Chapter II. THE MAD GOD

A small number of white men lived in Fort Yukon. These men had been long in the country. They called themselves Sour-doughs. For other men, new in the land, they felt nothing but disdain. The men who came ashore from the steamers were newcomers. They were known as chechaquos. They made their bread with baking- powder. This was the difference between them and the Sour-doughs, who made their bread from sour-dough because they had no baking-powder.

The men in the fort disdained the newcomers and enjoyed seeing them in grief. Especially did they enjoy the newcomers’ dogs torn by White Fang and his gang. When a steamer arrived, the men of the fort always came down to see the fun.

But there was one man among them who particularly enjoyed it. He came at the first sound of a steamboat’s whistle; and when the last fight was over he returned slowly to the fort. Sometimes, when a dog was dying under the fangs of the pack, this man was unable to contain himself, and leaped into the air and cried out with delight. And always he looked at White Fang.

This man was called “Beauty” by the other men of the fort. No one knew his first name, and in general he was known as Beauty Smith. But he was anything but a beauty. He was a small man; and upon his small body was an even smaller head. The head was pointed on its top. Also he had a low and wide forehead, large eyes with a big distance between them, an enormous, very heavy jaw, lean lips and large yellow teeth. His eyes were yellow and muddy, and hair of the same colour.

In short, Beauty Smith was a monstrosity, but it wasn’t his blame. He did the cooking for the other men in the fort. They did not despise him. They tolerated him. Also, they feared him, although they knew he was a coward, because in his cowardly rage he could do terrible things. But somebody had to do the cooking, and Beauty Smith could cook.

White Fang began by ignoring him. He did not like the man. The feel of him was bad. He sensed the evil in him, and feared the extended hand and the attempts at soft-spoken speech. Because of all this, he hated the man.

With the simpler creatures, good and bad are things simply understood. The good are all things that bring satisfaction and ease pain. The bad are all things that are discomforting and hurting. White Fang’s feel of Beauty Smith was bad. From the man’s distorted body and mind, like mists rising from marshes, came emanations of the unhealth within.

White Fang was in Grey Beaver’s camp when Beauty Smith first visited it. He arose quickly, and, as the man arrived, went away in true wolf- fashion to the edge of the camp. He did not know what they said, but he could see the man and Grey Beaver talking together. Once, the man pointed at him, and White Fang snarled back as though the hand was near him and not fifty feet away.

Grey Beaver refused to sell the dog. He had grown rich with his trading and stood in need of nothing. Besides, White Fang was a valuable animal, the strongest sled-dog he had ever owned, and the best leader. Furthermore, there was no dog like him neither on the Mackenzie nor on the Yukon. He could fight. He killed other dogs as easily as men killed mosquitoes. (Beauty Smith’s eyes lighted up at this, and he licked his thin lips). No, White Fang was not for sale at any price.

But Beauty Smith knew Indians. He visited Grey Beaver’s camp often, and under his coat was always a bottle of whiskey. Soon Grey Beaver needed more and more of it. The money he had received for his furs and mittens and moccasins began to go. It went faster and faster, and the shorter his money-bag grew, the shorter grew his temper.

In the end his money and goods and temper were all gone. Nothing remained to him but his addiction. Then it was that Beauty Smith had talk with him again about the sale of White Fang; but this time the price was in bottles, not dollars.

“You catch him, you take him all right,” was Grey Beaver’s last word.

White Fang had not seen Beauty Smith for several days and was relieved. But one evening Grey Beaver came over to him and tied a leather thong around his neck. He sat down beside White Fang, holding the end of the thong in his hand. In the other hand he held a bottle.

An hour later Beauty Smith came into camp and stood over White Fang. White Fang snarled softly. The man’s hand began to descend upon his head. His soft snarl grew tense and harsh. The hand continued slowly to descend, while he crouched beneath it, looking at it malignantly. Suddenly he snapped, striking with his fangs like a snake. The hand was jerked back, and the teeth came together came together on nothing. Beauty Smith was frightened and angry. Grey Beaver hit White Fang on the head.

White Fang’s suspicious eyes followed every movement. He saw Beauty Smith go away and return with a stout club. Then the end of the thong was given over to him by Grey Beaver. Beauty Smith started to walk away. The thong grew taut. White Fang resisted it. Grey Beaver hit him to make him get up and follow. He obeyed, but with a rush. Beauty Smith did not jump away. He had been waiting for this. He used the club smartly, sending White Fang down upon the ground. Grey Beaver laughed and nodded approval. Beauty Smith tightened the thong again, and White Fang crawled to his feet.

He did not rush a second time. He now realized that the white god knew how to use the club, and he was too wise to fight the inevitable. So he followed Beauty Smith, his tail between his legs, yet snarling softly under his breath. But Beauty Smith held the club always ready to strike.

At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied and went to bed. White Fang waited an hour. Then he applied his teeth to the thong, and in ten seconds was free. Then he turned and trotted back to Grey Beaver’s camp. He owed no allegiance to this strange and terrible god. He had given himself to Grey Beaver, and to Grey Beaver he considered he still belonged.

But what had happen before was repeated. Grey Beaver again made him fast with a thong, and in the morning returned him to Beauty Smith. This time Beauty Smith gave him a beating. Tied securely, White Fang could only rage in vain and endure the punishment. Club and whip were both used upon him, and he experienced the worst beating he had ever had in his life.

Beauty Smith enjoyed the task. He delighted in it, when he hit or listened to White Fang’s cries of pain and to his helpless snarls. Beauty Smith was cruel—like many cowards. He revenged himself upon creatures weaker than he. All life likes power, and Beauty Smith was no exception.

White Fang knew why he was being beaten. When Grey Beaver tied the thong around his neck, and passed the end of the thong into Beauty Smith, White Fang knew that it was his god’s will that he should go with Beauty Smith. And when Beauty Smith left him tied outside the fort, he knew that it was Beauty Smith’s will that he should remain there.

He was wise, but in his nature there were forces greater than wisdom. One of these was fidelity. He did not love Grey Beaver, but he was faithful to him. This faithfulness was a quality of the clay that composed him. It was the quality that marked his species from all other species; the quality that has helped the wolf and the wild dog to come and be the companions of man.

After the beating, White Fang was taken back to the fort. But this time Beauty Smith left him tied with a stick.

One does not give up a god easily. Grey Beaver had betrayed him, but that had no effect upon him. Not for nothing had he surrendered himself body and soul to Grey Beaver. The bond was not to be broken easily. So, at night, when the men in the fort were asleep, White Fang applied his teeth to the stick that held him. It was very difficult. It was unprecedented. But White Fang did it, trotting away from the fort in the early morning, with the end of the stick hanging to his neck.

He was wise. But if he had been just wise he would not have gone back to Grey Beaver who had already twice betrayed him. But there was his faithfulness, and he was betrayed and beaten a third time. And Grey Beaver watched how the white man used the whip on White Fang. He gave no protection. It was no longer his dog.

When the beating was over White Fang was sick. Another dog would have died under it, but not he.

Now he was tied with a chain. After a few days, sober and bankrupt, Grey Beaver departed up the Porcupine on his long journey to the Mackenzie. White Fang remained on the Yukon, the property of a man more than half mad and all brute. To White Fang, Beauty Smith was a terrible, mad god.

Chapter III. THE REIGN OF HATE

Under the mad god, White Fang became a devil. He was kept chained behind the fort, and here Beauty Smith teased and drove him wild with torments. The man early discovered that White Fang was susceptible to laughter. He laughed at him, and pointed his finger at him, and reason left White Fang, and he became even more mad than Beauty Smith.

Formerly, White Fang had been the enemy of his kind. He now became the enemy of all things. To such an extent was he tormented, that he hated blindly and without reason. He hated everyone and everything. And, first, last, and most of all, he hated Beauty Smith.

But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he did to White Fang. One day a number of men gathered about the pen that he was kept in. Beauty Smith took the chain off from White Fang’s neck. When his master had gone out, White Fang turned loose and ran around the pen, trying to get at the men outside. He was magnificently terrible. Five feet in length, two and half feet at the shoulder, and over ninety pounds of weight—it was all muscle, bone, and sinewy flesh in the finest condition.

Something unusual was happening. A huge dog was thrust inside, and the door was shut behind him. White Fang had never seen such a dog (it was a mastiff); but its size and fierceness did not stop him. Here was something upon which he could wreak his hate.

The men outside shouted and applauded. There was no hope for the mastiff from the first. He was too slow. In the end, while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back with a club, the mastiff was dragged out by its owner. Then there was a payment of bets, and money flew in Beauty Smith’s hand.

For the White Fang this now was the only way to express the life that was in him. He was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of satisfying his hate except fighting. Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well, as White Fang always won. One day, three dogs were set against him, one by one. Another day—a full-grown wolf. And on still another day—two dogs at the same time. This was his severest fight, and though in the end he killed them both he was himself half killed.

In autumn Beauty Smith took White Fang on a steamboat 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 snarled at them, or studied them with cold hatred. Why should he not hate them? He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate. Life had become a hell to him. Men looked at him, put sticks between the bars to make him snarl, and then laughed at him.

Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Another animal would have died or had its spirit broken. White Fang survived, and even Beauty Smith had not yet broken him.

In the days before, White Fang had the wisdom not to protest; but this wisdom now left him. Now just a sight of Beauty Smith was enough for him to go mad with hatred.

When the steamboat arrived at Dawson, White Fang was exhibited as “the Fighting Wolf,” and men paid fifty cents in gold dust to see him. He was given no rest. To make the exhibition interesting, he was kept in a rage most of the time. Every word, every action of the men made him really feel the most dangerous beast in the world. It added fuel to the flame of his fierceness.

In addition to being exhibited he was a professional fighting animal. Whenever a fight could be arranged, he was led into the wood some miles from town. Usually this happened at night, to avoid interference from the police. 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.

White Fang never knew defeat. He was quick, experienced, and, besides, no dog could overturn him on his back. Mackenzie hounds, Eskimo and Labrador dogs, huskies and Malamutes—all tried, and all failed. Men told this to one another, and each time hoped to see him lose the fight; but White Fang always disappointed them.

So, as the time went by, he had fewer and fewer fights. Men despaired of matching him with an equal, and Beauty Smith had to set wolves against him. Once it was a female lynx, and this time White Fang fought for his life. But after the lynx, all fighting ended for White Fang. There were no more animals which were worthy of fighting with him. So he remained on exhibition until spring, when Tim Keenan, a faro-dealer, arrived and brought the first bull-dog that had ever entered the Klondike. The town prepared for the fight.