Chapter: The months came and went.  There was plenty of food and no work in the
Southland, and White Fang lived fat and prosperous and happy.  Not alone
was he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the Southland of
life.  Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him, and he flourished
like a flower planted in good soil.

And yet he remained somehow different from other dogs.  He knew the law
even better than did the dogs that had known no other life, and he
observed the law more punctiliously; but still there was about him a
suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still lingered in him
and the wolf in him merely slept.

He never chummed with other dogs.  Lonely he had lived, so far as his
kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live.  In his
puppyhood, under the persecution of Lip-lip and the puppy-pack, and in
his fighting days with Beauty Smith, he had acquired a fixed aversion for
dogs.  The natural course of his life had been diverted, and, recoiling
from his kind, he had clung to the human.

Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion.  He aroused
in them their instinctive fear of the Wild, and they greeted him always
with snarl and growl and belligerent hatred.  He, on the other hand,
learned that it was not necessary to use his teeth upon them.  His naked
fangs and writhing lips were uniformly efficacious, rarely failing to
send a bellowing on-rushing dog back on its haunches.

But there was one trial in White Fang's life--Collie.  She never gave him
a moment's peace.  She was not so amenable to the law as he.  She defied
all efforts of the master to make her become friends with White Fang.
Ever in his ears was sounding her sharp and nervous snarl.  She had never
forgiven him the chicken-killing episode, and persistently held to the
belief that his intentions were bad.  She found him guilty before the
act, and treated him accordingly.  She became a pest to him, like a
policeman following him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even
so much as glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an
outcry of indignation and wrath.  His favourite way of ignoring her was
to lie down, with his head on his fore-paws, and pretend sleep.  This
always dumfounded and silenced her.

With the exception of Collie, all things went well with White Fang.  He
had learned control and poise, and he knew the law.  He achieved a
staidness, and calmness, and philosophic tolerance.  He no longer lived
in a hostile environment.  Danger and hurt and death did not lurk
everywhere about him.  In time, the unknown, as a thing of terror and
menace ever impending, faded away.  Life was soft and easy.  It flowed
along smoothly, and neither fear nor foe lurked by the way.

He missed the snow without being aware of it.  "An unduly long summer,"
would have been his thought had he thought about it; as it was, he merely
missed the snow in a vague, subconscious way.  In the same fashion,
especially in the heat of summer when he suffered from the sun, he
experienced faint longings for the Northland.  Their only effect upon
him, however, was to make him uneasy and restless without his knowing
what was the matter.

White Fang had never been very demonstrative.  Beyond his snuggling and
the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no way of
expressing his love.  Yet it was given him to discover a third way.  He
had always been susceptible to the laughter of the gods.  Laughter had
affected him with madness, made him frantic with rage.  But he did not
have it in him to be angry with the love-master, and when that god
elected to laugh at him in a good-natured, bantering way, he was
nonplussed.  He could feel the pricking and stinging of the old anger as
it strove to rise up in him, but it strove against love.  He could not be
angry; yet he had to do something.  At first he was dignified, and the
master laughed the harder.  Then he tried to be more dignified, and the
master laughed harder than before.  In the end, the master laughed him
out of his dignity.  His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a little,
and a quizzical expression that was more love than humour came into his
eyes.  He had learned to laugh.

Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and
rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks.  In return he
feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and clipping his teeth
together in snaps that had all the seeming of deadly intention.  But he
never forgot himself.  Those snaps were always delivered on the empty
air.  At the end of such a romp, when blow and cuff and snap and snarl
were fast and furious, they would break off suddenly and stand several
feet apart, glaring at each other.  And then, just as suddenly, like the
sun rising on a stormy sea, they would begin to laugh.  This would always
culminate with the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and
shoulders while the latter crooned and growled his love-song.

But nobody else ever romped with White Fang.  He did not permit it.  He
stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning snarl and
bristling mane were anything but playful.  That he allowed the master
these liberties was no reason that he should be a common dog, loving here
and loving there, everybody's property for a romp and good time.  He
loved with single heart and refused to cheapen himself or his love.

The master went out on horseback a great deal, and to accompany him was
one of White Fang's chief duties in life.  In the Northland he had
evidenced his fealty by toiling in the harness; but there were no sleds
in the Southland, nor did dogs pack burdens on their backs.  So he
rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the master's horse.  The
longest day never played White Fang out.  His was the gait of the wolf,
smooth, tireless and effortless, and at the end of fifty miles he would
come in jauntily ahead of the horse.

It was in connection with the riding, that White Fang achieved one other
mode of expression--remarkable in that he did it but twice in all his
life.  The first time occurred when the master was trying to teach a
spirited thoroughbred the method of opening and closing gates without the
rider's dismounting.  Time and again and many times he ranged the horse
up to the gate in the effort to close it and each time the horse became
frightened and backed and plunged away.  It grew more nervous and excited
every moment.  When it reared, the master put the spurs to it and made it
drop its fore-legs back to earth, whereupon it would begin kicking with
its hind-legs.  White Fang watched the performance with increasing
anxiety until he could contain himself no longer, when he sprang in front
of the horse and barked savagely and warningly.

Though he often tried to bark thereafter, and the master encouraged him,
he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the master's presence.  A
scamper across the pasture, a jackrabbit rising suddenly under the
horse's feet, a violent sheer, a stumble, a fall to earth, and a broken
leg for the master, was the cause of it.  White Fang sprang in a rage at
the throat of the offending horse, but was checked by the master's voice.

"Home!  Go home!" the master commanded when he had ascertained his
injury.

White Fang was disinclined to desert him.  The master thought of writing
a note, but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and paper.  Again he
commanded White Fang to go home.

The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned and whined
softly.  The master talked to him gently but seriously, and he cocked his
ears, and listened with painful intentness.

"That's all right, old fellow, you just run along home," ran the talk.
"Go on home and tell them what's happened to me.  Home with you, you
wolf.  Get along home!"

White Fang knew the meaning of "home," and though he did not understand
the remainder of the master's language, he knew it was his will that he
should go home.  He turned and trotted reluctantly away.  Then he
stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder.

"Go home!" came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed.

The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon, when White
Fang arrived.  He came in among them, panting, covered with dust.

"Weedon's back," Weedon's mother announced.

The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet him.  He
avoided them and passed down the porch, but they cornered him against a
rocking-chair and the railing.  He growled and tried to push by them.
Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction.

"I confess, he makes me nervous around the children," she said.  "I have
a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day."

Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning the
boy and the girl.  The mother called them to her and comforted them,
telling them not to bother White Fang.

"A wolf is a wolf!" commented Judge Scott.  "There is no trusting one."

"But he is not all wolf," interposed Beth, standing for her brother in
his absence.

"You have only Weedon's opinion for that," rejoined the judge.  "He
merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but as he
will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it.  As for his
appearance--"

He did not finish his sentence.  White Fang stood before him, growling
fiercely.

"Go away!  Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott commanded.

White Fang turned to the love-master's wife.  She screamed with fright as
he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till the frail fabric
tore away.  By this time he had become the centre of interest.

He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into their
faces.  His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound, while he
struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to rid himself of
the incommunicable something that strained for utterance.

"I hope he is not going mad," said Weedon's mother.  "I told Weedon that
I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic animal."

"He's trying to speak, I do believe," Beth announced.

At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great burst of
barking.

"Something has happened to Weedon," his wife said decisively.

They were all on their feet now, and White Fang ran down the steps,
looking back for them to follow.  For the second and last time in his
life he had barked and made himself understood.

After this event he found a warmer place in the hearts of the Sierra
Vista people, and even the groom whose arm he had slashed admitted that
he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf.  Judge Scott still held to the
same opinion, and proved it to everybody's dissatisfaction by
measurements and descriptions taken from the encyclopaedia and various
works on natural history.

The days came and went, streaming their unbroken sunshine over the Santa
Clara Valley.  But as they grew shorter and White Fang's second winter in
the Southland came on, he made a strange discovery.  Collie's teeth were
no longer sharp.  There was a playfulness about her nips and a gentleness
that prevented them from really hurting him.  He forgot that she had made
life a burden to him, and when she disported herself around him he
responded solemnly, striving to be playful and becoming no more than
ridiculous.

One day she led him off on a long chase through the back-pasture land
into the woods.  It was the afternoon that the master was to ride, and
White Fang knew it.  The horse stood saddled and waiting at the door.
White Fang hesitated.  But there was that in him deeper than all the law
he had learned, than the customs that had moulded him, than his love for
the master, than the very will to live of himself; and when, in the
moment of his indecision, Collie nipped him and scampered off, he turned
and followed after.  The master rode alone that day; and in the woods,
side by side, White Fang ran with Collie, as his mother, Kiche, and old
One Eye had run long years before in the silent Northland forest.

 White Fang does not really have much to do in California. At first, he is not friendly with the other dogs and vaguely misses the excitement of fighting. When Scott goes out on horseback, White Fang eagerly follows, traveling for miles. Once, Scott falls off his horse and breaks his leg. Unable to move, he orders White Fang to go home, where the dog growls and attracts the attention of his master's wife. He finally convinces the family to follow him back to Scott, but only after barking, which he is reluctant to do. He has not yet adopted all canine habits. White Fang grows more mellow in Sierra Vista. He actually begins to play with Collie and actually misses an outing with Scott in order to be with the sheepdog. He also learns to tolerate laughter when it is issued by Scott.

