Chapter: The spring of the year was at hand when Grey Beaver finished his long
journey.  It was April, and White Fang was a year old when he pulled into
the home villages and was loosed from the harness by Mit-sah.  Though a
long way from his full growth, White Fang, next to Lip-lip, was the
largest yearling in the village.  Both from his father, the wolf, and
from Kiche, he had inherited stature and strength, and already he was
measuring up alongside the full-grown dogs.  But he had not yet grown
compact.  His body was slender and rangy, and his strength more stringy
than massive. His coat was the true wolf-grey, and to all appearances he
was 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, recognising with staid satisfaction the
various gods he had known before the long journey.  Then there were the
dogs, puppies growing up like himself, and grown dogs that did not look
so large and formidable as the memory pictures he retained of them.  Also,
he stood less in fear of them than formerly, stalking among them with a
certain careless ease that was as new to him as it was enjoyable.

There was Baseek, a grizzled old fellow that in his younger days had but
to uncover his fangs to send White Fang cringing and crouching to the
right about.  From him White Fang had learned much of his own
insignificance; and from him he was now to learn much of the change and
development that had taken place in himself.  While Baseek 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
had got for himself a hoof and part of the shin-bone, to which quite a
bit of meat was attached.  Withdrawn from the immediate scramble of the
other dogs--in fact out of sight behind a thicket--he was devouring his
prize, when Baseek rushed in upon him.  Before he knew what he was doing,
he had slashed the intruder twice and sprung clear.  Baseek was surprised
by the other's temerity and swiftness of attack.  He stood, gazing
stupidly across at White Fang, the raw, red shin-bone between them.

Baseek was old, and already he had come to know the increasing valour of
the dogs it had been his wont to bully.  Bitter experiences these, which,
perforce, he swallowed, calling upon all his wisdom to cope with them.  In
the old days he would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury of righteous
wrath.  But now his waning powers would not permit such a course.  He
bristled fiercely and looked ominously across the shin-bone at White
Fang.  And White Fang, resurrecting quite a deal of the old awe, seemed
to wilt and to shrink in upon himself and grow small, as he cast about in
his mind for a way to beat a retreat not too inglorious.

And right here Baseek erred.  Had he contented himself with looking
fierce and ominous, all would have been well.  White Fang, on the verge
of retreat, 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.  As he bent his head carelessly to smell it, White Fang
bristled slightly.  Even then it was not too late for Baseek to retrieve
the situation.  Had he merely stood over the meat, head up and glowering,
White Fang would ultimately have slunk away.  But the fresh meat was
strong in Baseek's nostrils, and greed urged him to take a bite of it.

This was too much for White Fang.  Fresh upon his months of mastery over
his own team-mates, it was beyond his self-control to stand idly by while
another devoured the meat that belonged to him.  He struck, after his
custom, without warning.  With the first slash, Baseek's right ear was
ripped into ribbons.  He was astounded at the suddenness of it.  But more
things, and most grievous ones, were happening with equal suddenness.  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.
The swiftness of it was bewildering.  He made a futile rush at White
Fang, clipping the empty air with an outraged snap.  The next moment his
nose was laid open, and he was staggering backward away from the meat.

The situation was now reversed.  White Fang stood over the shin-bone,
bristling and menacing, while Baseek stood a little way off, preparing to
retreat.  He dared not risk a fight with this young lightning-flash, and
again he knew, and more bitterly, the enfeeblement of oncoming age.  His
attempt to maintain his dignity was heroic.  Calmly turning his back upon
young dog and shin-bone, as though both were beneath his notice and
unworthy of his consideration, he stalked grandly away.  Nor, until well
out of sight, did he 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.  Not that he went out of his
way looking for trouble.  Far from it.  But upon his way he demanded
consideration.  He stood upon his right to go his way unmolested and to
give trail to no dog.  He had to be taken into account, that was all.  He
was no longer to be disregarded and ignored, as was the lot of puppies,
and as continued to be the lot of the puppies that were his team-mates.
They got out of the way, gave trail to the grown dogs, and gave up meat
to them under compulsion.  But White Fang, uncompanionable, solitary,
morose, scarcely looking to right or left, redoubtable, forbidding of
aspect, remote and alien, was accepted as an equal by his puzzled elders.
They quickly learned to leave him alone, neither venturing hostile acts
nor making overtures of friendliness.  If they left him alone, he left
them alone--a state of affairs that they found, after a few encounters,
to be pre-eminently desirable.

In midsummer White Fang had an experience.  Trotting along in his silent
way to investigate a new tepee which had been erected on the edge of the
village while he was away with the hunters after moose, he came full upon
Kiche.  He paused and looked at her.  He remembered her vaguely, but he
_remembered_ her, and that was more than could be said for her.  She
lifted her lip at him in the old snarl of menace, and his memory became
clear.  His forgotten cubhood, all that was associated with that familiar
snarl, rushed back to him.  Before he had known the gods, she had been to
him the centre-pin of the universe.  The old familiar feelings of that
time came back upon him, surged up within him.  He bounded towards her
joyously, and she met him with shrewd fangs that laid his cheek open to
the bone.  He did not understand.  He backed away, bewildered 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 sprawled up to White Fang.  They were half-brothers,
only they did not know it.  White Fang sniffed the puppy curiously,
whereupon Kiche rushed upon him, gashing his face a second time.  He
backed farther away.  All the old memories and associations died down
again and passed into the grave from which they had been resurrected.  He
looked at Kiche licking her puppy and stopping now and then to snarl at
him.  She was without value to him.  He had learned to get along without
her.  Her meaning was forgotten.  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 bewildered, the memories forgotten,
wondering what it was all about, when Kiche attacked him a third time,
intent on driving him away altogether from the vicinity.  And White Fang
allowed himself to be driven away.  This was a female of his kind, and it
was a law of his kind that the males must not fight the females.  He did
not know anything about this law, for it was no generalisation of the
mind, not a something acquired by experience of the world.  He knew it as
a secret prompting, as an urge of instinct--of the same instinct that
made him howl at the moon and stars of nights, and that made him fear
death and the unknown.

The months went by.  White Fang grew stronger, heavier, and more compact,
while his character was developing along the lines laid down by his
heredity and his environment.  His heredity was a life-stuff that may be
likened to clay.  It possessed many possibilities, was capable of being
moulded into many different forms.  Environment served to model the clay,
to give it a particular form.  Thus, had White Fang never come in to the
fires of man, the Wild would have moulded him into a true wolf.  But the
gods had given him a different environment, and he was moulded into a dog
that was rather wolfish, but that was a dog and not a wolf.

And so, according to the clay of his nature and the pressure of his
surroundings, his character was being moulded into a certain particular
shape.  There was no escaping it.  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 was coming to prize him more greatly with the
passage of each day.

White Fang, seeming to sum up strength in all his qualities, nevertheless
suffered from one besetting 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.  Grave, dignified, sombre, a laugh made him frantic
to ridiculousness.  It so outraged him and upset him that for hours he
would behave like a demon.  And woe to the dog that at such times ran
foul of him.  He knew the law too well to take it out of Grey Beaver;
behind Grey Beaver were a club and godhead.  But behind the dogs there
was nothing but space, and into this space they flew when White Fang came
on the scene, made mad by laughter.

In the third year of his life there came a great famine to the Mackenzie
Indians.  In the summer the fish failed.  In the winter the cariboo
forsook their accustomed track.  Moose were scarce, the rabbits almost
disappeared, hunting and preying animals perished.  Denied their usual
food-supply, weakened by hunger, they fell upon and devoured one another.
Only the strong survived.  White Fang's gods were always hunting animals.
The old and the weak of them died of hunger.  There was wailing in the
village, where the women and children went without in order that what
little they had might go into the bellies of the lean and hollow-eyed
hunters who trod the forest in the vain pursuit of meat.

To such extremity were the gods driven that they ate the soft-tanned
leather of their mocassins and mittens, while the dogs ate the harnesses
off their backs and the very whip-lashes.  Also, the dogs ate one
another, and also the gods ate the dogs.  The weakest and the more
worthless were eaten first.  The dogs that still lived, looked on and
understood.  A few of the boldest and wisest forsook 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.

In this time of misery, White Fang, too, stole away into the woods.  He
was better fitted for the life than the other dogs, for he had the
training of his cubhood to guide him.  Especially adept did he become in
stalking small living things.  He would lie concealed for hours,
following every movement of a cautious tree-squirrel, waiting, with a
patience as huge as the hunger he suffered from, until the squirrel
ventured out upon the ground.  Even then, White Fang was not premature.
He waited until he was sure of striking before the squirrel could gain a
tree-refuge.  Then, and not until then, would he flash from his hiding-
place, a grey projectile, incredibly swift, never failing its mark--the
fleeing squirrel that fled not fast enough.

Successful as he was with squirrels, there was one difficulty that
prevented him from living and growing fat on them.  There were not enough
squirrels.  So he was driven to hunt still smaller things.  So acute did
his hunger become at times that he was not above rooting out wood-mice
from their burrows in the ground.  Nor did he scorn to do battle with a
weasel as hungry as himself and many times more ferocious.

In the worst pinches of the famine he stole back to the fires of the
gods.  But he did not go into the fires.  He lurked in the forest,
avoiding discovery and robbing the snares at the rare intervals when game
was caught.  He even robbed Grey Beaver's snare of a rabbit at a time
when Grey Beaver staggered and tottered through the forest, sitting down
often to rest, what of weakness and of shortness of breath.

One day White Fang encountered a young wolf, gaunt and scrawny, loose-
jointed with famine.  Had he not been hungry himself, White Fang might
have gone with him and eventually found his way into the pack amongst his
wild brethren.  As it was, he ran the young wolf down and killed and ate
him.

Fortune seemed to favour him.  Always, when hardest pressed for food, he
found something to kill.  Again, when he was weak, it was his luck that
none of the larger preying animals chanced upon him.  Thus, he was strong
from the two days' eating a lynx had afforded him when the hungry wolf-
pack ran full tilt upon him.  It was a long, cruel chase, but he was
better nourished than they, and in the end outran them.  And not only did
he outrun them, but, circling widely back on his track, he gathered in
one of his exhausted pursuers.

After that he left that part of the country and journeyed over to the
valley wherein he had been born.  Here, in the old lair, he encountered
Kiche.  Up to her old tricks, she, too, had fled the inhospitable fires
of the gods and gone back to her old refuge to give birth to her young.
Of this litter but one remained alive when White Fang came upon the
scene, 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 anything but affectionate.  But
White Fang did not mind.  He had outgrown his mother.  So he turned tail
philosophically and trotted on up the stream.  At the forks he took the
turning to the left, where he found the lair of the lynx with whom his
mother and he had fought long before.  Here, in the abandoned lair, he
settled down and rested for a day.

During the early summer, in the last days of the famine, he met Lip-lip,
who had likewise taken to the woods, where he had eked out a miserable
existence.

White Fang came upon him unexpectedly.  Trotting in opposite directions
along the base of a high bluff, they rounded a corner of rock and found
themselves face to face.  They paused with instant alarm, and looked at
each other suspiciously.

White Fang was in splendid condition.  His hunting had been good, and for
a week he had eaten his fill.  He was even gorged from his latest kill.
But in the moment he looked at Lip-lip his hair rose on end all along his
back.  It was an involuntary bristling on his part, the physical state
that in the past had always accompanied the mental state produced in him
by Lip-lip's bullying and persecution.  As in the past he had bristled
and snarled at sight of Lip-lip, so now, and automatically, he bristled
and snarled.  He did not waste any 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, where a
narrow stretch of open land sloped down to the Mackenzie.  He had been
over this ground before, when it was bare, but now a village occupied it.
Still hidden amongst the trees, he paused to study the situation.  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 he had last had when he fled away from it.  There was no
whimpering nor wailing.  Contented sounds saluted his ear, and when he
heard the angry voice of a woman he knew it to be the anger that proceeds
from a full stomach.  And there was a smell in the air of fish.  There
was food.  The famine was gone.  He came out boldly from the forest and
trotted into camp straight to Grey Beaver's tepee.  Grey Beaver was not
there; but Kloo-kooch welcomed him with glad cries and the whole of a
fresh-caught fish, and he lay down to wait Grey Beaver's coming.




PART IV

 Spring arrives, and Gray Beaver finishes the journey. White Fang is one year old, and next to Lip-lip, he is the largest yearling. He continues to have his battles with other dogs. When he fights with Baseek over a piece of shinbone, White Fang rips Baseeks right ear and wounds him on the shoulder. Baseek, old and weak, gives up. In mid-summer, White Fang encounters Kiche, who has now forgotten him and has had a new litter. She hovers protectively around her litter, trying to drive White Fang away. When White Fang is three years old, there is a great famine in the land. Only the strong will survive, for the Indians eat the weaker dogs. The Indians also eat the soft-tanned leather of their moccasins and mittens to fill their stomachs. White Fang escapes into the forest to hunt on his own, at times robbing rabbit snares and at times capturing small game, like squirrels and woodmice. At the end of the famine, White Fang meets Lip-lip, with whom he fights until Lip-lip is killed. He then returns to the village and is received warmly and given plenty of fish.

