Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the physical bondage was the clutch of the camp upon her. White Fang sat down in the shadow of a tree and whimpered softly. There were wood smells reminding him of his old life of freedom. But he was still only a part-grown puppy, and stronger than the call either of man or of the Wild was the call of his mother. All his short life he had depended upon her. The time has not yet come for independence. So he trotted back to camp, pausing once, and twice, to sit down and whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in his ears.
In the Wild the time of a mother with her cub is short; but under the dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. Three Eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A piece of cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay the debt. White Fang saw his mother taken aboard Three Eagles canoe, and tried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles knocked him backward to the land. The canoe sailed off. He sprang into the water and swam after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return. White Fang ignored even a man-animal, a god, such was the terror of losing his mother.
But gods are used to being obeyed, and Grey Beaver pursued him in his canoe. He lifted him from water by the nape of the neck. Holding him with one hand, with the other hand he gave him a beating. And it was a beating. His hand was heavy. And White Fang snarled.
Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this could not last for ever. Finally he broke down and began to cry. For a time each blow brought a yell from him. At last Grey Beaver stopped. White Fang continued to cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who threw him down roughly in the bottom of the canoe. When Grey Beaver took the paddle and hit the cub savagely with his foot, White Fangs free nature protested again, and he sank his teeth into the moccasined foot.
The beating that had gone before was nothing compared with the beating he now received. Grey Beavers wrath was terrible; likewise was White Fangs fright. Not only the hand, but the hard wooden paddle was used upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body. Again, and this time with purpose, did Grey Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his attack on the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never must he dare to bite the god who was lord and master over him; the body of the lord and master was sacred.
On the bank Lip-lip tried to use the opportunity and revenge White Fang, but Grey Beavers foot lifted Lip-lip into the air, so that he fell down to earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animals justice. At Grey Beavers heels White Fang went obediently through the village to the tepee.
That night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother and sorrowed for her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Grey Beaver, who beat him. After that he sorrowed silently when the gods were around. But sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave outlet to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings.
It was during this period that he might have run back to the Wild. But the memory of his mother held him. As the hunting man-animals went out and came back, so she could come back to the village some time. So he remained in his bondage waiting for her.
It was during this period that he might have run back to the Wild. But the memory of his mother held him. As the hunting man-animals went out and came back, so she could come back to the village some time. So he remained in his bondage waiting for her.
But it was not an absolutely unhappy bondage. There was much to interest him. Something was always happening. Besides, he was learning how to get along with Grey Beaver. Obedience was the main thing, and in return he escaped beatings and his existence was tolerated.
Grey Beaver himself sometimes gave him a piece of meat, and defended him against the other dogs. Grey Beaver never petted nor caressed. Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the power of him, and perhaps it was all these things that influenced White Fang; a certain tie of attachment was forming between him and his lord.
The qualities of a dog were developing in him. But White Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Kiche, hope for her return, and a hunger for the free life that had been his.
Chapter III. The Outcast
Lip-lip continued to darken his days. He found himself an outcast in the midst of the populous camp. All the young dogs followed Lip-lips lead. There was a difference between White Fang and them. Perhaps they sensed his wild-wood breed. They found good reason to continue the war. One by one, from time to time, they all felt his teeth; and to his credit,[27] he gave more than he received.
He learned two important things: how to take care of himself in a mass-fight against him and how, on a single dog, to produce the greatest amount of damage in the shortest time.
He learned to give no warning of his intentions. Also he learned the value of surprise. So White Fangs method was: first to find a young dog alone; second, to surprise it and knock it off its feet; and third, to sink his teeth in the soft throat.
His jaws had not yet become large enough nor strong enough to make his throat-attack deadly. And one day, catching one of his enemies alone on the edge of the woods, he managed to cut the great vein and let out the life. There was a great row that night. He had been observed, the news had been carried to the dead dogs master, the squaws remembered all the instances of stolen meat, and Grey Beaver heard many angry voices. But he placed White Fang inside his tepee, and refused to permit the vengeance.
White Fang became hated by man and dog. During this period of his development he never knew a moments security. The tooth of every dog was against him, the hand of every man. As for snarling, he could snarl more terribly than any dog, young or old.
He was an outcast from the pack of the dogs. But it was he who made them fear, and not on the contrary. They kept together, as they were afraid.
But the pack invariably lost him. Its noise warned him of its presence, while he ran alone, velvet-footed, silently, a moving shadow among the trees after the manner of his father and mother before him. He was more directly connected with the Wild than they; and he knew more of its secrets. His favourite trick was to lose his trail in running water and then lie quietly in a near-by bush while their cries sounded around him.
Hated by his kind and by mankind, in a state of endless war, his development was rapid and one-sided. There was no place for kindliness and affection. The code he learned was to obey the strong and to oppress the weak. Grey Beaver was a god, and strong. Therefore White Fang obeyed him. But the dog younger or smaller than himself was weak, a thing to be destroyed. His development was in the direction of power. He became quicker of movement than the other dogs, smarter, deadlier, crueller, leaner, with iron muscles, more enduring, and more intelligent. He had to become all these things, or he would not survive.
Chapter IV. The Trail of the Gods
In autumn White Fang got his chance for liberty. The tribe was preparing to go off to the autumn hunting. White Fang watched it all with eager eyes, and when the tepees began to come down and the canoes were loading at the bank, he understood. Already the canoes were departing, and some had disappeared down the river.
Quite deliberately he decided to stay behind. He waited his opportunity to ran out of camp to the woods. He crawled into the heart of a dense bush and waited. The time passed by, and he slept for hours. Then he was woken by Grey Beavers voice calling him by name. There were other voices. White Fang could hear Grey Beavers squaw taking part in the search, and Mit-sah, who was Grey Beavers son.
White Fang trembled with fear. He resisted the impulse to crawl out of his hiding-place. After a time the voices died away. For a while he played about among the trees, pleasuring in his freedom. Then, and quite suddenly, he felt lonely. And then it was cold. Here was no warm side of a tepee. He curved his bushy tail around to cover his legs, and at the same time he saw a vision. There was nothing strange about it. He saw the camp again, the tepees, and the blaze of the fires. He heard the voices of the women, the basses of the men, and the snarling of the dogs. He was hungry, and he remembered pieces of meat and fish that had been thrown to him. Here was no meat, nothing but scary silence.
His bondage had softened him, irresponsibility had weakened him. The night yawned about him. There was nothing to do, nothing to see or to hear.
He tried to stand it, but could not. Finally a shadow of a tree, then a loud noise of branches frightened him. A panic seized him, and he ran madly toward the village. He knew an overpowering desire for the protection and companionship of man. In his nostrils was the smell of the camp-smoke. In his ears the camp-sounds and cries were ringing loud. But no village met his eyes. He had forgotten. The village had gone away.
There was no place to which to flee. He would have been glad if somebody threw a stone in him or kicked him or shouted at him angrily. But there was nobody even for that.
He came to where Grey Beavers tepee had stood. In the centre of the space it had occupied, he sat down. He pointed his nose at the moon. His throat was afflicted by spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart-broken cry went up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all his past sorrows as well as his apprehension of sufferings and dangers in future. It was a long, mournful wolf-howl, the first howl he had ever uttered.
The coming of daylight broke his fears but increased his loneliness. It did not take him long to make up his mind.
All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on for ever. His iron-like body ignored tiredness.