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White Fang, Version 2

<h2>PART IV</h2> <h3>CHAPTER I—THE ENEMY OF HIS KIND</h3> Had there been in White Fang’s nature any possibility, no matter how remote, of his ever coming to fraternise with his kind, such possibility was irretrievably destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team.  For now the dogs hated him—hated him for the extra meat bestowed upon him by Mit-sah; hated him for all the real and fancied favours he received; hated him for that he fled always at the head of the team, his waving brush of a tail and his perpetually retreating hind-quarters for ever maddening their eyes. And White Fang just as bitterly hated them back.  Being sled-leader was 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 Mit-sah gave his order for the start, that moment the whole team, with eager, savage cries, sprang forward at White Fang. There was no defence for him.  If he turned upon them, Mit-sah 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 hind-quarters.  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 cariboo-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 surcharged with hatred and malice, and this but served to increase the hatred and malice within him. When Mit-sah 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 Mit-sah, 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 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 consistence in their dislike of him.  They sensed between themselves and him a difference of kind—cause sufficient in itself for hostility.  Like him, they were domesticated wolves.  But they had been domesticated for generations.  Much of the Wild had been lost, so that to them the Wild was the unknown, the terrible, the ever-menacing and ever warring.  But to him, in appearance and action and impulse, still clung the Wild.  He symbolised 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 camp-fire. 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 for getting 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 moulded.  He declared a vendetta against all dogs.  And so terribly did he live this vendetta that Grey Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang’s ferocity.  Never, he swore, had there been the like of this animal; and the Indians in strange villages swore likewise when they considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs. When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey Beaver took him on another great journey, and long remembered was the havoc he worked amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon.  He revelled 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 economised.  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 fibre 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 co-ordination.  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.  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.  Grey Beaver had crossed the great watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the late winter, and spent the spring in hunting among the western outlying spurs of the Rockies.  Then, after the break-up of the ice on the Porcupine, he had built a canoe and paddled down that stream to where it effected its junction with the Yukon just under the Artic 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 travelled to get that far was five thousand miles, while some had come from the other side of the world. Here Grey Beaver stopped.  A whisper of the gold-rush had reached his ears, and he had come with several bales of furs, and another of gut-sewn 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 realised.  His wildest dreams had not exceeded a hundred per cent. profit; he made a thousand per cent.  And like a true Indian, he settled down to trade carefully and slowly, even if it took all summer and the rest of 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 generalisation 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 that they did not. White Fang soon learned that very few of these gods—not more than a dozen—lived at this place.  Every two or three days a steamer (another and colossal manifestation of power) came into the bank and stopped for several hours.  The white men came from off these steamers and went away on them again.  There seemed untold numbers of 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 wrecked 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.  Grey 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 licence 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 gang-plank 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 doglike 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 moulded until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and ferocious, the enemy of all his kind. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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