The days were thronged with experience for White Fang. During thetime that Kiche was tied by the stick, he ran about over all the camp,inquiring, investigating, learning. He quickly came to know much of theways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed contempt. Themore he came to know them, the more they vindicated their superiority,the more they displayed their mysterious powers, the greater loomed theirgod-likeness.
To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrownand his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have comein to crouch at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whosegods are of the unseen and the overguessed, vapours and mists of fancyeluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodnessand power, intangible out-croppings of self into the realm of spirit - unlikeman, the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to the fire find theirgods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space andrequiring time for the accomplishment of their ends and their existence.
No effort of faith is necessary to believe in such a god; no effort of willcan possibly induce disbelief in such a god. There is no getting away fromit. There it stands, on its two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential,passionate and wrathful and loving, god and mystery and power allwrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that isgood to eat like any flesh.
And so it was with White Fang. The man-animals were godsunmistakable and unescapable. As his mother, Kiche, had rendered herallegiance to them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning torender his allegiance. He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitablytheirs. When they walked, he got out of their way. When they called, hecame. When they threatened, he cowered down. When they commandedhim to go, he went away hurriedly. For behind any wish of theirs waspower to enforce that wish, power that hurt, power that expressed itself inclouts and clubs, in flying stones and stinging lashes of whips.
He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to them. His actions weretheirs to command. His body was theirs to maul, to stamp upon, to tolerate.
Such was the lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It came hard,going as it did, counter to much that was strong and dominant in his ownnature; and, while he disliked it in the learning of it, unknown to himselfhe was learning to like it. It was a placing of his destiny in another's hands,a shifting of the responsibilities of existence. This in itself wascompensation, for it is always easier to lean upon another than to standalone.
But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body andsoul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wildheritage and his memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept tothe edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him farand away. And always he returned, restless and uncomfortable, towhimper softly and wistfully at Kiche's side and to lick her face with eager,questioning tongue.
White Fang learned rapidly the ways of the camp. He knew theinjustice and greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrownout to be eaten. He came to know that men were more just, children morecruel, and women more kindly and more likely to toss him a bit of meat orbone. And after two or three painful adventures with the mothers of part-grown puppies, he came into the knowledge that it was always goodpolicy to let such mothers alone, to keep away from them as far aspossible, and to avoid them when he saw them coming.
But the bane of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger, Lip-liphad selected White Fang for his special object of persecution. While Fangfought willingly enough, but he was outclassed. His enemy was too big.
Lip-lip became a nightmare to him. Whenever he ventured away from hismother, the bully was sure to appear, trailing at his heels, snarling at him,picking upon him, and watchful of an opportunity, when no man-animalwas near, to spring upon him and force a fight. As Lip-lip invariably won,he enjoyed it hugely. It became his chief delight in life, as it became WhiteFang's chief torment.
But the effect upon White Fang was not to cow him. Though hesuffered most of the damage and was always defeated, his spirit remainedunsubdued. Yet a bad effect was produced. He became malignant andmorose. His temper had been savage by birth, but it became more savageunder this unending persecution. The genial, playful, puppyish side of himfound little expression. He never played and gambolled about with theother puppies of the camp. Lip-lip would not permit it. The moment WhiteFang appeared near them, Lip-lip was upon him, bullying and hectoringhim, or fighting with him until he had driven him away.
The effect of all this was to rob White Fang of much of his puppyhoodand to make him in his comportment older than his age. Denied the outlet,through play, of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed hismental processes. He became cunning; he had idle time in which to devotehimself to thoughts of trickery. Prevented from obtaining his share of meatand fish when a general feed was given to the camp-dogs, he became aclever thief. He had to forage for himself, and he foraged well, though hewas oft-times a plague to the squaws in consequence. He learned to sneakabout camp, to be crafty, to know what was going on everywhere, to seeand to hear everything and to reason accordingly, and successfully todevise ways and means of avoiding his implacable persecutor.
It was early in the days of his persecution that he played his first reallybig crafty game and got there from his first taste of revenge. As Kiche,when with the wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs from the camps ofmen, so White Fang, in manner somewhat similar, lured Lip-lip intoKiche's avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip-lip, White Fang made anindirect flight that led in and out and around the various tepees of thecamp. He was a good runner, swifter than any puppy of his size, andswifter than Lip-lip. But he did not run his best in this chase. He barelyheld his own, one leap ahead of his pursuer.
Lip-lip, excited by the chase and by the persistent nearness of hisvictim, forgot caution and locality. When he remembered locality, it wastoo late. Dashing at top speed around a tepee, he ran full tilt into Kichelying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp of consternation, and thenher punishing jaws closed upon him. She was tied, but he could not getaway from her easily. She rolled him off his legs so that he could not run,while she repeatedly ripped and slashed him with her fangs.
When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his feet,badly dishevelled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was standingout all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood where hehad arisen, opened his mouth, and broke out the long, heart-broken puppywail. But even this he was not allowed to complete. In the middle of it,White Fang, rushing in, sank his teeth into Lip-lip's hind leg. There was nofight left in Lip-lip, and he ran away shamelessly, his victim hot on hisheels and worrying him all the way back to his own tepee. Here thesquaws came to his aid, and White Fang, transformed into a raging demon,was finally driven off only by a fusillade of stones.
Came the day when Grey Beaver, deciding that the liability of herrunning away was past, released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with hismother's freedom. He accompanied her joyfully about the camp; and, solong as he remained close by her side, Lip-lip kept a respectful distance.
White-Fang even bristled up to him and walked stiff-legged, but Lip-lipignored the challenge. He was no fool himself, and whatever vengeance hedesired to wreak, he could wait until he caught White Fang alone.
Later on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed into the edge of thewoods next to the camp. He had led his mother there, step by step, andnow when she stopped, he tried to inveigle her farther. The stream, the lair,and the quiet woods were calling to him, and he wanted her to come. Heran on a few steps, stopped, and looked back. She had not moved. Hewhined pleadingly, and scurried playfully in and out of the underbrush. Heran back to her, licked her face, and ran on again. And still she did notmove. He stopped and regarded her, all of an intentness and eagerness,physically expressed, that slowly faded out of him as she turned her headand gazed back at the camp.
There was something calling to him out there in the open. His motherheard it too. But she heard also that other and louder call, the call of thefire and of man - the call which has been given alone of all animals to thewolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are brothers.
Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than thephysical restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her. Unseenand occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would not let hergo. White Fang sat down in the shadow of a birch and whimpered softly.
There was a strong smell of pine, and subtle wood fragrances filled the air,reminding him of his old life of freedom before the days of his bondage.
But he was still only a part-grown puppy, and stronger than the call eitherof man or of the Wild was the call of his mother. All the hours of his shortlife he had depended upon her. The time was yet to come for independence.
So he arose and trotted forlornly back to camp, pausing once, and twice, tosit down and whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in thedepths of the forest.
In the Wild the time of a mother with her young is short; but under thedominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Thus it was with WhiteFang. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. Three Eagles wasgoing away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A strip ofscarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay thedebt. White Fang saw his mother taken aboard Three Eagles' canoe, andtried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles knocked him backward tothe land. The canoe shoved off. He sprang into the water and swam after it,deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return. Even a man-animal, a god,White Fang ignored, such was the terror he was in of losing his mother.
But gods are accustomed to being obeyed, and Grey Beaver wrathfullylaunched a canoe in pursuit. When he overtook White Fang, he reacheddown and by the nape of the neck lifted him clear of the water. He did notdeposit him at once in the bottom of the canoe. Holding him suspendedwith one hand, with the other hand he proceeded to give him a beating.
And it WAS a beating. His hand was heavy. Every blow was shrewd tohurt; and he delivered a multitude of blows.
Impelled by the blows that rained upon him, now from this side, nowfrom that, White Fang swung back and forth like an erratic and jerkypendulum. Varying were the emotions that surged through him. At first, hehad known surprise. Then came a momentary fear, when he yelped severaltimes to the impact of the hand. But this was quickly followed by anger.
His free nature asserted itself, and he showed his teeth and snarledfearlessly in the face of the wrathful god. This but served to make the godmore wrathful. The blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd to hurt.
Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But thiscould not last for ever. One or the other must give over, and that one wasWhite Fang. Fear surged through him again. For the first time he wasbeing really man-handled. The occasional blows of sticks and stones hehad previously experienced were as caresses compared with this. He brokedown and began to cry and yelp. For a time each blow brought a yelp fromhim; but fear passed into terror, until finally his yelps were voiced inunbroken succession, unconnected with the rhythm of the punishment.
At last Grey Beaver withheld his hand. White Fang, hanging limply,continued to cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who flung him downroughly in the bottom of the canoe. In the meantime the canoe had drifteddown the stream. Grey Beaver picked up the paddle. White Fang was inhis way. He spurned him savagely with his foot. In that moment WhiteFang's free nature flashed forth again, and he sank his teeth into themoccasined foot.
The beating that had gone before was as nothing compared with thebeating he now received. Grey Beaver's wrath was terrible; likewise wasWhite Fang's fright. Not only the hand, but the hard wooden paddle wasused upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body when hewas again flung down in the canoe. Again, and this time with purpose, didGrey Beaver kick him . White Fang did not repeat his attack on the foot.
He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no matter what thecircumstance, must he dare to bite the god who was lord and master overhim; the body of the lord and master was sacred, not to be defiled by theteeth of such as he. That was evidently the crime of crimes, the oneoffence there was no condoning nor overlooking.
When the canoe touched the shore, White Fang lay whimpering andmotionless, waiting the will of Grey Beaver. It was Grey Beaver's will thathe should go ashore, for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on his sideand hurting his bruises afresh. He crawled tremblingly to his feet andstood whimpering. Lip-lip, who had watched the whole proceeding fromthe bank, now rushed upon him, knocking him over and sinking his teethinto him. White Fang was too helpless to defend himself, and it wouldhave gone hard with him had not Grey Beaver's foot shot out, lifting Lip-lip into the air with its violence so that he smashed down to earth a dozenfeet away. This was the man-animal's justice; and even then, in his ownpitiable plight, White Fang experienced a little grateful thrill. At GreyBeaver's heels he limped obediently through the village to the tepee. Andso it came that White Fang learned that the right to punish was somethingthe gods reserved for themselves and denied to the lesser creatures underthem.
That night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother andsorrowed for her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Grey Beaver, whobeat him. After that he mourned gently when the gods were around. Butsometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave ventto his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings.
It was during this period that he might have harkened to the memoriesof the lair and the stream and run back to the Wild. But the memory of hismother held him. As the hunting man-animals went out and came back, soshe would come back to the village some time. So he remained in hisbondage waiting for her.
But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage. There was much tointerest him. Something was always happening. There was no end to thestrange things these gods did, and he was always curious to see. Besides,he was learning how to get along with Grey Beaver. Obedience, rigid,undeviating obedience, was what was exacted of him; and in return heescaped beatings and his existence was tolerated.
Nay, Grey Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a piece of meat, anddefended him against the other dogs in the eating of it. And such a piece ofmeat was of value. It was worth more, in some strange way, then a dozenpieces of meat from the hand of a squaw. Grey Beaver never petted norcaressed. Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his justice,perhaps the sheer power of him, and perhaps it was all these things thatinfluenced White Fang; for a certain tie of attachment was formingbetween him and his surly lord.
Insidiously, and by remote ways, as well as by the power of stick andstone and clout of hand, were the shackles of White Fang's bondage beingriveted upon him. The qualities in his kind that in the beginning made itpossible for them to come in to the fires of men, were qualities capable ofdevelopment. They were developing in him, and the camp-life, repletewith misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself to him all the time. ButWhite Fang was unaware of it. He knew only grief for the loss of Kiche,hope for her return, and a hungry yearning for the free life that had beenhis.
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