 Part I, Chapter I of White Fang. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang by Jack London. Part I, Chapter I, The Trail of the Meat. Black spruce forest frowned on either side of the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering of frost, and they seemed to lean towards each other, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness. A laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx. A laughter cold as the frost, and partaking of the grimness of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity, laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the wild, the savage, frozen-hearted, Northland wild. But there was life, abroad in the land, and defiant. Down the frozen waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their bristly fur was rhymed with frost. Their breath frozen the air as it left their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapor that settled upon the hair of their bodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along behind. The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch bark, and its full surface rested on the snow. The front end of the sled was turned up, like a scroll, in order to force down and under the bore of soft snow that surged like a wave before it. On the sled, securely lashed, was a long and narrow oblong box. There were other things on the sled, blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot in frying-pan, but prominent, occupying most of the space, was the long and narrow oblong box. In advance of the dogs, on wide snowshoes toiled a man. At the rear of the sled toiled a second man. On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over, a man whom the wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the wild to like movement. Life is an offence to it, for life is movement, and the wild aims always to destroy movement. It freezes the water to prevent it running to the sea. It drives the sap out of the trees till they are frozen to their mighty hearts. And most ferociously and terribly of all, does the wild hairy and crush into submission man, man who is the most restless of life, ever enravelled against the dictum that all movement must in the end come to the cessation of movement. But at front and rear, unawed and indomitable, toiled the two men who were not yet dead. Their bodies were covered with fur and soft-tanned leather. Eyelashes and cheeks and lips were so coated with the crystals from their frozen breath that their faces were not discernible. This gave them the seeming of ghostly masks, undertakers in a spectral world at the funeral of some ghost. But under it all they were men, penetrating the land of desolation and mockery and silence. Puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space. They traveled on without speech, saving their breath for the work of their bodies. On every side was the silence, pressing upon them with a tangible presence. It affected their minds as the many atmospheres of deep water affect the body of the diver. It crushed them with a weight of unending vastness and unalterable decree. It crushed them into the remotest recesses of their own minds, pressing out of them like juices from the grape, all the false arters and exaltations and undue self-values of the human soul until they perceived themselves finite and small, specks and motes, moving with weak cunning and little wisdom amidst the play and interplay of the great blind elements and forces. An hour went by, and a second hour. The pale light of the short, sunless day was beginning to fade when a faint far cry arose on the still air. It soared upward with a swift rush till it reached its topmost note where it persisted, palpitant and tense, and then slowly died away. It might have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with a certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness. The front man turned his head until his eyes met the eyes of the man behind, and then across the narrow, oblong box, each knotted to the other. A second cry arose, piercing the silence with needle-like shrillness. Both men located the sound. It was to the rear, somewhere in the snow expanse they had just traversed. A third and answering cry arose, also to the rear and to the left of the second cry. "'There after us, Bill,' said the man at the front. His voice sounded hoarse and unreal, and he had spoken with apparent effort. "'Meet his scarce,' answered his comrade. "'I ain't seen a rabbit sign for days.' Thereafter they spoke no more, though their ears were keen for the hunting cries that continued to rise behind them. At the fall of darkness they swung the dogs into a cluster of spruce trees on the edge of the waterway and made a camp. The coffin, at the side of the fire, served for seat and table. The wolf-dogs, clustered on the far side of the fire, snarled and bickered among themselves, but evinced no inclination to stray off into the darkness. "'Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin' remarkable close to camp,' Bill commented. Henry, squatting over the fire and settling the pot of coffee with a piece of ice, knotted. Nor did he speak till he had taken his seat on the coffin and begun to eat. They know where their hides is safe.' He said. They'd sooner eat grub than be grub. They're pretty wise, them dogs.' Bill shook his head. "'Oh, I don't know.' His comrade looked at him curiously. "'First time I ever heard you say anything about there, not bein' wise.' "'Henry,' said the other, munching with deliberation the beans he was eating. Did you happen to notice the way them dogs kicked up when I was affeedin' them?' They did cut up more unusual,' Henry acknowledged. "'How many dogs have we got, Henry?' "'Six.' "'Well, Henry.'" Bill stopped for a moment in order that his words might gain greater significance. "'As I was sayin', Henry, we've got six dogs. I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog, and, Henry, I was one fish short. You count it wrong. We've got six dogs,' the other reiterated dispassionately. I took out six fish. One ear didn't get no fish. I come back to the bag afterward and got him his fish. "'We've only got six dogs,' Henry said. "'Henry,' Bill went on, I won't say there was all dogs, but there was seven of them that got fish.' Henry stopped eating to glance across the fire and count the dogs. "'There's only six now,' he said. "'I saw the other one run off across the snow,' Bill announced with cool positiveness. I saw seven.' Henry looked at him commiseratingly and said, "'I'll be all mighty glad when this trip's over.' "'What do you mean by that?' Bill demanded. "'I mean that this load of iron is gettin' on your nerves, and that you're beginnin' to see things.' "'I thought of that,' Bill answered gravely. "'And so, when I saw it run off across the snow, I looked in the snow and saw it's tracks. Then I counted the dogs, and there was still six of them. The tracks is there in the snow now. Do you want to look at them? I'll show them to you.' Henry did not reply, but bunched on in silence. Until the meal finished, he topped it with a final cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "'Then you're thinkin' as it was.' A long, wailing cry, fiercely sad, from somewhere in the darkness, had interrupted him. He stopped to listen to it, then he finished his sentence with a wave of his hand toward the sound of the cry. One of them?' Bill nodded. "'I'd have blamed sight sooner think that than anything else. You noticed yourself the row the dogs made.' Cry after cry and answering cries were turning the silence into a bedlam. From every side the cries arose and the dogs betrayed their fear by huddling together and so close to the fire that their hair was scorched by the heat.' Bill threw on more wood before lighting his pipe. "'I'm thinkin' you're down in the mouth some,' Henry said. "'Henry?' He sucked meditatively at his pipe for some time before he went on. "'Henry, I was a thinkin' what a blame sight luckier he is than you and me'll ever be.' He indicated the third person by a downward thrust of the thumb to the box on which they sat. "'You and me, Henry, when we die, we'll be lucky if we get enough stones over our carcasses to keep the dogs off of us. But we ain't got people and money and all the rest like him.' Henry rejoined. "'Long-distance funerals is somethin' you and me can't exactly afford.' "'What gets me, Henry, is what a chap like this that's a lord or somethin' in his own country, and that never had to bother about grub nor blankets. Why he comes a button round the God-forsaken ends of the earth. That's what I can't exactly see.' "'He might have lived to a ripe old age if he'd stayed at home.' Henry agreed. Bill opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind. Instead he pointed towards the wall of darkness that pressed about them from every side. There was no suggestion of form in the utter blackness, only could be seen a pair of eyes gleaming like live coals. Henry indicated with his head a second pair, and a third. A circle of the gleaming eyes had drawn about their cap. Now and again a pair of eyes moved, or disappeared to appear again a moment later. The unrest of the dogs had been increasing, and they stampeded, in a surge of sudden fear, to the near side of the fire, cringing and crawling about the legs of the men. In the scramble one of the dogs had been overturned on the edge of the fire, and it had yelped with pain in fright as the smell of its singed coat possessed the air. The commotion caused the circle of eyes to shift restlessly for a moment, and even to withdraw a bit, but it settled down again as the dogs became quiet. Henry, it's a blame misfortune to be out of ammunition. Bill had finished his pipe, and was helping his companion to spread the bed of fur and blanket upon the sprue-spouse which he had laid over the snow before supper. Henry grunted and began unlacing his moccasins. How many cartridges did you say you had left? he asked. Three, came the answer, and I wished was three hundred. Then I'd show him what for, damn'em! He shook his fist angrily at the gleaming eyes, and began securely to prop his moccasins before the fire. And I wish this cold snap had break, he went on. It's been fifty below for two weeks now. And I wished I never started on this trip, Henry. I don't like the looks of it. I don't feel right somehow. And while I'm wishing, I wish the trip were over and done with, and you and me sitting by the fire in Fort McGurray just about now and playing cribbage, that's what I wished. Henry grunted and crawled into bed. As he dozed off he was aroused by his comrade's voice. Say, Henry, that other one that come in and got a fish. Why didn't the dogs pitch into it? That's what's bothering me. Your bothering too much, Bill, came the sleepy response. You was never like this before. You just shut up now and go to sleep and you'll be all hunky-dory in the morning. Your stomach's sour, 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 circle they had flung about the camp. The dogs clustered together in fear, now and again snarling menacingly as a pair of eyes drew close. Once their uproar became so loud that Bill woke up. He got out of bed carefully, so as not to disturb the sleep of his comrade and threw more wood on the fire. As it began to flame up, the circle of eyes drew farther back. He glanced casually at the huddling dogs. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them more sharply. Then he crawled back into the blankets. Henry, he said, oh, Henry! Henry groaned as he passed from sleep to waking and demanded, What's wrong now? Nothing, came the answer. Only there's seven of them again. I just counted. Henry acknowledged receipt of the information with the grunt that slid into a snore as he drifted back into sleep. In the morning it was Henry who awoke first and routed his companion out of bed. Daylight was yet three hours away, though it was already six o'clock, and in the darkness Henry went about preparing breakfast while Bill rolled the blankets and made the sled ready for lashing. Say, Henry, he asked suddenly, how many dogs did you say we had? Six? Wrong, Bill proclaimed triumphantly. Seven again, Henry queried. No, five. One's gone. The hell! Henry cried in wrath, leaving the cooking to come and count the dogs. You're right, Bill, he concluded. Fatty's gone. And he went like Grease Leitlin once he got started, couldn't have seen him for smoke. No chance at all, Henry concluded. They just swallowed him alive. I bet he was yelping as he went down their throats, damn'em. He always was a fool dog, said Bill. But no fool dog ought to be fool enough to go out and commit suicide that way. He looked over the remainder of the team with a speculative eye that summed up instantly the salient traits of each animal. I bet none of the others would do it. Couldn't drive him away from the fire with a club, Bill agreed. I always did think there was something wrong with Fatty, anyway. And this was the epitaph of a dead dog on the Northland Trail, less scant than the epitaph of many another dog, of many a man. CHAPTER II Breakfast eaten and the slim camp outfit lashed to the sled, the men turned their backs on the cheery fire and launched out into the darkness. At once began to rise the cries that were fiercely sad, cries that called through the darkness in cold to one another and answered back. Conversation ceased. Daylight came at nine o'clock. At midday the sky to the south warmed to rose-color and marked where the bulge of the earth intervened between the meridian sun and the northern world. But the rose-color swiftly faded. The gray light of day that remained lasted until three o'clock. When it too faded, and the pall of the arctic night descended upon the lone and silent land. As darkness came on, the hunting cries to right and left in rear drew closer, so close that more than once they sent surges of fear through the toiling dogs, throwing them into sharp-lived panics. At the conclusion of one such panic, when he and Henry had got the dogs back in the traces, Bill said, I wish they'd strike games somewheres and go away and leave us alone. They do get on the nerves horrible! Henry sympathized. They spoke no more until camp was made. Henry was bending over and adding ice to the babbling pot of beans when he was startled by the sound of a blow, an exclamation from Bill and a sharp, snarling cry of pain from among the dogs. He straightened up in time to see a dim form disappearing across the snow into the shelter of the dark. Then he saw Bill standing amid the dogs, half triumphant, half crestfallen, in one hand a stout club, in the other the tail and part of the body of a sun-cured salmon. It got half of it, he announced, but I got a whack at it just the same. Did you hear it squeal? What did it look like? Henry asked. 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. It's damn tame, whatever it is, coming in here at feed-in-time and getting its whack of fish. That night when supper was finished and they sat on the oblong box and pulled at their pipes, the circle of gleaming eyes drew in even closer than before. I wished they'd spring up a bunch of moose or something and go away and leave us alone, Bill said. Henry grunted with an intonation that was not all sympathy and for a quarter of an hour they sat on in silence, Henry staring at the fire and Bill at the circle of eyes that burned in the darkness just beyond the fire-light. I wished we was pulling into Maguri right now. He began again. Shut up, your wishin' and your croken! Henry burst out angrily. Your stomach sour! That's what's ailing ya! Blow a spoonful of soda and you'll sweeten up wonderful and be more pleasant company. In the morning Henry was aroused by fervid blasphemy that preceded from the mouth of Bill. Henry propped himself up on an elbow and looked to see his comrade, standing among the dogs beside the replenished fire. His arms raised in objurgation, his face distorted with passion. Hello! Henry called. What's up now? Frogs gone, came the answer. No! I tell ya, yes! Henry leaped out of the blankets into the dogs, he counted them with care, and then joined his partner in cursing the power of the wild that had robbed them of another dog. Frog was the strongest dog of the bunch, Bill pronounced finally, there was no full dog, neither, Henry added. And so was recorded the second epitaph in two days. A gloomy breakfast was eaten, and the four remaining dogs were harnessed to the sled. The day was a repetition of the days that had gone before. The men toiled without speech across the face of the frozen world. The silence was unbroken saved by the cries of their pursuers that unseen hung upon their rear. With the coming of night in the mid-afternoon the cries sounded closer as the pursuers drew in according to their custom, and the dogs grew excited and frightened, and were guilty of panics that tangled the traces and further depressed the two men. There! that'll fix you, fool critters! Bill said with satisfaction that night, standing erect at completion of his task. Henry left the cooking to come and see. Not only had his partner tied the dogs up, but he had tied them, after the Indian fashion, with sticks. About the neck of each dog he had fastened a leather thong. To this, and so close to the neck that the dog could not get his teeth to it, he had tied a stout stick four or five feet in length. The other end of the stick, in turn, was made fast to a stake in the ground by means of a leather thong. The dog was unable to gnaw through the leather at his own end of the stick. The stick prevented him from getting at the leather that fastened the other end. Henry nodded his head approvingly. It's the only contraption that'll ever hold one ear, he said. He can gnaw through leather as clean as a knife, and just about half as quick. They'll all be here in the morning, hunky-dory. You just bet they will, Bill affirmed. If one of them turns up missing, I'll go without my coffee. They just know we ain't loaded to kill. Henry remarked at bedtime, indicating the gleaming circle that hemmed them in. If we could put a couple of shots into them, they'd be more respectful. They'd come closer every night. Get the firelight out of your eyes and look hard. There! Did you see that one? For some time the two men amused themselves with watching the movement of vague forms on the edge of the firelight. By looking closely and steadily at where a pair of eyes burned in the darkness, the form of the animal would slowly take shape. They could even see these forms move at times. A sound among the dogs attracted the men's attention. One ear was uttering quick eager whines, lunging at the length of his stick toward the darkness, and desisting now and again in order to make frantic attacks on the stick with his teeth. Look at that, Bill! Henry whispered. Full into the firelight, with a stealthy, side-long movement glided a dog-like animal. It moved with commingled mistrust and daring, cautiously observing the men, its attention fixed on the dogs. One ear strained the full length of the stick toward the intruder and whined with eagerness. That fool one ear don't seem scared much. Bill said in a low tone. It's a she-wolf, Henry whispered back, and that accounts for fatty and frog. She's the decoy for the pack. She draws out the dog and that all the rest pitches in and eats them up. The fire crackled. A log fell apart with a loud spluttering noise. At the sound of it the strange animal leaped back into the darkness. Henry, I'm a-thinking, Bill announced. Thinking what? I'm a-thinking that was the one I lambasted with a club. Ain't the slightest doubt in the world, was Henry's response. And right here I want to remark, Bill went on, that that animal's familiarity with campfires is suspicious and immoral. It knows for certain more than a self-respecting wolf ought to know. Henry agreed. A wolf that knows enough to come in with the dogs at feeding-time has had experiences. Old Villan had a dog once that run away with the wolves. Bill cogitates aloud. I ought to know. I shot it out of the pack in a moose pasture over on Little Stick. An old villain cried like a baby. Hadn't seen it for three years, he said. Been with the wolves all that time. I reckon you've called the turn, Bill. That wolf's a dog, and it's eating fish many's the time from the hand of man. And if I get a chance at it, that wolf that's a dog'll be just meat, Bill declared. We can't afford to lose no more animals. But you've only got three cartridges, Henry objected. I'll wait for a dead sure shot, was the reply. In the morning Henry renewed the fire and cooked breakfast to the accompaniment of his partner snoring. You was sleeping just too comfortable for anything, Henry told him, as he routed him out for breakfast. I hadn't the heart to rouse you. Bill began to eat sleepily. He noticed that his cup was empty and started to reach for the pot. But the pot was beyond arm's length and beside Henry. Say, Henry, he chided gently. Ain't you forgot something? Henry looked about with great carefulness and shook his head. Bill held up the empty cup. You don't get no coffee, Henry announced. Ain't run out, Bill asked anxiously. Nope. Ain't thinkin' it'll hurt my digestion. Nope. A flush of angry blood pervaded Bill's face. Then it's just warm and anxious I am to be here and you explain yourself, he said. Spankers gone, Henry answered. Without haste, with the air of one resigned to misfortune, Bill turned his head and from where he sat counted the dogs. How'd it happen? he asked apathetically. Henry shrugged his shoulders. Don't know, unless one ear nod him loose. He couldn't have done it himself, that's sure. The darned cuss. Bill spoke gravely and slowly, with no hint of the anger that was raging within. Just because he couldn't chew himself loose, he chewed Spanker loose. Well, Spanker's troubles is over anyway. I guess he's digested by this time and cavortin' over the landscape and the bellies of twenty different wolves. Was Henry's epitaph on this, the latest lost dog. Have some coffee, Bill. But Bill shook his head. Go on, Henry pleaded, elevating the pot. Bill shoved his cup aside. I'll be ding-dong-danged if I do. I said I wouldn't if every dog turned up missin' and I won't. It's darned good coffee, Henry said enticingly. But Bill was stubborn and he ate a dry breakfast washed down with mumbled curses at one ear for the trick he had played. I'll tie him up out of reach of each other to-night, Bill said, as they took the trail. They had traveled a little more than a hundred yards when Henry, who was in front, bent down and picked up something with which his snowshoe had collided. It was dark and he could not see it, but he recognized it by the touch. He flung it back so that it struck the sled and bounced along until it fetched up on Bill's snowshoes. Maybe you'll need that in your business, Henry said. Bill uttered an exclamation. It was all that was left of Spanker, the stick with which he had been tied. They ate him hide and all, Bill announced. The sticks as clean as a whistle. They've ate the leather off and both ends. They're damn hungry, Henry, and they'll have you and me guessing before this trip's over. Henry laughed defiantly. I ain't been trailed this way by wolves before, but I've gone through a whole lot worse and kept my health. Takes more in a handful of them pesky critters to do for yours truly, Bill, my son. I don't know. I don't know, Bill muttered ominously. Well, you'll know all right when we pull into McGurrey. I ain't feeling special, enthusiastic, Bill persisted. You're off color. That's what's the matter with you, Henry dogmatized. What you need is quinine, and I'm going to dose you up stiff as soon as we make McGurrey. Bill grunted his disagreement with the diagnosis and lapsed into silence. The day was like all the days. Light came at nine o'clock. At twelve o'clock the southern horizon was warmed by the unseen sun, and then began the cold gray of afternoon that would merge three hours later in tonight. It was just after the sun's futile effort to appear that Bill slipped the rifle from under the sled-lashings and said, You keep right on, Henry. I'm going to see what I can see. You'd better stick by the sled," his partner protested. You've only got three cartridges and there's no telling what might happen. Who's croaking now? Bill demanded triumphantly. Henry made no reply and plotted on alone, though often he cast anxious glances back into the gray solitude where his partner had disappeared. An hour later, taking advantage of the cut-offs around which the sled had to go, Bill arrived. They're scattered and ranging along wide, he said, keeping up with us and looking for Gabe at the same time. You see, they're sure of us, only they know they've got to wait to get us. In the meantime they're willing to pick up anything eatable that comes handy. You mean they think they're sure of us, Henry objected pointedly. But Bill ignored him. I seen some of them. They're pretty thin. They ain't had a bite in weeks, I reckon, outside of Fatty and Frog and Spanker, and there's so many of them that that didn't go far. They're remarkable thin. Their ribs is like washboards and their stomachs is right up against their backbones. They're pretty desperate, I can tell you. They'll be going mad yet, and then watch out. A few minutes later, Henry, who was now travelling behind the sled, emitted a low warning whistle. Bill turned and looked, then quietly stopped the dogs. To the rear, from around the last bend and plainly into view, on the very trail they had just covered, trotted a furry, slinking form. Its nose was to the trail, and it trotted with a peculiar, sliding, effortless gait. When they halted, it halted, throwing up its head and regarding them steadily with nostrils that twitched as it caught and studied the scent of them. It's the she-wolf! Bill answered. The dogs had lain down in the snow, and he walked past them to join his partner in the sled. Together they watched the strange animal that had pursued them for days, and that had already accomplished the destruction of half their dog-team. After a searching scrutiny, the animal trotted forward a few steps. This it repeated several times, till it was a short hundred yards away. It paused, head up, close by a clump of spruce trees, and with sight and scent studied the outfit of the watching men. It looked at them in a strangely whistful way, after the manner of a dog, but in its whistfulness there was none of the dog affection. It was a wistfulness bred of hunger, as cruel as its own fangs, as merciless as the frost itself. It was large for a wolf, its gaunt frame advertising the lines of an animal that was among the largest of its kind. Stands pretty close to two feet and a half at the shoulders, Henry commented, and I'll bet it ain't far from five feet long. And a strange color for a wolf, was Bill's criticism. I never seen a red wolf before. Looks almost cinnamon to me. The animal was certainly not cinnamon-colored. Its coat was the true wolf coat. The dominant color was gray, and yet there was, too, at a faint reddish hue, a hue that was baffling, that appeared and disappeared, that was more like an illusion of the vision, now gray, distinctly gray, and again giving hints and glints of a vague redness of color not classifiable in terms of ordinary experience. Looks for all the world like a big husky sled-dog, Bill said. I wouldn't be surprised to see it wag its tail. Hello, you husky! he called. Come here, you whatever your name is. Ain't a bit scared of you, Henry laughed. Bill waved his hand at it threateningly and shouted loudly, but the animal betrayed no fear. The only change in it that they could notice was an accession of alertness. It still regarded them with the merciless wistfulness of hunger. They were meat, and it was hungry, and it would like to go in and eat them if it dared. Look here, Henry, unconsciously lowering his voice to a whisper because of what he imitated. 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 ought to put a stop to it. What do you say? Henry nodded his consent. Bill cautiously slipped the gun from under the sled-lashing. The gun was on the way to his shoulder, but it never got there, for in that instant the she-wolf leaped sideways from the trail into the clump of spruce trees and disappeared. The two men looked at each other. Henry whistled long and comprehensively. I might have noted. Bill chided himself aloud as he replaced the gun. Of course a wolf that knows enough to come in with the dogs at feed-in time. He'd know all about shooting irons. I tell you right now, Henry, that critters the cause of all our trouble. We'd have six dogs at the present time instead of three if it wasn't for her. And I tell you right now, Henry, I'm going to get her. She's too smart to be shot in the open, but I'm going to lay for her. I'll bush-whack her as sure as my name is Bill. You needn't stray off too far in doing it, his partner admonished. If that pack ever starts to jump you, then three cartridges will be worth no more than three whoops in hell. Them animals is damn hungry and once they start in they'll sure get you, Bill. They camped early that night. Three dogs could not drag the sled so fast nor for so long hours as could six, and they were showing unmistakable signs of playing out. And the men went early to bed, Bill first seeing to it that the dogs were tied out of gnawing reach of one another. But the wolves were growing bolder, and the men were aroused more than once from their sleep. So near did the wolves approach, that the dogs became frantic with terror and it was necessary to replenish the fire from time to time in order to keep the adventurous marauders at safer distance. I've heard in sailors talk of sharks following a ship. Bill remarked as he crawled back into the blankets after one such replenishing of the fire. Well, them wolves is land sharks. They know their business better than we do, and they ain't aholdin' our trail this way for their health. They're going to get us. They're sure going to get us, Henry. They've half got you already, a-talkin' like that! Henry retorted sharply. Man's half licked when he says he is, and you're half eatin' from the way you're goin' on about it. They've got away with better men than you and me, Bill answered. Oh, shut up, you croken! You make me all fired tired. Henry rolled angrily on his side, but was surprised that Bill made no similar display of temper. This was not Bill's way, for he was easily angered by sharp words. Henry thought long over it before he went to sleep, and as his eyelids fluttered down and he dozed off, the thought in his mind was, There's no mistake in it, Bill's almighty blue. I'll have to cheer him up to-morrow. End of Chapter 2 Part 1 Chapter 3 of White Fang This lever-box recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang. By Jack London. Part 1 Chapter 3. The Hunger Cry The day began auspiciously. They had lost no dogs during the night, and they swung out upon the trail and into the silence, the darkness, and the cold, with spirits that were fairly light. Bill seemed to have forgotten his forebodings of the previous night, and even wax facetious with the dogs when at midday they overturned the sled on a bad piece of trail. It was an awkward mix-up. The sled was upside down and jammed between a tree-trunk and a huge rock, and they were forced to unharness the dogs in order to straighten out the tangle. The two men were bent over the sled and trying to ride it when Henry observed One Ear sidling away. Here you, One Ear! he cried, straightening up and turning around on the dog. But One Ear broke into a run across the snow, his traces trailing behind him. And there, out in the snow of their back-drake, was the she-wolf waiting for him. As he neared her he became suddenly cautious. He slowed down to an alert and mincing walk, and then stopped. He regarded her carefully and dubiously, yet desirably. She seemed to smile at him, showing her teeth in an ingratiating rather than a menacing way. She moved toward him a few steps, playfully, and then halted. One Ear drew near to her, still alert and cautious, his tail and ears in the air, his head held high. He tried to sniff noses with her, but she retreated playfully and coyly. Every advance on his part was accompanied by a corresponding retreat on her part. Step by step she was luring him away from the security of his human companionship. Once as though a warning had in vague ways flitted through his intelligence, he turned his head and looked back at the overturned sled, at his teammates, and at the two men who were calling to him. But whatever idea was forming in his mind was dissipated by the she-wolf, who advanced upon him, sniff noses with him for a fleeting instant, and then resumed her coy retreat before his renewed advances. In the meantime Bill had bethought himself of the rifle, but it was jam beneath the overturned sled, and by the time Henry had helped him to write the load, one Ear and the she-wolf were too close together, and the distance too great to risk a shot. Too late one Ear learned his mistake. Before they saw the cause, the two men saw him turn and start to run back toward them. Then, approaching at right angles to the trail and cutting off his retreat, they saw a dozen wolves, lean and gray, bounding across the snow. On the instant the she-wolf's coyness and playfulness disappeared. With a snarl she sprang upon one Ear. He thrust her off with his shoulder, and as retreat cut off and still intent on regaining the sled, he altered his course in an attempt to circle around to it. More wolves were appearing every moment and joining in the chase. The she-wolf was one leap behind one Ear and holding her own. Where are you going? Henry suddenly demanded, laying his hand on his partner's arm. Bill shook it off. I won't stand it, he said. They ain't a going to get any more of our dogs if I can help it. One in hand he plunged into the underbrush that lined the side of the trail. His intention was apparent enough. Taking the sled as the center of the circle that one Ear was making, Bill planned to tap that circle at a point in advance of the pursuit. With his rifle in the broad daylight it might be possible for him to awe the wolves and save the dog. Say, Bill! Henry called after him. Be careful! Don't take no chances! Henry sat down on the sled and watched. There was nothing else for him to do. Bill had already gone from sight, but now and again, appearing and disappearing amongst the underbrush and the scattered clumps of spruce, could be seen one Ear. Henry judged his case to be hopeless. The dog was thoroughly alive to its danger, but it was running on the outer circle, while the wolf pack was running on the inner and shorter circle. It was vain to think of one Ear so out-distancing his pursuers as to be able to cut across their circle in advance of them and to regain the sled. The different lines were rapidly approaching a point. Somewhere out there in the snow, screened from his sight by trees and thickets, Henry knew that the wolf pack, one Ear and Bill, were coming together. All too quickly, far more quickly than he had expected, it happened. He heard a shot. Then two shots, in rapid succession, and he knew that Bill's ammunition was gone. Then he heard a great outcry of snarls and yelps. He recognized one Ear's yell of pain and terror, and he heard a wolf cry that bespoke a stricken animal. And that was all. The snarls ceased. Yelping died away. Silence settled down again over the lonely land. He sat for a long while upon the sled. There was no need for him to go and see what had happened. He knew it as though it had taken place before his eyes. Once he roused with a start and hastily got the axe out from underneath the lashings. But for some time longer he sat and brooded the two remaining dogs crouching and trembling at his feet. At last he arose in a weary manner, as though all the resilience had gone out of his body, and proceeded to fasten the dogs to the sled. He passed a rope over his shoulder, a man-trace, and pulled with the dogs. He did not go far. At the first hint of darkness he hastened to make a camp, and he saw to it that he had a generous supply of firewood. He fed the dogs, cooked and ate his supper, and made his bed close to the fire. But he was not destined to enjoy that bed. Before his eyes closed the wolves had drawn too near for safety. It no longer required an effort of the vision to see them. They were all about him in the fire in a narrow circle, and he could see them plainly in the fire-light lying down, sitting up, and crawling forward on their bellies, or slinking back and forth. They even slept. Here and there he could see one curled up in the snow like a dog, taking the sleep that was now denied himself. He kept the fire brightly blazing, for he knew that it alone intervened between the flesh of his body and their hungry fangs. His two dogs stayed close by him, one on either side, leaning against him for protection, crying and whimpering, and at times snarling desperately when a wolf approached a little closer than usual. At such moments, when his dogs snarled, the whole circle would be agitated, the wolves coming to their feet and pressing tentatively forward, a chorus of snarls and eager yelps rising about him. Then the circle would lie down again, and here and there a wolf would resume its broken nap. But this circle had a continuous tendency to draw in upon him, bit by bit, an inch at a time, with here a wolf bellying forward, and there a wolf bellying forward, the circle would narrow until the brutes were almost within springing distance. Then he would seize brands from the fire and hurl them into the pack. A hasty drawing back always resulted, accompanied by angry yelps and frightened snarls, when a well-aimed brand struck and scorched a two-daring animal. Morning found the man haggard and worn, wide-eyed from want of sleep. He cooked breakfast in the darkness, and at nine o'clock, when, with the coming of daylight, the wolf pack drew back, he said about the task he had planned through the long hours of the night. Chopping down young saplings, he made them cross-bars of a scaffold, by lashing them high up to the trunks of standing trees. Using the sled lashing for a heaving rope, and with the aid of the dogs, he hoisted the coffin to the top of the scaffold. They got Bill, and they may get me, but they'll sure never get you, young man, he said, addressing the dead body and its tree sepulcher. Then he took the trail, the light and sled bounding along behind the willing dogs, for they, too, knew that safety lay open in the gaining of Fort Maguri. The wolves were now more open in their pursuit, trotting sedately behind and ranging along on either side, their red tongues lolling out, their lean sides showing the undulating ribs with every movement. They were very lean, mere skin-bags stretched over bony frames, with strings for muscles, so lean that Henry found it in his mind to marvel that they still kept their feet and did not collapse forthright in the snow. He did not dare travel until dark. At midday not only did the sun warm the southern horizon, but it even thrust its upper rim, pale and golden, above the skyline. He received it as a sign. The days were growing longer, the sun was returning, but scarcely had the cheer of its light departed than he went into camp. There was still several hours of gray daylight and somber twilight, and he utilized them in chopping an enormous supply of firewood. With night came horror. Not only were the starving wolves growing bolder, but lack of sleep was telling upon Henry. He dozed despite himself, crouching by the fire, the blankets about his shoulders, the acts 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 gray wolf, one of the largest of the pack, and even as he looked the brute deliberately stretched himself after the manner of a lazy dog, yawning full in his face and looking upon him with a possessive eye, as if, in truth, he was merely a delayed meal that was soon to be eaten. This certitude was shown by the whole pack, fully a score he could count, staring hungrily at him or calmly sleeping in the snow. They reminded him of children gathered about a spread table and awaiting permission to begin to eat, and he was the food they were to eat. He wondered how and when the meal would begin. As he piled wood on the fire he discovered an appreciation of his own body which he had never felt before. He watched his moving muscles and was interested in the cunning mechanism of his fingers. By the light of the fire he crooked his fingers slowly and repeatedly, now one at a time, now altogether, spreading them wide or making quick gripping movements. He studied the nail formation and prodded the fingertips, now sharply, and again softly, gauging the while the nerve sensations produced. It fascinated him, and he grew suddenly fond of this subtle flesh of his that worked so beautifully and smoothly and delicately. Then he would cast a glance of fear at the wolf-circle drawn expectantly about him, and like a blow the realization would strike him that this wonderful body of his, this living flesh, was no more than so much meat, a quest of ravenous animals to be torn and slashed by the hungry fangs, to be sustenance to them as the moose and the rabbit had often been sustenance to him. He came out of a doze that was half-nightmare, to see the red-hued she-wolf before him. She was not more than half a dozen feet away, sitting in the snow, and wistfully regarding him. The two dogs were whimpering and snarling at his feet, but she took no notice of them. She was looking at the man, and for some time he returned her look. There was nothing threatening about her. She looked at him merely with a great wistfulness, but he knew it to be the wistfulness of an equally great hunger. He was the food, and the sight of him excited in her the gustatory sensations. Her mouth opened, the saliva drooled forth, and she licked her chops with the pleasure of anticipation. A spasm of fear went through him. He reached hastily for a brand to throw at her, but even as he reached and before his fingers had closed on the missile, she sprang back into safety, and he knew that she was used to having things thrown at her. She had snarled as she sprang away, bearing her white fangs to their roots, all her wistfulness vanishing, being replaced by a carnivorous malignity that made him shudder. He glanced at the hand that held the brand, noticing the cunning delicacy of the fingers that gripped it, how they adjusted themselves to all the inequalities of the surface, curling over and under and about the rough wood, and one little finger, too close to the burning portion of the brand, sensitively and automatically writhing back from the hurtful heat to a cooler gripping place, and in the same instant he seemed to see a vision of those same sensitive and delicate fingers being crushed and torn by the white teeth of the she-wolf. Never had he been so fond of this body of his as now when his tenure of it was so precarious. All night, with burning brands, he fought off the hungry pack. When he dozed despite himself, the whimpering and snarling of the dogs aroused him. Morning came, but for the first time the light of day failed to scatter the wolves. The man waited in vain for them to go. They remained in a circle about him and his fire, displaying an arrogance of possession that shook his courage born of the morning light. He made one desperate attempt to pull out on the trail, but the moment he left the protection of the fire the boldest wolf leaped for him but leaped short. He saved himself by springing back, the jaws snapping together a scant six inches from his thigh. The rest of the pack was now up and surging upon him, and a throwing of firebrands right and left was necessary to drive them back to a respectful distance. Even in the daylight he did not dare leave the fire to chop fresh wood. Twenty feet away towered a huge dead spruce. He spent half the day extending his campfire to the tree, at any moment a half dozen burning faggots ready at hand to fling at his enemies. Once at the tree he studied the surrounding forest in order to fell the tree in the direction of the most firewood. The night was a repetition of the night before, save that the need for sleep was becoming overpowering. The snarling of his dogs was losing its efficacy. Besides they were snarling all the time, and his benumbed and drowsy senses no longer took note of changing pitch and intensity, he awoke with a start. The she-wolf was less than a yard from him. Mechanically at short range, without letting go of it, he thrust a brand full into her open and snarling mouth. She sprang away, yelling with pain, and while he took delight in the smell of burning flesh and hair, he watched her shaking her head and growling wrathfully a score a feet away. At this time, before he dozed again, he tied a burning pine-knot to his right hand. His eyes were closed but few minutes when the burn of the flame on his flesh awakened him. For several hours he adhered to this program. Every time he was thus awakened he drove back the wolves with flying brands, replenished the fire, and rearranged the pine-knot on his hand. All worked well, but there came a time when he fastened the pine-knot insecurely, as his eyes closed it fell away from his hand. He dreamed. It seemed to him that he was in Fort McGurie. It was warm and comfortable, and he was playing cribbage with the factor. Also it seemed to him that the fort was besieged by wolves. They were howling at the very gates, and sometimes he and the factor paused from the game to listen and laugh at the futile efforts of the wolves to get in. And then, so strange was the dream, there was a crash. The door was burst open. He could see the wolves flooding into the big living-room of the fort. They were leaping straight for him and the factor. With the bursting open of the door, the noise of their howling had increased tremendously. This howling now bothered him. His dream was merging into something else. He knew not what, but through it all, following him, persisted the howling. And then he awoke to find the howling real. There was a great snarling and yelping. The wolves were rushing him. They 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 slash of teeth that tore through the flesh of his leg. Then began a firefight. His stout mittens temporarily protected his hands, and he scooped live coals into the air in all directions, until the campfire took on the semblance of a volcano. But it could not last long. His face was blistering in the heat. His eyebrows and lashes were singed off and the heat was becoming unbearable to his feet. With a flaming brand in each hand he sprang to the edge of the fire. The wolves had been driven back. On every side, wherever the live coals had fallen, the snow was sizzling, and every little while a retiring wolf, with wild leap and snort and snarl, announced that one such live coal had been stepped upon. Flinging his brands at the nearest of his enemies, the man thrust his smouldering mittens into the snow and stamped about to cool his feet. His two dogs were missing, and he well knew that they had served as a course in the protracted meel which had begun days before with fatty, the last course of which would likely be himself in the days to follow. You ain't got me yet! he cried, savagely shaking his fist at the hungry beasts, and at the sound of his voice the whole circle was agitated, there was a general snarl, and the she-wolf slid up close to him across the snow, and watched him with hungry wistfulness. He set to work to carry out a new idea that had come to him. He extended the fire into a large circle. Inside the circle he crouched, his sleeping outfit under him as a protection against the melding snow. When he had thus disappeared within his shelter of flame, the whole pack came curiously to the rim of the fire to see what had become of him. Hitherto they had been denied access to the fire, and they now settled down in a close-drawn circle like so many dogs, blinking and yawning and stretching their lean bodies in the unaccustomed 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 on haunches, with noses pointed skyward, was howling its hungry cry. Dawn came, and daylight. The fire was burning low. The fuel had run out and there was need to get more. The man attempted to step out of his circle of flame, but the wolves surged to meet him. Burning brands made them spring aside, but they no longer sprang back. In vain he strove to drive them back. As he gave up and stumbled inside his circle, a wolf leaped for him, missed, and landed with all four feet in the coals. He cried out with terror, at the same time snarling, and scrambled back to cool its paws in the snow. The man sat down on his blankets, in a crouching position. His body leaned forward from the hips. His shoulders, relaxed and drooping, and his head on his knees advertised that he had given up the struggle. Now and again he raised his head to note the dying down of the fire. The circle of flame and coals was breaking into segments with openings in between. These openings grew in size, the segments diminished. I guess you can come and get me any time, he mumbled. Anyway, I'm going to sleep. Once he awakened, and in an opening in the circle, directly in front of him, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him. Again he awakened a little later, though it seemed hours to him. A mysterious change had taken place. So mysterious a change that he was shocked wider awake. Something had happened. He could not understand it first. Then he discovered it. The wolves were gone. Remained only the trampled snow to show how closely they had pressed him. Sleep was welling up and gripping him again. His head was sinking down upon his knees, when he roused with a sudden start. There were cries of men and churn of sleds, the creaking of harnesses, and the eager whimpering of straining dogs. Four sleds pulled in from the river bed to the camp among the trees. Half a dozen men were about the man who crouched in the center of the dying fire. They were shaking and prodding him into consciousness. He looked at them like a drunken man, and maundered in strange, sleepy speech. Red she-wolf! Come in with the dogs at feed-in 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 bellowed in his ear, shaking him roughly. He shook his head slowly. No, she didn't eat him. He's roosting in a tree at the last camp. Dead? The man shouted. And in a box, Henry answered. He jerked his shoulder petulantly away from the grip of his questioner. Say, you let me alone! I just plump tuckered out. Good night, everybody. His eyes fluttered and went shut. His chin fell forward on his chest, and even as they eased him down upon the blankets his snores were rising on the frosty air. But there was another round, far and faint it was, in the remote distance, the cry of the hungry wolf-pack as it took the trail of other meat than the man it had just missed. It was the she-wolf who had first caught the sound of men's voices and the whining of the sled-dogs, and it was the she-wolf who was first to spring away from the cornered man in his circle of dying flame. The pack had been loathed to forego the kill it had hunted down, and it lingered for several minutes, making sure of the sounds, and then it too sprang away on the trail made by the she-wolf. Running at the forefront of the pack was a large gray wolf, one of its several leaders. It was he who directed the pack's course on the heels of the she-wolf. It was he who snarled warningly at the younger members of the pack, or slashed at them with his fangs when they ambitiously tried to pass him. And it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, now trotting slowly across the snow. She dropped in alongside by him, as though it were her appointed position, and took the pace of the pack. He did not snarl at her, nor show his teeth, when any leap of hers chanced to put her in advance of him. On the contrary, he seemed kindly disposed toward her, too kindly to suit her, for he was prone to run near to her, and when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her teeth. Nor was she above slashing his shoulder sharply on occasion. At such times he betrayed no anger. He merely sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps, in carriage and conduct resembling in a bashed country swain. This was his one trouble in the running of the pack, but she had other troubles. On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf, grizzled and marked with the scars of many battles. He always ran on her right side, the fact that he had but one eye, and that the left eye might account for this. He also was addicted to crowding her, to veering toward her till his scarred muzzle touched her body or shoulder or neck. As with the running mate on the left she repelled these attentions with her teeth, but when both bestowed their attentions at the same time she was roughly jostled, being compelled with quick snaps to either side, to drive both lovers away and at the same time to maintain her forward leap with the pack and see the way of her feet before her. At such times her running mates flashed their teeth and growled threateningly across at each other. They might have fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more pressing hunger need of the pack. After each repulse when the old wolf sheered abruptly away from the sharp-toothed object of his desire, he shouldered against a young three-year-old that ran on his blind right side. This young wolf had attained his full size, and, considering the weak and famished condition of the pack, he possessed more than the average vigor in spirit. Nevertheless he ran with his head even with the shoulder of his one-eyed elder. When he ventured to run abreast of the older wolf, which was seldom, a snarl and a snap sent him back even with the shoulder again. Sometimes, however, he dropped cautiously and slowly behind and edged in between the old leader and the she-wolf. This was doubly resented, even triply resented. When she snarled her displeasure the old leader would whirl on the three year old. Sometimes she whirled with him, and sometimes the young leader on the left whirled too. At such times, confronted by three sets of savage teeth, the young wolf stopped precipitately, throwing himself back on his haunches with four-leg stiff, mouth menacing, and main bristling. This confusion in the front of the moving pack always caused confusion in the rear. The wolves behind collided with the young wolf and expressed their displeasure by administering sharp nips on his hind legs and flanks. He was laying up trouble for himself, for lack of food and short tempers went together. But with the boundless faith of youth he persisted in repeating the maneuver every little while, though it never succeeded in gaining anything for him but discomfiture. Had there been food, love-making and fighting would have gone on apace, and the pack formation would have been broken up. But the situation of the pack was desperate. It was lean with long-standing hunger. It ran below its ordinary speed. At the rear limped the weak members, the very young and the very old. At the front were the strongest. Yet all were more like skeletons than full-bodied wolves. Nevertheless, with the exception of the ones that limped, the movements of the animals were effortless and tireless. Their stringy muscles seemed founts of inexhaustible energy. Behind every steel-like contraction of a animal lay another steel-like contraction, and another, and another, apparently without end. They ran many miles that day. They ran through the night. And the next day found them still running. They were running over the service of a world frozen and dead. No life stirred. They alone moved through the vast inertness. They alone were alive, and they sought for other things that were alive in order that they might devour them and continue to live. They crossed low divides and ranged a dozen small streams in a low-lying country before their quest was rewarded. Then they came upon moose. It was a big bull, they first found. Here was meat and life, and it was guarded by no mysterious fires nor flying missiles of flame. Splay hoofs and palmaded antlers they knew, and they flung their customary patience and caution to the wind. It was a brief fight and fierce. The big bull was beset on every side. He ripped them open or split their skulls with shrewdly driven blows of his great hoofs. He crushed them, and broke them on his large horns. He stamped them into the snow under him in the wallowing struggle. But he was foredoomed, and he went down with the she-wolf tearing savagely at his throat, and with other teeth fixed everywhere upon him devouring him alive before ever his last struggle ceased or his last damage had been wrought. There was food in plenty. The bull weighed over eight hundred pounds, fully twenty pounds of meat per mouth for the forty-odd wolves of the pack. But if they could fast prodigiously they could feed prodigiously, and soon a few scattered bones were all that remained of the splendid live brute that had faced the pack a few hours before. There was now much resting and sleeping. With full stomachs, bickering and quarreling began among the younger males, and this continued through the few days that followed before the breaking up of the pack. The famine was over. The wolves were now in the country of game, and though they still hutted in pack, they hutted more cautiously, cutting out heavy cows or crippled old bulls from the small moose herds they ran across. There came a day, in this land of plenty, when the wolf pack split in half and went in different directions. The she-wolf, the young leader on her left, and the one-eyed elder on her right, led their half of the pack down to the Mackenzie River and across into the Lake Country to the east. Each day this remnant of the pack dwindled. Two by two, male and female, the wolves were deserting. Occasionally a solitary male was driven out by the sharp teeth of his rivals. In the end there remained only four, the she-wolf, the young leader, the one-eyed one, and the ambitious three-year-old. The she-wolf had by now developed a ferocious temper. Her three suitors all bore the marks of her teeth, yet they never replied in kind, never defended themselves against her. They turned their shoulders to her most savage slashes, and with wagging tails and mincing steps strove to placate her wrath. But if they were all mildness toward her, they were all fierceness toward one another. The three-year-old grew too ambitious in his fierceness. He caught the one-eyed elder on his blind side and ripped his ear into ribbons. Though the grizzled old fellow could see only on one side, against the youth and vigor of the other, he brought in to play the wisdom of long years of experience. His lost eye and his scarred muzzle bore evidence to the nature of his experience. He had survived too many battles to be in doubt for a moment about what to do. The battle began fairly, but it did not end fairly. There was no telling what the outcome would have been, for the third-wolf joined the elder, and together, old leader and young leader, they attacked the ambitious three-year-old and proceeded to destroy him. He was beset on either side by the merciless fangs of his erstwhile comrades. Forgotten were the days they had hunted together, the game they had pulled down, the famine they had suffered. That business was a thing of the past. The business of love was at hand. Ever a sterner and crueler business than that of food-getting. And in the meanwhile the she-wolf, the cause of it all, sat down contentedly on her haunches and watched. She was even pleased. This was her day, and it came not often, when mains bristled and fang-smote fang or ripped and tore the yielding flesh, all for the possession of her. And in the business of love the three-year-old, who had made this his first adventure upon it, yielded up his life. On either side of his body stood his two rivals. They were gazing at the she-wolf who sat smiling in the snow. But the elder leader was wise, very wise, in love even as in battle. The younger leader turned his head to lick a wound on his shoulder. The curve of his neck was turned toward his rival. With his one eye the elder saw the opportunity. He darted in low and closed with his fangs. It was a long ripping slash, and deep as well. His teeth, impassing, burst the wall of the great vein of the throat. Then he leaped clear. The young leader snarled terribly, but his snarl broke midmost into a tickling cough. Bleeding and coughing, already stricken, he sprang at the elder and fought while life faded from him, his legs going weak beneath him, the light of day dulling on his eyes, his blows and springs falling shorter and shorter. And all the while the she-wolf sat on her hodges and smiled. She was made glad in vague ways by the battle, for this was the love-making of the wild, the sex tragedy of the natural world that was tragedy only to those that died, 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 stalked over to the she-wolf. His carriage was one of mingled triumph and caution. He was plainly expectant of her, rebuff, and he was just as plainly surprised when her teeth did not flash out at him in anger. For the first time she met him with a kindly manner. She sniffed noses with him, and even condescended to leap about and frisk and play with him in quite pup-yish fashion. And he, for all his gray years and sage experience, behaved quite as pup-ishly and even a little more foolishly. Forgotten already were the vanquished rivals and the love-tail red written on the snow. Forgotten, save once, when old one eye stopped for a moment to lick his stiffening wounds. Then it was that his lips half-rived into a snarl, and the hair of his neck and shoulders involuntarily bristled, while he half-crouched for a spring, his claws sposmodically clutching into the snow-service for firmer footing. But it was all forgotten the next moment as he sprang after the she-wolf who was coyly leading him a chase through the woods. After that they ran side by side, like good friends who have come to an understanding. The days passed by, and they kept together, hunting their meat and killing and eating it in common. After a time the she-wolf began to grow restless, she seemed to be searching for something that she could not find. The hollows under fallen trees seemed to attract her. And she spent much time nosing about among the larger snow-piled crevices in the rocks and in the caves of overhanging banks. Old one eye was not interested at all, but he followed her good-naturedly in her quest, and when her investigations in particular places were unusually protracted, he would lie down and wait until she was ready to go on. They did not remain in one place, but traveled across country until they regained the Mackenzie River, down which they slowly went, leaving it often to hunt game along the small streams that entered it, but always returning to it again. Sometimes they chanced upon other wolves, usually in pairs, but there was no friendliness of intercourse displayed on either side, no gladness at meeting, no desire to return to the pack formation. Several times they encountered solitary wolves. These were always males, and they were pressingly insistent on joining with one eye and his mate. This he resented, and when she stood shoulder to shoulder with him, bristling and showing her teeth, the aspiring solitary ones would back off, turn tail, and continue on their lonely way. One moonlight night, running through the quiet forest, one eye suddenly halted. His muzzle went up, his tail stiffened, and his nostrils dilated as he scented the air. One foot also he held up, after the manner of a dog. He was not satisfied, and he continued to smell the air, striving to understand the message borne upon it to him. One careless sniff had satisfied his mate, and she trotted on to reassure him. Though he followed her, he was still dubious, and he could not forbear an occasional halt in order more carefully to study the warning. She crept out cautiously on the edge of a large open space in the midst of the trees. For some time she stood alone, then one eye creeping and crawling, every sense on the alert, every hair radiating infinite suspicion, joined her. They stood side by side, watching and listening and smelling. To their ears came the sounds of dogs wrangling and scuffling, the guttural cries of men, the sharper voices of scolding women, and once the shrill and plaintive cry of a child. With the exception of the huge bulks of the skin lodges, little could be seen save the flames of the fire, broken by the movements of intervening bodies, and the smoke rising slowly on the quiet air. But to their nostrils came the myriad smells of an Indian camp, carrying a story that was largely incomprehensible to one eye, but every detail of which the she-wolf knew. She was strangely stirred, and sniffed and sniffed with an increasing delight. But old one eye was doubtful. He betrayed his apprehension, and started tentatively to go. She turned and touched his neck with her muzzle in a reassuring way, then regarded the camp again. A new wistfulness was in her face, but it was not the wistfulness of hunger. She was thrilling to a desire that urged her to go forward, to being closer to that fire, to be squabbling with the dogs, and to be avoiding and dodging the stumbling feet of men. One eye moved impatiently beside her. Her unrest came back upon 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, who trotted the little to the four until they were well within the shelter of the trees. As they slid along, noiseless as shadows, in the moonlight they came upon a runway. Both noses went down to the footprints in the snow. These footprints were very fresh. One eye ran ahead cautiously, his mate at his heels. The broad pads of their feet were spread wide, and in contact with the snow were like velvet. One eye caught sight of a dim movement of white in the midst of the white. His sliding gate had been deceptively swift, but it was as nothing to the speed at which he now ran. Before him was bounding the faint patch of white he had discovered. They were running along a narrow alley flanked on either side by a growth of young spruce. Through the trees the mouth of the alley could be seen, opening out on a moonlit glade. Old one eye was rapidly overhauling the fleeing shape of white. Bound by bound he gained. Now he was upon it. One leap more and his teeth would be sinking into it. But that leap was never made. High in the air and straight up soared the shape of white, now a struggling snowshoe rabbit that leaped him bounded, executing a fantastic dance there above him in the air, and never once returning to earth. One eye sprang back with a snort of sudden fright, then shrank down to the snow and crouched, snarling threats at this thing of fear he did not understand. But the she-wolf coolly thrust past him. She poised for a moment, then sprang for the dancing rabbit. She too soared high, but not so high as the quarry, and her teeth clipped emptily together with a metallic snap. She made another leap, and another. Her mate had slowly relaxed from his crouch and was watching her. He now evinced displeasure at her repeated failures, and himself made a mighty spring upward. His teeth closed upon the rabbit and he bore it back to earth with him. But at the same time there was a suspicious crackling movement beside him, and his astonished eye saw a young spruce sapling bending down above him to strike him. His jaws let go their grip, and he leaped backward to escape the strange danger, his lips drawn back from his fangs, his throat snarling, every hair bristling with rage and fright. And in that moment the sapling reared at slender length upright, and the rabbit soared dancing in the air again. The she-wolf was angry. She sank her fangs into her mate's shoulder in reproof, and he, frightened, unaware of what constituted this new onslaught, struck back ferociously and instilled greater fright, ripping down the side of the she-wolf's muzzle. For him to resent such reproof was equally unexpected to her, she sprang upon him in snarling indignation. Then he discovered his mistake and tried to placate her. But she proceeded to punish him roundly, until he gave over all attempts at placation, and whirled in a circle, his head away from her, his shoulders receiving the punishment of her teeth. In the meantime the rabbit danced above them in the air. The she-wolf sat down in the snow, an old one-eye, now more in fear of his mate than of the mysterious sapling, again sprang for the rabbit. As he sank back with it between his teeth, he kept his eye on the sapling. As before it followed him back to earth. He crouched down under the impending blow, his hair bristling, but his teeth still keeping tight hold of the rabbit. But the blow did not fall. The sapling remained bent above him. When he moved, it moved, and he growled at it through his clenched jaws. When he remained still, it remained still, and he concluded it was safer to continue remaining still. Yet the warm blood of the rabbit tasted good in his mouth. It was his mate who relieved him from the quandary in which he found himself. She took the rabbit from him, and while the sapling swayed and teetered threateningly above her, she calmly nod off the rabbit's head. At once the sapling shot up, and after that gave no more trouble, remaining in the decorous and perpendicular position in which nature had intended it to grow. Then between them, the she-wolf and one eye devoured the game which the mysterious sapling had caught for them. There were other runways and alleys where rabbits were hanging in the air, and the wolf pair prospected them all, the she-wolf leading the way, old one eye following and observant, learning the method of robbing snares, a knowledge destined to stand him in good stead in the days to come. CHAPTER II For two days the she-wolf and one eye hung about the Indian camp. He was worried and apprehensive, yet the camp lured his mate and she was loathed to depart. But when one morning the air was rent with the report of a rifle close at hand, and a bullet smashed against a tree trunk several inches from one eye's head, they hesitated no more but went off on a long, swinging lope that put quick miles between them and the danger. They did not go far, a couple of days' journey. The she-wolves need to find the thing for which she searched had now become imperative. She was getting very heavy and could run but slowly. Once in the pursuit of a rabbit, which she ordinarily would have caught with ease, she gave over and lay down and rested. One eye came to her, but when he touched her neck gently with his muzzle she snapped at him with such quick fierceness that he tumbled over backward and cut a ridiculous figure in his effort to escape her teeth. Her temper was now shorter than ever, but he had become more patient than ever and more solicitous. And then she found the thing for which she sought. It was a few miles up a small stream that in the summertime flowed into the Mackenzie, but that then was frozen over and frozen down to its rocky bottom, a dead stream of solid white from source to mouth. The she-wolf was trotting wearily along, her mate well in advance, when she came upon the overhanging high clay bank. She turned aside and trotted over to it. The wear and tear of spring storms and melting snows had underwashed the bank and in one place had made a small cave out of a narrow fissure. She paused at the mouth of the cave and looked the wall over carefully. Then, on one side and the other, she ran along the base of the wall to where its abrupt bulk merged with the softer-lined landscape. Returning to the cave she entered its narrow mouth. For a short three feet she was compelled to crouch, then the walls widened and rose higher in a little round chamber nearly six feet in diameter. The roof barely cleared her head. It was dry and cozy. She inspected it with painstaking care, while one eye, who had returned, stood in the entrance and patiently waited her. She dropped her head, with her nose to the ground and directed toward a point near to her own closely bunched feet, and around this point she circled several times. Then with a tired sigh that was almost a grunt, she curled her body in, relaxed her legs, and dropped down, her head toward the entrance. One eye, with pointed, interested ears, laughed at her, and beyond outlined against the white light she could see the brush of his tail waving good-naturedly. Her own ears, with a snuggling movement, laid their sharp points backward and down against the head for a moment, while her mouth opened and her tongue lulled peaceably out, and in this way she expressed that she was pleased and satisfied. One eye was hungry. Though he lay down in the entrance and slept, his sleep was fitful. He kept awaking and cocking his ears at the bright world without, where the April sun was blazing across the snow. When he dozed, upon his ears would steal the faint whispers of hidden trickles of running water, and he would rouse and listen intently. The sun had come back, and all the awakening Northland world was calling to him. Life was stirring. The feel of spring was in the air, the feeling of growing life under the snow, of sap ascending in the trees, of buds bursting the shackles of the frost. He cast anxious glances at his mate, but she showed no desire to get up. He looked outside, and half a dozen snowbirds fluttered across his field of vision. He started to get up, then looked back to his mate again, and settled down and dozed. A shrill and minute singing stole upon his hearing. Once and twice he sleeply brushed his nose with his paw. Then he woke up, there buzzing in the air at the tip of his nose was a lone mosquito. It was a full-grown mosquito, one that had lain frozen in a dry log all winter and that had now been thawed out by the sun. He could resist the call of the world no longer. Besides, he 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 into the bright sunshine to find the snow surfaced soft underfoot and the traveling difficult. He went up the frozen bed of the stream where the snow, shaded by the trees, was yet hard and crystalline. He was gone eight hours, and he came back through the darkness hungrier than when he had started. He had found game, but he had not caught it. He had broken through the melting snow-crust and wallowed while the snowshoe rabbits had skimmed along on top lightly as ever. He paused at the mouth of the cave with a sudden shock of suspicion. Faint strange sounds came from within. They were sounds not made by his mate, and yet they were remotely familiar. He bellied cautiously inside and was met by a warning snarl from the she-wolf. This he received without perturbation, though he obeyed it by keeping his distance, but he remained interested in the other sounds, faint muffled sobbing and slybbrings. His mate warmed him irritably away, and he curled up and slept in the entrance. When morning came, and a dim light pervaded the lair, he again sought after the source of the remotely familiar sounds. There was a new note in his mate's warning snarl. It was a jealous note, and he was very careful in keeping a respectful distance. Nevertheless he made out, sheltering between her legs against the length of her body, five strange little bundles of life, very feeble, very helpless, making tiny whimpering noises, with eyes that did not open to the light. He was surprised. It was not the first time in his 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 to him. His mate looked at him anxiously. Every little while she emitted a low growl, and at times, when it seemed to her he approached too near, the growl shot up in her throat to a sharp snarl. Of her own experience she had no memory of the thing happening, but in her instinct, which was the experience of all the mothers of wolves, there lurked a memory of fathers that had eaten their newborn and helpless progeny. It manifested itself as a fear strong within her that made her prevent one eye from more closely inspecting the cubs he had fathered. But there was no danger. Old one eye was feeling the urge of an impulse that was, in turn, an instinct that had come down to him from all the fathers of wolves. He did not question it nor puzzle over it. It was there in the fiber of his being, and it was the most natural thing in the world that he should obey it by turning his back on his newborn family and by trotting out and away on the meat trail whereby he lived. Five or six miles from the lair the stream divided, its forks going off among the mountains at a right angle. Here, leading up the left fork, he came upon a fresh track. He smelled it and found it so recent that he crouched swiftly and looked in the direction in which it disappeared. Then he turned deliberately and took the wrong fork. The footprint was much larger than the one his own feet made, and he knew that in the wake of such a trail there was little meat for him. Half a mile up the right fork his quick ears caught the sound of gnawing teeth. He stalked the quarry and found it to be a porcupine, standing upright against a tree and trying his teeth on the bark. One eye approached carefully but hopelessly. He knew the breed, though he had never met it so far north before, and never in his long life had porcupine served him for a meal. But he had long since learned that there was such a thing as chance or opportunity, and he continued to draw near. There was never any telling what might happen, for with live things events were somehow always happening differently. The porcupine rolled itself into a ball, radiating long sharp needles in all directions that defied attack. In his youth one eye had once sniffed to near a similar, apparently inert ball of quills, and had the tail flick out suddenly in his face. One quill he had carried away in his muzzle where it had remained for weeks a rankling flame until it finally worked out. So he lay down in a comfortable crouching position, his nose fully afoot away and out of the line of the tail. Thus he waited, keeping perfectly quiet. There was no telling, something might happen. The porcupine might unroll. There might be opportunity for a deft and ripping thrust of paw into the tender, unguarded belly. But at the end of half an hour he arose, growled wrathfully at the motionless ball, and trotted on. He had waited too often and futilely in the pass for porcupines to unroll, to waste any more time. He continued up the right fork. The day wore along and nothing rewarded his hunt. The urge of his awakened instinct of fatherhood was strong upon him. He must find meat. In the afternoon he blundered upon a ptarmigan. He came out of a thicket and found himself face to face with a slow-witted bird. It was sitting on a log, not a foot beyond the end of his nose. Each saw the other. The bird made a startled rise but he struck it with his paw and smashed it down to earth, then pounced upon it and caught it in his teeth as it scuttled across the snow, trying to rise in the air again. As his teeth crunched through the tender flesh and fragile bones, he began naturally to eat. Then he remembered, and turning on the back track, started for home, carrying the ptarmigan in his mouth. A mile above the forks, running velvet-footed as was his custom, a gliding shadow that cautiously prospected each new vista of the trail, he came upon later imprints of the large tracks he had discovered in the early morning. As the track led his way, he followed, prepared to meet the maker of it every turn of the stream. He slid his head around a corner of rock, where began an unusually large bend in the stream, and his quick eyes made out something that sent him crouching swiftly down. It was the maker of the track, a large female lynx. She was crouching as he had crouched once that day, in front of her the tight-rolled ball of quills. If he had been a gliding shadow before, he now became the ghost of such a shadow, as he crept and circled around, and came up well to leeward of the silent, motionless pair. He lay down in the snow, depositing the ptarmigan beside him, and with eyes peering through the needles of a low-growing spruce, he watched the play of life before him, the wading lynx and the wading porcupine, each intent on life. And such was the curiousness of the game, the way of life for one lay in the eating of the other, and the way of life for the other lay in not being eaten. While all one eye, the wolf crouching in the covert, played his part too in the game, waiting for some strange freak of chance that might help him on the meat-trail which was his way of life. Half an hour passed, an hour, and nothing happened. The balls of quills might have been a stone for all it moved, the lynx might have been frozen to marble, an old one eye might have been dead. Yet all three animals were keyed to a tenseness of living that was almost painful, and scarcely ever would it come to them to be more alive than they were then in their seeming petrification. One eye moved slightly, and peered forth with increased eagerness. Something was happening. The porcupine had at last decided that its enemy had gone away. Slowly, cautiously, it was unrolling its ball of impregnable armor. It was agitated by no tremor of anticipation. Slowly, slowly, the bristling ball straightened out and lengthened. One eye watching fell to sudden moistness in his mouth and a drooling of saliva, involuntary, excited by the living meat that was spreading itself like a rip past before him. Not quite entirely had the porcupine unrolled when it discovered its enemy. In that instant the lynx struck. The blow was like a flash of light. The paw with rigid claws curving like talons shot under the tender belly and came back with a swift ripping movement. Had the porcupine been entirely unrolled, or had it not discovered its enemy a fraction of a second before the blow was struck, the paw would have escaped unscathed, but a side flick of the tail sank sharp quills into it as it was withdrawn. Everything had happened at once. The blow, the counter blow, the squeal of agony from the porcupine, the big cat's squall of sudden hurt and astonishment. One eye half arose in his excitement, his ears up, his tail straight out and quivering behind him. The lynx's bad temper got the best of her. She sprang savagely at the thing that had hurt her. But the porcupine, squealing and grunting, with disrupted anatomy trying feebly to roll up into its ball protection, flicked out its tail again and again the big cat squalled with hurt and astonishment. Then she fell debacking away and sneezing, her nose bristling with quills like a monstrous pin-cushion. She brushed her nose with her paws trying to dislodge the fiery darts, thrust it into the snow, and rubbed it against twigs and branches, and all the time leaping about, ahead, sideways, up and down, in a frenzy of pain and fright. She sneezed continually, and her stub of a tail was doing its best toward lashing about by giving quick, violent jerks. She quit her antics and quieted down for a long minute. One eye watched. And even he could not repress a start and an involuntary bristling of hair along his back when she suddenly leaped without warning, straight up in the air, at the same time emitting along a most terrible squall. Then she sprang away, up the trail, squalling with every leap she made. It was not until her racket had faded away in the distance and died out that one eye ventured forth. He walked as delicately as though all the snow were carpeted with porcupine quills erect and ready to pierce the soft pads of his feet. The porcupine met his approach with a furious squealing and a clashing of its long teeth. It had managed to roll up in a ball again, but it was not quite the old compact ball. Its muscles were too much torn for that. It had been ripped almost in half and was still bleeding profusely. One eye scooped out mouthfuls of the blood-soaked snow, and chewed and tasted and swallowed. This served as a relish, and his hunger increased mightily, but he was too old in the world to forget his caution. He waited. He lay down and waited, while the porcupine grated its teeth in uttered grunts and sobs and occasional sharp little squeals. In a little while one eye noticed that the quills were drooping and that a great quivering had set up. The quivering came to an end suddenly. There was a final defiant clash of the long teeth. Then all the quills drooped quite down and the body relaxed and moved no more. With a nervous shrinking paw one eye stretched out the porcupine to its full length and turned it over on its back. Nothing had happened. It was surely dead. He studied it intently for a moment, then took a careful grip with his teeth and started off down the stream, partly carrying, partly dragging the porcupine, with head turned to the side so as to avoid stepping on the prickly mass. He recollected something, dropped the burden, and trotted back to 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 properly eating the ptarmigan. Then he returned and took up his burden. When he dragged the result of his day's hunt into the cave, the she-wolf inspected it, turned her muzzle to him, 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 harsh than usual and that was more apologetic than menacing. Her instinctive fear of the father of her progeny was toning down. He was behaving as a wolf father should and manifesting no unholy desire to devour the young lives she had brought into the world. Part II. CHAPTER III. The grey cub. He was different from his brothers and sisters. Their hair already betrayed the reddish hue inherited from their mother, the she-wolf, while he alone in this particular took after his father. He was the one little grey cub of the litter. He had bred true to the straight wolf-stock. In fact he had bred true to old one eye himself physically, with but a single exception, and that was he had two eyes to his father's one. The grey cub's eyes had not been open long yet already he could see with steady clearness. And while his eyes were still closed he had felt, tasted, and smelled. He knew his two brothers and his two sisters very well. He had begun to romp with them in a feeble, awkward way, and even to squabble, his little throat vibrating with a queer rasping noise, the forerunner of the growl, as he worked himself into a passion. And long before his eyes had opened he had learned by touch, taste, and smell to know his mother, a fount of warmth and liquid food and tenderness. She possessed a gentle caressing tongue that soothed him when it passed over his soft little body, and that impelled him to snuggle close against her and to doze off to sleep. Most of the first month of his life had been passed thus in sleeping, but now he could see quite well, and he stayed awake for longer periods of time, and he was coming to learn his world quite well. His world was gloomy, but he did not know that, for he knew no other world. It was dim-lighted, but his eyes had never had to adjust themselves to any other light. His world was very small. Its limits were the walls of the lair, but as he had no knowledge of the wide world outside he was never oppressed by the narrow confines of his existence. But he had early discovered that one wall of his world was different from the rest. This was the mouth of the cave and the source of the light. He had discovered that it was different from the other walls long before he had any thoughts of his own, any conscious volitions. It had been an irresistible attraction before ever his eyes opened and looked upon it. The light from it had beat upon his sealed lids, and the eyes and the optic nerves had pulsated to little, spark-like flashes, warm-colored and strangely pleasing. The life of his body, and of every fiber of his body, the life that was the very substance of his body and that was apart from his own personal life, had yearned toward this light and urged his body toward it in the same way that the cunning chemistry of a plant urges it toward the sun. Always in the beginning, before his conscious life dawned, he had crawled toward the mouth of the cave, and in this his brothers and sisters were one with him. Never in that period did any of them crawl toward the dark corners of the back wall. The light drew them as if they were plants. The chemistry of the life that composed them demanded the light as a necessity of being, and their little puppet bodies crawled blindly and chemically like the tendrils of a vine. Later on, when each developed individuality and became personally conscious of impulsions and desires, the attraction of the light increased. They were always crawling and sprawling toward it, and being driven back from it by their mother. It was in this way that the gray cub learned other attributes of his mother than the soft, soothing tongue. In his insistent crawling toward the light, he discovered in her a nose that with a sharp nudge administered rebuke, and later a paw that crushed him down and rolled him over and over with swift calculating stroke. Thus he learned hurt, and on top of it he learned to avoid hurt, first by not incurring the risk of it, and second when he had incurred the risk by dodging and by retreating. These were conscious actions and were the results of his first generalizations upon the world. Before that he had recoiled automatically from hurt as he had crawled automatically toward the light. After that he recoiled from hurt because he knew that it was hurt. He was a fierce little cub, so were his brothers and sisters. It was to be expected. He was a carnivorous animal. He came of a breed of meat-killers and meat-eaters. His father and mother lived wholly upon meat. The milk he had sucked with his first flickering life was milk-transformed directly from meat, and now, at a month old, when his eyes had been opened for but a week, he was beginning himself to eat meat, meat half digested by the she-wolf and disgorged for the five growing cubs that already made too great demand upon her breast. But he was, further, the fiercest of the litter. He could make a louder rasping growl than any of them. His tiny rages were much more terrible than theirs. It was he that first learned the trick of rolling a fellow cub over with a cunning paw-stroke, and it was he that first gripped another cub by the ear and pulled and tugged and growled through jaws tight-clenched. And certainly it was he that caused the mother the most trouble in keeping her litter from the mouth of the cave. The fascination of the light for the gray cub increased from day to day. He was perpetually departing on yard-long adventures toward the cave's entrance, and as perpetually being driven back. Only he did not know it for an entrance. He did not know anything about entrances, passages whereby one goes from one place to another place. He did not know any other place, much less of a way to get there. So to him the entrance of the cave was a wall, a wall of light. As the sun was to the outside-dweller, this wall was to him the sun of his world. It attracted him as a candle attracts a moth. He was always striving to attain it. The life that was so swiftly expanding within him urged him continually toward the wall of light. The life that was within him knew that it was the one way out, the way he was predestined to tread. But he himself did not know anything about it. He did not know there was any outside at all. There was one strange thing about this wall of light. His father, he had already come to recognize his father as the one other dweller in the world, a creature like his mother, who slept near the light and was a bringer of meat. His father had a way of walking right into the white far wall and disappearing. The Great Cub could not understand this. Though never permitted by his mother to approach that wall, he had approached the other walls, and encountered hard obstruction on the end of his tender nose. This hurt. And after several such adventures he left the walls alone. Without thinking about it he accepted this disappearing into the wall as a peculiarity of his father, as milk and half-digested meat were peculiarities of his mother. In fact the Great Cub was not given to thinking, at least, to the kind of thinking customary of men. His brain worked in dim ways, yet his conclusions were as sharp and distinct as those achieved by men. He had a method of accepting things, without questioning the why and wherefore. In reality this was the act of classification. He was never disturbed over why a thing happened, how it happened was sufficient for him. Thus, when he had bumped his nose on the back wall a few times, he accepted that he would not disappear into walls. In the same way he accepted that his father could disappear into walls. But he was not in the least disturbed by desire to find out the reason for the difference between his father and himself. Logic and physics were no part of his mental makeup. Like most creatures of the wild he early experienced famine. There came a time when not only did the meat supply cease, but the milk no longer came from his mother's breast. At first the cubs whimpered and cried, but for the most part they slept. It was not long before they were reduced to a coma of hunger. There were no more spats and squabbles, no more tiny rages nor attempts at growling, while the adventures toward the far white wall ceased altogether. The cubs slept, while the life that was in them flickered and died down. One eye was desperate. He ranged far and wide, and slept but little in the lair that had now become cheerless and miserable. The she-wolf too left her litter and went out in search of meat. In the first days after the birth of the cubs, one eye adjourned several times back to the Indian camp and robbed the rabbit snares. But with the melting of the snow and the opening of the streams, the Indian camp had moved away, and that source of supply was closed to him. When the gray cub came back to life and again took interest in the far white wall, he found that the population of his world had been reduced. Only one sister remained to him. The rest were gone. As he grew stronger, he found himself compelled to play alone, for the sister no longer lifted her head nor moved about. His little body rounded out with the meat he now ate, but the food had come too late for her. She slept continuously. A tiny skeleton flung round with skin in which the flame flickered lower and lower, and at last went out. Then there came a time when the gray cub no longer saw his father appearing and disappearing in the wall, nor lying down asleep in the entrance. This had happened at the end of a second and less severe famine. 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 gray cub. Seeing herself for meat, up the left fork of the stream where lived the lynx, she had followed a day-old trail of one eye, and she had found him or what remained of him at the end of the trail. There were many signs of the battle that had been fought, and of the lynx's withdrawal to her lair after having won the victory. Before she went away the she-wolf had found this lair, but the signs told her that the lynx was inside, and she had not dared to venture in. After that the she-wolf and her hunting avoided the left fork, for she knew that in the lynx's lair was a litter of kittens, and she knew the lynx for a fierce, bad tempered creature and a terrible fighter. It was all very well for half a dozen wolves to drive a lynx spitting and bristling up a tree, but it was quite a different matter for a lone wolf to encounter a lynx, especially when the lynx was known to have a litter of hungry kittens at her back. But the wild is the wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times fiercely protective, whether in the wild or out of it, and the time was to come when the she-wolf, for her gray cub's sake, would venture the left fork and the lair and the rocks, and the lynx's wrath. CHAPTER III. WHITE FANG. BY JACK LONDON. PART II. 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 his approaching the entrance. Not only had this law been forcibly and many times impressed on him by his mother's nose and paw, but in him the instinct of fear was developing. Never, in his brief cave life, had he encountered anything of which to be afraid. Yet fear was in him. It had come down to him from a remote ancestry, through a thousand thousand lives. It was a heritage he had received directly from one eye and the she-wolf, but to them, in turn, it had been passed down through all the generations of wolves that had gone before. Fear! That legacy of the wild which no animal may escape, nor exchange for potage. So the gray cub knew fear, though he knew not the stuff of which fear was made. Possibly he accepted it as one of the restrictions of life. For he had already learned that there were such restrictions. Hunger he had known, and when he could not appease his hunger he had felt restriction. The hard obstruction of the cave wall, the sharp nudge of his mother's nose, the smashing stroke of her paw, the hunger unappeased of several famines, had borne in upon him that all was not freedom in the world, that to life there was limitations and restraints. These limitations and restraints were laws. To be obedient to them was to escape hurt and make for happiness. He did not reason the question out in this man-fashion. He merely classified the things that hurt and the things that did not hurt. And after such classification he avoided the things that hurt, the restrictions and restraints, in order to enjoy the satisfactions and the remunerations of life. Thus it was that in obedience to the law laid down by his mother, in obedience to the law of that unknown and nameless thing, fear, he kept away from the mouth of the cave. It remained to him a white wall of light. When his mother was absent he slept most of the time, while during the intervals that he was awake he kept very quiet, suppressing the whimpering cries that tickled in his throat and strove for noise. Once, lying awake, he heard a strange sound in the white wall. He did not know that it was a wolverine standing outside, all a trembling with its own daring, and cautiously sending out the contents of the cave. The cub only knew that the sniff was strange, a something unclassified, therefore unknown and terrible, for the unknown was one of the chief elements that went into the making of fear. The hair bristled upon the gray cub's back, but it bristled silently. How was he to know that this thing that sniffed was a thing at which to bristle? It was not born of any knowledge of his, yet it was the visible expression of the fear that was in him, and for which, in his own life, there was no accounting. But fear was accompanied by another instinct, that of concealment. The cub was in a frenzy of terror, yet he lay without movement or sound, frozen, petrified into immobility, to all appearances, dead. His mother, coming home, growled as she smelt the wolverine's track, and bounded into the cave and licked and nuzzled him with undue vehemence of affection, and the cub felt that somehow he had escaped a great hurt. But there were other forces at work in the cub, the greatest of which was growth. Instinct and law demanded of him obedience. But growth demanded disobedience. His mother and fear impelled him to keep away from the white wall. Growth is life, and life is forever destined to make for light. So there was no damning up the tide of life that was rising within him, rising with every mouthful of meat he swallowed, with every breath he drew. In the end, one day, fear and obedience were swept away by the rush of life, and the cub straddled and sprawled toward the entrance. Unlike any other wall with which he had had experience, this wall seemed to recede from him as he approached. No hard surface collided with the tender little nose he thrust out tentatively before him. The substance of the wall seemed as permeable and yielding as light, and as condition in his eyes had the seeming of form so he entered into what had been walled to him and bathed in the substance that composed it. It was bewildering. He was sprawling through solidity, and ever the light grew brighter. Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on. Suddenly he found himself at the mouth of the cave, the wall inside which he had thought himself, as suddenly leaped back before him to an immeasurable distance. The light had become painfully bright. He was dazzled by it. Likewise he was made dizzy by this abrupt and tremendous extension of space. Automatically his eyes were adjusting themselves to the brightness, focusing themselves to meet the increased distance of objects. At first the wall had leaped beyond his vision. He now saw it again, but it had taken upon itself a remarkable remoteness. Also its appearance had changed. It was now a variegated wall, composed of the trees that fringed the stream, the opposing mountain that towered above the trees, and the sky that outtowered the mountain. A great fear came upon him. This was more of the terrible unknown. He crouched down on the lip of the cave and gazed out on the world. He was very much afraid. Because it was unknown it was hostile to him. Therefore the hair stood up on end along his back and his lips wrinkled weakly in an attempt at a ferocious and intimidating snarl. Out of his puniness and fright he challenged and menaced the whole wide world. Nothing happened. He continued to gaze, and in his interest he forgot to snarl. Also he forgot to be afraid. For the time fear had been routed by growth, while growth had assumed the guise of curiosity. He began to notice near objects, an open portion of the stream that flashed in the sun, the blasted pine tree that stood at the base of the slope, and the slope itself that ran right up to him and ceased two feet beneath the lip of the cave on which he crouched. Now the gray 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 rested on the cave lip, so he fell forward, head downward. The earth struck him a harsh blow on the nose that made him yelp. Then he began rolling down the slope over and over. He was in a panic of terror. The unknown egg caught him at last. Yet a gripped savagely hold of him was about to wreak upon him some terrific hurt. Growth was now routed by fear, and he cullied like any frightened puppy. The unknown bore him on he knew not to what frightful hurt, and he yelped and cullied unceasingly. This was a different proposition from crouching in frozen fear while the unknown lurked just alongside. Now the unknown had caught tight hold of him. Silence would do no good. Besides it was not fear, but terror that convulsed him. But the slope grew more gradual and its base was grass-covered. Here the cub lost momentum. When at last he came to a stop he gave one last agonized yell and then a long whimpering wail. Also, and quite as a matter of course, as though in his life he had already made a thousand toilets, he proceeded to lick away the dry clay that soiled him. After that he sat up and gazed about him, as might the first man of the earth who landed upon Mars. The cub had broken through the wall of the world. The unknown had let go its hold of him, and here he was without hurt. But the first man on Mars would have experienced less unfamiliarity than did he, without any antecedent knowledge, without any warning whatever that such existed, he found himself an explorer in a totally new world. Now that the terrible unknown had let go of him, he forgot that the unknown had any terrors. He was aware only of curiosity in all the things about him. He inspected the grass beneath him, the moss-berry plant just beyond, and the dead trunk of the blasted pine that stood on the edge of an open space among the trees. A squirrel, running around the base of the trunk, came full upon him and gave him a great fright. He cowered down and snarled. But the squirrel was as badly scared it ran up the tree, and from a point of safety chattered back savagely. This helped the cub's courage, and though the woodpecker he next encountered gave him a start, he proceeded confidently on his way. Such was his confidence that when a moose-bird impudently hopped up to him, he reached out at it with a playful paw. The result was a sharp peck on the end of his nose that made him cower down and kai-yi. The noise he made was too much for the moose-bird who sought safety in flight. But the cub was learning. His misty little mind had already made an unconscious classification. There were live things and things not alive. Also he must watch out for the live things. The things not alive remained always in one place, but the live things moved about, and there was no telling what they might do. The thing to expect of them was the unexpected, and for this he must be prepared. He travelled very clumsily. He ran into sticks and things. A twig that he thought a long way off would the next instant hit him on the nose or rake along his ribs. There were inequalities of surface. Sometimes he overstepped and stubbed his nose. Quite as often he understepped and stubbed his feet. Then there were the pebbles and stones that turned under him when he trod upon them, and from them he came to know that the things not alive were not all in the same state of stable equilibrium as was his cave. Also that small things not alive were more liable than large things to fall down or turn over. But with every mishap he was learning. The longer he walked the better he walked. He was adjusting himself. He was learning to calculate his own muscular movements, to know his physical limitations, to measure distances between objects and between objects and himself. His was the luck of the beginner. Born to be a hunter of meat, though he did not know it, he blundered upon meat just outside his own cave-door on his first foray into the world. It was by sheer blundering that he chanced upon the shrewdly hidden, ptarmigan nest. He fell into it. He had a say to walk along the trunk of a fallen pine. The rotten bark gave way under his feet, and with a despairing yelp he pitched down the rounded crescent, smashed through the leafage in stalks of a small bush, and in the heart of the bush, on the ground, fetched up in the midst of seven ptarmigan chicks. They made noises, and at first he was frightened at them. Then he perceived that they were very little, and he became bolder. They moved. He placed his paw on one and its movements were accelerated. This was a source of enjoyment to him. He smelled it. He picked it up in his mouth. It struggled and tickled his tongue. At the same time he was made aware of a sensation of hunger. His jaws closed together. There was a crunching of fragile bones, and warm blood ran in his mouth. The taste of it was good. This was meat, the same as his mother gave him. Only it was alive between his teeth, and therefore better. So he ate the ptarmigan, nor did he stop till he had devoured the whole brood. Then he licked his chops in quite the same way his mother did, and began to crawl out of the bush. He encountered a feathered whirlwind. He was confused and blinded by the rush of it and the beat of angry wings. He hid his head between his paws and yelped. The blows increased. The mother ptarmigan was in a fury. Then he became angry. He rose up, snarling, striking out with his paws. He sank his tiny teeth into one of the wings and pulled and tugged sturdily. The ptarmigan struggled against him, showering blows upon him with her free wing. It was his first battle. He was elated. He forgot all about the unknown. He no longer was afraid of anything. He was fighting, tearing at a live thing that was striking at him. Also this live thing was meat. The lust to kill was on him. He had just destroyed little live things. He would now destroy a big live thing. He was too busy and happy to know that he was happy. He was thrilling and exulting in ways new to him and greater to him than any he had known before. He held on to the wing and growled between tight-clenched teeth. The ptarmigan dragged him out of the bush. When she turned and tried to drag him back into the bush's shelter, he pulled her away from it and on into the open. And all the time she was making outcry and striking with her free wing while feathers were flying like a snowfall. The pitch to which he was aroused was tremendous. All the fighting blood of his breed was up in him and surging through him. This was living, though he did not know it. He was realizing his own meaning in the world. He was doing that for which he was made, killing meat and battling to kill it. He was justifying his existence, than which life can do no greater for life achieves its summit when it does to the uttermost that which it was equipped to do. After a time the ptarmigan ceased her struggling. He still held her by the wing and they lay on the ground and looked at each other. He tried to growl threateningly, ferociously. She pecked on his nose which by now, one of previous adventures, was sore. He winced but held on. She pecked him again and again. From wincing he went to whimpering. He tried to back away from her, oblivious to the fact that by his hold on her he dragged her after him. A rain of pecks fell on his ill-used nose. The flood of fight ebbed down in him and releasing his prey he turned tail and scampered on across the open in inglorious retreat. He lay down to rest on the other side of the open, near the edge of the bushes. His tongue lolling out, his chest heaving and panting, his nose still hurting him and causing him to continue his whimper. But as he lay there, suddenly there came to him a feeling as of something terrible impending. The unknown with all its terrors rushed upon him and he shrank back instinctively into the shelter of the bush. As he did so, a draft of air fanned him and a large winged body swept ominously and silently past. A hawk, driving down out of the blue, had barely missed him. While he lay in the bush, recovering from his fright and peering fearfully out, the mother ptarmigan, on the other side of the open space, fluttered out of the ravaged nest. It was because of her loss that she paid no attention to the winged bolt of the sky. But the cub saw, and it was a warning and a lesson to him. The swift downward swoop of the hawk, the short skim of its body just above the ground, the strike of its talons in the body of the ptarmigan, the ptarmigan's squawk of agony and fright, and the hawk's rush upward into the blue, carrying the ptarmigan away with it. It was a long time before the cub left its shelter. He had learned much. Live things were meat, they were 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. Nevertheless he felt a little prick of ambition, a sneaking desire to have another battle with that ptarmigan hen. Only the hawk had carried her away. Maybe there were other ptarmigan hens. He would go and see. He came down a shelving bank to the stream. He had never seen water before. The footing looked good. There were no inequalities of surface. He stepped boldly out on it, and went down, crying with fear into the embrace of the unknown. It was cold, and he gassed, breathing quickly. The water rushed into his lungs instead of the air that had always accompanied his act of breathing. The suffocation he experienced was like the pang of death. To him it signified death. He had no conscious knowledge of death, but like every animal of the wild he possessed the instinct of death. To him it stood as the greatest of hurts. It was the very essence of the unknown. It was the sum of the terrors of the unknown, the one culminating an unthinkable catastrophe that could happen to him, about which he knew nothing, and about which he feared everything. He came to the surface, and the sweet air rushed into his open mouth. He did not go down again. Quite as though it had been a long established custom of his, he struck out with all his legs and began to swim. The near bank was a yard away, but he had come up with his back to it, and the first thing his eyes rested upon was the opposite bank, toward which he immediately began to swim. The stream was a small one, but in the pool it widened out to a score of feet. Midway in the passage the current picked up the cub and swept him downstream. He was caught in the miniature rapid at the bottom of the pool. Here was little chance for swimming. The quiet water had become suddenly angry. Sometimes he was under, sometimes on top. At all times he was in violent motion, now being turned over or around, and again being smashed against a rock. And with every rock he struck he yelped. His progress was a series of yelps, from which might have been adduced the number of rocks he encountered. Below the rapid was a second pool, and here, captured by the eddy, he was gently born to the bank, and is gently deposited on a bed of gravel. He crawled frantically clear of the water and lay down. He had learned some more about the world. Water was not alive, yet it moved. Also it looked as solid as the earth but was without any solidity at all. His conclusion was that things were not always what they appeared to be. The cub's fear of the unknown was an inherited distrust, and it had now been strengthened by experience. Thenceforth, in the nature of things, he would possess an abiding distrust of appearances. He would have to learn the reality of a thing before he could put his faith into it. One other adventure was destined for him that day. He had recollected that there was such a thing in the world as his mother. And then there came to him a feeling that he wanted her more than all the rest of the things in the world. Not only was his body tired with the adventures it had undergone, but his little brain was equally tired, and all the days he had lived it had not worked so hard as on this one day. Furthermore, he was sleepy. So he started out to look for the cave and his mother, feeling at the same time an overwhelming rush of loneliness and helplessness. He was sprawling along between some bushes when he heard a sharp, intimidating cry. There was a flash of yellow before his eyes. He saw a weasel leaping swiftly 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 adventuring. It tried to retreat before him. He turned it over with his paw. It made a queer, grating noise. The next moment the flash of yellow reappeared before his eyes. He heard again the intimidating cry and at the same instant received a sharp blow on the side of the neck and felt the sharp teeth of the mother weasel cut into his flesh. While he yelped and kaiyied and scrambled backward, he saw the mother weasel leap upon her young one and disappear with it into the neighboring thicket. The cut of her teeth in his neck still hurt, but his feelings were hurt more grievously and he sat down and weakly whimpered. This mother weasel was so small and so savage. He was yet to learn that for size and weight the weasel was the most ferocious, vindictive and terrible of all the killers of the wild, but a portion of this knowledge was quickly to be his. He was still whimpering when the mother weasel reappeared. She did not rush him now that her young one was safe. She approached more cautiously and the cub had full opportunity to observe her lean, snake-like body and her head erect, eager and snake-like itself. Her sharp menacing cry sent the hair bristling along his back and he snarled warningly at her. She came closer and closer. There was a leap swifter than his unpracticed sight and the lean yellow body disappeared for a moment out of the field of his vision. The next moment she was at his throat, her teeth buried 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, striving to press down with her teeth to the great vein where his life-blood bubbled. The weasel was a drinker of blood and it was ever her preference to drink from the throat of life itself. The gray cub would have died and there would have been no story to write about him had not the she-wolf come bounding through the bushes. The weasel let go of the cub and flashed at the she-wolf's throat, missing but getting a hold on the jaw instead. The she-wolf flirted her head like the snap of a whip, breaking the weasel's hold and flinging it high in the air. And, still in the air, the she-wolf's jaws closed on the lean yellow body and the weasel knew death between the crunching teeth. The cub experienced another excess of affection on the part of his mother. Her joy at finding him seemed even greater than his joy at being found. She nuzzled him and caressed him and licked the cuts made in him by the weasel's teeth. Then, between them, thuring cub, they ate the blood-drinker and, after that, went back to the cave and slept. THE CUB'S DEVELOPMENT WAS RAPID. HE RESTED FOR TWO DAYS AND THEN VENTURED FORTH FROM THE CAVE AGAIN. IT WAS ON THIS ADVENTURE THAT HE FOUND THE YOUNG WEASEL WHOSE MOTHER HE HAD HELPED EAT. AND HE SAW TO IT THAT THE YOUNG WEASEL WENT THE WAY OF ITS MOTHER. BUT ON THIS TRIP HE DID NOT GET LOST. WHEN HE GROOT Tired, HE FOUND HIS WAY BACK TO THE CAVE AND SLEPT. AND EVERY DAY THEREAFTER FOUND HIM OUT AND RANGING A WHITER AREA. HE BEGAN TO GET ACCORIT MEASURMENT OF HIS STRENGTH AND HIS WEEKNESS AND TO KNOW WHEN TO BE BOLD AND WHEN TO BE CAUTIUS. HE FOUND IT EXPEDIENT TO BE CAUTIUS ALL THE TIME, EXCEPT FOR THE RARE MOMENTS WHEN, ASSURED OF HIS OWN INTREPIDITY, HE ABANDED HIMSELF TO PETTY RAGES AND LUSTS. HE WAS ALWAYS A LITTLE DEMON OF FURY WHEN HE CHANTSED APON A STRAY TARMACAN. NEVER DID HE FAIL TO RESPOND SAVAGELY TO THE CHATTER OF THE SCURL HE HAD FIRST MET ON THE BLASTED PINE. WHILE THE SIDE OF A MOOSBIRD ALMOST INVERIVELY PUT HIM INTO THE WILDEST OF RAGES, FOR HE NEVER FORGOT THE PECK ON THE NOSE HE HAD RECEIVED FROM THE FIRST OF THAT ILK HE ENCOUNTERED. But there were times when even a moosebird failed to affect him, and those were times when he felt himself to be in danger from some other prowling meat-hunter. He never forgot the hawk, and its moving shadow always sent him crouching into the nearest thicket. He no longer sprawled and straddled, and already he was developing the gate of his mother, slinking and furtive, apparently without exertion, yet sliding along with the swiftness that was as deceptive as it was imperceptible. In the matter of meat, his luck had been all in the beginning. The seven ptarmigan chicks and the baby weasel represented the sum of his killings. His desire to kill strengthened with the days, and he cherished hungry ambitions for the squirrel that chattered so volubly, and always informed all wild creatures that the wolf cub was approaching. But as birds flew in the air squirrels could climb trees, and the cub could only try to crawl unobserved upon the squirrel when it was on the ground. The cub entertained a great respect for his mother. She could get meat, and she never failed to bring him his share. Further, she was unafraid of things. It did not occur to him that this fearlessness was founded upon experience and knowledge. Its effect on him was that of an impression of power. His mother represented power, and as he grew older he felt this power in the sharper admonishment of her paw, while the reproving nudge of her nose gave place to the slash of her fangs. For this, likewise, he respected his mother. She compelled obedience from him, and the older he grew the shorter grew her temper. Famine came again, and the cub with clearer consciousness knew once more the bite of hunger. The she-wolf ran herself thin in the quest for meat. She rarely slept any more in the cave, spending most of her time on the meat trail, and spending it vainly. This famine was not a long one, but it was severe while it lasted. The cub found no more milk in his mother's breast, nor did he get one mouthful of meat for himself. Before he had hunted in play, for the sheer joyousness of it, now he hunted in deadly earnestness, and found nothing. Yet the failure of it accelerated his development. He studied the habits of the squirrel with greater carefulness, and strove with greater craft to steal upon it and surprise it. He studied the wood-mice and tried to dig them out of their burrows, and he learned much about the ways of moose-birds and woodpeckers, and there came a day when the hawk's shadow did not drive him crouching into the bushes. He had grown stronger and wiser, and more confident. Also, he was desperate. So he sat on his haunches, conspicuously in an open space, and challenged the hawk down out of the sky. For he knew that there, floating in the blue above him, was meat, the meat his stomach yearned after so insistently. But the hawk refused to come down and give battle, and the cub crawled away into a thicket, and whimpered his disappointment in hunger. The famine broke. The she-wolf brought home meat. It was strange meat, different from any she had ever brought before. It was a lynx kitten, partly grown like the cub, but not so large. And it was all for him. His mother had satisfied her hunger elsewhere, though he did not know that it was the rest of the lynx litter that had gone to satisfy her. Nor did he know the desperateness of her deed. He knew only that the velvet-furred kitten was meat, and he ate and waxed happier with every mouthful. A full stomach conduces to inaction, and the cub lay in the cave, sleeping against his mother's side. He was aroused by her snarling, never had he heard her snarl so terribly. Possibly in her whole life it was the most terrible snarl she ever gave. There was reason for it, and none knew it better than she. A lynx's lair is not despoiled with impunity. In the full glare of the afternoon light, crouching in the entrance of the cave, the cub saw the lynx mother. The hare rippled up along his back at the site. Here was fear, and it did not require his instinct to tell him of it. And if sight alone were not sufficient, the cry of rage the intruder gave, beginning with a snarl, and rushing abruptly upward into a hoarse screech, was convincing enough in itself. The cub felt the prod of the life that was in him, and stood up and snarled valiantly by his mother's side. But she thrust him ignominiously away and behind her. Because of the low-roofed entrance the lynx could not leap in, and when she made a crawling rush of it the she-wolf sprang upon her and pinned her down. The cub saw little of the battle. There was a tremendous snarling and spitting and screeching. The two animals threshed about, the lynx ripping and tearing with her claws and using her teeth as well, while the she-wolf used her teeth alone. Once the cub sprang in and sank his teeth into the hind leg of the lynx. He clung on, growling savagely. Though he did not know it, by the weight of his body he clogged the action of the leg, and thereby saved his mother much damage. A change in the battle crushed him under both their bodies, and wrenched loose his hold. The next moment the two mothers separated, and before they rushed together again the lynx lashed out at the cub with a huge forepaw that ripped his shoulder open to the bone, and sent him hurtling sidewise against the wall. Then was added to the uproar the cub's shrill yelp of pain and fright. But the fight lasted so long that he had time to cry himself out and to experience a second burst of courage, and the end of the battle found him 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. At first she caressed the cub and licked his wounded shoulder, but the blood she had lost had taken with it her strength, and for all of a day and a night she lay by her dead foe's side, without movement scarcely breathing. For a week she never left the cave except for water, and then her movements were slow and painful. At the end of that time the lynx was devoured, while the she-wolf's wounds had healed sufficiently to permit her to take the meat trail again. The cub's shoulder was stiff and sore, and for some time he limped from the terrible slash he had received. But the world now seemed changed. He went about in it with greater confidence, with a feeling of prowess that had not been his in the days before the battle with the lynx. He had looked upon life at a more ferocious aspect. He had fought, he had buried his teeth in the flesh of a foe, and he had survived. Because of all this he carried himself more boldly, with a touch of defiance that was new in him. He was no longer afraid of minor things, and much of his timidity had vanished, though the unknown never ceased to press upon him with its mysteries and terrors, intangible and ever menacing. He began to accompany his mother on the meat trail, and he saw much of the killing of meat, and began to play his part in it, and in his own dim way he had 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 what his own kind killed in eight. This portion was composed of the non- killers and the small killers. The other portion killed in eight his own kind, or was killed in eaten by his own kind. And out of this classification arose the law. The aim of life was meat. Life itself was meat. Life lived on life. There were the eaters and the eaten. The law was eat or be eaten. He did not formulate the law in clear, set terms and moralize about it. He did not even think 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 more formidable, 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 law was being lived about him by all live things and he himself was part and parcel of the law. He was a killer. His only food was meat, live meat, that ran away swiftly before him or flew into the air or climbed trees or hid in the ground or faced him and fought with him or turned the tables and ran after him. Had the cub thought in man fashion he might have epitomized life as a voracious appetite, and the world is a place wherein ranged a multitude of appetites, pursuing and being pursued, hunting and being hunted, eating and being eaten, all in blindness and confusion, with violence and disorder, a chaos of gluttony and slaughter, ruled over by chance, merciless, planless, endless. But the cub did not think in man fashion. He did not look at things with wide vision. He was single-purposed, and entertained but one thought or desire at a time. Besides the law of meat there were a myriad other and lesser laws for him to learn and obey. The world was filled with surprise. The stir of the life that was in him, the play of his muscles, was an unending happiness. To run down meat was to experience thrills and elations. His rages and battles were pleasures. Terror itself, and the mystery of the unknown, led to his living. And there were easements and satisfactions. To have a full stomach, to doze lazily in the sunshine. Such things were remuneration in full for his ardors and toils, while his ardors and toils were in themselves self-remunerative. 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. The cub came upon it suddenly. It was his own fault. He had been careless. He had left the cave and run down to the stream to drink. It might have been that he took no notice because he was heavy with sleep. He had been out all night on the meat trail, and had but just then awakened. And his carelessness might have been due to the familiarity of the trail to the pool. He had traveled it often, and nothing had ever happened on it. He went down past the blasted pine, crossed the open space, and trotted in amongst the trees. Then at the same instant he saw and smelt. Before him, sitting silently on their haunches, were five live things, the like of which he had never seen before. It was his first glimpse of 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, but sat there, silent and ominous. Nor did the cub move. Every instinct of his nature would have impelled him to dash wildly away had there not suddenly and for the first time arisen in him another encounter instinct. A great awe descended upon him. He was beaten down to movelessness by an overwhelming sense of his own weakness and littleness. Here was mastery and power, something far and away beyond him. The cub had never seen man, yet the instinct concerning man was his. In dim ways he recognized in man the animal that had fought itself to primacy over the other animals of the wild. Not alone out of his own eyes, but out of the eyes of all his ancestors was the cub now looking upon man. Out of eyes that had circled in the darkness around countless winter campfires, that had peered from safe distances and from the hearts of thickets at the strange two-legged animal that was lured over living things. The spell of the cub's heritage was upon him, the fear and the respect born of the centuries of struggle and the accumulated experience of the generations. The heritage was too compelling for a wolf that was only a cub. Had he been full-grown he would have run away. As it was he cowered down in a paralysis of fear, already half proffering the submission that his kind had proffered from the first time a wolf came in to sit by man's fire and be made warm. One of the Indians arose and walked over to him and stooped above him. The cub cowered closer to the ground. It was the unknown objectified at last in concrete flesh and blood bending over him and reaching down to sea's hold of him. His hair bristled involuntarily, his lips writhed back and his little fangs were bared. The hand, poised like doom above him, hesitated, and the man spoke laughing, Wabamabiskiyipata! Look, the white fangs! The other Indians laughed loudly and urged the man on to pick up the cub. As the hand descended closer and closer, they raged within the cub a battle of the instincts. He experienced two great impulsions, to yield and to fight. The resulting action was a compromise. He did both. He yielded till the hand almost touched him, then he fought, his teeth flashing in a snap that sank them into the hand. The next moment he received a clout alongside the head that knocked him over on his side. Then all fight fled out of him, his puppyhood and the instinct of submission took charge of him. He sat up on his haunches and cahyied, but the man whose hand he had bitten was angry. The cub received a clout on the other side of his head, whereupon he sat up and cahyied louder than ever. The four Indians laughed more loudly while even the man who had been bitten began to laugh. They surrounded the cub and laughed at him, while he wailed out his terror and his hurt. In the midst of it he heard something. The Indians heard it too, but the cub knew what it was. And with the last long wail that had in it more of triumph than grief, he ceased his noise and waited for the coming of his mother, of his ferocious and indomitable mother who fought and killed all things and was never afraid. She was snarling as she ran. She had heard the cry of her cub and was dashing to save him. She bounded in amongst them her anxious and militant motherhood, making her anything but a pretty sight. But to the cub the spectacle of her protective rage was pleasing. He uttered a glad little cry and bounded to meet her, while the man-animals went back hastily several steps. She wolf stood over against her cub, facing the men with bristling hair, a snarl rumbling deep in her throat. Her face was distorted and malignant with menace, even the bridge of the nose wrinkling from tip to eye so prodigious was her snarl. Then it was that a cry went up from one of the men, K'iche! was what he uttered. It was an exclamation of surprise. The cub felt his mother wilting at the sound. K'iche! The man cried again, and 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, whimpering, wagging her tail, making peace signs. The cub could not understand. He was appalled. The awe of man rushed over him again. His instinct had been true. His mother verified it. She too rendered submission to the man-animals. The man who had spoken came over to her. He put his hand upon her head, and she only crouched closer. She did not snap nor threatened to snap. The other men came up and surrounded her and felt her and pawed her, which actions she made no attempt to resent. They were greatly excited and made many noises with their mouths. These noises were not indication of danger, the cub decided, as he crouched near his mother still bristling from time to time, but doing his best to submit. It is not strange, an Indian was saying. Her father was a wolf. It is true her mother was a dog. But did not my brother tie her out in the woods all of three nights in the mating season? Therefore was the father of K'iche a wolf. It is a year, Graybeaver, since she ran away, spoke a second Indian. It is not strange, Samantang, Graybeaver answered. It was the time of the famine, and there was no meat for the dogs. She has lived with the wolves, said a third Indian. So it would seem, three eagles, Graybeaver answered, laying his hand on the cub, and this be the sign of it. The cub snarled a little at the touch of the hand, and the hand flew back to administer a clout, whereupon the cub covered its fangs and sank down submissively, while the hand, returning, rubbed behind his ears and up and down his back. This be the sign of it, Graybeaver went on. It is plain that his mother is K'iche, but this father was a wolf. Wherefore is there in him little dog and much wolf? His fangs be white, and white fang shall be his name. I have spoken. He is my dog. For was not K'iche my brother's dog, and is not my brother dead? The cub who had thus received a name in the world, lay and watched. For a time the men animals continued to make their mouth noises. Then Graybeaver took a knife from a sheath that hung around his neck and went into the thicket and cut a stick. White fang watched him. He notched the stick at each end and in the notches fastened strings of rawhide. One string he tied around the throat of K'iche. Then he led her to a small pine, around which he tied the other string. White fang followed and lay down beside her. Sam and Tong's hand reached out to him and rolled him over on his back. K'iche looked on anxiously. White fang felt fear mounting in him again. He could not quite suppress a snarl, but he made no offer to snap. The hand, with fingers crooked and spread apart, rubbed his stomach in a playful way and rolled him from side to side. It was ridiculous and ungainly lying there on his back with legs sprawling in the air. Besides it was a position of such utter helplessness that White fang's whole nature revolted against it. He could do nothing to defend himself. If this man-animal intended harm, White fang knew that he could not escape it. How could he spring away with his four legs in the air above him? Yet submission made him master his fear, and he only growled softly. This growl he could not suppress, nor did the man-animal resent it by giving him a blow on the head. And furthermore such was the strangeness of it. White fang experienced an unaccountable sensation of pleasure as the hand rubbed back and forth. When he was rolled on his side he ceased to growl. When the fingers pressed and prodded at the base of his ears the pleasurable sensation increased. And when, with a final rub and scratch, the man left him alone and went away, all fear had died out of White fang. He was to know fear many times in his dealing with man, yet it was a token of the fearless companionship with man that was ultimately to be his. After a time White fang heard strange noises approaching. He was quick in his classification, for he knew them at once for man-animal noises. A few minutes later the remainder of the tribe strung out as it was on the march trailed in. There were more men and many women and children, forty souls of them, and all heavily burdened with camp equipage and outfit. Also there were many dogs, and these, with the exception of the part-grown puppies, were likewise burdened with camp outfit. On their backs, in bags that fastened tightly around underneath, the dogs carried from twenty to thirty pounds of weight. White fang had never seen dogs before, but at sight of them he felt that they were his own kind, only somehow different. 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 and snapped in the face of the open-mouthed, oncoming wave of dogs, and went down and under them, feeling the sharp slash of teeth in his body, himself biting and tearing at the legs and bellies above him. There was a great uproar. He could hear the snarl of Keche as she fought for him, and he could hear the cries of the man-animals, the sounds of clubs, striking upon bodies, and the yelps of pain from the dogs, so struck. Only a few seconds elapsed before he was on his feet again. He could now see the man-animals driving back the dogs with clubs and stones, defending him, saving him from the savage teeth of his kind that somehow was not his kind. And though there was no reason in his brain for a clear conception of so abstract a thing as justice, nevertheless in his own way he felt the justice of the man-animals, and he knew them for what they were, makers of law and executors of law. Also he appreciated the power with which they administered the law. Unlike any animals he had ever encountered, they did not bite nor claw. They enforced their live strength with the power of dead things. Dead things did their bidding. Thus sticks and stones, directed by these strange creatures, leaped through the air like living things, inflicting grievous hurts upon the dogs. To his mind this was power unusual, power inconceivable and beyond the natural, power that was godlike. White Fang in the very nature of him could never know anything about gods. At the best he could know only things that were beyond knowing. But the wonder and awe that he had of these man-animals in ways resembled what would be the wonder and awe of man at sight of some celestial creature on a mountaintop hurling thunderbolts from either hand at an astonished world. The last dog had been driven back. The hubbub died down. And White Fang licked his hurts and meditated upon this, his first taste of pack-cruelty and his introduction to the pack. He had never dreamed that his own kind consisted of more than one eye, his mother, and himself. They had constituted a kind apart, and here abruptly he had discovered many more creatures apparently of his own kind. And there was a subconscious resentment that these his kind, at first sight, had pitched upon him and tried to destroy him. In the same way he resented his mother being tied with a stick, even though it was done by the superior man-animals. It savored of the trap, of bondage. Yet of the trap and of bondage he knew nothing. Freedom to roam and run and lie down at will had been his heritage, and here it was being infringed upon. His mother's movements were restricted to the length of a stick, and by the length of that same stick was he restricted, for he had not yet got beyond the need of his mother's side. He did not like it. Nor did he like it when the man-animals arose and went on with their march, for a tiny man-animal took the other end of the stick and led Quiche captive behind him, and behind Quiche followed White Fang, greatly perturbed and worried by this new adventure he had entered upon. They went down the valley of the stream, far beyond White Fang's widest ranging, until they came to the end of the valley, where the stream ran into the Mackenzie River. Here, where canoes were cashed on poles high in the air, and where stood fish-racks for the drying of fish, camp was made, and White Fang looked on with wondering eyes. The superiority of these man-animals increased with every moment. There was their mastery over all these sharp Fang dogs. It breathed of power. But greater than that, to the Wolf Cub, was their mastery over things not alive, their capacity to communicate motion to unmoving things, their capacity to change the very face of the world. It was this last that especially affected him. The elevation of the frames of poles caught his eye. Yet this in itself was not so remarkable. Being done by the same creatures that flung sticks and stones to great distances. But when the frames of poles were made into tepees by being covered with cloth and skins, White Fang was astounded. It was the colossal bulk of them that impressed him. They arose around him on every side like some monstrous quick-growing form of life. They occupied nearly the whole circumference of his field of vision. He was afraid of them. They loomed ominously above him, and when the breeze stirred them into huge movements he cowered down in fear, keeping his eyes warily upon them, and prepared to spring away if they attempted to precipitate themselves upon him. But in a short while his fear of the tepees passed away. 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 urged him on. The necessity of learning and living and doing that brings experience. The last few inches to the wall of the tepee were crawled with painful slowness and precaution. The day's events had prepared him for the unknown to manifest itself in most stupendous and unthinkable ways. At last his nose touched the canvas. He waited. Nothing happened. Then he smelled the strange fabric saturated with the man's smell. He closed on the canvas with his teeth and gave a gentle tug. Nothing happened, though the adjacent portions of the tepee moved. He tugged harder. There was a greater movement. It was delightful. He'd tug still harder and repeatedly until the whole tepee was in motion. Then the sharp cry of a squaw inside sent him scampering back to Kiche, and after that he was afraid no more of the looming bulks of the tepees. A moment later he was straying away again from his mother. Her stick was tied to a peg in the ground and she could not follow him. A part-grown puppy, somewhat larger and older than he, came toward him slowly, with ostentatious and belligerent importance. The puppy's name, as White Fang was afterward to hear him called, was Lip Lip. He had had experience in puppy fights and was already something of a bully. Lip Lip was White Fang's own kind, and being only a puppy did not seem dangerous, so White Fang prepared to meet him in a friendly spirit. But when the stranger's walk became stiff-legged and his lips lifted clear of his teeth, White Fang stiffened too and answered with lifted lips. They half-circled about each other, candidly, snarling and bristling. This lasted several minutes, and White Fang was beginning to enjoy it as a sort of game. But suddenly, with remarkable swiftness, Lip Lip leaped in, delivering a slashing snap and leaped away again. The snap had taken effect on the shoulder that had been hurt by the links and that was still sore deep down near the bone. The surprise and hurt of it brought a yelp out of White Fang, but the next moment, in a rush of anger, he was upon Lip Lip and snapping viciously. But Lip Lip had lived his life in camp and had fought many puppy fights. Three times, four times, and half a dozen times, his sharp little teeth scored on the newcomer until White Fang, yelping shamelessly, fled to the protection of his mother. It was the first of the many fights he was to have with Lip Lip, for they were enemies from the start, born so, with nature's destined perpetually to clash. Keche licked White Fang soothingly with her tongue and tried to prevail upon him to remain with her. But his curiosity was rampant and several minutes later he was venturing forth on a new quest. He came upon one of the man-animals, Gray Beaver, who was squatting on his hams and doing something with sticks and dry moss spread before him on the ground. White Fang came near to him and watched. Gray Beaver made mouth noises which White Fang interpreted as not hostile, so he came still nearer. Women and children were carrying more sticks and branches to Gray Beaver. It was evidently an affair of moment. White Fang came in until he touched Gray Beaver's knee, so curious was he, and already forgetful that this was a terrible man-animal. Suddenly he saw a strange thing like mist beginning to arise from the sticks and moss beneath Gray Beaver's hands. Then amongst the sticks themselves appeared a live thing, twisting and turning, of a color like the color 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. He crawled the several steps toward the flame. He heard Gray Beaver chuckle above him and he knew the sound was not hostile. Then his nose touched the flame and at the same instant his little tongue went out to it. For a moment he was paralyzed. The unknown lurking in the midst of the sticks and moss was savagely clutching him by the nose. He scrambled backward, bursting out in an astonished explosion of kaiyais. At the sound Keche leaps snarling to the end of her stick, and there raged terribly because she could not come to his aid. But Gray Beaver laughed loudly and slapped his thighs, and told the happening to all the rest of the camp till everybody was laughing uproariously. But White Fang sat on his haunches and kaiied and kaiied, a forlorn impitiable little figure in the midst of the man-animals. It was the worst hurt he had ever known. Both nose and tongue had been scorched by the live thing, sun-colored, that had grown up under Gray Beaver's hands. He cried and cried interminably, and every fresh whale was greeted by bursts of laughter on the part of the man-animals. He tried to soothe his nose with his tongue, but the tongue was burnt too, and the two hurts coming together produced greater hurt, whereupon he cried more hopelessly and helplessly than ever. And then shame came to him. He knew laughter and the meaning of it. It has not given us to know how some animals know laughter, and know when they are being laughed at. But it was this way that White Fang knew it. And he felt shame that the man-animals should be 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, raging at the end of her stick like an animal gone mad, to Kiche, the one creature in the world who was not laughing at him. White drew down and Night came on, and White Fang lay by his mother's side. His nose and tongue still hurt, but he was perplexed by a greater trouble. He was homesick. He felt a vacancy in him. A need for the hush and quietude of the stream and the cave in the cliff. Life had become too populous. There were so many of the man-animals, men, women, and children, all making noises and irritations. And there were the dogs ever squabbling and bickering, bursting into uproars and creating confusions. The restful loneliness of the only life he had known was gone. Here the very air was palpitant with life. It hummed and buzzed unceasingly. Continually changing its intensity and abruptly variant in pitch, it impinged on his nerves and senses, made him nervous and restless, and worried him with a perpetual eminence of happening. He watched the man-animals coming and going and moving about the camp. In fashion distantly resembling the way men look upon the gods they create, so looked White Fang upon the man-animals before him. They were superior creatures of a verity, gods. To his dim comprehension they were as much wonder-workers as gods are to men. They were creatures of mastery, possessing all manner of unknown and impossible potencies, overlords of the alive and the not alive, making obey that which moved, imparting movement to that which did not move, and making life sun-colored and biting life to grow out of dead moss and wood. They were fire-makers. They were gods. CHAPTER II The days were thronged with experience for White Fang. During the time that Keche was tied by the stick, he ran about over all the camp, inquiring, investigating, learning. He quickly came to know much of the ways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed contempt. The more he came to know them, the more they vindicated their superiority, the more they displayed their mysterious powers, the greater loom their godlikeness. To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrown and his altars crumbling, but to the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to crouch at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whose gods are of the unseen and the over-guest, vapors and mists of fancy, eluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible outcroppings of self into the realm of spirit. Unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come into the fire find their gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the accomplishment of their ends and their existence. No effort of faith is necessary to believe in such a god. No effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in such a god. There is no getting away from it. There it stands, on its two hind legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful and loving. God and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh. And so it was with white fang. The man-animals were God's unmistakable and unescapable. As his mother, Kiche, had rendered her allegiance to them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning to render his allegiance. He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitably theirs. When they walked he got out of their way. When they called he came. When they threatened he cowered down. When they commanded him to go he went away hurriedly, for behind any wish of theirs was power to enforce that wish, power that hurt, power that expressed itself in clouts and clubs, in flying stones and stinging lashes of whips. He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to them. His actions were theirs to command. His body was theirs to maul, to stamp upon, to tolerate. Such was the lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It came hard, going as it did, counter to much that was strong and dominant in his own nature. And while he disliked it in the learning of it, unknown to himself, he was learning to like it. It was a placing of his destiny in another's hands, a shifting of the responsibilities of existence. This in itself was compensation, for it is always easier to lean upon another than to stand alone. But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild heritage and his memories of the wild. There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and away. And always he returned, restless 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 came to know that men were more just, children more cruel, and women more kindly and more likely to toss them a bit of meat or bone. After two or three painful adventures with the mothers of part-grown puppies, he came into the knowledge that it was always good policy to let such mothers alone, to keep away from them as far as possible and to avoid them when he saw them coming. The bane 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 he was outclassed. His enemy was too big. Lip Lip became a nightmare to him. Whenever he ventured away from his mother the bully was sure to appear, trailing at his heels, snarling at him, picking upon him, and watchful of an opportunity when no man-animal was near to spring upon him and force a fight. As Lip Lip invariably won, he enjoyed it hugely. It became his chief delight in life as it became White Fang's chief torment. But the effect upon White Fang was not to cow him. Though he suffered most of the damage and was always defeated, his spirit remained unsubdued. Yet a bad effect was produced. He became malignant and morose. His temper had been savage by birth, but it became more savage under this unending persecution. The genial, playful, puppyish side of him found little expression. He never played and gambled about with the other puppies of the camp. Lip Lip would not permit it. The moment White Fang appeared near them, Lip Lip was upon him, bullying and hectoring him, or fighting with him until he had driven him away. The effect of all this was to rob White Fang of much of his puppyhood and to make him in his comportment older than his age. Denied the outlet through play of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed his mental processes. He became cunning. He had idle time in which to devote himself to thoughts of trickery. Prevented from obtaining his share of meat and fish when a general feed was given to the camp dogs, he became a clever thief. He had to forage for himself, and he foraged well, though he was off times a plague to the squaws in consequence. He learned to sneak about camp, to be crafty, to know what was going on everywhere, to see and to hear everything and to reason accordingly, and successfully to devise ways and means of avoiding his implacable persecutor. It was early in the days of his persecution that he played his first really big, crafty game, and got there his first taste of revenge. As Keche, when with the wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs from the camps of men, so White Fang, in manner somewhat similar, lured Lip Lip into Keche's avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip Lip, White Fang made an indirect flight that led in and out and around the various TPs of the camp. He was a good runner, swifter than any puppy of his size, and swifter than Lip Lip. But he did not run his best in this chase. He barely held his own, one leap ahead of his pursuer. Lip Lip, excited by the chase and by the persistent nearness of his victim, forgot caution and locality. When he remembered locality, it was too late. Dashing at top speed around a TP, he ran full tilt into Keche lying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp of consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him. She was tied, but he could not get away from her easily. She rolled him off his legs so that he could not run, while she repeatedly ripped and slashed him with her fangs. When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his feet, badly disheveled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was standing out all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood where he had arisen, opened his mouth, and broke out the long, heartbroken, puppy whale. But even this he was not allowed to complete. In the middle of it, White Fang, rushing in, sank his teeth into Lip Lip's hind leg. There was no fight left in Lip Lip, and he ran away shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and whirring him all the way back to his own TP. Here the squaws came to his aid, and White Fang, transformed into a raging demon, was finally driven off only by a fusillade of stones. Came the day when Gray Beaver, deciding that the liability of her running away was passed, released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with his mother's freedom. He accompanied her joyfully about the camp, and so long as he remained close by her side, Lip Lip kept a respectful distance. White Fang even bristled up to him and walked stiff-legged, but Lip Lip ignored the challenge. He was no fool himself, and whatever vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait until he caught White Fang alone. Later on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed into the edge of the woods next to the camp. He had led his mother there, step by step, and now when she stopped, he tried to inveigle her father. The stream, the lair, and the quiet woods were calling to him, and he wanted her to come. He ran on a few steps, stopped, and looked back. She had not moved. He wind pleadingly, and scurried 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. He stopped and regarded her, all of an intentness and eagerness, physically expressed, that slowly faded out of him as she turned her head and gazed back at the camp. There was something calling to him out there in the open. His mother heard it too, but she heard also that other and louder call, the call of the fire and of man, the call which has been given alone of all animals to the wolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild dog who are brothers. Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the physical restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her. Unseen and occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would not let her go. White Fang sat down in the shadow of a birch and whimpered softly. There was a strong smell of pine, and subtle wood fragrances filled the air, reminding him of his old life of freedom before the days of his bondage. 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 the hours of his short life he had depended upon her. The time was yet to come for independence. So he arose and trotted forlornly back to camp, pausing once, and twice, to sit down in whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in the depths of the forest. In the wild the time of a mother with her young is short, but under the dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Thus it was with White Fang. Grey Beaver was in the dead of three eagles. Three eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A strip of scarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and quiche 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 shoved off. He sprang into the water and swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return. Even a man-animal, a god, White Fang ignored, such was the terror he was in of losing his mother. But gods are accustomed to being obeyed, and Grey Beaver wrathfully launched a canoe in pursuit. When he overtook White Fang he reached down and by the nape of the neck lifted him clear of the water. He did not deposit him at once in the bottom of the canoe. Holding him suspended with one hand, with the other hand he proceeded to give him a beating. And it was a beating. His hand was heavy. Every blow was shrewd to hurt, and he delivered a multitude of blows. Impel by the blows that rained upon him, now from this side, now from that, White Fang swung back and forth like an erratic and jerky pendulum. Varying were the emotions that surged through him, at first he had known surprise. Then came a momentary fear when he yelped several times to the impact of the hand. But this was quickly followed by anger. His free nature asserted itself, and he showed his teeth and snarled fearlessly in the face of the wrathful god. This but served to make the god more wrathful. The blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd to hurt. May bever continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this could not last for ever. One of the other must give over, and that one was White Fang. Fear surged through him again. For the first time he was really being manhandled. The occasional blows of sticks and stones he had previously experienced were as caresses compared with this. He broke down and began to cry and yelp. For a time each blow brought a yelp from him. But fear passed into terror until finally his yelps were voiced in unbroken succession, unconnected with the rhythm of the punishment. At last Gray Beaver withheld his hand. White Fang hanging limply continued to cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who flung him down roughly in the bottom of the canoe. In the meantime the canoe had drifted down the stream. Gray Beaver picked up the paddle. White Fang was in his way. He spurned him savagely with his foot. In that moment White Fang's free nature flashed forth again and he sank his teeth into the moccasin foot. The beating that had gone before was as nothing compared with the beating he now received. Gray 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 when he was again flung down in the canoe. Again and this time with purpose did Gray Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his attack on the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no matter what the circumstance, must he dare to bite the God who was Lord and Master over him. The body of the Lord and Master was sacred, not to be defiled by the teeth of such as he. That was evidently the crime of crimes, the one offense there was no condoning nor overlooking. When the canoe touched the shore, White Fang lay whimpering and motionless, waiting the will of Gray Beaver. It was Gray Beaver's will that he should go ashore, for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on his side, and hurting his bruises afresh. He crawled tremblingly to his feet and stood whimpering. Lip Lip, who had watched the whole proceeding from the bank, now rushed upon him, knocking him over and sinking his teeth into him. White Fang was too helpless to defend himself, and it would have gone hard with him had not Gray Beaver's foot shot out, lifting Lip Lip into the air with its violence so that he smashed down to earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animal's justice, and even then, in his own impitiable plight, White Fang experienced a little grateful thrill. At Gray Beaver's heels he limped obediently through the village to the teepee, and so it came that White Fang learned that the right to punish was something the gods reserved for themselves and denied to the lesser creatures under them. That night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother and sorrowed for her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Gray Beaver, who beat him. After that he mourned gently when the gods were around, but sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave vent to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimpering and wailings. It was during this period that he might have hearkened to the memories of the lair and the stream, and 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 would come back to the village some time. So he remained in his bondage, waiting for her. But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage. There was much to interest him. Something was always happening. There was no end to the strange things these gods did, and he was always curious to see. Besides, he was learning how to get along with Gray Beaver. Obedience, rigid, undeviating obedience, was what was exacted of him, and in return he escaped beatings and his existence was tolerated. Nay, Gray Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a piece of meat, and defended him against the other dogs in the eating of it. And such a piece of meat was of value. It was worth more, in some strange way, than a dozen pieces of meat from the hand of a squaw. Gray Beaver never petted nor caressed. Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the sheer power of him, and perhaps it was all these things that influenced White Fang, for a certain tie of attachment was forming between him and his surly lord. Insidiously, and by remote ways, as well as by the power of stick and stone and clout of hand, were the shackles of White Fang's bondage being riveted upon him. The qualities in his kind that in the beginning made it possible for them to come into the fires of men were qualities capable of development. They were developing in him, and the camp life, replete with misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself to him all the time. But White Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Keche, hope for her return, and a hungry yearning for the free life that had been his. White Fang became wickeder and more ferocious than it was his natural right to be. Savageness was a part of his makeup, but the savageness thus developed exceeded his makeup. He acquired a reputation for wickedness amongst the men-animals themselves. Whenever there was trouble and uproar in camp, fighting and squabbling, or the outcry of a squaw over a bit of stolen meat, they were sure to find White Fang mixed up in it, and usually at the bottom of it. They did not bother to look after the causes of his conduct. They saw only the effects, and the effects were bad. He was a sneak and a thief, a mischief-maker, a fomenter of trouble, and irate squaws told him to his face, the while he eyed them alert and ready to dodge any quick-flung missile, that he was a wolf and worthless, and bound to come to an evil end. He found himself an outcast in the midst of the populous camp. All the young dogs followed Lip-Lip's lead. There was a difference between White Fang and them. Perhaps they sensed his wildwood breed and instinctively felt for him the enmity that the domestic dog feels for the wolf. Be that as it may, they joined with Lip-Lip in the persecution. And, once declared against him, they found good reason to continue declared against him. One and all, from time to time, they felt his teeth. And to his credit he gave more than he received. Many of them he could whip in single-fight, but single-fight was denied him. The beginning of such a fight was a signal for all the young dogs in camp to come running and pitch upon him. Out of this packed persecution he learned two important things. How to take care of himself in a mass fight against him. And how, on a single dog, to inflict the greatest amount of damage in the briefest space of time. To keep one's feet in the midst of the hostile mass met life, and this he learned well. He became cat-like in his ability to stay on his feet. Even grown dogs might hurtle him backward or sideways with the impact of their heavy bodies, and backward or sideways he would go, in the air or sliding on the ground, but always with his legs under him and his feet downward to the mother earth. When dogs fight there are usually preliminaries to the actual combat, snarlings and bristlings and stiff-legged struttings. But White Fang learned to omit these preliminaries. Delay meant the coming against him of all the young dogs. He must do his work quickly and get away. So he learned to give no warning of his intention. He rushed in and snapped and slashed on the instant, without notice, before his foe could prepare to meet him. Thus he learned how to inflict quick and severe damage. Also he learned the value of surprise. A dog, taken off its guard, its shoulder, slashed open, or its ear ripped in ribbons before it knew what was happening, was a dog half whipped. Furthermore it was remarkably easy to overthrow a dog taken by surprise, while a dog, thus overthrown, invariably exposed for a moment the soft underside of its neck, the vulnerable point at which to strike for its life. White Fang knew this point. It was a knowledge bequeathed to him directly from the hunting generation of wolves. So it was that White Fang's method when he took the offensive was, first to find a young dog alone, second to surprise it and knock it off its feet, and third to drive him with his teeth at the soft throat. Being but partly grown his jaws had not yet become large enough nor strong enough to make his throat attack deadly, but many a young dog went around camp with a lacerated throat in token of White Fang's intention. And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the woods, he managed, by repeatedly overthrowing him and attacking the throat, to cut the great vein and let out the life. There was a great row that night. 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 Gray Beaver was beset by many angry voices. But he resolutely held the door of his teepee, inside which he had placed the culprit, and refused to permit the vengeance for which his tribespeople clamored. 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. He was greeted with snarls by his kind, with curses and stones by his gods. He lived tensely. He was always keyed up, alert for attack, wary of being attacked, with an eye for sudden and unexpected missiles, prepared to act precipitately and coolly, to leap in with a flash of teeth or to leap away with a menacing snarl. As for snarling he could snarl more terribly than any dog, young or old, in camp. The intent of the snarl is to warn or frighten, and judgment is required to know when it should be used. White Fang knew how to make it, and when to make it. Into his snarl he incorporated all that was vicious, malignant and horrible. With nose seriolated by continuous spasms, hair bristling in recurrent waves, tongue whipping out like a red snake and whipping back again, ears flattened down, eyes gleaming hatred, lips wrinkled back, and Fangs exposed and dripping. He could compel a pause on the part of almost any assailant. A temporary pause, when taken off his guard, gave him the vital moment in which to think and determine his action. But often a pause so gained lengthened out until it evolved into a complete cessation from the attack, and before more than one of the grown dogs, White Fang's snarl enabled him to beat an honorable retreat. An outcast himself from the pack of the part-grown dogs, his sanguinary methods and remarkable efficiency made the pack pay for its persecution of him. Not permitted himself to run with the pack, the curious state of affairs obtained that no member of the pack could run outside the pack. White Fang would not permit it. What of his bushwhacking and way-laying tactics the young dogs were afraid to run by themselves. With the exception of lip-lip they were compelled to hunch together for mutual protection against the terrible enemy they had made. A puppy alone by the river-bank meant a puppy dead or a puppy that aroused the camp with its shrill pain and terror as it fled back from the wolf-cub that had way-lated. But White Fang's reprisals did not cease, even when the young dogs had learned thoroughly that they must stay together. He attacked them when he caught them alone, and they attacked him when they were bunched. The sight of him was sufficient to start them rushing after him, at which times his swiftness usually carried him into safety. But woe the dog that outran his fellows in such pursuit! White Fang had learned to turn suddenly upon the pursuer that was ahead of the pack and thoroughly to rip him up before the pack could arrive. This occurred with great frequency, for, once in full cry, the dogs were prone to forget themselves in the excitement of the chase, while White Fang never forgot himself. Stealing backward glances as he ran, he was always ready to whirl around and down the overzealous pursuer that outran his fellows. Young dogs are bound to play, and out of the exigencies of the situation they realized their play in this mimic warfare. Thus it was that the haunt of White Fang became their chief game, a deadly game with all, and at times a serious game. He, on the other hand, being the fastest-footed, was unafraid to venture anywhere. During the period that he waited vainly for his mother to come back, he led the pack many a while chased through the adjacent woods. But the pack invariably lost him. Its noise and outcry 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. Further he was more directly connected with the wild than they, and he knew more of its secrets and stratagems. A favorite trick of his was to lose his trail in running water, and then lie quietly in a nearby thicket while their baffled cries rose around him. Hated by his kind and by mankind, indomitable, perpetually warred upon and himself waging perpetual war, his development was rapid and one-sided. This was no soil for kindness and affection to blossom in. Of such things he had not the faintest glimmering. The code he learned was to obey the strong and to oppress the weak. Gray beaver was a god and strong. Therefore White Fang obeyed him. But the dog younger or smaller than himself was weak, a thing to be destroyed. His development was in the direction of power. In order to face the constant danger of hurt and even of destruction, his predatory and protective faculties were unduly developed. He became quicker of movement than the other dogs, swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lithe, more lean with iron-like muscle in sinew, more enduring, more cruel, more ferocious, and more intelligent. He had to become all these things else he would not have held his own nor survived the hostile environment in which he found himself. In the fall of the year, when the days were shortening and the bite of the frost was coming into the air, White Fang got his chance for liberty. For several days there had been a great hubbub in the village. The summer camp was being dismantled, and the tribe, bag and baggage, was preparing to go off to the fall hunting. White Fang watched it all with eager eyes, and when the TPs 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 determined to stay behind. He waited his opportunity to slink out of camp to the woods. Here in the running stream where ice was beginning to form he hid his trail. Then he crawled into the heart of a dense thicket and waited. The time passed by, and he slept intermittently for hours. Then he was aroused by Graybeaver's voice calling him by name. There were other voices, White Fang could hear Graybeaver's squaw taking part in the search, and Mitza, who was Graybeaver's son. White Fang trembled with fear, and though the impulse came to crawl out of his hiding-place, he resisted it. After a time the voices died away, and some time after that he crept out to enjoy the success of his undertaking. Darkness was coming on and for a while he played about among the trees, pleasuring in his freedom. Then and quite suddenly he became aware of loneliness. He sat down to consider, listening to the silence of the forest and perturbed by it. That nothing moved nor sounded seemed ominous. He felt the lurking of danger, unseen and unguessed. He was suspicious of the looming bulks of the trees and of the dark shadows that might conceal all manner of perilous things. Then it was cold. Here was no warm side of a tepee against which to snuggle. The frost was in his feet, and he kept lifting first one forefoot and then the other. He curved his bushy tail around to cover them, and at the same time he saw a vision. It was nothing strange about it. Upon his inward sight was impressed a succession of memory pictures. He saw the camp again, the tepees, and the blaze of the fires. He heard the shrill voices of the women, the gruff bases of the men, and the snarling of the dogs. He was hungry, and he remembered pieces of meat and fish that had been thrown him. Here was no meat, nothing but a threatening and inedible silence. His bondage had softened him. Irresponsibility had weakened him. He had forgotten how to shift for himself. The night yawned about him. His senses, accustomed to the hum and bustle of the camp, used to the continuous impact of sights and sounds, were now left idle. There was nothing to do, nothing to see or hear. They strained to catch some interruption of the silence and immobility of nature. They were appalled by inaction and by the feeling of something terrible impending. He gave a great start of fright. A colossal and formless something was rushing across the field of his vision. It was a tree shadow flung by the moon, from whose face the clouds had been brushed away. Reassured he whimpered softly. Then he suppressed the whimper for fear that it might attract the attention of the lurking dangers. A tree, contracting in the cool of the night, made a loud noise. It was directly above him. He yelped in his fright. A panic seized him and he ran 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. He passed out of the forest and into the moonlit open where there were no shadows nor darknesses. But no village greeted his eyes. He had forgotten. The village had gone away. His wild flight ceased abruptly. There was no place to which to flee. He slunk forlornly through the deserted camp, smelling the rubbish heaps and the discarded rags and tags of the gods. He would have been glad for the rattle of stones about him, flung by an angry squaw, glad for the hand of Greybeaver descending upon him in wrath, while he would have welcomed with delight, lip-lip, and the whole snarling, cowardly pack. He came to where Greybeaver's teepee had stood. In the center of the space it had occupied, he sat down. He pointed his nose at the moon. His throat was afflicted by rigid spasms. His mouth opened and in a heartbroken cry bubbled up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Quiche, all his past sorrows and miseries as well as his apprehension of sufferings and dangers to come. It was the long wolf-howl, full-throated and mournful, the first howl he had ever uttered. The coming of daylight dispelled his fears but increased his loneliness. The naked earth, which so shortly before had been so populous, thrust his loneliness more forcibly upon him. It did not take him long to make up his mind. He plunged into the forest and followed the river-bank down the stream. All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on for ever. His iron-like body ignored fatigue, and even after fatigue came his heritage of endurance braced him to endless endeavor and enabled him to drive his complaining body onward. Where the river swung in against precipitous bluffs he climbed the high mountains behind. Rivers and streams that entered the main river he forded or swam. Often he took to the rim-ice that was beginning to form, and more than once he crashed through and struggled for life in the icy current. Always he was on the lookout for the trail of the gods where it might leave the river and proceed inland. White Fang was intelligent beyond the average of his kind, yet his mental vision was not wide enough to embrace the other bank of the Mackenzie. What of the trail of the gods let out on that side? It never entered his head. Later on, when he had traveled more and grown older and wiser and come to know more of trails and rivers, it might be that he could grasp and apprehend such a possibility. But that mental power was yet in the future. Just now he ran blindly, his own bank of the Mackenzie alone entering into his calculations. All night he ran, blundering in the darkness into mishaps and obstacles that delayed but did not dot. By the middle of the second day he had been running continuously for thirty hours, and the iron of his flesh was giving out. It was the endurance of his mind that kept him going. He had not eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. The repeated drenchings in the icy water had likewise had their effect on him. His handsome coat was draggled. The broad pads of his feet were bruised and bleeding. He had begun to limp, and this limp increased with the hours. To make it worse the light of the sky was obscured and snow began to fall. A raw, moist, melting, clinging snow, slippery underfoot, that hid from him the landscape he traversed, and that covered over the inequalities of the ground so that the way of his feet was more difficult and painful. Greybeaver 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, a moose coming down to drink had been espied by Klu Kuch, who was Greybeaver's squaw. Now had not the moose come down to drink, had not Mitzah been steering out of the course because of the snow, had not Klu Kuch sited the moose, and had not Greybeaver killed it with a lucky shot from his rifle, all subsequent things would have happened differently. Greybeaver 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, and White Fang, whimpering softly to himself as he stumbled and limped along, came upon a fresh trail in the snow. So fresh was it that he knew it immediately for what it was. Wining 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, Klu Kuch cooking and Greybeaver squatting on his hams and munching a chunk of raw tallow. There was fresh meat in camp. White Fang expected a beating. He crouched and bristled a little at the thought of it. Then he went forward again. He feared and disliked the beating he knew to be waiting for him. But he knew, further, that the comfort of the fire would be his, the protection of the gods, the companionship of the dogs, the last a companionship of enmity, but nonetheless a companionship and satisfying to his gregarious needs. He came cringing and crawling into the firelight. Greybeaver saw him and stopped munching the tallow. White Fang crawled slowly, cringing and groveling in the abjectness of his abasement and submission. He crawled straight toward Greybeaver, every inch of his progress becoming slower and more painful. At last he lay at the master's feet, into whose possession he now surrendered himself, voluntarily, body and soul. Of his own choice he came in to sit by man's fire and to be ruled by him. White Fang trembled, waiting for the punishment to fall upon him. There was a movement of the hand above him. He cringed involuntarily under the expected blow. It did not fall. He stole a glance upward. Greybeaver was breaking the lump of tallow in half. Greybeaver was offering him one piece of the tallow. Very gently and somewhat suspiciously, he first smelled the tallow and then proceeded to eat it. Greybeaver ordered meat to be brought to him and guarded him from the other dogs while he ate. After that, grateful and content, White Fang lay at Greybeaver's feet, gazing at the fire that warmed him, blinking and dozing, pure in the knowledge that the morrow would find him, not wandering forlorn through bleak forest stretches, but in the camp of the man-animals, with the gods, to whom he had given himself and upon whom he was now dependent. When December was well along, Greybeaver went on a journey up the Mackenzie. Mitza and Klu Kuch went with him. One sled he drove himself, drawn by dogs he had traded for or borrowed. A second and smaller set was driven by Mitza, and to this was harnessed a team of puppies. It was more of a toy affair than anything else, yet it was the delight of Mitza, 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, while the puppies themselves were being broken into the harness. Furthermore the sled was of some service, for it carried nearly two hundred pounds of outfit and food. White Fang had seen the camp dogs toiling in the harness so that he did not resent over much the first placing of the harness upon himself. About his neck was put a moss-stuffed collar, which was connected by two pulling-traces to a strap that passed around his chest and over his back. It was to this that was fastened the long rope by which he pulled at the sled. There were seven puppies in the team. The others had been born earlier in the year, and were nine and ten months old, while White Fang was only eight months old. Each dog was fastened to the sled by a single rope. No two ropes were of the same length, while the difference in length between any two ropes was at least that of a dog's body. Every rope was brought to a ring at the front end of the sled. The sled itself was without runners, being a birch bark toboggan, with upturned forward end to keep it from plowing under the snow. This construction enabled the weight of the sled in load to be distributed over the largest snow surface, for the snow was crystal powder and very soft. Observing the same principle of widest distribution of weight, the dogs at the ends of their ropes radiated fan fashion from the nose of the sled, so that no dog trod at another's footsteps. There was, furthermore, another virtue in the fan formation. The ropes of varying length prevented the dogs attacking from the rear those that ran in front of them. For a dog to attack another, it would have to turn upon one at a shorter rope, in which case it would find itself face to face with the dog attacked, and also it would find itself facing the whip of the driver. But the most peculiar virtue of all lay in the fact that the dog that strove to attack one in front of him must pull the sled faster, and that the faster the sled traveled, the faster could the dog attack run away. Thus the dog behind could never catch up with the one in front. The faster he ran, the faster ran the one he was after, and the faster ran all the dogs. Incidentally, the sled went faster, and thus, by cunning indirection, did man increase his mastery over the beasts. Mitsa resembled his father, much of whose gray wisdom he possessed. In the past he had observed Lip Lip's persecution of White Fang, but at that time Lip Lip was another man's dog, and Mitsa had never dared more than to shy an occasional stone at him. But now Lip Lip was his dog, and he proceeded 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 of being bully and master of the pack, he now found himself hated and persecuted by the pack. As he ran at the end of the longest rope, the dogs had always the view of him running away before them. All that they saw of him was his bushy tail in fleeing, high in legs, a view far less ferocious and intimidating than his bristling mane and gleaming fangs. Also, dogs being so constituted in their mental ways, the sight of him running away gave 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 extended throughout the day. At first he had been prone to turn upon his pursuers, jealous of his dignity and wrathful. But at such times Mitsa would throw the stinging lash of the thirty-foot caribou-gut whip into his face and compel him to turn tail and run on. Lip Lip might face the pack, but he could not face that whip, and all that was left him to do was to keep his long rope taught and his flanks ahead of the teeth of his mates. But a still greater cunning lurked in the recesses of the Indian mind. To give point to unending pursuit of the leader, Mitsa favored him over the other dogs. These favors aroused in them jealousy and hatred. In their presence Mitsa would give him meat and would give it to him only. This was maddening to them. They would rage around just outside the throwing distance of the whip, while Lip Lip devoured the meat and Mitsa protected him. And when there was no meat to give, Mitsa would keep the team at a distance and make believe to give meat to Lip Lip. White Fang took kindly to the work. He had traveled a greater distance than the other dogs in the yielding of himself to the rule of the gods, and he had learned more thoroughly the futility of opposing their will. In addition, the persecution he had suffered from the pack had made the pack less to him in the scheme of things and man more. He had not learned to be depended on his kind for companionship. Besides, Keche was well-knife-forgotten, and the chief outlet of expression that remained to him was in the allegiance he tendered the gods he had accepted as masters. So he worked hard, learned discipline, and was obedient. Faithfulness and willingness characterised his toil. These are essential traits of the wolf and the wild dog when they have become domesticated, and these traits White Fang possessed in unusual measure. A companionship did exist between White Fang and the other dogs, but it was one of warfare and enmity. He had never learned to play with them. He knew only how to fight, and fight with them he did, returning to them a hundredfold the snaps and slashes they had given him in the days when Lip Lip was leader of the pack. But Lip Lip was no longer leader, except when he fled away before his mates at the end of his rope, the sled bounding along behind. In camp he kept close to Mitza or Grey Beaver or Klu Kuch. He did not dare venture away from the gods, for now the fangs of all dogs were against him, and he tasted to the dregs the persecution that had been White Fangs. With the overthrow of Lip Lip White Fang could have become leader of the pack. But he was too morose and solitary for that. He merely thrashed his teammates. Otherwise he ignored them. They got out of his way when he came along, nor did the boldest of them ever dare to rob him of his meat. On the contrary, they devoured their own meat hurriedly, for fear that he would take it away from them. White Fang knew the law well, to oppress the weak and obey the strong. He ate his share of meat as rapidly as he could, and then wove the dog that had not yet finished. A snarl and a flash of fangs, and that dog would wail his indignation to the uncomforting stars while White Fang finished his portion for him. Every little while, however, one dog or another would flame up in revolt and be promptly subdued. Thus White Fang was kept in training. He was jealous of the isolation in which he kept himself in the midst of the pack, and he fought often to maintain it. But such fights were of brief duration. He was too quick for the others. They were slashed open in bleeding before they knew what had happened, were whipped almost before they had begun to fight. As rigid as the sled-discipline of the gods, was the discipline maintained by White Fang amongst his fellows. He never allowed them any latitude. He compelled them to an unremitting respect for him. They might do as they pleased amongst themselves. That was no concern of his. But it was his concern that they leave him alone in his isolation, get out of his way when he elected to walk among them, and at all times acknowledge his mastery over them. A hint of stiff leggedness on their part, a lifted lip or a bristle of hair, and he would be upon them, merciless and cruel, swiftly convincing them of the error of their way. He was a monstrous tyrant. His mastery was rigid as steel. He oppressed the weak with a vengeance. Not for nothing had he been exposed to the pitiless struggles for life in the day of his cubhood when his mother and he, alone and unaided, held their own and survived in the ferocious environment of the wild. And not for nothing had he learned to walk softly when superior strength went by. He oppressed the weak, but he respected the strong. And in the course of the long journey with Gray Beaver he walked softly indeed amongst the full-grown dogs in the camps of the strange man-animals they encountered. The months passed by. Still continued the journey of Gray Beaver. White Fang's strength was developed by the long hours on trail and the steady toil at the sled, and it would have seemed that his mental development was well nigh complete. He had come to know quite thoroughly the world in which he lived. His outlook was bleak and materialistic. The world, as he saw it, was a fierce and brutal world, a world without warmth, a world in which caresses an affection and the bright sweetnesses of the spirit did not exist. He had no affection for Gray Beaver. True he was a God, but a most savage God. White Fang was glad to acknowledge his lordship, but it was a lordship based upon superior intelligence and brute strength. There was something in the fiber of White Fang's being that made his lordship a thing to be desired, else he would not have come back from the wild when he did to tender his allegiance. There were deeps in his nature which had never been sounded. A kind word, a caressing touch of the hand, on the part of Gray Beaver, might have sounded these deeps, but Gray Beaver did not caress nor speak kind words. It was not his way. His primacy was savage, and savagely he ruled, administering justice with a club, punishing transgression with the pain of a blow, and rewarding merit not by kindness but by withholding a blow. So White Fang knew nothing of the heaven a man's hand might contain for him. Besides, he did not like the hands of the man-animals. He was suspicious of them. It was true that they sometimes gave meat, but more often they gave hurt. Hands were things to keep away from. They hurled stones, wielded sticks and clubs and whips, administered slaps and clouts, and, when they touched him, were cunning to hurt with pinch and twist and wrench. In strange villages he had encountered the hands of the children and learned that they were cruel to hurt. Also he had once nearly had an eye poked out by a toddling papoose. From these experiences he became suspicious of all children. He could not tolerate them. When they came near with their ominous hands, he got up. It was in a village at the Great Slave Lake that, in the course of resenting the evil of the hands of the man-animals, he came to modify the law that he had learned from Gray Beaver, namely, that the unpardonable crime was to bite one of the gods. In this village, after the custom of all dogs in all villages, White Fang went foraging for food. A boy was chopping frozen moose-meat with an axe, and the chips were flying in the snow. White Fang, sliding by in quest of meat, stopped and began to eat the chips. He observed the boy lay down the axe and take up a stout club. White Fang sprang clear just in time to escape the descending blow. The boy pursued him, and he a stranger in the village fled between two teepees to find himself cornered against a high earth bank. There was no escape for White Fang. The only way out was between the two teepees, and this the boy guarded. Holding his club prepared to strike, he drew in on his cornered quarry. White Fang was furious. He faced the boy, bristling and snarling, his sense of justice outraged. He knew the law of forage, 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 scarcely knew what happened. He did it in a surge of rage, and he did it so quickly that the boy did not know either. All the boy knew was that he had in some unaccountable way been overturned into the snow, and that his club hand had been ripped wide open by White Fang's teeth. But White Fang knew that he had broken the law of the gods. He had driven his teeth into the sacred flesh of one of them, and could expect nothing but a most terrible punishment. He fled away to Gray Beaver, behind whose protecting legs he crouched when the bitten boy and the boy's family came, demanding vengeance. But they went away with vengeance unsatisfied. Gray Beaver defended White Fang, so did Mitsa and Klu Kuch. White Fang, listening to the wordy war and watching the angry gestures, knew that his act was justified, and so it came that he learned there were gods and gods. There were his gods, and there were other gods, and between them there was a difference. Justice or injustice, it was all the same. He must take all things from the hands of his own gods. But he was not compelled to take injustice from the other gods. It was his privilege to resent it with his teeth, and this also was a law of the gods. Before the day was out, White Fang was to learn more about this law. Mitsa, alone, gathering firewood in the forest, encountered the boy that had been bitten. With him were other boys, hot words passed. Then all the boys attacked Mitsa, it was going hard with him. Blows were raining upon him from all sides. White Fang looked on at first. This was an affair of the gods, and no concern of his. Then he realized that this was Mitsa, one of his own particular gods, who was being maltreated. It was no reasoned impulse that made White Fang do what he then did. A mad rush of anger sent him leaping in amongst the combatants. Five minutes later the landscape was covered with fleeing boys, many of whom dripped blood upon the snow in token that White Fang's teeth had not been idle. When Mitsa 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, gorged and sleepy by the fire, knew that the law had received its verification. It was in line with these experiences that White Fang came to learn the law of property and the duty of the defense 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. What was his God's was to be defended against all the world, even to the extent of biting other gods. Not only was such an act sacrilegious in its nature, but it was fraught with peril. The gods were all powerful, and a dog was no match against them, yet White Fang learned to face them fiercely belligerent and unafraid. Duty rose above fear, and thieving gods learned to leave Grey Beaver's property alone. One thing in this connection White Fang quickly learnt, and that was that a thieving god was usually a cowardly god, and prone to run away at the sounding of the alarm. Also he learned that but brief time elapsed between his sounding of the alarm and Grey Beaver coming to his aid. He came to know that it was not fear of him that drove the thief away, but fear of Grey Beaver. White Fang did not give the alarm by barking. He never barked. His method was to drive straight at the intruder and to sink his teeth in if he could. Because he was morose and solitary, having nothing to do with the other dogs, he was unusually fitted to guard his master's property, and in this he was encouraged and trained by Grey Beaver. One result of this was to make White Fang more ferocious and indomitable and more solitary. The months went by, binding stronger and stronger the covenant between dog and man. This was the ancient covenant that the first wolf that came in from the wild entered into with man. And, like all succeeding wolves and wild dogs that had done likewise, White Fang worked the covenant out for himself. The terms were simple. For the possession of a flesh and blood god he exchanged his own liberty. Food and fire, protection and 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 implies service. White Fang's was a service of duty and awe, but not of love. He did not know what love was. He had no experience of love. Qiche was a remote memory. Besides, not only had he abandoned the wild and his kind when he gave himself up to man, but the terms of the covenant were such that if ever he met Qiche again he would not desert his god to go with her. His allegiance to man seemed somehow a law of his being greater than the love of liberty, of kind and kin. End of Chapter 5. Part 3. CHAPTER 6. THE FAMON The Spring of the Year was at hand when Greybeaver finished his long journey. It was April, and White Fang was a year old when he pulled into the home villages and was loosed from the harness by Mitsa. Though a long way from his full growth, White Fang, next to Lip Lip, was the largest yearling in the village. Both from his father, the wolf, and from Qiche, he had inherited stature and strength, and already he was measuring up alongside the full-grown dogs. But he had not yet grown compact. His body was slender and rangy, and his strength more stringy than massive. His coat was the true wolf-grey, and to all appearances he was true wolf himself. The quarter-strain of dog he had inherited from Qiche had left no mark on him physically, though it had played its part in his mental make-up. He wandered through the village, recognizing with staid satisfaction the various gods he had known before the long journey. Then there were the dogs, puppies growing up like himself, and grown dogs that did not look so large and formidable as the memory pictures he retained of them. Also, he stood less in fear of them than formerly, stalking among them with a certain careless ease that was as new to him as it was enjoyable. There was Basique, a grizzled old fellow that in his younger days had but to uncover his fangs to send White Fang cringing and crouching to the right about. From him White Fang had learned much of his own insignificance, and from him he was now to learn much of the change and development that had taken place in himself. While Basique 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 had got for himself a hoof and part of the shin bone to which quite a bit of meat was attached. Withdrawn from the immediate scramble of the other dogs, in fact, out of sight behind a thicket, he was devouring his prize when Basique rushed in upon him. Before he knew what he was doing he had slashed the intruder twice and sprung clear. Basique was surprised by the other's temerity and swiftness of attack. He stood, gazing stupidly across at White Fang, the raw, red shin bone between them. Basique was old, and already he had come to know the increasing valor of the dogs it had been his want to bully. Bitter experiences these, which, perforce, he swallowed, calling upon all his wisdom to cope with them. In the old days he would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury of righteous wrath, but now his weaning powers would not permit such a chorus. He bristled fiercely, and looked ominously across the shin bone at White Fang. And White Fang, resurrecting quite a deal of the old awe, seemed to wilt and to shrink in upon himself and grow small, as he cast about in his mind for a way to beat a retreat not too inglorious. And right here Basique erred. Had he contended himself with looking fierce and ominous, all would have been well. White Fang, on the verge of retreat, would have retreated, leaving the meat to him. But Basique did not wait. He considered the victory already his, and stepped forward to the meat. As he bent his head carelessly to smell it, White Fang bristled slightly. Even then it was not too late for Basique to retrieve the situation. As he merely stood over the meat, head up and glowering, White Fang would ultimately have slunk away. But the fresh meat was strong in Basique's nostrils, and greed urged him to take a bite of it. This was too much for White Fang. Fresh upon his months of mastery over his own teammates, it was beyond his self-control to stand idly by while another devoured the meat that belonged to him. He struck after his custom without warning. With the first slash, Basique's right ear was ripped into ribbons. He was astounded at the suddenness of it. But more things, and most grievous ones, were happening with equal suddenness. He was knocked off his feet. His throat was bitten. While he was struggling to his feet the young dog sank teeth twice into his shoulder. The swiftness of it was bewildering. He made a futile rush at White Fang, clipping the empty air with an outraged snap. The next moment his nose was laid open, and he was staggering backward away from the meat. The situation was now reversed. White Fang stood over the shinbone, bristling and menacing, while Basique stood a little way off, preparing to retreat. He dared not risk a fight with this young lightning flash, and again he knew, and more bitterly, the enfeeblement of oncoming age. His attempt to maintain his dignity was heroic. Calmly turning his back upon young dog and shinbone, as though both were beneath his notice and unworthy of his consideration, he stalked grandly away. Nor until well out of sight did he 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. Not that he went out of his way looking for trouble. Far from it. But upon his way he demanded consideration. He stood upon his right to go his way, unmolested and to give trail to no dog. He had to be taken into account, that was all. He was no longer to be disregarded and ignored, as was the lot of puppies, and as continued to be the lot of the puppies that were his teammates. They got out of the way, gave trail to the grown dogs, and gave up meat to them under compulsion. But White Fang, uncompagnionable, solitary, morose, scarcely looking to right or left, redoubtable, forbidding of aspect, remote and alien, was accepted as an equal by his puzzled elders. They quickly learned to leave him alone, neither venturing hostile acts nor making overtures of friendliness. If they left him alone, he left them alone, a state of affairs that they found, after a few encounters, to be preeminently desirable. In mid-summer White Fang had an experience. Trotting along in his silent way to investigate a new teepee which had been erected on the edge of the village while he was away with the hunters after moose, he came full upon Keche. He paused and looked at her. He remembered her vaguely, but he remembered her, and that was more than could be said for her. She lifted her lip at him in the old snarl of menace, and his memory became clear. His forgotten cubhood, all that was associated with that familiar snarl, rushed back to him. Before he had known the gods, she had been to him the center pin of the universe. The old familiar feelings of that time came back upon him, surged up within him. He bounded towards her joyously, and she met him with shrewd fangs that laid his cheek open to the bone. He did not understand. He backed away, bewildered and puzzled. But it was not Keche'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 sprawled up to White Fang. They were half-brothers, only they did not know it. White Fang sniffed the puppy curiously, whereupon Keche rushed upon him, gashing his face a second time. He backed farther away. All the old memories and associations died down again, and passed into the grave from which they had been resurrected. He looked at Keche licking her puppy and stopping now and then to snarl at him. She was without value to him. He had learned to get along without her. Her meaning was forgotten. There was no place for her in his scheme of things, as there was no place for him in hers. He was still standing, stupid and bewildered, the memories forgotten, wondering what it was all about, when Keche attacked him a third time, intent on driving him away altogether from the vicinity. And White Fang allowed himself to be driven away. This was a female of his kind, and it was a law of his kind that the males must not fight the females. He did not know anything about this law, for it was no generalization of the mind, not as something acquired by experience of the world. He knew it as a secret prompting, as an urge of instinct, of the same instinct that made him howl at the moon and stars of nights, and that made him fear death and the unknown. The Months Went By White Fang grew stronger, heavier, and more compact, while his character was developing along the lines laid down by his heredity and his environment. His heredity was a life-stuff that may be likened to clay. It possessed many possibilities, was capable of being molded into many different forms. Environment served to model the clay, to give it a particular form. Thus, had White Fang never come into the fires of man, the wild would have molded him into a true wolf. But the gods had given him a different environment, and he was molded into a dog that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf. And so, according to the clay of his nature and the pressure of his surroundings, his character was being molded into a certain particular shape. There was no escaping it. He was becoming more morose, more uncompagnionable, 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 Graybeaver was coming to prize him more greatly with the passage of each day. White Fang, seeming to sum up strength in all his qualities, nevertheless suffered from one besetting weakness. He could not stand being laughed at. The laughter of men was a hateful thing. They might laugh among themselves about anything they please, except himself. And he did not mind. But the moment laughter was turned upon him he would fly into a most terrible rage. Grave, dignified, somber, a laugh made him frantic to ridiculousness. It so outraged him and upset him that for hours he would behave like a demon, and woe to the dog that at such times ran foul of him. He knew the law too well to take it out of Graybeaver. Behind Graybeaver were a club and godhead. But behind the dogs there was nothing but space, and into this space they flew when White Fang came on the scene made mad by laughter. In the third year of his life there came a great famine to the Mackenzie Indians. In the summer the fish failed. In the winter the caribou forsook their accustomed track. Moose were scarce, the rabbits almost disappeared, hunting and praying animals perished. Denied their usual food supply, weakened by hunger, they fell upon and devoured one another. Only the strong survived. White Fang's gods were always hunting animals. The old and the weak of them died of hunger. There was wailing in the village where the women and children went without in order that what little they had might go into the bellies of the lean and hollow-eyed hunters who trod the forest in the vain pursuit of meat. To such extremity were the gods driven that they ate the soft-tanned leather of their moccasins and mittens, while the dogs ate the harnesses off their backs and the very whiplashes. Also the dogs ate one another, and also the gods ate the dogs. The weakest and the more worthless were eaten first. The dogs that still lived looked on and understood. A few of the boldest and wisest forsook the fires of the gods, which had now become shambles, and fled into the forest, where in the end they starved to death or were eaten by wolves. In this time of misery White Fang too stole away into the woods. He was better fitted for the life than the other dogs, for he had the training of his cubhood to guide him. Especially adept at he become in stalking small living things. He would lie concealed for hours, following every movement of a cautious tree squirrel, waiting with a patience as huge as the hunger he suffered from, until the squirrel ventured out upon the ground. Even then White Fang was not premature. He waited until he was sure of striking before the squirrel could gain a tree refuge. Then and not until then would he flash from his hiding-place a gray projectile, incredibly swift, never failing its mark, the fleeing squirrel that fled not fast enough. Successful as he was with squirrels there was one difficulty that prevented him from living and growing fat on them. There were not enough squirrels. So he was driven to hunt still smaller things. So acute did his hunger become at times that he was not above rooting out woodmice from their burrows and the ground. Nor did he scorn to do battle with a weasel as hungry as himself and many times more ferocious. In the worst pinches of the famine he stole back to the fires of the gods. But he did not go into the fires. He lurked in the forest, avoiding discovery and robbing the snares at the rare intervals when game was caught. He even robbed gray beaver's snare of a rabbit at a time when gray beavers staggered and tottered through the forest, sitting down often to rest, what of weakness and shortness of breath. One day White Fang encountered a young wolf, gaunt and scrawny, loose-jointed with famine. Had he not been hungry himself, White Fang might have gone with him and eventually found his way into the pack amongst his wild brethren. As it was, he ran the young wolf down and killed and ate him. Fortune seemed to favour him. Always, when hardest pressed for food, he found something to kill. Again, when he was weak, it was his luck that none of the larger praying animals chanced upon him. Thus he was strong from the two days eating a lynx had afforded him when the hungry wolf pack ran full tilt upon him. It was a long, cruel chase, but he was better nourished than they, and in the end outran them. And not only did he outrun them, but circling widely back on his track, he gathered in one of his exhausted pursuers. After that he left that part of the country and journeyed over to the valley wherein he had been born. Here, in the old lair, he encountered Qiche. Up to her old tricks she too had fled the inhospitable fires of the gods and gone back to her old refuge to give birth to her young. Of this litter but one remained alive when White Fang came upon the scene, and this one was not destined to live long. Young life had little chance in such a famine. Qiche's greeting of her grown son was anything but affectionate, but White Fang did not mind. He had outgrown his mother. So he turned tail philosophically, and trotted on up the stream. At the forks he took the turning to the left, where he found the lair of the lynx with whom his mother and he had fought long before. Here in the abandoned lair he settled down and rested for a day. During the early summer, in the last days of the famine, he met Lip Lip, who had likewise taken to the woods where he had eaked out a miserable existence. White Fang came upon him unexpectedly. Trotting in opposite directions along the base of a high bluff, they rounded a corner of rock and found themselves face to face. They paused with instant alarm and looked at each other suspiciously. White Fang was in splendid condition. His hunting had been good, and for a week he had eaten his fill. He was even gorged from his latest kill. But in the moment he looked at Lip Lip his hair rose on end all along his back. It was an involuntary bristling on his part. The physical state that in the past had always accompanied the mental state produced in him by Lip Lip's bullying and persecution. As in the past he had bristled and snarled at sight of Lip Lip, so now, and automatically, he bristled and snarled. He did not waste any time. The thing was done thoroughly and with dispatch. Lip Lip assayed 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 where a narrow stretch of open land sloped down to the McKenzie. He had been over this ground before when it was bare, but now a village occupied it. Still hidden amongst the trees he paused to study the situation. Sights and sounds and scents were familiar to him. It was the old village changed to a new place. But sights and sounds and smells were different from those he had last had when he fled away from it. There was no whimpering nor wailing. Contented sounds saluted his ear, and when he heard the angry voice of a woman he knew it to be the anger that proceeds from a full stomach. And there was a smell in the air of fish. There was food. The famine was gone. He came out boldly from the forest and trotted into camp straight to Graybeaver's teepee. Graybeaver was not there, but Klu Kuch welcomed him with glad cries and the whole of a fresh-caught fish, and he lay down to wait Graybeaver's coming. End of Chapter 6 Part 4, Chapter 1 of White Fang. White Fang by Jack London. Part 4, Chapter 1. The Enemy of His Kind. Had there been in White Fang's nature any possibility, no matter how remote of his ever coming to fraternize with his kind, such possibility was irretrievably destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team. For now the dogs hated him. Hated him for the extra meat bestowed upon him by Mitsa. Hated him for all the real infancy favors he received. Hated him for that he fled always at the head of the team, his waving brush of a tail and his perpetually retreating hindquarters, for ever maddening their eyes. And White Fang just as bitterly hated them back. Being sled-leader was anything but gratifying to him, to be compelled to run away before the yelling-pack, every dog of which, for three years, he had thrashed and mastered, was almost more than he could endure. But endure it he must or perish, and the life that was in him had no desire to perish out. The moment Mitsa gave his order for the start, that moment the whole team, with eager savage cries, sprang forward at White Fang. There was no defense for him. If he turned upon them, Mitsa would throw the stinging lash of the whip into his face. Only remained to him to run away. He could not encounter that howling horde with his tail and hindquarters. These were scarcely fit weapons with which to meet the many merciless Fangs. So run away he did, violating his own nature and pride with every leap he made, and leaping all day long. One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that nature recoil upon itself. Such a recoil is like that of a hair made to grow out from the body, turning unnaturally upon the direction of its growth and growing into the body, a rankling, festering thing of hurt. And so with White Fang, every urge of his being impelled him to spring upon the pack that cried at his heels. But it was the will of the gods that this should not be, and behind the will, to enforce it, was the whip of caribou gut with its biting thirty-foot lash. So White Fang could only eat his heart in bitterness and develop a hatred and malice commensurate with the ferocity and indomitability of his nature. If ever a creature was the enemy of its kind, White Fang was that creature. He asked no quarter, gave none. He was continually marred and scarred by the teeth of the pack, and as continually he left his own marks upon the pack. Unlike most leaders who, when camp was made and the dogs were unhitched, huddled near to the gods for protection, White Fang disdained such protection. He walked boldly about the camp, inflicting punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the day. In the time before he was made leader of the team, the pack had learned to get out of his way. But now it was different. Excited by the day-long pursuit of him, swayed subconsciously by the insistent iteration on their brains of the sight of him fleeing away, mastered by the feeling of mastery enjoyed all day, the dogs could not bring themselves to give way to him. When he appeared amongst them, there was always a squabble. His progress was marked by snarl and snap and growl. The very atmosphere he breathed was surcharge with hatred and malice, and this but served to increase the hatred and malice within him. When Mitza cried out his command for the team to stop, White Fang obeyed. At first this caused trouble for the other dogs. All of them would spring upon the hated leader only to find the tables turned. Behind him would be Mitza, the great whip singing in his hand. So the dogs came to understand 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. After several experiences, White Fang never stopped without orders. He learned quickly. It was in the nature of things that he must learn quickly if he were to survive the unusually severe conditions under which life was vouchsafed to him. But the dogs could never learn the lesson to leave him alone in camp. Each day, pursuing him and crying defiance at him, the lesson of the previous night was erased, and that night would have to be learned over again to be as immediately forgotten. Besides, there was a greater consistency in their dislike of him. They sensed between themselves and him a difference of kind, cause sufficient in itself for hostility. Like him they were domesticated wolves, but they have been domesticated for generations. Much of the wild had been lost, so that to them the wild was the unknown, the terrible, the ever menacing and ever warring, but to him, in appearance and action and impulse, still clung the wild. He symbolized it, was its personification, so that when they showed their teeth to him they were defending themselves against the powers of destruction that lurked in the shadows of the forest and in the dark beyond the campfire. But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, and that was to keep together. White Fang was too terrible for any of them to face single-handed. They met him with the mass formation, otherwise he would have killed them one by one in a night. As it was he never had a chance to kill them. He might roll a dog off its feet, but the pack would be upon him before he could follow up and deliver the deadly throat stroke. At the first hint of conflict, the whole team drew together and faced him. The dogs had quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when trouble was brewing with White Fang. On the other hand, try as they would they could not kill White Fang. He was too quick for them, too formidable, too wise. He avoided tight places and always backed out of it when they bade fair to surround him. While, as forgetting him off his feet, there was no dog among them capable of doing the trick. His feet clung to the earth with the same tenacity that he clung to life. For that matter, life and footing were synonymous in this unending warfare with the pack, and none knew it better than White Fang. So he became the enemy of his kind, domesticated wolves that they were, softened by the fires of man, weakened in the sheltering shadow of man's strength. White Fang was bitter and implacable. The clay of him was so molded. He declared a vendetta against all dogs, and so terribly did he live this vendetta that Gray Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang's ferocity. Never, he swore, had there been the like of this animal, and the Indians and strange villages swore likewise when they considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs. When White Fang was nearly five years old, Gray Beaver took him on another great journey, and long remembered was the havoc he worked amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon. He reveled in the vengeance he wreaked upon his kind. They were ordinary, unsuspecting dogs. They were not prepared for his swiftness and directness, for his attack without warning. They did not know him for what he was, a lightning-flash of slaughter. They bristled up to him, stiff-legged and challenging, while he, wasting no time on elaborate preliminaries, snapping into action like a steel spring, was at their throats and destroying them before they knew what was happening, and while they were yet in the throes of surprise. He became an adept at fighting. He economized. He never wasted his strength, never tussled. He was in too quickly for that, and, if he missed, was out again too quickly. The dislike of the wolf for close quarters was his to an unusual degree. He could not endure a prolonged contact with another body. It smacked of danger. It made him frantic. He must be away, free on his own legs, touching no living thing. It was the wild, still clinging to him, asserting itself through him. This feeling had been accentuated by the ishmaelite life he had led from his puppyhood. Danger lurked in contacts. It was the trap, ever the trap, the fear of it lurking deep in the life of him, woven into the fiber of him. In consequence, the strange dogs he encountered had no chance against him. He eluded their fangs. He got them, or got away, himself untouched in either event. In the natural course of things there were exceptions to this. There were times when several dogs, pitching on to him, punished him before he could get away. And there were times when a single dog scored deeply on him. But these were accidents. In the main, so efficient a fighter had he become, he went his way unscathed. Another advantage he possessed was that of correctly judging time and distance. Not that he did this consciously, however. He did not calculate such things. It was all automatic. His eyes saw correctly, and the nerves carried the vision correctly to his brain. The parts of him were better adjusted than those of the average dog. They worked together more smoothly and steadily. His was a better, far better, nervous, mental and muscular coordination. When his eyes conveyed to his brain the moving image of an action, his brain without conscious effort knew the space that limited that action and the time required for its completion. Thus he could avoid the leap of another dog, or the drive of its fangs, and at the same moment could seize the infinitesimal fraction of time in which to deliver his own attack. His 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. Gray Beaver had crossed the Great Watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the late winter, and spent the spring and hunting among the western outlying spurs of the Rockies. Then, after the break-up of the ice on the porcupine, he had built a canoe and paddled down that stream to where it affected its junction with the Yukon just under the Arctic Circle. 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. Still hundreds of miles from their goal, nevertheless many of them had been on the way for a year, and the least any of them had traveled to get that far was five thousand miles, while some had come from the other side of the world. Here Gray Beaver stopped. A whisper of the Gold Rush had reached his ears, and he had come with several bales of furs and another of gut-sone mittens and moccasins. He would not have ventured so long a trip had he not expected generous profits. But what he had expected was nothing to what he realized. His wildest dreams had not exceeded a hundred percent profit. He made a thousand percent. And like a true Indian, he settled down to trade carefully and slowly even if it took all summer and the rest of the winter to dispose of his goods. 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 of beings, a race of superior gods. They impressed him as possessing superior power, and it is on power that Godhead rests. White Fang did not reason it out, did not in his mind make the sharp generalization that the white gods were more powerful. It was a feeling, nothing more, and yet none the less potent. As in his puppyhood, the looming bulks of the tepees, man-reared, had affected him as manifestations of power, so was he affected now by the houses and the huge fort, all of massive logs. Here was power. Those white gods were strong. They possessed greater mastery over matter than the gods he had known, most powerful among which was Grey Beaver, and yet Grey Beaver was as a child god among these white-skinned ones. To be sure White Fang only felt these things. He was not conscious of them. Yet it is upon feeling, more often than thinking, that animals act, and every act White Fang now performed was based upon the feeling that the white men were the superior gods. In the first place he was very suspicious of them. There was no telling what unknown terrors were theirs, what unknown hurts they could administer. He was curious to observe them, fearful of being noticed by them. For the first few hours he was content with slinking around and watching them from a safe distance. Then he saw that no harm befell 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 succeeded in laying a hand on him, and it was well they did not. White Fang soon learned that very few of these gods, not more than a dozen, lived at this place. Every two or three days a steamer, another and colossal manifestation of power, came into the bank and stopped for several hours. The white men came from off these steamers and went away on them again. There seemed untold numbers of these white men. In the first day or so he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his life, and as the days went by they continued to come up the river, stop, and then go on up the river out of sight. But if the white gods were all powerful, their dogs did not amount to much. This White Fang quickly discovered by mixing with those that came ashore with 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 in White Fang's province to fight with them. This he did, and he quickly achieved for them a mighty contempt. They were soft and helpless, made much noise, and floundered around clumsily trying to accomplish by main strength what he accomplished by dexterity and cunning. They rushed bellowing at him. He sprang to the side. They did not know what had become of him, and in that moment he struck them on the shoulder, rolling them off their feet, and delivering his stroke at the throat. Sometimes this stroke was successful, and a stricken dog rolled in the dirt, to be pounced upon and torn to pieces by the pack of Indian dogs that waited. White Fang was wise. He had long since learned that the gods were made angry when their dogs were killed. The White Men were no exception to this. So he was content, when he had overthrown and slashed wide the throat of one of their dogs, to drop back and let the pack go in and do the cruel finishing work. It was then that the White Men rushed in, visiting their wrath heavily on the pack, while White Fang went free. He would stand off at a little distance and look on, while stones, clubs, axes, and all sorts of weapons fell upon his fellows. White Fang was very wise. But his fellows grew wise in their own way, and in this White Fang grew wise with them. They learned that it was when a steamer first tied to the bank that they had their fun. After the first two or three strange dogs had been downed and destroyed, the White Men hustled their own animals back on board and wreaked savage vengeance on the offenders. One White Man, having seen his dog, a setter, torn to pieces before his eyes, drew a revolver. He fired rapidly 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 shrewd 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. Gray Beaver was busy trading and getting wealthy. So White Fang hung around the landing with the disreputable gang of Indian dogs, waiting for steamers. With the arrival of a steamer the fun began. After a few minutes, by the time the White Men had got over their surprise, the gang scattered. The fun was over until the next steamer should arrive. But it can scarcely be said that White Fang was a member of the gang. He did not mingle with it, but remained aloof, always himself, and was even feared by it. It is true he worked with it. He picked the quarrel with the strange dog while the gang waited. And when he had overthrown the strange dog the gang went in to finish it. But it is equally true that he then withdrew, leaving the gang to receive the punishment of the outraged gods. It did not require much exertion to pick these quarrels. 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 ever menacing, the thing that prowled in the darkness around the fires of the primeval world when they, cowering close to the fires, were reshaping their instincts, learning to fear the wild out of which they had come, and which they had deserted and betrayed. Generation by generation, down all the generations, had this fear of the wild been stamped into their natures. For centuries the wild had stood for terror and destruction. And during all this time free-license had been theirs, from their masters, to kill the things of the wild. In doing this they had protected both themselves and the gods whose companionship they shared. And so, fresh from the soft southern world, these dogs trotting down the gangplank, and out upon the Yukon shore had but to see White Fang to experience the irresistible impulse to rush upon him and destroy him. They might be town-reared dogs, but the instinctive fear of the wild was theirs just the same. Not alone with their own eyes did they see the wolfish creature in the clear light of day, standing before them. They saw him with the eyes of their ancestors, and by their inherited memory they knew White Fang for the wolf, and they remembered the ancient feud. All of which served to make White Fang's days enjoyable. If the sight of him drove these strange dogs upon him so much the better for him, so much the worse for them. They looked 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. It might have been otherwise, and he would then have been otherwise. Had Lip Lip not existed he would have passed his puppyhood with the other puppies and grown up more dog-like and with more liking for dogs. Had Grey Beaver possessed the plummet of affection and love he might have sounded the deeps of White Fang's nature and brought up to the surface all manner of kindly qualities. But these things had not been so. The clay of White Fang had been molded until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and ferocious, the enemy of all his kind. CHAPTER II A small number of White Men lived in Fort Yukon. These men had been long in the country. They called themselves Sour-Does and took great pride in so classifying themselves. 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 Chechakwos, and they always wielded at the application of the name. They made their bread with baking powder. This was the invidious distinction between them and the Sour-Does, who, forsooth, made their bread from Sour-Do, because they had no baking powder. All of which is neither here nor there. The men in the Fort disdain the newcomers, and enjoying seeing them come to grief. Especially did they enjoy the havoc worked amongst the newcomers' dogs by White Fang and his disreputable gang. When a steamer arrived, the men of the Fort made it a point always to come down to the bank and see the fun. They looked forward to it with as much anticipation as did the Indian dogs, while they were not slow to appreciate the savage and crafty part played by White Fang. But there was one man amongst them who particularly enjoyed the sport. He would come running at the first sound of a steamboat's whistle, and when the last fight was over, and White Fang and the pack had scattered, he would return slowly to the Fort, his face heavy with regret. Sometimes, when a soft Southland dog went down, shrieking its death cry under the fangs of the pack. This man would be unable to contain himself, and would leap into the air and cry out with delight. And always he had a sharp and covetous eye for White Fang. This man was called Beauty by the other men of the Fort. No one knew his first name, and in general he was known in the country as Beauty Smith. But he was anything save a beauty. To antithesis was due his naming. He was preeminently unbeautiful. Nature had been niggardly with him. He was a small man to begin with, and upon his meager frame was deposited an even more strikingly meager head. Its apex might be likened to a point. In fact, in his boyhood, before he had been named Beauty by his fellows, he had been called Pinhead. Backward from the apex, his head slanted down to his neck and forward it slanted uncompromisingly to meet a low and remarkably wide head. Beginning here, as though regretting her parsimony, Nature had spread his features with a lavish hand. His eyes were large, and between them was the distance of two eyes. His face, in relation to the rest of him, was prodigious. In order to discover the necessary area, Nature had given him an enormous prognathous jaw. It was wide and heavy, and protruded outward and down until it seemed to rest on his chest. Possibly his appearance was due to the weariness of the slender neck unable properly to support so great a burden. This jaw gave the impression of ferocious determination, but something lacked. Perhaps it was from excess. Perhaps the jaw was too large. At any rate, it was a lie. Beauty Smith was known far and wide as the weakest of weak need in sniveling cowards. To complete his description, his teeth were large and yellow, while the two eye-teeth, larger than their fellows, showed under his lean lips like fangs. His eyes were yellow and muddy, as though Nature had run short on pigments and squeezed together the dregs of all her tubes. It was the same with his hair, sparse and irregular of growth, muddy yellow and dirty yellow, rising on his head and sprouting out of his face an unexpected tough-sim bunches in appearance like clumped in wind-blown grain. In short, Beauty Smith was a monstrosity, and the blame of it lay elsewhere. He was not responsible. The clay of him had been so molded in the making. He did the cooking for the other men in the fort, the dishwashing and the drudgery. They did not despise him. Rather did they tolerate him in a broad human way, as one tolerates any creature evilly treated in the making. Also, they feared him. His cowardly rages made them dread a shot in the back or poison in their coffee. But somebody had to do the cooking, and whatever else his shortcomings Beauty Smith could cook. This was the man that looked at White Fang, delighted in his ferocious prowess and desired to possess him. He made overtures to White Fang from the first. White Fang began by ignoring him. Later on, when the overtures became more insistent, White Fang bristled and bared his teeth and backed away. He did not like the man. The feel of him was bad. He sensed the evil in him, and 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 stands for all things that bring easement and satisfaction and surcease from pain. Therefore the good is liked. The bad stands for all things that are fraught with discomfort, menace, and hurt, and is hated accordingly. White Fang's feel of Beauty Smith was bad. From the man's distorted body and twisted mind, in occult ways, like mists rising from malarial marshes, came emanations of the unhealth within. Not by reasoning, not by the five senses alone, but by other and remotor and uncharted senses, came the feeling to White Fang that the man was ominous with evil, pregnant with hurtfulness, and therefore a thing bad and wisely to be hated. White Fang was in Grey Beaver's camp when Beauty Smith first visited it. At the faint sound of his distant feet, before he came in sight, White Fang knew who was coming and began to bristle. He had been lying down in an abandon of comfort, but he arose quickly, and as the man arrived, slid away in true wolf fashion to the edge of the camp. He did not know what they said, but he could see the man in Grey Beaver talking together. Once the man pointed at him, and White Fang snarled back as though the hand were just descending upon him instead of being, as it was, fifty feet away. The man laughed at this, and White Fang slunk away to the sheltering woods, his head turned to observe as he glided softly over the ground. Grey Beaver refused to sell the dog. He had grown rich with his trading and stood in need of nothing. 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 on the Mackenzie nor 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 with an eager tongue. No, White Fang was not for sale at any price. But Beauty Smith knew the ways of Indians. He visited Grey Beaver's camp often, and hidden under his coat was always a black bottle or so. One of the potencies of whiskey is the breeding of thirst. Grey Beaver got the thirst. His fevered membranes and burnt stomach began to clamor for more and more of the scorching fluid, while his brain, thrust all awry by the unwanted stimulant, permitted him to go any length to obtain it. The money he had received for his furs and mittens and moccasins began to go. It went faster and faster, and the shorter his money sack grew, the shorter grew his temper. In the end his money and goods and temper were all gone. Nothing remained to him but his thirst, a prodigious possession in itself that grew more prodigious with every sober breath he drew. Then it was that Beauty Smith had talked with him again about the sale of White Fang, but this time the price offered was in bottles, not dollars, and Grey Beaver's ears were more eager to hear. You catch him, dog, you take him all right! was his last word. The bottles were delivered, but after two days, you catch him, dog! were Beauty Smith's words to Grey Beaver. White Fang slunk into camp one evening and dropped down with a sigh of content. The dreaded White God was not there. For days his manifestations of desire to lay hands on him had been growing more insistent, and during that time White Fang had been compelled to avoid the camp. He did not know what evil was threatened by those insistent hands. He knew only that they did threaten evil of some sort, and that it was best for him to keep out of their reach. But scarcely had he lain down when Grey Beaver staggered over to him and tied a leather thong around his neck. He sat down beside White Fang, holding the end of the thong in his hand. In the other hand he held a bottle, which from time to time was inverted above his head to the accompaniment of gurgling noises. An hour of this past, when the vibrations of feet and contact with the ground foreran the one who approached. White Fang heard it first and he was bristling with recognition while Grey Beaver still nodded stupidly. White Fang tried to draw the thong softly out of his master's hand, but the relaxed fingers closed tightly and Grey Beaver roused himself. Beauty Smith strode into camp and stood over White Fang. He snarled softly up at the thing of fear, watching keenly the deportment of the hands. One hand extended outward and began to descend upon his head. His soft snarl grew tense and harsh. The hand continued slowly to descend, while he crouched beneath it, eyeing it malignantly. His snarl growing shorter and shorter as with quickening breath it approached its culmination. Suddenly he snapped, striking with his fangs like a snake. The hand was jerked back and the teeth came together emptily with a sharp click. Beauty Smith was frightened and angry. Grey Beaver clouded White Fang alongside the head so that he cowered down close to the earth in respectful obedience. White Fang's suspicious eyes followed every movement. He saw Beauty Smith go away and return with a stout club. Then the end of the thong was given over to him by Grey Beaver. Beauty Smith started to walk away. The thong grew taut. White Fang resisted it. Grey Beaver clouded him right and left to make him get up and follow. He obeyed, but with a rush hurling himself upon the stranger who was dragging him away. Beauty Smith did not jump away. He had been waiting for this. He swung the club smartly, stopping the rush midway and smashing White Fang down upon the ground. Grey Beaver laughed and nodded approval. Beauty Smith tightened the thong again and White Fang crawled limply and dizzily to his feet. He did not rush a second time. One smash from the club was sufficient to convince him that the White God knew how to handle it and he was too wise to fight the inevitable. So he followed morosely at Beauty Smith's heels, his tail between his legs, yet snarling softly under his breath. But Beauty Smith kept a wary eye on him and the club was held always ready to strike. At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied and went into bed. White Fang waited an hour. Then he applied his teeth to the thong and in the space of ten seconds was free. He had wasted no time with his teeth. There had been no useless gnawing. The thong was cut across diagonally, almost as clean as though done by a knife. White Fang looked up at the fort, at the same time bristling and growling. 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 occurred before was repeated, with a difference. Grey Beaver again made him fast with the thong, and in the morning turned him over to Beauty Smith. And here was where the difference came in. Beauty Smith gave him a beating. Tied securely, White Fang could only rage futilely and endure the punishment. Club and whip were both used upon him, and he experienced the worst beating he had ever received in his life. Even the big beating given him in his puppyhood by Grey Beaver was mild compared with this. Beauty Smith enjoyed the task. He delighted in it. He gloated over his victim and his eyes flamed dully as he swung the whip or club and listened to White Fang's cries of pain and to his helpless bellows and snarls. For Beauty Smith was cruel in the way that cowards are cruel. Cringing and sniveling himself before the blows or angry speech of a man, he revenged himself, in turn, upon creatures weaker than he. All life likes power, and Beauty Smith was no exception. Denied the expression of power amongst his own kind, he fell back upon the lesser creatures, and there vindicated the life that was in him. But Beauty Smith had not created himself, and no blame was to be attached to him. He had come into the world with a twisted body and a brute intelligence. This had constituted the clay of him, and it had not been kindly molded by the world. 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's keeping, White Fang knew that it was his God's will for him to go with Beauty Smith, and when Beauty Smith left him tied outside the fort, he knew that it was Beauty Smith's will that he should remain there. Therefore he had disobeyed the will of both the gods and earned the consequent punishment. He had seen dogs change owners in the past, and he had seen the runaways beaten as he was being beaten. He was wise, and yet in the nature of him there were forces greater than wisdom. One of these was Fidelity. He did not love Grey Beaver, yet, even in the face of his will and his anger, he was faithful to him. He could not help it. This faithfulness was a quality of the clay that composed him. It was the quality that was peculiarly the possession of his kind, the quality that set apart his species from all other species, the quality that enabled the wolf and the wild dog to come in from the open and be the companions of man. After the beating, White Fang was dragged back to the fort. But this time Beauty Smith left him tied with a stick. One does not give up a god easily, and so with White Fang. Grey Beaver was his own particular god, and in spite of Grey Beaver's will White Fang still clung to him and would not give him up. Grey Beaver had betrayed and forsaken him, but that had no effect upon him. Not for nothing had he surrendered himself body and soul to Grey Beaver. There had been no reservation on White Fang's part, and the bond was not to be broken easily. So in the night, when the men in the fort were asleep, White Fang applied his teeth to the stick that held him. The wood was seasoned and dry, and it was tied so closely to his neck that he could scarcely get his teeth to it. It was only by the severest muscular exertion and neck arching that he succeeded in getting the wood between his teeth, and barely between his teeth at that. And it was only by the exercise of an immense patience extending through many hours that he succeeded in gnawing through the stick. This was something that dogs were not supposed to do. 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 had he been merely wise he would not have gone back to Grey Beaver who had already twice betrayed him. But there was his faithfulness, and he went back to be betrayed yet a third time. Again he yielded to the tying of a thong around his neck by Grey Beaver, and again Beauty Smith came to claim him, and this time he was beaten even more severely than before. Grey Beaver looked unstalledly while the White Man wielded the whip. He gave no protection. It was no longer his dog. When the beating was over White Fang was sick. A soft South Island dog would have died under it, but not he. His school of life had been sterner, and he was himself of sterner stuff. He had too great vitality. His clutch on life was too strong. But he was very sick. At first he was unable to drag himself along, and Beauty Smith had to wait half an hour for him. And then, blind and reeling, he followed at Beauty Smith's heels back to the fort. But now he was tied with a chain that defied his teeth, and he strove in vain by lunging to draw the staple from the timber into which it was driven. 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. But what is a dog to know in its consciousness of madness? To White Fang, Beauty Smith was a veritable, if terrible, God. He was a mad God at best. But White Fang knew nothing of madness. He knew only that he must submit to the will of this new master. Obey his every whim and fancy. CHAPTER III THE RAIN OF HATE Under the tutelage of the mad God White Fang became a fiend. He was kept chained in a pen at the rear of the fort, and here Beauty Smith teased and irritated and drove him wild with petty torments. The man early discovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter, and made it a point after painfully tricking him to laugh at him. This laughter was uproarious and scornful, and at the same time the God pointed his finger derisively at White Fang. At such times reason fled from White Fang, and in his transports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith. Formerly White Fang had been merely the enemy of his kind, with all a ferocious enemy. He now became the enemy of all things and more ferocious than ever. To such an extent was he tormented that he hated blindly and without the faintest spark of reason. He hated the chain that bound him, the men who peered in at him through the slats of the pen, the dogs that accompanied the men and that snarled malignantly at him in his helplessness. He hated the very wood of the pen that confined him. And first, last, and most of all, he hated Beauty Smith. But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he did to White Fang. One day a number of men gathered about the pen. Beauty Smith entered, club in hand, and took the chain off from White Fang's neck. When his master had gone out, White Fang turned loose and tore around the pen, trying to get at the men outside. He was magnificently terrible. Fully five feet in length, and standing two and a half feet at the shoulder, he far outweighed a wolf of corresponding size. From his mother he had inherited the heavier proportions of the dog, so that he weighed, without any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety pounds. It was all muscle, bone, and sinew fighting flesh in the finest condition. The door of the pen was being opened again. White Fang paused. Something unusual was happening. He waited. The door was opened wider. Then a huge dog was thrust inside and the door was slam shut behind him. White Fang had never seen such a dog. It was a Mastiff. But the size and fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter him. Here was something, not wood nor iron, upon which to wreak his hate. He leaped in with a flash of Fangs that ripped down the side of the Mastiff's neck. The Mastiff shook his head, growled hoarsely, and plunged at White Fang. But White Fang was here, there, and everywhere, always evading and alluding, and always leaping in and slashing with his Fangs, and leaping out again in time to escape punishment. The men outside shouted and applauded, while Beauty Smith, in an ecstasy of delight, gloated over the ripping and mangling performed by White Fang. There was no hope for the Mastiff from the first. He was too ponderous and slow. In the end, while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back with a club, the Mastiff was dragged out by its owner. Then there was a payment of bets, and money clinked in Beauty Smith's hand. White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the men around his pen. It meant a fight, and this was the only way that was now vouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in him. Tormented, incited to hate, he was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of satisfying that hate, except at the times his master saw fit to put another dog against him. Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well, for he was invariably the victor. One day three dogs were turned in upon him in succession. Another day a full-grown wolf, fresh caught from the wild, was shoved in through the door of the pen. And on still another day two dogs were set against him at the same time. This was his severest fight, and though in the end he killed them both he was himself half killed in doing it. In the fall of the year, when the first snows were falling and mush ice was running in the river, Beauty Smith took passage for himself and White Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson. White Fang had now achieved a reputation in the land. As the fighting wolf, he was known far and wide, and the cage in which he was kept on the steamboat's deck was usually surrounded by curious men. He raged and snarled at them, or lay quietly and studied them with cold hatred. Why should he not hate them? He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate, and lost himself in the passion of it. Life had become a hell to him. He had not been made for the close confinement while beasts endure at the hands of men. And yet it was imprecisely this way that he was treated. Men stared at him, poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then laughed at him. They were his environment, these men, and they were molding the clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by nature. Nevertheless, nature had given him plasticity. Where many another animal would have died or had its spirit broken, he adjusted himself and lived, and at no expense of the spirit. Possibly Beauty Smith, arch-fiend and tormentor, was capable of breaking White Fang's spirit. But as yet, there were no signs of his succeeding. If Beauty Smith had in him a devil, White Fang had another, and the two of them raged against each other unceasingly. In the days before, White Fang had had the wisdom to cower down and submit to a man with a club in his hand. But this wisdom now left him. The mere sight of Beauty Smith was sufficient to send him into transports of fury. And when they came to close quarters, and he had been beaten back by the club, he went on growling and snarling and showing his fangs. The last growl could never be extracted from him. No matter how terribly he was beaten, he had always another growl, and when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew, the defiant growl followed after him, or White Fang sprang at the bars of the cage bellowing his hatred. When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang went ashore. But he still lived a public life in a cage surrounded by curious men. He was exhibited as the fighting wolf, and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. Did he lie down to sleep he was stirred up by a sharp stick, so that the audience might get its money's worth. In order to make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time. But worse than all this was the atmosphere in which he lived. He was regarded as the most fearful of wild beasts, and this was born into him through the bars of the cage. Every word, every cautious action on the part of the men, impressed upon him his own terrible ferocity. It was so much added fuel to the flame of his fierceness. There could be but one result, and that was that his ferocity fed upon itself and increased. It was another instance of the plasticity of his clay, of his capacity for being molded by the pressure of environment. In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal. At irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he was taken out of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles from town. Usually this occurred at night so as to avoid interference from the mounted police of the territory. After a few hours of waiting, when daylight had come, the audience and the dog with which he was to fight arrived. In this manner it came about that he fought all sizes and breeds of dogs. It was a savage land, the men were savage, and the fights were usually to the death. Since White Fang continued to fight, it is obvious that it was the other dogs that died. He never knew defeat. His early training, when he fought with Lip Lip and the whole puppy-pack, stood him in good stead. There was the tenacity with which he clung to the earth. No dog could make him lose his footing. This was the favorite trick of the wolf breeds, to rush in upon him, either directly or with an unexpected swerve, in the hope of striking his shoulder and overthrowing him. Mackenzie Hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, Huskies and Malamutes, all tried it on him and all failed. He was never known to lose his footing. Men told this to one another and looked each time to see it happen, but White Fang always disappointed them. Then there was his lightning quickness. It gave him a tremendous advantage over his antagonists. No matter what their fighting experience, they had never encountered a dog that moved so swiftly as he. Also to be reckoned with was the immediateness of his attack. The average dog was accustomed to the preliminaries of snarling and bristling and growling, and the average dog was knocked off his feet and finished before he had begun to fight or recovered from his surprise. So often did this happen that it became the custom to hold White Fang until the other dog went through its preliminaries, was good and ready, and even made the first attack. But greatest of all the advantages in White Fang's favor was his experience. He knew more about fighting than did any of the dogs that faced him. He had fought more fights, knew how to meet more tricks and methods, and had more tricks himself, while his own method was scarcely to be improved upon. As the time went by he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired of matching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith was compelled to pit wolves against him. These were trapped by the Indians for the purpose, and a fight between White Fang and a wolf was always sure to draw a crowd. Once a full-grown female lynx was secured, and this time White Fang fought for his life. Her quickness matched his, her ferocity equaled his, while he fought with his fangs alone, and she fought with her sharp-clawed feet as well. But after the lynx, all fighting ceased for White Fang. There were no more animals with which to fight. At least there were none considered worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition until spring, when one Tim Keenan, a pharaoh-dealer, arrived in the land. With him came the first bulldog that had ever entered the Klondike. That this dog and White Fang should come together was inevitable, and for a week the anticipated fight was the mainspring of conversation in certain quarters of the town. End of Chapter 3 Part 4, Chapter 4 of White Fang. This labor box recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang by Jack London. Part 4, Chapter 4. The Clinging Death. Beauty Smith slipped the chain from his neck and stepped back. For once White Fang did not make an immediate attack. He stood still, ears pricked forward, alert and curious, surveying the strange animal that faced him. He had never seen such a dog before. Tim Keenan shoved the bulldog forward with a muttered, Go to it. The animal waddled toward the center of the circle, short and squat and ungainly. He came to a stop and blinked across at White Fang. There were cries from the crowd of, Go to him, Cherokee! Sick him, Cherokee! Eat him up! The Cherokee did not seem anxious to fight. He turned his head and blinked at the men, who shouted, at the same time wagging his stump of a tail good-naturedly. He was not afraid, but merely lazy. Besides, it did not seem to him that it was intended he should fight with the dog he saw before him. He was not used to fighting with that kind of dog, and he was waiting for them to bring on the real dog. Tim Keenan stepped in and bent over Cherokee, funneling him on both sides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the hair and that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so many suggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee began to growl very softly, deep down in his throat. There was a correspondence and rhythm between the growls and the movements of the man's hands. The growl rose in the throat with the culmination of each forward-pushing movement, and ebbed down to start up afresh with the beginning of the next movement. The end of each movement was the accent of the rhythm, the movement ending abruptly and the growling rising with a jerk. This was not without its effect on White Fang. The hair began to rise on his neck and across the shoulders. Tim Keenan gave a final shove forward and stepped back again. As the impetus that carried Cherokee forward died down, he continued to go forward of his own volition in a swift, bow-legged run. Then White Fang struck. A cry of startled admiration went up. He had covered the distance and gone in more like a cat than a dog, and with the same cat-like swiftness he had slashed with his fangs and leaped clear. The bulldog was bleeding back of one ear from a rip in his thick neck. He gave no sign, did not even snarl, but he turned in followed after White Fang. The display on both sides, the quickness of the one and the steadiness of the other, had excited the partisan spirit of the crowd, and the men were making new bets and increasing original bets. Again and yet again White Fang sprang in, slashed, and got away untouched, and still his strange foe followed after him, not too great haste, not slowly but deliberately and determinately, in a business-like sort of way. There was purpose in his method, something for him to do that he was intent upon doing, and from which nothing could distract him. His whole demeanor, every action was stamped with this purpose. It puzzled White Fang. Never had he seen such a dog. It had no hair protection. It was soft and bled easily. There was no thick mat of fur to baffle White Fang's teeth, as they were often baffled by dogs of his own breed. Each time that his teeth struck, they sank easily into the yielding flesh, while the animal did not seem able to defend itself. Another disconcerting thing was that it made no outcry, such as he had been accustomed to with the other dogs he had fought. Beyond a growl or a grunt, the dog took its punishment silently, and never did it flag in its pursuit of him. Not that Cherokee was slow. He could turn in whirls swiftly enough, but White Fang was never there. Cherokee was puzzled too. He had never fought before with a dog with which he could not close. The desire to close had always been mutual. But here was a dog that kept at a distance, dancing and dodging here and there and all about. And when it did get its teeth into him, it did not hold on but let go instantly and darted away again. But White Fang could not get at the soft underside of the throat. The bulldog stood too short, while its massive jaws were an added protection. White Fang darted in and out unscathed, while 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 plotting pursuit. Though once, for the moment baffled, he came to a full stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the same time wagging his stump of a tail as an expression of his willingness to fight. In that moment White Fang was in upon him and out, in passing ripping his trimmed remnant of an ear. With a slight manifestation of anger Cherokee took up the pursuit again, running on the inside of the circle White Fang was making, and striving to fasten his deadly grip on White Fang's throat. The bulldog missed by a hare's breath, and cries of praise went up as White Fang doubled suddenly out of danger in the opposite direction. The time went by. White Fang still danced on, dodging and doubling, leaping in and out, and ever inflicting damage. And still the bulldog, with grim certitude, toiled after him. Sooner or later he would accomplish his purpose, get the grip that would win the battle. In the meantime he accepted all the punishment that the other could deal him. His tough severe's had become tassels, his neck and shoulders were slashed in a score of places, and his very lips were cut and bleeding, all from these lightning snaps that were beyond his foreseeing and guarding. Time and again White Fang had attempted to knock Cherokee off his feet, but the difference in their height was too great. Cherokee was too squat, too close to the ground. White Fang tried the trick once too often. The chance came in one of his quick doublings and counter-circlings. He caught Cherokee with head turned away as he whirled more slowly. His shoulder was exposed. White Fang drove in upon it, but his own shoulder was high above while he struck with such force that his momentum carried him on across the other's body. For the first time in his fighting history men saw White Fang lose his footing. His body turned to half somersault in the air, and he would have landed on his back had he not twisted, cat-like, still in the air, in the effort to bring his feet to the earth. As it was he struck heavily on his side. The next instant he was on his feet, but in that instant Cherokee's 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 about, trying to shake off the bulldog's body. It made him frantic, this clinging, dragging weight. It bound his movements and restricted his freedom. It was like the trap, and all his instinct resented it and revolted against it. It was a mad revolt. For several minutes he was to all intense insane. The basic life that was in him took charge of him. The will to exist of his body surged over him. He was dominated by this mere flesh-love of life. All intelligence was gone. It was as though he had no brain. His reason was unseated by the blind yearning of the flesh to exist and move, at all hazards to move, to continue to move, for movement was the expression of his existence. End in round he went, whirling and turning and reversing, trying to shake off the fifty-pound weight that dragged at his throat. The bulldog did little but keep his grip. Sometimes, and rarely, he managed to get his feet to the earth and for a moment to brace himself against White Fang. But the next moment his footing would be lost and he would be dragging around in the whirl of one of White Fang's mad gyrations. Cherokee identified himself with this instinct. He knew that he was doing the right thing by holding on and there came to him certain blissful thrills of satisfaction. At such moments he even closed his eyes and allowed his body to be hurled hither and thither willy-nilly, careless of any hurt that might thereby come to it. That did not count. The grip was the thing and the grip he kept. White Fang seized only when he had tired himself out. He could do nothing and he could not understand. Never, in all his fighting, had this thing happened. The dogs he had fought with did not fight that way. With them it was snap and slash and get away. Snap and slash and get away. He lay partly on his side, panting for breath. Cherokee still holding his grip, urged against him, trying to get him over entirely on his side. White Fang resisted and he could feel the jaws shifting their grip, slightly relaxing and coming together again in a chewing movement. Each shift brought the grip closer to his throat. The Bulldog's method was to hold what he had and when opportunity favored to work in for more. Opportunity favored when White Fang remained quiet. When White Fang struggled, Cherokee was content merely to hold on. The bulging back of Cherokee's neck was the only portion of his body that White Fang's teeth could reach. He got hold toward the base where the neck comes out from the shoulders, but did not know the chewing method of fighting, nor were his jaws adapted to it. He spasmodically ripped and tore with his fangs for a space. Then a change in their position diverted him. The Bulldog 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 quarters in, and, with the feet digging into his enemy's abdomen above him, he began to claw with long, tearing strokes. Cherokee might well have been disemboweled had he not quickly pivoted on his grip and got his body off of White Fang's and it right angles to it. There was no escaping that grip. It was like fate itself, and as inexorable. Slowly it shifted up along the jugular. All that saved White Fang from death was the loose skin of his neck, and the thick fur that covered it. This served to form a large roll in Cherokee's mouth, the fur of which Well-Knight defied his teeth. But bit by bit, whenever the chance offered, he was getting more of the loose skin and fur in his mouth. The result was that he was slowly throttling White Fang. The latter's breath was drawn with greater and greater difficulty as the moments went by. It began to look as though the battle were over. The backers of Cherokee waxed jubilant and offered ridiculous odds. White Fang's backers were correspondingly depressed, and refused bets of ten to one and twenty to one, though one man was rash enough to close a wager of fifty to one. This man was Beauty Smith. He took a step into the ring and pointed his finger at White Fang. Then he began to laugh derisively and scornfully. This produced the desired effect. White Fang went wild with rage. He called up his reserves of strength and gained his feet. As he struggled around the ring, the fifty pounds of his foe ever dragging on his throat, his anger passed on into panic. The basic life of him dominated him again, and his intelligence fled before the will of his flesh to live. Round and round and back again, stumbling and falling and rising, even uprearing at times on his hind legs and lifting his foe clear of the earth, he struggled vainly to shake off the clinging death. At last he fell, toppling backward, exhausted, and the bulldog promptly shifted his grip, getting in closer, mangling more and more of the fur folded flesh, throttling White Fang more severely than ever. Shouts of applause went up for the victor, and there were many cries of Cherokee, Cherokee! To this Cherokee responded by vigorous wagging of the stump of his tail. But the clamor of approval did not distract him. There was no sympathetic relation between his tail and his massive jaws. The one might wag, but the others held their terrible grip on White Fang's throat. It was at this time that a diversion came to the spectators. There was a jingle of bells. Dog-mushers' cries were heard. Everybody, save Beauty Smith, looked apprehensively the fear of the police strong upon them. But they saw, up the trail, and not down, two men running with sled and dogs. They were evidently coming down the creek from some prospecting trip. At sight of the crowd they stopped their dogs and came over and joined it, curious to see the cause of the excitement. The dog-musher wore a mustache, but the other, a taller and younger man, was smooth-shaven, his skin rosey from the pounding of his blood and the running in the frosty air. 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 that ever tightened. In spite of his armor of fur, the great vein of his throat would have long since been torn open had not the first grip of the bulldog been so low down as to be practically on the chest. It had taken Cherokee a long time to shift that grip upward, and this had also tended further to clog his jaws with fur and skinfold. In the meantime the abysmal brute and beauty-smith had been rising into his brain and mastering the small bit of sanity that he possessed at best. When he saw White Fang's eyes beginning to glaze, he knew beyond doubt that the fight was lost. Then he broke loose, he sprang upon White Fang and began savagely to kick him. There were hisses from the crowd and cries of protest, but that was all. While this went on, and beauty-smith continued to kick White Fang, there was a commotion in the crowd. The tall young newcomer was forcing his way through, shouldering men right and left without ceremony or gentleness. When he broke through into the ring, beauty-smith was just in the act of delivering another kick. All his weight was on one foot, and he was in a state of unstable equilibrium. At that moment the newcomer's fist landed a smashing blow full in his face. Beauty-smith's remaining leg left the ground, and his whole body seemed to lift into the air as he turned over backward and struck the snow. The newcomer turned upon the crowd. You cowards! he cried. You beasts! He was in a rage himself, a sane rage. His gray eyes seemed metallic and steel-like as they flashed upon the crowd. Beauty-smith regained his feet and came toward him, sniffling and cowardly. The newcomer did not understand. He did not know how abject a coward the other was, and thought he was coming back intent on fighting. So, with a you beast! he smashed beauty-smith over backward with a second blow in the face. Beauty-smith decided that the snow was the safest place for him, and lay where he had fallen, making no effort to get up. Come on, Matt! lend a hand! The newcomer called the dog-musher, who had followed him into the ring. Both men bent over the dogs. Matt took hold of White Fang, ready to pull when Cherokee's jaws should be loosened. This the younger man endeavored to accomplish by clutching the bulldog's jaws in his hands and trying to spread them. It was a vain undertaking. As he pulled and tugged and wrenched, he kept exclaiming with every expulsion of breath. BEASTS! The crowd began to grow unruly, and 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 glared at them. YOU DAMN BEASTS! He finally exploded and went back to his task. It's no use, Mr. Scott. You can't break him apart that way, Matt said at last. The pair paused and surveyed the locked dogs. Ain't bleeding much, Matt announced. Ain't got all the way in yet. But he's liable to any moment, Scott answered. There! did you see that? He shifted his grip in a bit. The younger man's excitement and apprehension for White Fang was growing. He struck Cherokee about the head savagely, again and again. But that did not loosen the jaws. Cherokee wagged the stump of his tail in advertisement that he understood the meaning of the blows, but that he knew he was himself in the right, and only doing his duty by keeping his grip. WON'T SOME OF YOU HELP? Scott cried desperately at the crowd. But no help was offered. Instead the crowd began sarcastically to cheer him on, and showered him with facetious advice. You'll have to get a pry, Matt counseled. The other reached into the holster at his hip, drew his revolver, and tried to thrust its muzzle between the bulldog's jaws. He shoved and shoved hard, till the grating of the steel against the locked teeth could be distinctly heard. Both men were on their knees bending over the dogs. Tim Keenan strode into the ring. He paused beside Scott and touched him on the shoulder, saying ominously, Don't break them teeth, stranger. Then I'll break his neck! Scott retorted, continuing as shoving and wedging with the revolver muzzle. I said, Don't break them teeth! The pharaoh-dealer repeated more ominously than before. But if it was a bluff he intended, it did not work. Scott never desisted from his efforts, though he looked up coolly and asked, Your dog, the pharaoh-dealer grunted, then get in here and break this grip. Well, stranger, the other drawled, irritatingly. I don't mind telling you that's something I ain't worked out for myself. I don't know how to turn the trick. Then get out of the way, was the reply, and don't bother me, I'm busy. Tim Keenan continued standing over him, but Scott took no further notice of his presence. He had managed to get the muzzle in between the jaws on one side, and was trying to get it out between the jaws on the other side. This accomplished he pried gently and carefully, loosening the jaws a bit at a time, while Matt, a bit at a time, extricated White Fang's mangled neck. Stand by to receive your dog, was Scott's peremptory order to Cherokee's owner. The pharaoh-dealer stooped down obediently and got a firm hold on Cherokee. Now, Scott warned, giving the final pry, the dogs were drawn apart, the bulldog struggled vigorously. Take him away! Scott commanded, and Tim Keenan dragged Cherokee back into the crowd. White Fang made several ineffectual efforts to get up. Once he gained his feet, but his legs were too weak to sustain him, and he slowly wilted and sank back into the snow. His eyes were half-closed and the surface of them was glassy. His jaws were apart, and through them the tongue protruded, draggled and limp. To all appearances he looked like a dog that had been strangled to death. Matt examined him. Just about all in, he announced, but he's breathing all right. Beauty Smith had regained his feet and come over to look at White Fang. Matt, how much is a good sled-dog worth? Scott asked. The dog musher, still on his knees and stooped over White Fang, calculated for a moment. Three hundred dollars, he answered. And how much for one that's all chewed up like this one? Scott asked, nudging White Fang with his foot. Half of that was the dog musher's judgment. Scott turned upon 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 pocketbook and counted out the bills. Beauty Smith put his hands behind his back, refusing to touch the proffered money. I ain't a sellin', he said. Oh yes you are, the other assured him, because I'm buying. Here's your money, the dog's mine. Beauty Smith, his hands still behind him, began to back away. Scott sprang toward him, drawing his fist back to strike. Beauty Smith cowered down in anticipation of the blow. I got my rights, he whimpered. You forfeited your rights to own that dog, was the rejoinder. Are you going to take the money, or do I have to hit you again? All right, Beauty Smith spoke up with the alacrity of fear. But I take the money under protest, he added. The dog's a mint. I ain't a gonna be robbed. Man got his rights. Correct, Scott answered, passing the money over to him. A man's got his rights, but you're not a man, you're a beast. Wait till I get back to Dawson, Beauty Smith threatened. I'll have the law on you. If you open your mouth when you get back to Dawson, I'll have you run out of town, understand? Beauty Smith replied with a grunt. Understand, the other thundered with abrupt fierceness. Yes, Beauty Smith grunted, shrinking away. Guess what? Yes, sir, Beauty Smith snarled. Look out, he'll bite! Someone shouted, and a guffaw of laughter went up. Scott turned his back on him and returned to help the dog-musher who was working over White Fang. Some of the men were already departing, others stood in groups looking on and talking. Tim Keenan joined one of the groups. Who's that mug? He asked. Whedon Scott? Someone answered. And who in the hell is Whedon Scott? The pharaoh dealer demanded. Oh, one of them cracker-jacked mind and experts. He's in with the big bugs. If you want to keep out of trouble, you'll steer clear of him, that's my talk. He's all hunky with the officials. The gold commissioners a special pal of his. I thought he must be somebody. Was the pharaoh dealer's comet? That's why I kept my hands off on him at the start. End of chapter 4. Part 4, chapter 5 of White Fang. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang by Jack London. Part 4, chapter 5. The Indomitable. It's hopeless, Whedon Scott confessed. He sat on the step of his cabin and stared at the dog-musher who responded with a shrug that was equally hopeless. Together they looked at White Fang at the end of his stretched chain, bristling, snarling, ferocious, straining to get at the sled-dogs. Having received sundry lessons from Matt, said lessons being imparted by means of a club, the sled-dogs had learned to leave White Fang alone, and even then they were lying down at a distance apparently oblivious of his existence. It's a wolf and there's no taming it, Whedon Scott announced. Oh, I don't know about that, Matt objected. Might be a lot of dog in him, for all you can tell, but there's one thing I know sure, and that there's no getting away from. The dog-musher paused and nodded his head confidentially at Moosehide Mountain. Well, don't be a miser with what you know, Scott said sharply after waiting a suitable length of time. Spit it out! What is it? The dog-musher indicated White Fang with a backward thrust of his thumb. Well, for dog, it's all the same. He's been tamed already. No. I tell you yes, and broke to harness. Look close there. Do you see them marks across the chest? You're right, Matt. He was a sled dog before Beauty Smith got hold of him. And there's not much reason against his being a sled dog again. What do you think? Scott queried eagerly. Then the hope died down, as he added, shaking his head. We've had him two weeks now, and if anything, he's wilder than ever at the present moment. Give him a chance, Matt counseled. Turn him loose for a spell. The other looked at him incredulously. Yes, Matt went on. 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 him keep his eye on that club? Matt said. That's a good sign. He's no fool. Don't dash tackle me so long as I got that club handy. He's not clean crazy, sure. As the man's hand approached his neck, White Fang bristled and snarled and crouched down, but while he eyed the approaching hand, he at the same time contrived to keep track of the club and the other hand suspended threateningly above him. Matt unsnapped the chain from the collar and stepped back. White Fang could scarcely realize 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'd been loosed to fight with other dogs. Immediately after such fights he had always been imprisoned again. He did not know what to make of it. Perhaps some new devilry of the gods was about to be perpetrated on him. He walked slowly and cautiously, prepared to be assailed at any moment. He did not know what to do. It was also unprecedented. He took the precaution to shear off from the two watching gods and walked carefully to the corner of the cabin. Nothing happened. He was plainly perplexed and he came back again, pausing a dozen feet away and regarding the two men intently. "'Won't he run away?' his new owner asked. Matt shrugged his shoulders. Got to take a gamble. Only way to find out is to find out.' "'Poor devil,' Scott murmured pittingly. "'What he needs is some show of human kindness,' he added, turning and going into the cabin. He came out with a piece of meat which he tossed to White Fang. He sprang away from it and from a distance studied it suspiciously. "'Hite you, Major!' Matt shouted warningly, but too late. Major had made a spring for the meat. At the instant his jaws closed on it, White Fang struck him. He was overthrown. Matt rushed in, but quicker than he was White Fang. Major staggered to his feet, but the blood spouting from his throat reddened the snow in a widening path. "'It's too bad, but it served him right,' 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 stooped and investigated his leg. "'He got me all right,' he announced, pointing to the torn trousers and undercloths and the growing stain of red. "'I told you it was hopeless, Matt,' Scott said in a discouraged voice. "'I've thought about it off and on, while not wanted to think of it, but we've come to it now. It's the only thing to do.' As he talked, with reluctant movements he drew his revolver through open the cylinder and assured himself of its contents. "'Look here, Mr. Scott,' Matt objected. "'That dog's been through hell. You can't expect him to come out of white and shine an angel. Give him time.' "'Look at Major,' the other rejoined. The dog-mushers surveyed the stricken dog. He had sunk down on the snow in the circle of his blood and was plainly in the last gasp. "'Served him right. You said so yourself, Mr. Scott. He tried to take White Fang's meat, and he's dead-o. That was to be expected. I wouldn't give two whoops in hell for a dog that wouldn't fight for his own meat. "'But look at yourself, Matt. It's all right about the dogs, but we must draw the line somewhere.' "'Served me right,' Matt argued stubbornly. "'What did I want to kick him for? You said yourself that he'd done right. Then I had no right to kick him.' "'It would be a mercy to kill him,' Scott insisted. "'He's untameable.' "'Now look here, Mr. Scott. Give the poor devil a fighting chance. He ain't had no 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. There!' "'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. And here's a try at it.' He walked over to White Fang and began talking to him gently and soothingly. "'Better have a club handy,' Matt warned. Scott shook his head and went on trying to win White Fang's confidence. White Fang was suspicious. Something was impending. He had killed this God's dog, bitten his companion God, and what else was to be expected than some terrible punishment. But in the face of it he was indomitable. He bristled and showed his teeth, his eyes vigilant, his whole body weary and prepared for anything. The God had no club so he suffered him to approach quite near. The God's hand had come out and was descending upon his head. White Fang shrank together and grew tense as he crouched under it. Here was danger, some treachery or something. He knew the hands of the God's, their proved mastery, their cunning to hurt. Besides, there was his old antipathy to being touched. He snarled more menacingly, crouch still lower, and still the hand descended. He did not want to bite the hand, and he endured the peril of it until his instinct surged up in him, mastering him with its insatiable yearning for life. Weedon Scott had believed that he was quick enough to avoid any snap or slash, but he had yet to learn the remarkable quickness of White Fang, who struck with the serenity and swiftness of a coiled snake. Scott cried out sharply with surprise, catching his torn hand and holding it tightly in his other hand. Matt uttered a great oath and sprang to his side. White Fang crouched down and backed away, bristling, showing his fangs, his eyes malignant with menace. Now he could expect a beating as fearful 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, with a careless calmness that was assumed, only going to keep that promise I made. I reckon it's up to me to kill him, and I said I'd do. No you don't? Yes I do, watch me. As Matt had pleaded for White Fang when he had been bitten, it was now Weedon Scott's turn to plead. You said to give him a chance. Well give it to him. We've only just started, and we can't quit at the beginning. It served me right this time, and look at him. White Fang near the corner of the cabin and forty feet away was snarling with blood-curdling viciousness, not at Scott, but at the dog-musher. Well, I'll be everlastingly gosh-swoggled! was the dog-musher's expression of astonishment. Look at the intelligence of him, Scott went on hastily. He knows the meaning of firearms as well as you do. He's got intelligence, and we've got to give that intelligence a chance. Put up the gun. All right, I'm Willing, Matt agreed, leaning the rifle against the woodpile. But will you look at that? He exclaimed the next moment. White Fang had quieted down and ceased snarling. This is worth investigating, watch. Matt reached for the rifle and at the same moment White Fang snarled. He stepped away from the rifle, and White Fang's lifted lips descended, covering his teeth. Now, just for fun, Matt took the rifle and began slowly to raise it to his shoulder. White Fang snarling began with the movement and increased as the movement approached its culmination. But the moment before the rifle came to a level on him, he leaped sideways behind the corner of the cabin. Matt stood staring along the sights at the empty space of snow which had been occupied by White Fang. The dog-musher put the rifle down solemnly, then turned and looked at his employer. I agree with you, Mr. Scott. That dog's too intelligent to kill. Eden's Scott approach he'd bristled and snarled to advertise that he would not submit to punishment. Twenty-four hours had passed since he had slashed open the hand that was now bandaged and held up by a sling to keep the blood out of it. In the past White Fang had experienced delayed punishments, and he apprehended that such a one was about to befall him. How could it be otherwise? He had committed what was to him sacrilege, sunk his fangs into the holy flesh of a god, and of a white-skinned superior god at that. In the nature of things, and of intercourse with gods, something terrible awaited him. The god sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing dangerous in that. When the gods administered punishment they stood on their legs. Besides, this god had no club, no whip, no firearm, and furthermore he himself was free. No chain nor stick bound him. He could escape into safety while the god was scrambling to his feet. In the meantime he could wait and see. The god remained quiet, made no movement, and White Fang's snarl slowly dwindled to a growl that ebbed down in his throat and seized. Then the god spoke, and at the first sound of his voice the hair rose on White Fang's neck and the growl rushed up in his throat. But the god made no hostile movement and went on calmly talking. For a time White Fang growled in unison with him, a correspondence of rhythm being established between growl and voice. But the god talked on interminably. 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 prickling warnings of his instinct, White Fang began to have confidence in this god. He had a feeling of security that was belied by all his experience with men. After a long time the god got up and went into the cabin. White Fang scanned him apprehensively when he came out. He had neither whip nor club nor weapon, nor was his uninjured hand behind his back hiding something. He sat down as before, in the same spot, several feet away. He held out a small piece of meat. White Fang pricked his ears and investigated it suspiciously, managing to look at the same time both at the meat and the god. Alert for any overt act, his body tense and ready to spring away at the first sign of hostility. Still the punishment delayed. The god merely held near to his nose a piece of meat, and about the meat there seemed nothing wrong. Still White Fang suspected, and though the meat was proffered to him with short, inviting thrusts of the hand, he refused to touch it. The gods were all wise, and there was no telling what masterful treachery lurked behind that apparently harmless piece of meat. In past experience, especially in dealing with squas, meat and punishment had often been disastrously related. In the end the god tossed the meat on the snow at White Fang's feet. He smelled the meat carefully, but he did not look at it. While he smelled it he kept his eyes on the god. Nothing happened. He took the meat into his mouth and swallowed it. Still nothing happened. The god was actually offering him another piece of meat. Again he refused to take it from the hand, and again it was tossed to him. This was repeated a number of times. But there came a time when the god refused to toss it. He kept it in his hand and steadfastly proffered it. The meat was good meat, and White Fang was hungry. Bit by bit, infinitely cautious, he approached the hand. At last the time came that he decided to eat the meat from the hand. He never took his eyes from the god, thrusting his head forward with ears flattened back and hair involuntarily rising and cresting on his neck. Also a low growl rumbled in his throat as warning that he was not to be trifled with. He ate the meat, and nothing happened. Just by peace he ate all the meat, and nothing happened. Still the punishment delayed. He licked his chops and waited. The god went on talking. In his voice was kindness, something of which White Fang had no experience whatever. And within him it aroused feelings which he had likewise never experienced before. He was aware of a certain strange satisfaction as though some need were being gratified. As though some void in his being were being filled. Then again came the prod of his instinct and the warning of past experience, that gods were ever crafty, and they had unguessed ways of attaining their ends. Ah! He had thought so. There it came now, the god's hand, cunning to hurt, thrusting out at him, descending upon his head. But the god went on talking. His voice was soft and soothing. In spite of the menacing hand, the voice inspired confidence. And in spite of the assuring voice, the hand inspired distrust. White Fang was torn by conflicting feelings, impulses. It seemed he would fly to pieces so terrible was the control he was exerting, holding together by an unwanted indecision the counter-forces that struggled within him for mastery. He compromised. He snarled and bristled and flattened his ears, but he neither snapped nor sprang away. The hand descended. Nearer and nearer it came. He touched the ends of his upstanding hair. He shrank down under it. It followed down after him, pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering, he still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at the hands of men. But it was the will of the god, and he strove to submit. The hand lifted and descended again in a patting, caressing movement. This continued, but every time the hand lifted, the hair lifted under it. And every time the hand descended, the ears flattened down in a cavernous growl surged in his throat. White fan growled and growled with insistent warning. By this means he announced that he was prepared to retaliate for any hurt he might receive. There was no telling when the god's ulterior motive might be disclosed. At any moment, that soft, confidence-inspiring voice might break forth an auror of wrath, that gentle and caressing hand transform itself into a vice-like grip to hold him helpless and administer punishment. But the god talked on softly, and ever the hand rose and fell with non-hostile pats. White Fang experienced dual feelings. It was distasteful to his instinct. It restrained him, opposed the will of him toward personal liberty, and yet it was not physically painful. On the contrary, it was even pleasant in a physical way. The patting movement slowly and carefully changed to a rubbing of the ears about their bases, and the physical pleasure even increased a little. Yet he continued to fear, and he stood on guard, expectant of unguessed evil, alternately suffering and enjoying as one feeling or the other came uppermost and swayed him. Well, I'll be ga-swoggled! So spoke Matt, coming out of the cabin, his sleeves rolled up, a pan of dirty dish-water in his hands, arrested in the act of emptying the pan by the side of Whedon Scott patting White Fang. At the instant his voice broke the silence, White Fang leaped back, snarling savagely at him. And regarded his employer with grieve disapproval. If you don't mind my express and my feelings, Mr. Scott, I'll make free to say you're seventeen kinds of a damn fool, and all of them different, and then some! Whedon Scott, smiled with a superior air, gained his feet and walked over to White Fang. He talked soothingly to him, but not for long, then slowly put out his hand, rested it on White Fang's head, and resumed the interrupted patting. White Fang endured it, keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously, not upon the man that patted him, but upon the man that stood in the doorway. You may be a number one tip-top-minded expert all right, all right! The dog-musher delivered himself oracularly, but you missed the chance of your life when you was a boy and didn't run off and join a circus! White Fang snarled at the sound of the voice, but this time did not leap away from under the hand that was caressing his head and the back of his neck with long, soothing strokes. It was the beginning of the end for White Fang, the ending of the old life and the reign of hate. A new and incomprehensibly fairer life was dawning. It required much thinking and endless patience on the part of Wheaton-Scott to accomplish this, and on the part of White Fang it required nothing less than a revolution. He had to ignore the urges and promptings of instinct and reason, defy experience, give the lie to life itself. Life as he had known it, not only had had no place in it for much that he now did, but all the currents had gone counter to those to which he now abandoned himself. In short, when all things were considered, he had to achieve an orientation far vaster than the one he had achieved at the time he came voluntarily in from the wild and accepted Grey Beaver as his Lord. At that time he was a mere puppy, soft from the making, without form, ready for the thumb of circumstance to begin its work upon him. But now it was different. The thumb of circumstance had done its work only too well. By it he had been formed and hardened into the fighting wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving and unlovable. To accomplish the change was like a reflux of being, and this when the plasticity of youth was no longer his, when the fiber of him had become tough and naughty, when the warp and wolf of him had made of him an adamantine texture, harsh and unyielding, when the face of his spirit had become iron and all his instincts and axioms had crystallized into set rules, cautions, dislikes and desires. Yet again, in this new orientation, it was the thumb of circumstance that pressed and prodded him, softening that which had become hard and remolding it into fairer form. Even Scott was in truth this thumb. He had gone to the roots of White Fang's nature, and with kindness touched to life potencies that had languished and well nigh perished. One such potency was love. It took the place of like, which latter had been the highest feeling that thrilled him in his intercourse with the gods. But this love did not come in a day. It began with like, and out of it slowly developed. White Fang did not run away, though he was allowed to remain loose, because he liked this new god. This was certainly better than the life he had lived in the cage of Beauty Smith, and it was necessary that he should have some god. The lordship of man was in need of his nature. The seal of his dependence on man had been set upon him in that early day when he turned his back on the wild and crawled to Gray Beaver's feet to receive the expected beating. This seal had been stamped upon him again, and, ineradicably, on his second return from the wild, when the long famine was over and there was fish once more in the village of Gray Beaver. And so, because he needed a god, and because he preferred Weed and Scott to Beauty Smith, White Fang remained. In acknowledgment of fealty he proceeded to take upon himself the guardianship of his master's property. He prowled about the cabin while the sled-dog slept, and the first night visitor to the cabin fought him off with a club until Weed and Scott came to the rescue. But White Fang soon learned to differentiate between thieves and honest men to appraise the true value of step and carriage. The man who traveled, loud stepping, the direct line to the cabin door he let alone, though he watched him vigilantly until the door opened and he received the endorsement of the master. But the man who went softly, by circuitous ways, peering with caution, seeking after secrecy, that was the man who received no suspension of judgment from White Fang, and who went away of abruptly, hurriedly, and without dignity. Weed and 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 the ill-done White Fang was a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid. So he went out of his way to be especially kind to the fighting wolf. Each day he made it a point to caress and pet White Fang and to do it at length. At first, suspicious and hostile, White Fang grew to like this petting. But there was one thing that he never outgrew, his growling. Growl he would from the moment the petting began till it ended. But it was a growl with a new note in it. A stranger could not hear this note, and to such a stranger the growling of White Fang was an exhibition of primordial savagery, nerve-wracking, and blood-curdling. But White Fang's throat had become harsh-fibred from the making of ferocious sounds through the many years since his first little rasp of anger in the lair of his cubhood, and he could not soften the sounds of that throat now to express the gentleness he felt. Nevertheless, Whedon Scott's ear and sympathy were fine enough to catch the new note, all but drowned in the fierceness, the note that was the faintest hint of a croon of content, and that none but he could hear. As the days went by, the evolution of like and to love was accelerated. White Fang himself began to grow aware of it, though in his consciousness he knew not what love was. It manifested itself to him as a void in his being, a hungry, aching, yearning void that clamored to be filled. It was a pain and an unrest, and it received easement only by the touch of the new God's presence. At such times love was joy to him, a wild, keen, thrilling satisfaction. But when away from his God the pain and the unrest returned, the void in him sprang up and pressed against him with its emptiness, and the hunger gnawed and gnawed unceasingly. White Fang was in the process of finding himself, in spite of the maturity of his years, and of the savage rigidity of the mold that had formed him. His nature was undergoing an expansion. There was a burgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwanted impulses. His old code of conduct was changing. In the past he had liked comfort and surcease from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he had adjusted his actions accordingly. But now it was different. Because of this new feeling within him, he oft times elected discomfort and pain for the sake of his God. Thus, in the early morning, instead of roaming and foraging or lying in a sheltered nook, he would wait for hours on the cheerless cabin stoop for a sight of the God's face. At night when the God returned home, White Fang would leave the warm sleeping-place he had burrowed in the snow in order to receive the friendly snap of fingers and the word of greeting. Meet, even meet itself, he would forgo 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, and love was the plummet dropped down into the deeps of him where like had never gone, and responsive out of his deeps had come the new thing, love. That which was given unto him did he return. This was a God indeed, a love-God, a warm and radiant God, in whose light White Fang's nature expanded as a flower expands under the sun. But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly molded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways. He was too self-possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation. Too long had he cultivated reticence, aloofness, and morose-ness. He had never barked in his life, and he could not now learn to bark a welcome when his God approached. He was never in the way, never extravagant nor foolish in the expression of his love. He never ran to meet his God. He waited at a distance, but he always waited, was always there. His love partook of the nature of worship, dumb, inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by the steady regard of his eyes did he express his love, and by the unceasing following with his eyes of his God's every movement. Also at times, when his God looked at him and spoke to him, he betrayed an awkward self-consciousness caused by the struggle of his love to express itself and his physical inability to express it. He learned to adjust himself in many ways to his new mode of life. It was borne in upon him that he must let his master's dogs alone, yet his dominant nature asserted itself, and he had first to thrash them into an acknowledgment of his superiority and leadership. This accomplished he had little trouble with them. They gave trail to him when he came and went, or walked among them, and when he asserted his will they obeyed. In the same way he came to tolerate Matt, as a possession of his master. His master rarely fed him. Matt did that. It was his business. Yet White Fang divine that it was his master's food he ate, and that it was his master who thus fed him vicariously. That it was who tried to put him into the harness and make him haul sled with the other dogs. But Matt failed. It was not until Wheaton Scott put the harness on White Fang and worked him that he understood. He took it as his master's will that Matt should drive him and work him, just as he drove and worked his master's other dogs. Different from the Mackenzie Toboggins were the Klondike sleds with runners under them. And different was the method of driving the dogs. There was no fan formation of the team. The dogs worked in single file, one behind another, hauling 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, as Matt learned after much inconvenience and trouble. White Fang picked out the post for himself, and Matt backed his judgment with strong language after the experiment had been tried. But though he worked in the sled in the day, White Fang did not forego the guarding of his master's property in the night. Thus he was on duty all the time, ever vigilant and faithful, the most valuable of all the dogs. Make and free to spit out what's in me, Matt said one day. I begged to state that you was a wise guy all right when you paid the price you did for that dog. You cleaned swindle Beauty Smith on top of pushing his face in with your fist. A recrudescence of anger glinted in Wheaton Scott's gray eyes, and he muttered savagely, The Beast. In the late spring a gray trouble came to White Fang. Without warning the love-master disappeared. There had been warning, but White Fang was unversed in such things and did not understand the packing of a grip. He remembered afterwards that his packing had preceded the master's disappearance, but at the time he suspected nothing. That night he waited for the master to return. At midnight the chill wind that blew drove him to shelter at the rear of the cabin. There he drowsed only half asleep. His ears keyed for the first sound of the familiar step. But at two in the morning his anxiety drove him out to the cold front stoop where he crouched and waited. But no master came. In the morning the door opened and Matt stepped outside. White Fang gazed at him wistfully. There was no common speech by which he might learn what he wanted to know. The days came and went, but never the master. White Fang, who had never known sickness in his life, became sick. He became very sick, so sick that Matt was finally compelled to bring him inside the cabin. Also in writing to his employer, Matt devoted a post-script to White Fang. Weedon Scott, reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon the following. "'That damn wolf won't work! Won't eat! Ain't got no spunk left! All the dogs is licking him! Wants to know what has become of you and I don't know how to tell him. Maybe he is going to die!' It was, as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost heart, and allowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the cabin he lay on the floor near the stove, without interest in food, in Matt, nor in life. Matt might talk gently to him or swear at him. It was all the same. He never did more than turn his dull eyes upon the man, then drop his head back to its customary position on his forepaws. And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang. He had got upon his feet, his ears cocked towards the door, and he was listening intently. A moment later Matt heard a footstep. The door opened, and Whedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook hands, then Scott looked around the room. "'Where's the wolf?' he asked. Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to the stove. He had not rushed forward after the manner of other dogs. He stood, watching and waiting. "'Holy smoke!' Matt exclaimed. "'Look at him wag his tail!' Whedon Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same time calling him. White Fang came to him, not with a great bound, yet quickly. He was awakened from self-consciousness, but as he drew near, his eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an incommunicable fastness of feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light, and shone forth. "'He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone!' Matt commented. Whedon Scott did not hear. He was squatting down on his heels, face to face with White Fang and petting him, rubbing at the roots of the ears, making long, caressing strokes down the neck to the shoulders, tapping the spine gently with the balls of his fingers, and White Fang was growling responsively, the crooning note of the growl more pronounced than ever. But that was not all. What of his joy the great love in him, ever surging and struggling to express itself, succeeded in finding a new mode of expression. He suddenly thrust his head forward and nudged his way in between his master's arm and body, and here, confined, hidden from view all except his ears, no longer growling, he continued to nudge and snuggle. Two men looked at each other. Scott's eyes were shining. "'Gosh!' said Matt in an awestricken voice. A moment later, when he had recovered himself, he 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 sailed forth. The sled-dogs had forgotten his prowess. They remembered only the latest, which was his weakness and sickness. At the sight of him as he came out of the cabin, they sprang upon him. "'Talk about your rough houses!' Matt murmured gleefully, standing in the doorway and looking on. "'Give him hell, you wolf! Give him hell!' "'And then some!' White Fang did not need the encouragement. The return of the love-master was enough. Life was flowing through him again, splendid and indomitable. He fought from sheer joy, finding in it an expression of much that he felt and that otherwise was without speech. There could be but one ending. The team dispersed in ignominious defeat, and it was not until after dark that the dogs came sneaking back, one by one, by meekness and humility signifying their fealty to White Fang. Having learned to snuggle, White Fang was guilty of it often. It was the final word. He could not go beyond it. The one thing of which he had always been particularly jealous was his head. He had always disliked to have it touched. It was the wild in him, the fear of hurt and of the trap, that had given rise to the panicky impulses to avoid contacts. It was the mandate of his instinct that his head must be free. And now, with the love-master, his snuggling was the deliberate act of putting himself into a position of hopeless helplessness. It was an expression of perfect confidence, of absolute self-surrender, as though he said, I put myself into thy hands, work thou thy will with me. One night, not long after the return, Scott and Matt sat at a game of cribbage preliminary to going to bed. Fifteen, two, fifteen, four, and a pair makes six. Matt was pegging up, when there was an outcry and sound of snarling without. They looked at each other as they started to rise to their feet. The wolf nailed somebody! Matt said. A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them. Bring a light! Scott shouted as he sprang outside. Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying on his back in the snow. His arms were folded one above the other across his face and throat. Thus he was trying to shield himself from White Fang's teeth. And there was need for it. White Fang was in a rage, wickedly making his attack on the most vulnerable spot. 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 and streaming blood. All this the two men saw in the first instant. The next instant Weedon Scott had White Fang by the throat and was dragging him clear. White Fang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt to bite, while he quickly quieted down at a sharp word from the master. Matt helped the man to his feet. As he arose he lowered his crossed arms, exposing the bestial face of Beauty Smith. The dog-musher let go of him precipitately, with action similar to that of a man who has picked up live fire. Beauty Smith blinked in the lamp-light and looked about him. He caught sight of White Fang and terror rushed into his face. At the same moment Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow. He held the lamp close to them, indicating them with his toe for his employer's benefit, a steel dog chain and a stout club. Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The dog-musher laid his hand on Beauty Smith's shoulder and faced him to the right about. No word needed to be spoken. Beauty Smith started. In the meantime the love-master was patting 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? Must have thought he had holed a seventeen devils! The dog-musher sniggered. White Fang still wrought up in bristling, growled and growled the hair slowly lying down, the crooning note remote and dim, but growing in his throat. CHAPTER VI White Fang sensed the coming calamity even before there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon him that a change was impending. He knew not how, nor why, yet he got his feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that haunted the cabin stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin, knew what went on inside their brains. Listen to that, will you? The dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night. Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside, and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight. I do believe that wolf's on to you, the dog-musher said. Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words. What the devil can I do with a wolf in California? He demanded. That's what I say, Matt answered. What the devil can you do with a wolf in California? But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The others seemed to be judging him in a non-committal sort of way. White men's dogs would have no show against him. Scott went on. He'd kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damaged suits, the authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him. He's a downright murderer, I know, was the dog-musher's comment. Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously. It would never do, he said decisively. It would never do. Matt concurred. Why, you'd have to hire a man specially to take care of him. The other suspicion was elade. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence that followed the low, half-sobbin wine was heard at the door and then the long, questing sniff. There's no denying he thinks a hell of a lot of you, Matt said. The other glared at him in sudden wrath. Damn it all, man. I know my own mind and what's best. I'm agreeing with you, only. Only what? Scott snapped out. Only the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and betrayed a rising anger of his own. Well, you needn't get so all fired head up about it. Judge him by your actions, want to think you didn't know your own mind. Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently, you're right, Matt. I don't know my own mind and that's what's the trouble. Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along. He broke out after another pause. I'm agreeing with you, was Matt's answer, and again his employer was not quite satisfied with him. But how in the name of the great sardinopolis he knows you're going is what gets me? The dog-musher continued innocently. It's beyond me, Matt, Scott answered with a mournful shake of the head. Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. There was indubitable evidence. White Fang had already sent 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 could look to be left behind. That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled in his puppy-days when he fled back from the wild to the village to find it vanished and not but a rubbish heap to mark the side of Graybeaver's teepee, so now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe. Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed. He's gone off his food again, Matt remarked from his bunk. There was a grunt from Whedon Scott's bunk and a stirrer of blankets. From the way he cut up the other time you went away I wouldn't wonder this time but what he died. The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably. Oh, shut up! Scott cried out through the darkness. You nag worse than a woman. I'm agreeing with you! The dog-musher answered and Whedon Scott was not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered. The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin and haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's blankets in fur-robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he watched the operation. Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered the luggage and were let 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 hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot follow. Now give me a growl, the last good goodbye growl. But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the master's arm and body. There she blows! Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the horse bellowing of a river steamboat. You got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on! The two doors slammed at the same moment and Whedon Scott waited for Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low whining and sobbing. Then there were two long-drawn sniffs. You must take good care of him, Matt, Scott said as they started down the hill. Right and let me know how he gets along. Sure! The dog-musher answered. But listen to that, will you! Both men stopped. Right Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters lied dead. He was voicing an utter woe. His cry bursting upward in great, heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting upward again with rush upon rush of grief. The Aurora was the first steamboat of the year for the outside, and her decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold-seekers, all equally as mad to get to the outside as they had been originally to get to the inside. Near the gangplank Scott was shaking hands with Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something behind him. Scott turned to sea. Sitting on the deck several feet away and watching wistfully was White Fang. The dog-mushers swore softly in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only look in wonder. Did you lock the front door? Matt demanded. The other nodded and asked, How about the back? You just bet I did! Was the fervent reply. White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was, making no attempt to approach. I'll have to take him ashore with me! Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away from him. The dog-mushers 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, eluding the other's efforts to capture him. But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt obedience. Won't come to the hand that's fed him all these months! The dog-mushers muttered resentfully. And you, you ain't never fed him after that first day's of getting acquainted. I'm blamed if I can 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-made cuts on his muzzle and a gash between the eyes. Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly. We plump forgot the window! He's all cut and gouged underneath! Must have butted clean through it, bagash! But we didn't Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The Aurora's whistle hooded a final announcement of departure. Men were scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott grasped the dog-mushers' hand. Good-bye, Matt-old man. How about the wolf? You needn't fright. You see, I've... What? The dog-mushers 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 to climb it! He shouted back. Unless you clip him in warm weather! The gang-plank was hauled in and the Aurora swung out from the bank. We didn't 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 responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears. End of chapter one. Part five, chapter two of White Fang. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang, by Jack London. Part five, chapter two, The Southland. White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was appalled, deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness. He had associated power with Godhead and never had the white men seem such marvelous gods as now when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco. The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings. The streets were crowded with perils, wagons, carts, automobiles, great straining horses pulling huge trucks, a monstrous cable and electric cars hooting and clanging through the midst, screeching their insistent menace after the manner of the lynxes he had known in the northern woods. All this was the manifestation of power. Through it all, behind it all, was man, governing and controlling, expressing himself as of old by his mastery over matter. It was colossal, stunning. White Fang was odd, fear sat upon him. As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his smallness and puniness on the day he first came in from the wild to the village of Greybeaver, so now in his full-grown stature and pride of strength he was made to feel small and puny. And there were so many gods. He was made dizzy by the swarming of them. The thunder of the streets smote upon his ears. He was bewildered by the tremendous and endless Russian movement of things. As never before he felt his dependence on the love master, close at whose heels he followed, no matter what happened, never losing sight of him. But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the city, an experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that haunted him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage car by the master, chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises. Here a squat-embrani god held sway with much noise hurling trunks and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing to other gods who awaited them. And here in this inferno of luggage was White Fang deserted by the master. Or at least White Fang thought he was deserted until he smelled out the master's canvas clothes bags along side of him and proceeded to mount guard over them. About time you come, growled the god of the car an hour later when Whedon Scott appeared at the door. That dog of yours won't let me lay a finger on your stuff. White Fang emerged from the car. He was astonished, the nightmare city was gone. The car had been to him no more than a room and a house and when he had entered it the city had been all around him. In the interval the city had disappeared. The roar of it no longer dinned upon his ears. Before him was smiling country, streaming with sunshine, lazy with quietude. But he had little time to marvel at the transformation. He accepted it as he accepted all the unaccountable doings and manifestations of the gods. It was their way. There was a carriage waiting, a man and a woman approached the master. The woman's arms went out and clutched the master around the neck, a hostile act. The next moment Whedon Scott had torn loose from the embrace and closed with White Fang who had become a snarling raging demon. "'It's all right, mother,' Scott was saying as he kept tight hold of White Fang and placated him. He thought you were going to injure me and he wouldn't stand for it. It's all right, it's all right. He'll learn soon enough.' And in the meantime I may be permitted to love my son when his dog is not around,' she laughed, though she was pale and weak from the fright. She looked at White Fang who snarled him bristled and glared malevolently. "'You'll have to learn, and he shall, without postponement,' Scott said. He spoke softly to White Fang until he had quieted him, then his voice became firm. "'Down, sir, down with you!' This had been one of the things taught him by the master and White Fang obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly. "'Now, mother,' Scott opened his arms to her but kept his eyes on White Fang. "'Down,' he warned, "'Down!' White Fang, bristling silently, half crouching as he rose, sank back and watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the embrace from the strange man-god that followed. Then the clothes-bags were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth. At the end of fifteen minutes the carriage swung in through a stone gateway and on between a double row of arched and interlacing walnut trees. On either side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and there by great sturdy limb-dokes. In the near distance, in contrast with the young green of the tended grass, sun-burnt hay-fields showed tan and gold while beyond were the tawny hills and upland pastures. From the head of the lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley level, looked down the deep-porched, many-windowed house. Little opportunity was given White Fang to see all this. Hardly had the carriage entered the grounds when he was set upon by a sheep-dog, bright-eyed, sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry. It was between him and the master cutting him off. White Fang snarled no warning, but his hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush. This rush was never completed. He hauled with awkward abruptness, with stiff forelegs bracing himself against his momentum, almost sitting down on his haunches, so desirous was he of avoiding contact with the dog he was in the act of attacking. It was a female and the law of his kind thrust a barrier between. For him to attack her would require nothing less than a violation of his instinct. But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise. Being a female she possessed no such instinct. On the other hand, being a sheep-dog, her instinctive fear of the wild, and especially of the wolf, was unusually keen. White Fang was to her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed upon her flocks from the time sheep were first herded and guarded by some dim ancestor of hers. And so, as he abandoned his rush at her and braced himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him. He snarled involuntarily as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made no offer to hurt her. He backed away, stiff-legged with self-consciousness, and tried to go around her. He dodged this way and that, and curved and turned but to no purpose. She remained always between him and the way he wanted to go. Here, Kali!" cried the strange man in the carriage. We didn't Scott laughed. Never mind, Father, it is good discipline. White Fang will have to learn many things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll adjust himself all right. The carriage drove on and still Kali blocked White Fang's way. He tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn, but she ran on the inner and smaller circle and was always there, facing him with her two rows of gleaming teeth. Back he circled across the drive to the other lawn, and again she headed him off. The carriage was bearing the master away. White Fang caught glimpses of it disappearing amongst the trees. The situation was desperate. He assayed another circle. She followed, running swiftly, and then suddenly he turned upon her. It was his old fighting trick, shoulder to shoulder he struck her squarely. Not only was she overthrown, so fast has she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet, and crying shrilly her hurt pride and indignation. White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, and that was all he had wanted. She took after him, never ceasing her outcry. It was the straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could teach her things. She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the utmost, advertising the effort she was making with every leap, and all the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort, gliding like a ghost over the ground. As he rounded the house to the portico chair, he came upon the carriage. It had stopped, and the master was alighting. At this moment, still running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack from the side. It was a deer hound rushing upon him. White Fang tried to face it, but he was going too fast, and the hound was too close. It struck him on the side, and such was his forward momentum and the unexpectedness of it. White Fang was hurled to the ground, and rolled clear over. He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, his ears flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping together as the fangs barely missed the hound's soft throat. The master was running up, but was too far away, and it was Kali that saved the hound's life. Before White Fang could spring in and deliver the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Kali arrived. She had been outmaneuvered and outrun to say nothing of her having been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was like that of a tornado, made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath, and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the wild. She struck White Fang at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked off his feet and rolled over. The next moment the master arrived and with one hand held White Fang while the father called off the dogs. I say 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 once to go off his feet, and here he's been rolled twice in 30 seconds. The carriage had driven away and other strange gods had appeared from out the house. Some of these stood respectfully at a distance, but two of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master around the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this act. No harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were certainly not threatening. These gods also made overtures to White Fang, but he warned them off with a snarl, and the master did likewise with word of mouth. At such times White Fang leaned in close against the master's legs, and received reassuring pats on the head. The hound, under the command, Dick, lie down, sir, had gone up the steps and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and keeping a sullen watch on the intruder. Kali had been taken in charge by one of the woman gods, who held arms around her neck and petted and caressed her, but Kali was very much perplexed and worried, whining and restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and confident that the gods were making a mistake. All the gods started up the steps to enter the house. White Fang followed closely at the master's heels. Dick, on the porch, growled, and White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back. Take Kali inside and leave the two of them to fight it out, suggested Scott's father. After that, they'll be friends. Then White Fang, to show his friendship, will have to be chief mourner at the funeral, laughed the master. The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at White Fang, then at Dick, and finally at his son. You mean? We didn't nod at his head. I mean just that. You'd have a dead Dick inside one minute, two minutes at the farthest. He turned to White Fang. Come on, you wolf. It's you that'll have to come inside. White Fang walked stiff-legged up the steps and across the porch, with tail rigidly erect, keeping his eyes on Dick to guard against a flank attack, and at the same time prepared for whatever fierce manifestation of the unknown that might pounce out upon him from the interior of the house. But no thing of fear pounced out, and when he had gained the inside, he scouted carefully around, looking at it and finding it not. Then he lay down with a contented grunt at the master's feet, observing all that went on, ever ready to spring to his feet and fight for life with the terrors, he felt, must lurk under the trap roof of the dwelling. End of chapter two. Part five, chapter three of White Fang. This Leapervox recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang by Jack London. Part five, chapter three, The God's Domain. Not only was White Fang adaptable by nature, but he had traveled 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. They knew more about the ways of the Southland gods than did he, and in their eyes he had qualified when he accompanied the gods inside the house. Wolf that he was, and unprecedented as it was, the gods had sanctioned his presence and they, the dogs of the gods, could only recognize this sanction. Dick Perforce had to go through a few stiff formalities at first, after which he calmly accepted White Fang as an addition to the premises. Had Dick had his way, they would have been good friends. All but White Fang was averse to friendship. All he asked of other dogs was to be let alone. His whole life he had kept aloof from his kind and he still desired to keep aloof. Dick's overtures bothered him, so he snarled Dick away. In the North he had learned the lesson that he must let the master's dogs alone and he did not forget that lesson now, but he insisted on his own privacy and self-seclusion and so thoroughly ignored Dick that that good-natured creature finally gave him up and scarcely took as much interest in him as in the hitching-post near the stable. Not so with Collie. While she accepted him because it was the mandate of the gods, that was no reason that she should leave him in peace. Woven into her being was the memory of countless crimes he and his had perpetrated against her ancestry. Not in a day nor a generation were the ravaged sheepfolds to be forgotten. All this was a spur to her, pricking her to retaliation. She could not fly in the face of the gods who permitted him, but that did not prevent her from making life miserable for him in petty ways. A feud ages old was between them and she for one would see to it that he was reminded. So Collie took advantage of her sex to pick upon White Fang and maltreat him. His instinct would not permit him to attack her while her persistence would not permit him to ignore her. When she rushed at him, he turned his fur-protected shoulder to her sharp teeth and walked away stiff-legged and stately. When she forced him too hard, he was compelled to go about in a circle, his shoulder presented to her, his head turned from her, and on his face and in his eyes a patient and bored expression. Sometimes, however, a nip on his hindquarters hastened his retreat and made it anything but stately. But as a rule he managed to maintain a dignity that was almost solemnity. He ignored her existence whenever it was possible and made it a point to keep out of her way. When he saw or heard her coming, he got up and walked off. There was much in other matters for White Fang to learn. Life in the Northland was simplicity itself when compared with the complicated affairs of Sierra Vista. First of all, he had to learn the family of the master. In a way he was prepared to do this, as Mitza and Klukuch had belonged to Grey Beaver, sharing his food, his fire, and his blankets. So now at Sierra Vista, belong to the Love Master, all the denizens of the house. But in this matter there was a difference, and many differences. Sierra Vista was a far vaster affair than the teepee of Grey Beaver. There were many persons to be considered. There was Judge Scott, and there was his wife. There were the master's two sisters, Beth and Mary. There was his wife, Alice, and then there were his children, Whedon and Maud, toddlers of four and six. There was no way for anybody to tell him about all these people, and of blood ties and relationship he knew nothing whatever, and never would be capable of knowing. Yet he quickly worked it out that all of them belonged to the master. Then, by observation, whenever opportunity offered, by study of action, speech, and the very intonations of the voice, he slowly learned the intimacy and the degree of favor they enjoyed with the master. And by this ascertained standard, White Fang treated them accordingly. What was of value to the master he valued. What was dear to the master was to be cherished by White Fang and guarded carefully. Thus it was with the two children. All his life he had disliked children. He hated and feared their hands. The lessons were not tender that he had learned of their tyranny and cruelty in the days of the Indian villages. When Whedon and Maud had first approached him, he growled warningly and looked malignant. A cuff from the master and a sharp word had then compelled him to permit their caresses, though he growled and growled under their tiny hands, and in the growl there was no crooning note. Later he observed that the boy and girl were of great value in the master's eyes. Then it was that no cuff nor sharp word was necessary before they could pat him. Yet White Fang was never effusively affectionate. He yielded to the master's children with an ill but honest grace, and endured their fooling as one would endure a painful operation. When he could no longer endure, he would get up and stalk determinately 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, instead of walking away at sight of them, he waited for them to come to him. And still later it was noticed that a pleased light came into his eyes when he saw them approaching, and that he looked after them with an appearance of curious regret when they left him for other amusements. All this was a matter of development and took time. Next in his regard after the children was Judge Scott. There were two reasons, possibly, for this. First, he was evidently a valuable possession of the master's, and next he was undemonstrative. White Fang liked to lie at his feet on the wide porch when he read the newspaper, from time to time favoring White Fang with a look or a word, untroublesome tokens that he recognized White Fang's presence and existence. But this was only when the master was not around. When the master appeared, all other beings ceased to exist so far as White Fang was concerned. White Fang allowed all the members of the family to pet him and make much of him, but he never gave to them what he gave to the master. No caress of theirs could put the love-crune into his throat, and try as they would, they could never persuade him into snuggling against them. This expression of abandon and surrender of absolute trust he reserved for the master alone. In fact, he never regarded the members of the family in any other light than possessions of the love-master. Also White Fang had early come to differentiate between the family and the servants of the household. The latter were afraid of him while he merely refrained from attacking them. This because he considered that they were likewise possessions of the master. Between White Fang and them 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. They were, in short, a pertinence of the household. Outside the household there was even more for White Fang to learn. The master's domain was wide and complex, yet it had its meats and bounds. The land itself ceased at the county road. Outside was the common domain of all gods, the roads and streets. Then inside other fences were the particular domains of other gods. A myriad laws governed all these things and determined conduct, yet he did not know the speech of the gods, nor was there any way for him to learn saved by experience. He obeyed his natural impulses until they ran him counter to some law. When this had been done a few times he learned the law and after that observed it. But most potent in his education was the cuff of the master's hand, the censure of the master's voice. Because of White Fang's very great love, a cuff from the master hurting far more than any beating Grey Beaver or Beauty Smith had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of him. With the flesh the spirit had still raged, splendid and invincible. But with the master, the cuff was always too light to hurt the flesh, yet it went deeper. It was an expression of the master's disapproval and White Fang's spirit wilted under it. In point of fact the cuff was rarely administered. The master's voice was sufficient. By it White Fang knew whether he did right or not. By it he trimmed his conduct and adjusted his actions. It was the compass by which he steered and learned to chart the manners of a new land and life. In the Northland the only domesticated animal was the dog. All other animals lived in the wild and were, when not too formidable, lawful spoil for any dog. All his days White Fang had forged among the live things for food. He did not enter his head that in the Southland it was otherwise. But this he was to learn early in his residence in Santa Clara Valley. Saundering around the corner of the house in the early morning, he came upon a chicken that had escaped from the chicken-yard. White Fang's natural impulse was to eat it. A couple of bounds, a flash of teeth and a frightened squawk, and he had scooped in the adventurous fowl. It was farmed bread and fat and tender, and White Fang licked his chops and decided that such fare was good. Later in the day he chanced upon another stray chicken near the stables. One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know White Fang's breed, so for weapon he took a light buggy whip. At the first cut of the whip White Fang left the chicken for the man. A club might have stopped White Fang but not a whip. Finally without flinching he took a second cut in his forward rush, and as he leaped for the throat the groom cried out, My God! and staggered backward. He dropped the whip and shielded his throat with his arms. In consequence his forearm was ripped open to the bone. The man was badly frightened. It was not so much White Fang's ferocity as it was his silence that unnerved the groom. Still protecting his throat and face with his torn and bleeding arm he tried to retreat to the barn, and it would have gone hard with him had not Kali appeared on the scene. As she had saved Dick's life, she now saved the grooms. She rushed upon White Fang in frenzied wrath. She had been right. She had known better than the blundering gods. All her suspicions were justified. Here was the ancient marauder up to his old tricks again. The groom escaped into the stables, and White Fang backed away before Kali's wicked teeth, or presented his shoulder to them and circled round and round. But Kali did not give over, as was her want, after a decent interval of chastisement. On the contrary she grew more excited and angry every moment, until in the end White Fang flung dignity to the winds and frankly fled away from her across the fields. He learned to leave chickens alone, the master said, but I can't give him the lesson until I catch him in the act. Two nights later came the act, but on a more generous scale than the master had anticipated. White Fang had observed closely the chicken yards and the habits of the chickens. In the night time, after they had gone to roost, he climbed to the top of a pile of newly hauled lumber. From there he gained the roof of a chicken-house, passed over the ridge pole, and dropped to the ground inside. A moment later he was inside the house, and the slaughter began. In the morning, when the master came out on to the porch, fifty white leghorn hens laid out in a row by the groom greeted his eyes. He whistled to himself, softly, first with surprise, and then at the end with admiration. His eyes were likewise greeted by White Fang, but about the latter there were no signs of shame nor guilt. He carried himself with pride, as though, forsooth, he had achieved a deed praiseworthy and meritorious. There was about him no consciousness of sin. The master's lips tightened as he faced the disagreeable task. Then he talked harshly to the unwitting culprit, and in his voice there was nothing but godlike wrath. Also he held White Fang's nose down to the slain 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. Then the master took him into the chicken-yards. White Fang's natural impulse, when he saw the live food fluttering about him and under his very nose, was to spring upon it. He obeyed the impulse, but was checked by the master's voice. They continued in the yards for half an hour. Time and again the impulse surged over White Fang, and each time, as he yielded to it, he was checked by the master's voice. Thus it was he learned the law, and ere he left the domain of the chickens, he had learned to ignore their existence. You can never cure a chicken-killer! Judge Scott shook his head sadly at luncheon table when his son narrated the lesson he had given White Fang. Once they've got the habit and the taste of blood—again he shook his head sadly—but Whedon Scott did not agree with his father. I'll tell you what I'll do, he challenged finally. I'll lock White Fang in with the chickens all afternoon. But think of the chickens, objected the judge. And furthermore, the son went on, for every chicken he kills I'll pay you one dollar gold coin of the realm. But you should penalize father, too, in her posed bath. Her sister seconded her, and a course of approval arose from around the table. Judge Scott nodded his head in agreement. All right! Whedon Scott pondered for a moment. And if, at the end of the afternoon, White Fang hasn't harmed a chicken for every ten minutes of the time he has spent in the yard, you will have to say to him, gravely and with deliberation, just as if you were sitting on the bench and solemnly passing judgment, White Fang, you are smarter than I thought. From hidden points of vantage the family watched the performance. But it was a fizzle. Locked in the yard and there deserted by the master, White Fang laid down and went to sleep. Once he got up and walked over to the trough for a drink of water. The chickens he calmly ignored. So far as he was concerned they did not exist. At four o'clock he executed a running jump, gained the roof of the chicken-house and leaped to the ground outside, whence he sauntered gravely to the house. He had learned the law. And on the porch, before the delighted family, Judge Scott, face to face with White Fang, said slowly and solemnly, sixteen times, White Fang, you are smarter than I thought. But it was the multiplicity of laws that befuddled White Fang and often brought him into disgrace. He had to learn that he must not touch the chickens that belong to other gods. And 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. Out in the back pasture, a quail could flutter up under his nose unharmed. All tense and trembling with eagerness and desire, he mastered his instinct and stood still. He was obeying the will of the gods. And then, one day, again out in the back pasture, he saw dicks start a jackrabbit and run it. The mastery himself was looking on and did not interfere. Nay, he 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 hostilities. If not amity, at least neutrality must obtain. But the other animals, the squirrels and quail and cottontails, were creatures of the wild who had never yielded allegiance to man. They were the lawful prey of any dog. It was only the tame that the gods protected, and between the tame deadly strife was not permitted. The gods held the power of life and death over their subjects, and the gods were jealous of their power. Life was complex in the Santa Clara Valley after the simplicities of the Northland, and the chief thing demanded by these intricacies of civilization was control, restraint, a poise of self that was as delicate as the fluttering of gossamer wings, and at the same time as rigid as steel. Life had a thousand faces, and White Fang found he must meet them all. Thus when he went to town, in De San Jose, running behind the carriage or loathing about the streets when the carriage stopped, life flowed past him deep and wide and varied, continually impinging upon his senses, demanding of him instant and endless adjustments and correspondences, and compelling him almost always to suppress his natural impulses. There were butcher shops where meat hung within reach. This meat he must not touch. There were cats at the houses the master visited that must be let alone, and there were dogs everywhere that snarled at him and that he must not attack. And then, on the crowded sidewalks there were persons innumerable whose attention he attracted. They would stop and look at him, point him out to one another, examine him, talk of him, and worst of all, pat him. In these perilous contacts from all these strange hands he must endure. Yet this endurance he achieved. Furthermore, he got over being awkward and self-conscious. In a lofty way he received the attentions of the multitudes of strange gods. With condescension he accepted their condescension. On the other hand, there was something about him that prevented great familiarity. They patted him on the head and passed on, contented and pleased with their own daring. But it was not all easy for White Fang. Running behind the carriage in the outskirts of San Jose he encountered certain small boys who made a practice of flinging stones at him. Yet he knew that it was not permitted him to pursue and drag them down. Here he was compelled to violate his instinct of self-preservation, and violate it he did, for he was becoming tame and qualifying himself for civilization. Nevertheless, White Fang was not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He had no abstract ideas about justice and fair play, but there is a certain sense of equity that resides in life, and it was this sense in him that resented the unfairness of his being permitted no defense against the stone-throwers. He forgot that in the covenant entered into between him and the gods, they were pledged to care for him and defend him. But one day the master sprang from the carriage, whip in hand, and gave the stone-throwers a threshing. After that they threw stones no more, and White Fang understood, and was satisfied. One other experience of similar nature was his. On the way to town, hanging around the saloon at the crossroads, were three dogs that made a practice of rushing out upon him when he went by. Knowing his deadly method of fighting, the master never ceased impressing upon White Fang the law that he must not fight. As a result, having learned the lesson well, White Fang was hard put whenever he passed the crossroads saloon. After the first rush, each time, his snarl kept the three dogs at a distance, but they trailed along behind, yelping and bickering and insulting him. This endured for some time. The men at the saloon even urged the dogs on to attack White Fang. One day they openly sicked the dogs 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 eagerly and questioningly at the master. The master nodded his head. Go to them, old fellow! Eat them up! White Fang no longer hesitated. He turned and leaped silently among his enemies. All three faced him. There was a great snarling and growling, a clashing of teeth and a flurry of bodies. The dust of the road arose in a cloud and screened the battle. But at the end of several minutes two dogs were struggling in the dirt, and the third was in full flight. He leaped a ditch, went through a rail fence, and fled across a field. White Fang followed, sliding over the ground in wolf fashion and with wolf speed, swiftly and without noise, and in the center of the field he dragged down and slew the dog. With this triple killing his main troubles with dogs ceased. The word went up and down the valley, and men saw to it that their dogs did not molest the fighting wolf. CHAPTER III. 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. Not alone was he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the Southland of life. Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him, and he flourished like a flower planted in good soil. And yet he remained somehow different from other dogs. He knew the law even better than did the dogs that had known no other life, and he observed the law more punctiliously. But still there was about him a suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the wild still lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept. He never chummed with other dogs. Lonely he had lived so far as his kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live. In his puppyhood, under the persecution of Lip Lip and the Puppy Pack, and in his fighting days with Beauty Smith, he had acquired a fixed aversion for dogs. The natural course of his life had been diverted, and in recoiling from his kind he had clung to the human. Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion. He aroused in them their instinctive fear of the wild, and they greeted him always with snarl and growl and belligerent hatred. He, on the other hand, learned that it was not necessary to use his teeth upon them. His naked fangs and writhing lips were uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to send a bellowing on-rushing dog back on its haunches. But there was one trial in White Fang's life. Kali. She never gave him a moment's peace. She was not so amenable to the law as he. She defied all efforts of the master to make her become friends with White Fang. Ever in his years was sounding her sharp and nervous snarl. She had never forgiven him the chicken-killing episode, and persistently held to the belief that his intentions were bad. She found him guilty before the act and treated him accordingly. She became a pest to him, like a policeman following him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even so much as glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an outcry of indignation and wrath. His favorite way of ignoring her was to lie down, with his head on his forepaws, and pretend sleep. This always dumbfounded and silenced her. With the exception of Kali all things went well with White Fang. He had learned control and poise, and he knew the law. He achieved a stateness and calmness and philosophic tolerance. He no longer lived in a hostile environment. Danger and hurt and death did not lurk everywhere about him. In time the unknown, as a thing of terror and menace ever impending, faded away. Life was soft and easy. It flowed along smoothly, and neither fear nor foe lurked by the way. He missed the snow without being aware of it. An unduly long summer would have been his thought had he thought about it. As it was he merely missed the snow in a vague, subconscious way. In the same fashion, especially in the heat of summer when he suffered from the sun, he experienced faint longings for the Northland. Their only effect upon him, however, was to make him uneasily and restless without his knowing what was the matter. White Fang had never been very demonstrative, beyond his snuggling and the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl. He had no way of expressing his love. But it was given him to discover a third way. He had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods. Laughter had affected him with madness, made him frantic with rage. But he did not have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed. He could feel the pricking and stinging of the old anger as it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love. He could not be angry, yet he had to do something. At first he was dignified, and the master laughed the harder. Then he tried to be more dignified, and the master laughed harder than before. In the end the master laughed him out of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a little, and a quizzical expression that was more love than humor came into his eyes. He had learned to laugh. Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In return he feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth together in snaps that had all the sameing of deadly intention. But he never forgot himself. Those snaps were always delivered on the empty air. At the end of such a romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl were last and furious, they would break off suddenly and stand several feet apart, glaring at each other. And then, just as suddenly, like the sun rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh. They would always culminate with the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and shoulders while the latter crooned and growled his love-song. But nobody else ever romped with White Fang, he did not permit it. He stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning snarl and bristling mane were anything but playful. That he allowed the master these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here and loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time. He loved with single heart and refused to cheapen himself or his love. The master went out on horseback a great deal, and to accompany him was one of White Fang's chief duties in life. In the Northland he had evidenced his fieldy by toiling in the harness, but there were no sleds in the Southland, nor did dogs pack burdens on their backs. So he rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the master's horse. The longest day never played White Fang out. His was the gate of the wolf, smooth, tireless, and effortless, and at the end of fifty miles he would come in jauntily ahead of the horse. It was in connection with the riding that White Fang achieved one other mode of expression, remarkable in that he did it but twice in all his life. The first time occurred when the master was trying to teach a spirited thoroughbred the method of opening and closing gates without the rider's dismounting. Time and again and 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 and plunged away. He grew more nervous and excited every moment. When it reared the master put the spurs to it and made it drop its forelegs back to earth, whereupon it would begin kicking with its hind legs. White Fang watched the performance with increasing anxiety until he could contain himself no longer when he sprang in front of the horse and barked savagely and warningly. Though he often tried to bark thereafter and the master encouraged him, he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the master's presence. A scamper across the pasture, a jackrabbit rising suddenly under the horse's feet, a violent shear, a stumble, a fall to earth, and a broken leg for the master was the cause of it. White Fang sprang in a rage at the throat of the offending horse, but was checked by the master's voice. Hurry! Go home! The master commanded when he had ascertained his injury. White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of writing a note but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper. Again he commanded White Fang to go home. The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned in wine softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his ears and listened with painful intentness. That's all right, old fellow. You just run along home, ran the talk. Go on home and tell them what's happened to me. Home with you, you wolf! Get along home! White Fang knew the meaning of home, and though he did not understand the remainder of the master's language, he knew it was his will that he should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly away. Then he stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder. Go home! came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed. The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon when White Fang arrived. He came in among 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 cornered him against a rocking chair and the railing. He growled and tried to push by them. Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction. I confess he makes me nervous around the children, she said. I have a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day. Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning the boy and the girl. The mother called them to her and comforted them, telling them not to bother White Fang. A wolf is a wolf, commented Judge Scott. There is no trusting one. But he is not all wolf, interposed Beth, standing for her brother in his absence. You have only Weedon's opinion for that, rejoined the judge. He merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang, but as he will tell you himself he knows nothing about it. As for his appearance, he did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him, growling fiercely. Go away! Light down, sir! Judge Scott commanded. White Fang returned to the love-master's wife. She screamed with fright as he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric tore away. By this time he had become the center of interest. He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their faces. His throat worked spasmodically but made no sound while he struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of the incommunicable something that strained for utterance. I hope he is not going mad, said Weedon's mother. I told Weedon that I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an arctic animal. He's trying to speak, I do believe, Beth announced. At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of barking. Something has happened to Weedon, his wife said decisively. They were all on their feet now and White Fang ran down the steps, looking back for them to follow. For the second and last time in 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. Judge Scott still held to the same opinion and proved it to everybody's dissatisfaction by measurements and descriptions taken from the encyclopedia and various works on natural history. The days came and went, streaming their unbroken sunshine over the Santa Clara Valley. But as they grew shorter and 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 nips and a gentleness that prevented them from really hurting him. He forgot that she had made life a burden to him, and when she disported herself around him he responded solemnly, striving to be playful and becoming no more than ridiculous. One day she led him off on a long chase through the back pasture land into the woods. It was the afternoon that the master was to ride and White Fang knew it. The horse stood saddled and waiting at the door. White Fang hesitated, but there was that in him deeper than all the law he had learned, than the customs that had molded him, than his love for the master, than the very will to live of himself, and when, in the moment of his indecision, Collie nipped him and scampered off, he turned and followed after. The master rode alone that day, 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. End of Chapter 4 Part 5 Chapter 5 The Final Chapter of White Fang This lever-box recording is in the public domain and is read by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. White Fang by Jack London. Part 5 Chapter 5 The Sleeping Wolf It was about this time that the newspapers were full of the daring escape of a convict from the San Quentin Prison. He was a ferocious man. He had been ill-made in the making. He had not been born right, and he had not been helped any by the molding he had received at the hands of society. The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striking sample of its handiwork. He was a beast. A human beast, it is true, but nevertheless so terrible a beast that he can best be characterized as carnivorous. In San Quentin Prison he had proved incorrigible. Punishment failed to break his spirit. He could die dumb mad and fighting to the last, but he could not live and be beaten. The more fiercely he fought, the more harshly society handled him, and the only effect of harshness was to make him fiercer. Straight jackets, starvation, and beatings and clubbings were the wrong treatment for Jim Hall, but it was the treatment he received. It was the treatment he had received from the time he was a little pulpy boy in a San Francisco slum, soft clay in the hands of society, and ready to be formed into… something. It was during Jim Hall's third term in prison that he encountered a guard that was almost as great a beast as he. The guard treated him unfairly, lied about him to the warden, lost his credits, persecuted him. The difference between them was that the guard carried a bunch of keys and a revolver. Jim Hall had only his naked hands and his teeth, but he sprang upon the guard one day and used his teeth on the other's throat just like any jungle animal. After this, Jim Hall went to live in the incorrigible cell. He lived there three years. The cell was of iron, the floor, the walls, the roof. He never left this cell. He never saw the sky nor the sunshine. Day was a twilight, and night was a black silence. He was in an iron tomb, buried alive. He saw no human face, spoke to no human thing. When his food was shoved into him, he growled like a wild animal. He hated all things. For days and nights he bellared his rage at the universe. For weeks and months he never made a sound in the black silence eating his very soul. He was a man and a monstrosity, as fearful a thing of fear as ever gibbered in the visions of a maddened brain. And then, one night, he escaped. The waters said it was impossible, but nevertheless the cell was empty, and half in, half out of it lay the body of a dead guard. Two other dead guards marked his trail through the prison to the outer walls, and he had killed with his hands to avoid noise. He was armed with the weapons of the slain guards, a live arsenal that fled through the hills pursued by the organized might of society. A heavy price of gold was upon his head. Avericious farmers hunted him with shotguns. His blood might pay off a mortgage, or send a son to college. Public spirited citizens took down their rifles and went out after him. A pack of bloodhounds followed the way of his bleeding feet. And the sleuthhounds of the law, the paid fighting animals of society with telephone and telegraph and special train, clung to his trail night and day. Sometimes they came upon him and men faced him like heroes, or stampeded through barbed wire fences to the delight of the common wealth reading the account at the breakfast table. It was after such encounters that the dead and wounded were carted back to the towns, and their place is filled by men eager for the man-hunt. And then, Jim Hall disappeared. The bloodhounds vainly quested on the lost trail. Inoffensive ranchers in remote valleys were held up by armed men and compelled to identify themselves, while the remains of Jim Hall were discovered on a dozen mountain sides by greedy claimants for blood money. In the meantime, the newspapers were read at Sierra Vista not so much with interest as with anxiety. The women were afraid. Judge Scott poo-pooed and laughed, but not with reason, for it was in his last days on the bench that Jim Hall had stood before him and received sentence. And in open courtroom, before all men, Jim Hall had proclaimed that the day would come when he would wreak vengeance on the judge that sentenced him. For once Jim Hall was right. He was innocent of the crime for which he was sentenced. It was a case in the parlance of thieves and police of railroading. Jim Hall was being railroaded to prison for a crime he had not committed. Because of the two prior convictions against him, Judge Scott imposed upon him a sentence of fifty years. Judge Scott did not know all things, and did not know that he was party to a police conspiracy, that the evidence was hatched and perjured, that Jim Hall was guiltless of the crime charged, and Jim Hall, on the other hand, did not know that Judge Scott was merely ignorant. Jim Hall believed that the judge knew all about it and was hand in glove with the police and the perpetration of the monstrous injustice. So it was, when the doom of fifty years of living death was uttered by Judge Scott, that Jim Hall, hating all things in the society that misused him, rose up enraged in the courtroom until dragged down by half a dozen of his blue-coated enemies. To him? Judge Scott was the keystone in the arch of injustice, and upon Judge Scott he emptied the vials of his wrath and hurled the threats of his revenge yet to come. Then Jim Hall went to his living death, and escaped. Of all this, White Fang knew nothing, and between him and Alice, the master's wife, there existed a secret. Each night, after Sierra Vista had gone to bed, she rose and led in White Fang to sleep in the big hall. Now White Fang was not a house-dog, nor was he permitted to sleep in the house, so each morning, early, she slipped down and let him out before the family was awake. On one such night, while all the house slept, White Fang awoke and lay very quietly, and very quietly he smelled the air and read the message at bore of a strange god's presence, and to his ears came sounds of the strange god's movements. White Fang burst into no furious outcry. It was not his way. The strange god walked softly, but more softly walked White Fang, for he had no clothes to rub against the flesh of his body. He followed silently. In the west he had hunted live meat that was infinitely timid, and he knew the advantage of surprise. The strange god paused at the foot of the great staircase and listened, and White Fang was as dead, so without movement was he as he watched and waited. Up that staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love-master's dearest possessions. White Fang bristled, but waited. The strange god's foot lifted. He was beginning the ascent. Then it was that White Fang struck. He gave no warning, with no snarl anticipated his own action. Into the air he lifted his body in the spring that landed him on the strange god's back. White Fang clung with his forepaws 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 crashed to the floor. White Fang leaped clear, and, as the man struggled to rise, was in again with the slashing fangs. Sierra Vista awoke an alarm. The noise from downstairs was that of a score of battling fiends. There were revolver shots. A man's voice screamed once in horror and anguish. There was a great snarling and growling, and overall arose a smashing and crashing of furniture and glass. But almost as quickly as it had arisen the commotion died away. The struggle had not lasted more than three minutes. The frightened household clustered at the top of the stairway. Down below, as from out of an abyss of blackness, came up a gurgling sound, as of air bubbling through water. Sometimes this gurgle became sibilant, almost a whistle. But this too quickly died down and ceased. Then Nott came up out of the blackness, save a heavy panting of some creature struggling sorely for air. Weedon Scott pressed a button, and the staircase and downstairs hall were flooded with light. Then he and Judge Scott, 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 gaping 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 as they bent over him, and the tail was perceptibly agitated in a vain effort to wag. Weedon Scott patted him, and his throat rumbled in acknowledging growl. But it was a weak growl at best, and it quickly ceased. His eyelids drooped and went shut, and his whole body seemed to relax and flatten out upon the floor. "'He's all in, poor devil,' muttered the master. "'We'll see about that,' asserted the Judge as he started for the telephone. "'Frankly, he has one chance in a thousand,' announced the surgeon after he had worked an hour and a half on White Fang. Don 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 his lungs. He has lost nearly all the blood in his body. There is a large likelihood of internal injuries. He must have been jumped upon. To say nothing 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 that might be of help to him,' Judge Scott exclaimed. "'Never mind expense. Put him under the X-ray. Anything. Whedon, telegraph it once to San Francisco for Dr. Nichols. No reflection on you, doctor. You understand. But he must have the advantage of every chance.' The surgeon smiled indulgingly. "'Of course, I understand. He deserves all that can be done for him. He must be nursed as you would nurse a human being, a sick child. And don't forget what I told you about temperature. I'll be back at ten o'clock again.' White Fang received the nursing. Judge Scott's suggestion of a trained nurse was indignantly clamored down by the girls, who themselves undertook the task. And White Fang won out on the one chance in ten thousand denied him by the surgeon. The latter was not to be censured for his misjudgment. All his life he had tended and operated on the soft humans of civilization who lived sheltered lives and had descended out of many sheltered generations. Together with White Fang they were frail and flabby, and clutched life without any strength in their grip. White Fang had come straight from the wild, where the weak perish early, and shelter is vouchsafe to none. In neither his father nor his mother was there any weakness, nor in the generations before them. A constitution of iron and the vitality of the wild were White Fang's inheritance, and he clung to life, the whole of him and every part of him, in spirit and in flesh, with the tenacity that of old belonged to all creatures. Bound down a prisoner, denied even movement by the plaster castes and bandages, White Fang lingered out the weeks. He slept long hours, and dreamed much, and through his mind passed an unending pageant of Northland visions. All the ghosts of the past arose and were with him. Once again he lived in the lair with Keche, crept trembling to the knees of Gray Beaver to tender his allegiance, ran for his life before Lip Lip and all the howling bedlam of the Puppy-Pack. He ran again through the silence, hunting his living food through the months of famine, and again he ran at the head of the team, the gut whips of Mitsa and Gray Beaver snapping behind, their voices crying, RA! RA! when they came to a narrow passage and the team closed together like a fan to go through. He lived again all his days with Beauty Smith, and the fights he had fought. At such times he whimpered and snarled in his sleep, and they that looked on said that his dreams were bad. But there was one particular nightmare from which he suffered. The clanking, clanging monsters of electric cars that were to him colossal screaming lynxes. He would lie in a screen of bushes, watching for a squirrel to venture far enough out on the ground from its tree refuge. Then when he sprang out upon it, it would transform itself into an electric car, menacing and terrible, towering over him like a mountain, screaming and clanging and spitting fire at him. It was the same when he challenged the hawk down out of the sky. One out of the blue it would rush, as it dropped upon him changing itself into the ubiquitous electric car. Or again, he would be in the pen of Beauty Smith. Outside the pen men would be gathering, and he knew that a fight was on. He watched the door for his antagonist to enter. The door would open, and thrust in upon him would come the awful electric car. A thousand times this occurred, and each time the terror it inspired was as vivid and great as ever. Then came the day when the last bandage and the last plaster cast were taken off. It was a gala day. All Sierra Vista was gathered around. The master rubbed his ears, and he crooned his love-growl. The master's wife called him the Blessed Wolf, which name was taken up with acclaim, and all the women called him the Blessed Wolf. He tried to rise to his feet, and after several attempts fell down from weakness. He had lain so long that his muscles had lost their cunning, and all the strength had gone out of them. He felt a little shame because of his weakness, as though, for sooth, he were failing the gods in the service he owed them. Because of this he made heroic efforts to arise, and at last he stood on his four legs, tottering and swaying back and forth. The Blessed Wolf! Corsed the women. Judge Scott surveyed them triumphantly. Out of your own mouths be it! He said, just as I contended right along. No mere dog could have done what he did. He's a wolf! A Blessed Wolf! amended the judge's wife. Yes, Blessed Wolf! agreed the judge, and henceforth that shall be my name for him. You'll have to learn to walk again," said the surgeon, so he might as well start in right now. It won't hurt him. Take him outside. And outside he went, like a king, with all Sierra Vista about him and tending on him. He was very weak, and when he reached the lawn he lay down and rested for a while. Then the processions started on, little spurts of strength coming into White Fang's muscles as he used them, and the blood began to surge through them. The stables were reached, and there in the doorway lay Kali, a half-dozen pudgy puppies playing about her in the sun. White Fang looked on with a wondering eye. Kali snarled warningly at him, and he was careful to keep his distance. The master with his toe helped one sprawling puppy toward him. He bristled suspiciously, but the master warned him that all was well. Kali, clasped in the arms of one of the women, watched him jealously, and with a snarl warned him that all was not well. The puppy sprawled in front of him. He cocked his ears and watched it curiously. Then their noses touched, and he felt the warm little tongue of the puppy on his jowl. 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 and looked at them in a puzzled way. Then his weakness asserted itself, and he lay down, his ears cocked, his head on one side as he watched the puppy. The other puppies came sprawling toward him, to Kali's great disgust, and he gravely permitted them to clamber and tumble over him. At first, amid the applause of the gods, he betrayed a trifle of his own self-consciousness and awkwardness. This passed away as the puppy's antics and mauling continued, and he lay with half-shut, patient eyes, drowsing in the sun. End of chapter, end of book. Thank you for listening.