he made a strange discovery. Collie’s teeth were no longer sharp. There was a playfulness about her, and she did not hurt him anymore. He forgot that she had been his biggest problem, and when she ran and played around him he tried to be playful and becoming no more than ridiculous.

One day she led him off on a long chase into the woods. It was the afternoon that the master was to ride, and White Fang knew it. The horse stood saddled and waiting at the door. White Fang hesitated. But there was a thing deeper than all the laws he had learned, than his love for the master, than the very will to live. When, in the moment of his hesitation, Collie called him, he turned and followed after. The master rode alone that day; and 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 wrote of the escape of a convict from San Quentin prison. He was a ferocious man. He was born mad, and his life made him even madder. In short, he was a beast.

Punishment failed to break his spirit. Its only effect was to make him fiercer. Strait-jackets, starvation, and beatings were the wrong treatment for Jim Hall; but it was the treatment he received. It was the treatment he had received from the time he was a little boy in San Francisco – soft clay in the hands of society.

In prison Jim Hall killed a guard who had treated him cruelly. After this, he lived in the separate cell for three years. He never left this cell. He never saw the sky or the sunshine. He was buried alive.[55] He saw no human face, spoke to no one. He hated all things. For weeks and months he never made a sound, in the black silence eating his very soul.

And then he escaped. He killed more guards to do so, and he took their weapons. A price of gold was upon his head. Farmers, bloodhounds, detectives – all tried to find him. His blood might pay off a mortgage[56] or send a son to college. Sometimes people saw him, and tried to catch, but in vain.

And then Jim Hall disappeared. In the meantime the newspapers at Sierra Vista were read not so much with interest as with anxiety. The women were afraid. And Judge Scott knew that in his last days of his work as judge Jim Hall had stood before him and received sentence. And in open court-room, before all men, Jim Hall had promised that the day would come when he would revenge the Judge that sentenced him.

For once, Jim Hall was right. He was innocent of the crime for which he was sentenced. It was “rail-roading.”[57] Jim Hall was being “rail-roaded” to prison for a crime he had not committed. Because of the two prior convictions[58] 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 the evidence was faked, that Jim Hall was guiltless of the crime charged. And Jim Hall, on the other hand, did not know that Judge Scott was ignorant. To him, Judge Scott was the main figure there.

Of all this White Fang knew nothing. But between him and Alice, the master’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. White Fang was not a house-dog, nor was he permitted to sleep in the house; so each morning, early, she came 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. And very quietly he smelled a strange god’s presence. And to his ears came sounds of the strange god’s movements. White Fang did not make a sound, it wasn’t his style. The strange god walked softly, but more softly walked White Fang. He followed silently. He knew the advantage of surprise.

The strange god paused at the foot of the great staircase and listened. Up that staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love-master’s dearest possessions. White Fang bristled, but waited. The strange god’s foot lifted. He was beginning the go upstairs.

Then White Fang struck. He gave no warning, no snarl. He leaped and landed on the strange god’s back. White Fang clung with his fore-paws to the man’s shoulders, at the same time burying his fangs into the back of the man’s neck. He clung on for a moment, long enough to drag the god over backward. Together they fell on the floor. White Fang leaped aside, and, as the man struggled to rise, leaped again with the slashing fangs.

Sierra Vista awoke in alarm. There were revolver shots. A man’s voice screamed once in horror. There was a great snarling and growling, and crashing of furniture and glass.

But almost as quickly as it had arisen, the noise died away. The struggle had not lasted more than three minutes. The frightened household gathered at the top of the staircase.

Weedon Scott turned on the light. Then he and Judge Scott, with revolvers in hand, cautiously descended. There 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 side, his face hidden by an arm, lay a man. Weedon Scott bent over, removed the arm and turned the man’s face upward. A wound in the throat explained the manner of his death.

“Jim Hall,” said Judge Scott, and father and son looked significantly at each other.

Then they turned to White Fang. He, too, was lying on his side. His eyes were closed, but the lids slightly lifted in an effort to look at them when they bent over him, and the tail was made a vain effort to wag. Weedon Scott patted him, and he gave an acknowledging growl. But it was a weak growl, and it quickly ceased. His eyes closed, and his whole body relaxed upon the floor.

“He’s dying, poor devil,” muttered the master.

“We’ll see about that,[59]” said the Judge, as he went to the telephone.

“Frankly, he has one chance in a thousand,” announced the surgeon, after he had worked an hour and a half on White Fang.

Dawn was breaking through the windows and dimming the electric lights. With the exception of the children, the whole family was gathered about the surgeon to hear his verdict.

“One broken hind-leg,” he went on. “Three broken ribs, one at least of which has pierced the lungs. He has lost nearly all the blood in his body. There can be internal injuries. He must have been jumped upon. To say nothing[60] of three bullet holes 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,” Judge Scott exclaimed. “Never mind expense. Put him under the X-ray – anything. Weedon, telegraph at once to San Francisco for Doctor Nichols. I hope you understand, doctor; he must have the advantage of every chance.”

The surgeon smiled. “Of course I understand. He deserves all that can be done for him. He must be nursed as you would nurse 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 trained nurse was declined by the girls, who took care of him themselves. And White Fang won his one chance in ten thousand which the surgeon had not given to him.

The surgeon should not be criticised for his misjudgement. All his life he had threated soft creatures of civilisation. White Fang had come straight from the Wild, where the weak die early. 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 heritage, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, in spirit and in flesh.

In plaster casts and bandages, White Fang slept a lot and dreamed much. All the ghosts of the past were with him. Once again he lived in the lair with Kiche, crept to the knees of Grey Beaver to express his allegiance, ran for his life before Lip-lip and all the puppy-pack, ran again through the silence, hunting in the months of famine; and again he ran at the head of the team, with Mit-sah and Grey Beaver behind. He lived again with Beauty Smith, he fought and won. At such times he whimpered and snarled in his sleep, and people said that his dreams were bad.

But there was one particular nightmare from which he suffered – the monsters of electric cars that were to him colossal screaming lynxes. He lay in the bushes, waiting for a squirrel to come closer. Then, when he sprang out upon it, it would transform itself into an electric car. It was the same when he watched the hawk in the sky. It dropped upon him changing itself into the terrible, clanging electric car. Or again, he was in the pen of Beauty Smith. He waited for his antagonist to enter. The door opened, and there was the awful electric car. A thousand times this happened, and each time the terror was as great as ever.

Then came the day when the last bandage and the last plaster cast were taken off. It was a great 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,” and then 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 strength. He felt a little shame because of his weakness. So of this he made heroic efforts to arise and at last he stood on his four legs, swaying back and forth.

“The Blessed Wolf!” cried the women.

Judge Scott looked at them triumphantly.

“Yes, no dog could have done what he did. He’s a wolf, as I’ve said.”

“A Blessed Wolf,” said Judge’s wife.

“Yes, Blessed Wolf,” agreed he. “And since now that shall be my name for him.”

“He’ll have to learn to walk again,” said the surgeon; “so he can start right now. It won’t hurt him. Take him outside.”

And outside he went, like a king, with all Sierra Vista beside him. He was very weak, and when he reached the lawn he lay down and rested for a while.

Then the procession went on. Strength was coming back to White Fang. They came to the stables, and there in the doorway lay Collie, with a half-dozen puppies playing about her in the sun.

White Fang looked and wondered. Collie snarled warningly at him, and he was careful to keep his distance. The master with his toe helped one puppy to go toward him. He bristled suspiciously, but the master warned him that all was well. Collie, in the arms of one of the women, watched him jealously and with a snarl warned him that all was not well.

The puppy stopped in front of him. He cocked his ears and watched it curiously. Then their noses touched, and he felt the warm little tongue of the puppy on his chops. White Fang’s tongue went out, he knew not why, and he licked the puppy’s face.

Hand-clapping and pleased cries from the gods greeted the performance. He was surprised at it. Then his weakness mastered him, and he lay down, his ears cocked, his head on one side, while he watched the puppy. The other puppies came toward him, to Collie’s great disgust; and he gravely permitted them to climb on him. And so he lay with half-closed patient eyes, dozing in the sun.

Exersises

I. Choose the correct answer:

1. Who was White Fang’s first owner?

a) Beauty Smith b) Weedon Scott c) Grey Beaver

2. Who of White Fang’s ancestors was a dog?

a) no one a) Kiche’s mother b) One Eye’s mother

3. Beauty Smith initially bought White Fang for….

a) exhibiting him b) dog-fighting c) protecting his house

4. How did Weedon Scott get White Fang?

a) He bought him. b) He stole him. c) He found him after a fight.

5. Where was Weedon Scott from?

a) California b) Nevada c) New York

6. White Fang saved the family when….

a) there was a fire b) his master broke his leg c) a criminal entered the house

II. Answer the questions:

1. Why were Bill and Henry attacked by the wolves?

2. What was so special about the red-hued she-wolf?

3. What connected Kiche and the Indians?

4. How did White Fang appreciate people?

5. What was White Fang’s attitude to Grey Beaver?

6. Why did Grey Beaver sell White Fang, if he was not for sale?

7. What was White Fang’s worst fight in the pen?

8. How did Scott change White Fang’s attitude to the environment?

9. How did Collie’s attitude to White Fang develop?

10. Who was Jim Hall?

III. Mark the sentences true (T) or false (F):

1. The wolf-pack ate all the men’s dogs.

2. Kiche had been Grey Beaver’s dog before.

3. Grey Beaver went to Fort Yukon to sell his goods.

4. White Fang never liked Beauty Smith.

5. Weedon Scott was an expert in dog-breeding.

6. Scott took White Fang to California with him.

7. White Fang did not like Scott’s family.

IV. Complete with the verbs in the correct form:

1. All White Fangs’s brothers and sisters ______ – (die) of hunger.

2. At first White Fang ________ – (not trust) Scott because his previous owners _______ – (treat) him badly.

3. While he __________ – (live) in the wood he _________ – (eat) smaller animals.

4. Weedon Scott ________ – (not let) his companion ________ – (kill) White Fang.

5. Cherokee _______ – (be) the first bull-dog that ______________ – (enter) the Klondike.

6. Jim Hall _______ – (want) to revenge Judge Scott because he ________ – (send) him to prison.

7. White Fang ________ – (attack) the bull-dog when he __________ – (look) in another direction.

8. When White Fang ______ – (meet) Kiche again, she ____________ – (not recognize) him. She ________ – (not remember) that she ________ – (be) his mother.

9. By the time White Fang ________ – (meet) Weedon Scott, he ____________ – (fight) with many of dogs.

10. It _____ – (be) Judge Scott who __________ – (sentence) Jim Hall to fifty years in prison.

V. Find in the text the English equivalents of the following words, phrases and word combinations:

Действовать на нервы, отгонять волков, бедолага, избежать вмешательства полиции, вилять хвостом, не просто так, преступить закон, владения бога, волчий вой, учуять чьё-то присутствие, у собак не было шансов против него, в отличном состоянии, подползти к костру, держать дистанцию, ради кого-либо, прокладывать себе путь, дать ему шанс, навострить уши, скомандовал идти домой, сидеть на корточках, у входа в пещеру, сойти на берег, без предупреждения, облизнуться, нанести удар, одомашненные волки, успокоиться, больше не колебаться, держать на цепи, не знал ничего о кровных узах, уже не говоря о чём-либо, зависимость от хозяина.

VI. Give at least one synonym for each of the following words or phrases:

Fire, anger, stomach, to raise hair, to be surprised, family, loyalty, jump, just, rich, killer, to order, to send to prison for fifty years, possibility, awful, track, pets, to show, owner, to be sure.

VII. Tell about the relationships between White Fang and the following characters:

a) Alice Scott

b) Kiche

c) Mit-sah

d) Collie

e) Lip-lip

f) Weedon Scott

g) Judge Scott

h) Matt

VIII. Choose the word that is one-odd-out:

1. a) cry b) howl c) whimper d) bite

2. a) hind-leg b) fang c) paw d) hand

3. a) growl b) bend c) snarl d) bark

4. a) thong b) club c) gun d) whip

IX. How many words connected to the following subjects can you remember? Write at least five words for each.

1. Professions of the characters of the book: a hunter, a mining expert….

2. Parts of human body

3. Parts of the dog’s body

4. Animals and fish

5. Means of transport

6. Emotions

X. Give definitions for the following words:

Howl, slash, porch, occasional, cub, lynx, tame, snarl, hostile, beast, environment, pursue

XI. Put the events in the correct order:

a) Grey Beaver sells White Fang to Beauty Smith

b) Kiche and her cub meet Indians

c) White Fang is shocked by the new environment

d) The hungry wolf-pack attacks the men and their dogs

e) White Fang saves Scott’s family

f) Weedon Scott buys White Fang

g) Kiche and One Eye have a litter of puppies

h) Beauty Smith uses him as a fighting dog

i) White Fang finds out that people can love and care

XII. Retell parts of the book on behalf of the characters:

a) Henry

b) One Eye

c) Kiche

d) Grey Beaver

e) Beauty Smith

f) Weedon Scott

g) Jim Hall

Vocabulary

Список сокращений

a – adjective – прилагательное

adv – adverb – наречие

cj – conjunction – союз

n – noun – существительное

prp – preposition – предлог

v – verb – глагол

A

abreast – adv вровень

accordingly – adv соответственно

acknowledge – v признавать

advance – v продвигаться, наступать; n продвижение

affection – n привязанность

afford – v позволить себе

ancestor – n предок

anticipation – n предвкушение

appoint – v назначать

apprehension – n предчувствие

approvingly – adv одобрительно

astonishment – n изумление

attach – v прикреплять

awkward – a неуклюжий

axe – n топор

B

bandage – n повязка

barely – adv еле-еле

beaver – n бобр

belly – n живот, брюхо; v ползти на животе

besiege – v осаждать, окружать

bet – v держать пари, делать ставку; n ставка

betray – v предавать

blaze – v гореть ярким пламенем

blink – v моргать, жмуриться

bold – a наглый

bondage – n привязь

bother – v беспокоить, волновать

breed – n порода

bristle – v (о шерсти) вставать дыбом

brute – n зверь, тварь; a жестокий

bullet – n пуля

bundle – n кулёк, комок

burden – n бремя

C

cabin – n небольшой домик, бытовка

car – n (зд.) вагон

caress – v гладить, ласкать

carriage – n экипаж, карета

cartridge – n патрон

cave – n пещера

cease – v прекратить

chase – v преследовать, гнаться; n преследование, погоня

cheapen – v обесценивать, разменивать

chew – v жевать

clang – v лязгать

clay – n глина

cling – (clung, clung) v цепляться, держаться

club – n бита

cluster – n скопление, куча

conclude – n делать вывод, заключать

confidence – n уверенность, доверие

convict – n преступник

corresponding – a соответствующий

coward – n трус

crawl – v ползти

creature – n существо

croon – v мурлыкать

crouch – v припасть к земле, сжаться

crunch – v хрустеть

cub – n детёныш, (зд.) волчонок

cuff – n лёгкий удар

culprit – n негодяй, преступник

cunning – a коварный

curious – a любопытный

curse – v проклинать; n проклятие

D

dare – v осмелиться

daring – n наглость

deck – n палуба

deliberately – adv намеренно

despair – n отчаяние

despise – v презирать

determinately – adv решительно

die away – v угасать

digest – v переваривать

digestion – n пищеварение

dignified – a обладающий чувством собственного достоинства

dignity – n достоинство

dim – a смутный, плохо различимый

disgust – n отвращение

distract – v отвлечь

diver – a ныряльщик

dogmatise – v поучать

dog-musher – n собаковод

domestic – a домашний

doze – v дремать

dozen – n дюжина

drag down – тащить, тянуть

draw closer – подтягиваться, приближаться

droop – v наклоняться, опадать

E

endure – v выносить, терпеть

embrace – v обнимать

enemy – n враг

epitaph – n эпитафия, поминовение

estimate – v оценить

eternity – n вечность

exclamation – n восклицание

evil – n зло; a злой

F

familiar – a знакомый

familiarity – n фамильярность

fang – n клык

faro-dealer – n распорядитель в игорном доме

fault – n вина

ferocious – a жестокий, свирепый

fierce – a свирепый

fist – n кулак

flesh – n плоть

flourish – v процветать

form – n форма, силуэт

furry – a мохнатый

fury – n яростный

G

gang-plank – n трап

generalization – n вывод, обобщение

get away with – v скрыться, избежать наказания

gnaw – v грызть, разгрызть

gold-rush – n золотая лихорадка

good-naturedly – abv добродушно

grief – n горе

grip – n хватка

groan – v стонать; n стон

growl – v рычать

grunt – v ворчать; n ворчание

gun – n (зд.) ружьё

H

harness – n упряжь, сбруя

hatred – n ненависть

heritage – n наследие

hesitate – v колебаться, сомневаться

hind-leg – n задняя лапа

hostile – a враждебный, агрессивный

household – n домочадцы

howl – n выть

hue – n оттенок

I

incommunicable – a невыразимый

inglorious – a бесславный

inherit – v унаследовать

inheritance – n наследство

innocent – a невинный

intently – adv напряжённо

interference – n вмешательство

intimacy – n близость

J

jaw – n челюсть

jealousy – n ревность, зависть

justify – v подтверждать

L

lair – n лежбище, берлога

lean – v 1. прислоняться, наклоняться 2. v прыгать; a худой, тощий

lick – v облизывать

limp – a хромой

lip – n губа

litter – n помёт, выводок

load – n груз

longing – n тоска

loyalty – n верность

lynx – n рысь

M

magnificent – a великолепный

maintain – v поддерживать, сохранять

mane – n грива

master – v овладеть, подавить; n хозяин

masterful – a властный

menace – n угроза

merely – adv только, лишь

moose – n лось

moth – n мотылёк

mould – v формировать

mouthful – n кусок, глоток

muzzle – n морда

N

nod – v кивнуть

O

oblong – a продолговатый

occasional – a случайный, нерегулярный

outgrow – v перерасти

P

pack – n стая

paddle – n весло

painstaking – a тщательный

pat – v похлопать; n nохлопывание

pavement – n тротуар

pen – n загон

penalize – v накладывать штраф

persecution – n преследование

pet – v приручать, обращаться как с домашним животным; n домашний любимец

pierce – v протыкать, пронзать

plaster cast – гипс

plead – v умолять, просить; n мольба

populous – a многолюдный

porch – n крыльцо

porcupine – n дикобраз

prevent – v предотвращать, не допускать

primacy – n превосходство

promptly – adv немедленно

prosperous – a процветающий

ptarmigan – n куропатка

pursue – v преследовать

pursuer – n преследователь

Q

quail – n перепел

quill – n колючка, игла

quizzical – a насмешливый

R

radiant – a светящийся

rage – n ярость

range – v рыскать, шнырять; варьироваться

redeem – v выкупить, освободить

reign – n правление

relief – n облегчение

relieve – v облегчать

reluctantly – adv неохотно

remnant – n остатки

remotely – adv отдалённо

respectful – a уважительный

retreat – v отступать; n отступление

rib – n ребро

ridiculous – a смехотворный

rifle – n ружьё

roll – v катиться

root – n корень, основание

rough – a грубый

rub – v тереть, гладить

rush – v бросаться, кидаться; n стремительное движение, бросок

S

sacred – a священный

saliva – n слюна

saloon – n салун

sap – n древесный сок

satisfaction – n удовлетворение

savage – a жестокий, дикий

scaffold – n помост

seal – n печать

seize – v схватить

sentence – v приговорить; n приговор

set off – v отправиться

severe – a суровый

sharp – a резкий, острый

she-wolf – n волчица

shot – n выстрел

shrug – v пожать плечами

sigh – v вздыхать; n вздох

sinewy – a жилистый

slash – v глубоко ранить, порезать; n порез, режущий удар

slay – (slew, slain) v забить, убить

sled – n сани

slid – (slid, slid) v скользить

snap – v огрызаться, лязгать зубами, хватать; n укус, захват

snarl – v рычать, огрызаться; n рычание

snore – v храпеть; n храп

snuggle – v тереться, устраиваться удобнее

sober – a трезвый

sody – n (зд.) сода

solid – a твёрдый

sorrow – n скорбь

squaw – n скво, индианка

squeal – v пронзительно кричать; n крик, вопль

stable – n конюшня; a устойчивый, стабильный

stately – adv статно

stature – n стать

stealthily – adv воровато, осторожно

steamboat – n пароход

stick – (stuck, stuck) v вонзить, застрять, держаться

stir – v ворочаться; n беспокойство, (зд.) шорох

strap – v ремень, лямка; n привязывать, скреплять ремнями

string – n цепочка, линия, (зд.) упряжка

struggle – v бороться, пытаться; n борьба

stub – v ударяться

stumble – v спотыкаться

surrender – v сдаваться

surround – v окружать

suspicion – n подозрение

suspicious – a подозрительный, подозревающий

swallow – v проглотить

swear – v ругаться

T

tame – v приручить, укротить, одомашнить; a укрощенный, прирученный, смирный

taut – a натянутый

tense – a напряжённый

tepee – n вигвам

thong – n ремень, поводок

tie – v привязывать

toboggan – n сани

toilet – n уход за собой, гигиена, туалет

torment – n пытка

trace – n след

track – n след, дорога

trail – n лыжня, дорога

treachery – n предательство

treat – v обращаться

triumphantly – adv победоносно

trot – v бежать трусцой

trunk – n пень, ствол

tug – v тянуть

U

undertaker – n гробовщик

uproar – n волнение, суматоха

utter – v произносить

V

vain – a бессмысленный; in vain тщетно, безрезультатно

vastness – n широта, неохватность

velvet – n бархат

violation – n нарушение

vision – n зрение, видение

W

the Wild – n дикая природа

wag (a tail) – v вилять (хвостом)

wander – v скитаться, странствовать

warn – v предупреждать

warning – n предупреждение

wastage – n отходы

weariness – n усталость

weasel – n ласка

whimper – v скулить; n скулёж

whip – n хлыст

whistle – v свистеть; n свист

willingness – n готовность

wipe – v вытирать

wisdom – n мудрость

wistful – a тоскливый

wolverine – n росомаха

wonder – v удивляться, интересоваться

wrath – n гнев, ярость

wrinkle – v морщиться, мяться

Y

yawn – v зевать; n зевок

yell – v вопить, пронзительно кричать; n пронзительный крик, вопль