[Previous page]...rd 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 although 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 wild beasts endure at the hand of men. And yet it was in
precisely 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 moulding the
clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by
Nature. Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Where many
another animal would 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 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 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 borne in to 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 moulded by the pressure of environment.
In addition to being exhibited, he was a professional fighting
animal. At irregular intervals, whenever a fight could be arranged, he
was taken out of his cage and led off into the woods a few miles
from town. Usually this occurred at night, so as to avoid interference
from the mounted police of the Territory. After a few hours of
waiting, when daylight had come, the audience and the dog with which
he was to fight arrived. In this manner it 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 favourite 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 Malemutes- 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 oft 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
equalled his; while he fought with his fang 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 was none
considered worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition
until spring, when one Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived in the land.
With him came the first 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.
CHAPTER FOUR.
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.'
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
'm, Cherokee!' Eat 'm up!'
But 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, fondling him on both
sides of the shoulders with hands that rubbed against the grain of the
hair and that made slight, pushing-forward movements. These were so
many suggestions. Also, their effect was irritating, for Cherokee
began to growl, very softly, deep in his throat. There was a
correspondence in 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, bowlegged 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 catlike 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 turned and 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,
without too great haste, not slowly, but deliberately and
determinedly, in a businesslike 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 his 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 and whirl 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 plodding pursuit, though once, for the moment baffled,
he came to a full stop and blinked at the men who looked on, at the
same time wagging his 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 strivi...
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