[Previous page]...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 of all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds
when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh.
And so it was with White Fang. The man-animals were gods
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 him
a bit of meat or bone. And 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.
But the bane of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger,
Lip-lip had selected White Fang for his special object of persecution.
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
gambolled 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 oft-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 the first
really big crafty game and got therefrom his first taste of revenge.
As Kiche, 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 Kiche's avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip-lip,
White Fang made an indirect flight that led in and out and around
the various tepees of the camp. He was a good runner, swifter than any
other 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 tepee, he ran
full tilt into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp
of consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him. 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 dishevelled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was
standing out all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He
stood where he had arisen, opened his mouth, and broke out the long,
heart-broken puppy wail. But even this he was not allowed to complete.
In the middle of it, White Fang, rushing in, sank his teeth into
Lip-lip's hind-leg. There was no fight left in Lip-lip, and he ran
away shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and worrying him all the
way back to his own tepee. Here the squaws came to his aid, 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 past, released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with
his mother's freedom. He accompanied her joyfully about the camp; and,
so long as he remained close by her side, Lip-lip kept a respectful
distance. White Fang even bristled up to him and walked
stiff-legged, but Lip-lip ignored the challenge. He was no fool
himself, and whatever vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait
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 farther. The stream,
the lair, and the quiet woods were calling to him, and he wanted her
to come. He ran on a few steps, stopped, and looked back. She had
not moved. He whined 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 it 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
woods 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 and 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. Gray Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. Three
Eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave
Lake. A strip of scarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and
Kiche, went to pay the debt. White Fang saw his mother taken aboard
Three Eagles' canoe, and tried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles
knocked him backward to the land. The canoe shoved off. He sprang into
the water and swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Gray 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 Gray 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.
Impelled 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.
Gray Beaver continued to beat. White Fang continued to snarl. But
this could not last forever. One or 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 sunk his
teeth into the moccasined 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 circumstances, must he dare to bite the
god who was ...
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