Chapter VI. THE FAMINE

In spring Grey Beaver finished his long journey. It was April, and White Fang was a year old. He was not fully grown, but, next to Lip-lip, was the largest year-old dog in the village. From his parents he had inherited stature and strength, and already looked full-grown. But he had not yet grown compact. His body was slender, and his strength more sinewy than massive. His coat was the true wolf-grey, and generally he looked a true wolf himself. The quarter-strain of dog he had inherited from Kiche 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 satisfaction the various gods and dogs he had known before. The grown dogs now looked less frightening. While they 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 was eating his portion, when Baseek, one of the older dogs, rushed in upon him. Before he knew what he was doing, While Fand had slashed the intruder twice. In the old days Baseek would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury. But now he could only snarl and wait.

If he contended himself with snarling and looking fierce, all would have been well. White Fang would have retreated, leaving the meat to him. But Baseek did not wait. He considered the victory already his and stepped forward to the meat and take a bite of it.

This was too much for White Fang. His memory of his mastery over his team-mates at the sled was fresh. He struck, after his custom, with out warning. Baseek’s right ear was ripped into ribbons. 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. He made a rush at White Fang, giving the empty air a snap. The next moment his nose was bitten, too, and he stood aside. He dared not risk a fight with this young lightning-flash. His attempt to maintain his dignity was heroic. Calmly turning his back, he walked away. Until he was well out of sight, he didn’t 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. No, he did not look for trouble. Far from it. He had to be taken into account, that was all. He was no longer to be disregarded and ignored, like his team-mates. White Fang, solitary, morose, hardly looking to right or left, was accepted as an equal by his elders. If they left him alone, he left them alone, too.

In midsummer White Fang had an experience. On the edge of the village he came upon Kiche. He paused and looked at her. He remembered her vaguely, but she did remember him. But she lifted her lip at him, snarling, and his memory became clear. His forgotten cubhood, all that was associated with that familiar snarl, came back to him. Before he had known the gods, she had been to him the centre of the universe. He came towards her joyously, and she met him with fangs that left his cheek open to the bone. He did not understand. He backed away, astonished and puzzled.

But it was not Kiche’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 came over to White Fang. They were half-brothers, only they did not know it. White Fang sniffed the puppy curiously, but Kiche rushed upon him, slashing his face a second time. He backed farther away. All the old memories and associations died down again and went into the grave from which they had come. He looked at Kiche licking her puppy. She was of no value to him. He had learned to live without her. 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 astonished, the memories forgotten, wondering what it was all about, when Kiche attacked him a third time. And White Fang allowed himself to be driven away. This was a female of his kind, and it was a law that the males must not fight the females. It was the same instinct that made him howl at the moon, and that made him fear death and the unknown.

The months went by. White Fang grew stronger, heavier, and more compact. Environment modelled the clay of his character. Thus, had White Fang never come in to the fires of man, the Wild would have made him a true wolf. But the gods had given him a different environment, and he was made a dog that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf. He was becoming more morose, more uncompanionable, 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 Grey Beaver prized him more greatly each day.

White Fang nevertheless suffered from one weakness. He could not stand being laughed at. The laughter of men was a hateful thing. They might laugh among themselves about anything they pleased except himself, and he did not mind. But the moment laughter was turned upon him he would fly into a most terrible rage, and for hours he behaved like a demon.

In the third year of his life there came a great famine to the Mackenzie Indians. There was no meat to hunt for. The old and the weak died of hunger. There was cry in the village. To such extremity were the gods driven that they ate the leather of their mocassins and mittens, while the dogs ate the harnesses and whip-lashes. Also, the dogs ate one another. A few of the boldest and wisest dogs saw the fires of the gods, which had now become a shambles, and fled into the forest, where, in the end, they starved to death or were eaten by wolves.

White Fang, too, went away into the woods. He was better fitted for the life than the other dogs. He was especially good at catching small living things. There was only one difficulty. There were not enough squirrels and weasels. So he had to hunt smaller things like mice.

But he did not go into the fires. He stayed in the forest, avoiding discovery and robbing his snares at when game was caught. He even robbed Grey Beaver’s snare of a rabbit.

One day he saw a young wolf. Had he not been hungry himself, White Fang might have gone with him and finally join the pack, his wild brothers. But he ran the young wolf down and killed and ate him.

Fortune seemed to favour him. Always he found something to kill. Again, when he was weak, it was his luck that none of the larger preying animals ate him. That’s why he was strong from eating a lynx two days ago when the hungry wolf-pack ran upon him. It was a long, cruel chase, but he ran better, and in the end he outran them. And not only did he outrun them, but managed to catch one of his pursuers.

After that he left that part of the country and went to the valley where he had been born. Here, in the old lair, he found Kiche. She, too, had fled from men and gone back to her old refuge to give birth to her young. Of this litter only one cub remained alive when White Fang came, and this one was not destined to live long. Young life had little chance in such a famine.

Kiche’s greeting of her grown son was not welcoming. But White Fang did not mind. He had outgrown his mother. So he turned tail philosophically and trotted on up the stream. He found the lair of the lynx with whom his mother and he had fought long before. Here, in the forgotten lair, he rested for a day.

During the early summer, in the last days of the famine, he met Lip-lip, who had also gone to the woods, where he had led a miserable life. Trotting in opposite directions along the base of a high rock, they rounded a corner and found themselves face to face. They paused with instant alarm, and looked at each other suspiciously.

White Fang was in splendid condition. He did not waste time. The thing was done thoroughly and with despatch. Lip-lip essayed 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 near the Mackenzie. He had been there before, when it was bare, but now a village occupied it. 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 during the famine. There was no whimpering nor wailing. When he heard the angry voice of a woman he knew it to be the anger that comes from a full stomach. And there was a smell of fish. The famine was gone. He came out boldly from the forest and trotted straight to Grey Beaver’s tepee. Grey Beaver was not there; but Kloo-kooch welcomed him with glad cries and fresh-caught fish, and he lay down to wait Grey Beaver’s coming.

Part IV

Chapter I. THE ENEMY OF HIS KIND

Even if there had been any possibility of that White Fang’s would be friendly with the dogs, such possibility was destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team. For now the dogs hated him—for the extra meat given to him, for all the real and fancied favours he received, for that he ran always at the head of the team, for his tail and hind legs. And White Fang hated them back. Being sled-leader was not gratifying to him. It was almost more than he could stand.

There was no defence for him. If he turned to them, Mit-sah would whip him. What remained to him was to run forward. So he ran, breaking his own nature and pride.

Unlike most leaders, who, when camp was made, lay near to the gods for protection, White Fang did not want such protection. He walked about the camp, giving punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the day. The dogs snarled at him with hatred. The very atmosphere he breathed was full of hatred and malice, and this increased the hatred and malice within him.

The sled-dogs understood 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. So White Fang never stopped without orders. He learned quickly.

But the dogs could never leave him alone in camp. Like him, they were domesticated wolves. But they had been domesticated for generations. In him the Wild was too strong. He symbolized it, was its personification: so that when they showed their teeth to him they were defending themselves against the wild destruction.

But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, and that was to keep together. They had quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when White Fang was coming nearer.

On the other hand, try as they would, they could not kill White Fang. He was too quick for them, too wise.

So he became the enemy of his kind. His clay was modelled this way. He declared a vendetta against all dogs. Grey Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang’s fury.

When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey Beaver took him on another great journey, along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon.

White Fang was a very special dog. He could not endure a prolonged contact with another body. It made him frantic. He must be away, free, on his own legs, touching no one. Since his puppyhood, the Wild within him had known that contacts were danger. Also he economized energy. He moved fast. He could correctly judge time and distance. In consequence, the dogs he met had no chance against him. They were ordinary and unsuspecting dogs, not prepared for his strategies. 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. 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.

Here Grey Beaver stopped. A whisper of the gold-rush had reached his ears, and he had come with furs, gut-sewn mittens and moccasins for sale. But in his wildest dreams the profit had not exceeded a hundred per cent; he made a thousand per cent.

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, a race of superior gods. As, in his puppyhood, the tepees had seemed to him a manifestation of power, so was he affected now by the houses and the huge fort. Those white gods were strong. Even Grey Beaver was as a child-god among these white-skinned ones.

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. He was curious to observe them, but didn’t want to be noticed by them. Then he saw that no harm was done to 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 could touch him.

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, and the white men came from off these steamers and went away on them again. There were many of them. In the first day or so, he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his life.

But if the white gods were all-powerful, their dogs were not. 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 White Fang’s duty to fight with them. They were soft and helpless, made much noise, and moved around clumsily. He sprang to the side. They did not know what had happened; and in that moment he struck them on the shoulder, rolling them off their feet and delivering his stroke at the throat.

Sometimes he was successful, and a stricken dog rolled in the dirt, to be torn to pieces by the pack of Indian dogs that waited. White Fang was wise. He had long since learned that the gods were angry when their dogs were killed. The white men were no exception. So he did not kill, he just hurt and let the pack go and do the cruel finishing work. Then the white men rushed to the pack in wraith, while White Fang went free. He would stand off at a little distance and look on, while all sorts of weapons fell upon his fellows. White Fang was very wise.

After the first two or three strange dogs had been destroyed, the white men took their own animals back on board and revenged the offenders. One white man, having seen his dog, a setter, torn to pieces before his eyes, drew a revolver. He fired quickly, 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 smart 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 ran around with the gang of Indian dogs, waiting for steamers. With the arrival of a steamer the fun began. After a few minutes the gang scattered. The fun was over until the next steamer.

But White Fang was not a member of the gang. And when he had overthrown the strange dog the gang went in to finish it. But he then went away, leaving the gang to receive the punishment.

It wasn’t difficult to start. 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 thing that was in the darkness around the fires of the early world when they, keeping close to the fires, were changing their instincts, learning to fear the Wild out of which they had come, and which they had betrayed. Generation by generation this fear of the Wild had grown into their natures. And during all this time free license had been theirs, from their masters, to kill the things of the Wild, for protection. 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. He might have up more doglike and like the dogs more. If Grey Beaver had demonstrated affection and love, White Fang would have had some 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 angry, the enemy of all his kind.