White Fang, Jack London [classic romance novels .txt] 📗

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 CHAPTER I—THE ENEMY OF HIS KIND

Had there been in White Fang’s nature any possibility, no matter how remote, of his ever coming to fraternise with his kind, such possibility was irretrievably destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team.  For now the dogs hated him—hated him for the extra meat bestowed upon him by Mit-sah; hated him for all the real and fancied favours he received; hated him for that he fled always at the head of the team, his waving brush of a tail and his perpetually retreating hind-quarters for ever maddening their eyes.

And White Fang just as bitterly hated them back.  Being sled-leader was anything but gratifying to him.  To be compelled to run away before the yelling pack, every dog of which, for three years, he had thrashed and mastered, was almost more than he could endure.  But endure it he must, or perish, and the life that was in him had no desire to perish out.  The moment Mit-sah gave his order for the start, that moment the whole team, with eager, savage cries, sprang forward at White Fang.

There was no defence for him.  If he turned upon them, Mit-sah would throw the stinging lash of the whip into his face.  Only remained to him to run away.  He could not encounter that howling horde with his tail and hind-quarters.  These were scarcely fit weapons with which to meet the many merciless fangs.  So run away he did, violating his own nature and pride with every leap he made, and leaping all day long.

One cannot violate the promptings of one’s nature without having that nature recoil upon itself.  Such a recoil is like that of a hair, made to grow out from the body, turning unnaturally upon the direction of its growth and growing into the body—a rankling, festering thing of hurt.  And so with White Fang.  Every urge of his being impelled him to spring upon the pack that cried at his heels, but it was the will of the gods that this should not be; and behind the will, to enforce it, was the whip of cariboo-gut with its biting thirty-foot lash.  So White Fang could only eat his heart in bitterness and develop a hatred and malice commensurate with the ferocity and indomitability of his nature.

If ever a creature was the enemy of its kind, White Fang was that creature.  He asked no quarter, gave none.  He was continually marred and scarred by the teeth of the pack, and as continually he left his own marks upon the pack.  Unlike most leaders, who, when camp was made and the dogs were unhitched, huddled near to the gods for protection, White Fang disdained such protection.  He walked boldly about the camp, inflicting punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the day.  In the time before he was made leader of the team, the pack had learned to get out of his way.  But now it was different.  Excited by the day-long pursuit of him, swayed subconsciously by the insistent iteration on their brains of the sight of him fleeing away, mastered by the feeling of mastery enjoyed all day, the dogs could not bring themselves to give way to him.  When he appeared amongst them, there was always a squabble.  His progress was marked by snarl and snap and growl.  The very atmosphere he breathed was surcharged with hatred and malice, and this but served to increase the hatred and malice within him.

When Mit-sah cried out his command for the team to stop, White Fang obeyed.  At first this caused trouble for the other dogs.  All of them would spring upon the hated leader only to find the tables turned.  Behind him would be Mit-sah, the great whip singing in his hand.  So the dogs came to understand 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.  After several experiences, White Fang never stopped without orders.  He learned quickly.  It was in the nature of things, that he must learn quickly if he were to survive the unusually severe conditions under which life was vouchsafed him.

But the dogs could never learn the lesson to leave him alone in camp.  Each day, pursuing him and crying defiance at him, the lesson of the previous night was erased, and that night would have to be learned over again, to be as immediately forgotten.  Besides, there was a greater consistence in their dislike of him.  They sensed between themselves and him a difference of kind—cause sufficient in itself for hostility.  Like him, they were domesticated wolves.  But they had been domesticated for generations.  Much of the Wild had been lost, so that to them the Wild was the unknown, the terrible, the ever-menacing and ever warring.  But to him, in appearance and action and impulse, still clung the Wild.  He symbolised it, was its personification: so that when they showed their teeth to him they were defending themselves against the powers of destruction that lurked in the shadows of the forest and in the dark beyond the camp-fire.

But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, and that was to keep together.  White Fang was too terrible for any of them to face single-handed.  They met him with the mass-formation, otherwise he would have killed them, one by one, in a night.  As it was, he never had a chance to kill them.  He might roll a dog off its feet, but the pack would be upon him before he could follow up and deliver the deadly throat-stroke.  At the first hint of conflict, the whole team drew together and faced him.  The dogs had quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when trouble was brewing with White Fang.

On the other hand, try as they would, they could not kill White Fang.  He was too quick for them, too formidable, too wise.  He avoided tight places and always backed out of it when they bade fair to surround him.  While, as for getting him off his feet, there was no dog among them capable of doing the trick.  His feet clung to the earth with the same tenacity that he clung to life.  For that matter, life and footing were synonymous in this unending warfare with the pack, and none knew it better than White Fang.

So he became the enemy of his kind, domesticated wolves that they were, softened by the fires of man, weakened in the sheltering shadow of man’s strength.  White Fang was bitter and implacable.  The clay of him was so moulded.  He declared a vendetta against all dogs.  And so terribly did he live this vendetta that Grey Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not but marvel at White Fang’s ferocity.  Never, he swore, had there been the like of this animal; and the Indians in strange villages swore likewise when they considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs.

When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey Beaver took him on another great journey, and long remembered was the havoc he worked amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon.  He revelled in the vengeance he wreaked upon his kind.  They were ordinary, unsuspecting dogs.  They were not prepared for his swiftness and directness, for his attack without warning.  They did not know him for what he was, a lightning-flash of slaughter.  They bristled up to him, stiff-legged and challenging, while he, wasting no time on elaborate preliminaries, snapping into action like a steel spring, was at their throats and destroying them before they knew what was happening and while they were yet in the throes of surprise.

He became an adept at fighting.  He economised.  He never wasted his strength, never tussled.  He was in too quickly for that, and, if he missed, was out again too quickly.  The dislike of the wolf for close quarters was his to an unusual degree.  He could not endure a prolonged contact with another body.  It smacked of danger.  It made him frantic.  He must be away, free, on his own legs, touching no living thing.  It was the Wild still clinging to him, asserting itself through him.  This feeling had been accentuated by the Ishmaelite life he had led from his puppyhood.  Danger lurked in contacts.  It was the trap, ever the trap, the fear of it lurking deep in the life of him, woven into the fibre of him.

In consequence, the strange dogs he encountered had no chance against him.  He eluded their fangs.  He got them, or got away, himself untouched in either event.  In the natural course of things there were exceptions to this.  There were times when several dogs, pitching on to him, punished him before he could get away; and there were times when a single dog scored deeply on him.  But these were accidents.  In the main, so efficient a fighter had he become, he went his way unscathed.

Another advantage he possessed was that of correctly judging time and distance.  Not that he did this consciously, however.  He did not calculate such things.  It was all automatic.  His eyes saw correctly, and the nerves carried the vision correctly to his brain.  The parts of him were better adjusted than those of the average dog.  They worked together more smoothly and steadily.  His was a better, far better, nervous, mental, and muscular co-ordination.  When his eyes conveyed to his brain the moving image of an action, his brain without conscious effort, knew the space that limited that action and the time required for its completion.  Thus, he could avoid the leap of another dog, or the drive of its fangs, and at the same moment could seize the infinitesimal fraction of time in which to deliver his own attack.  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.  Grey Beaver had crossed the great watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the late winter, and spent the spring in hunting among the western outlying spurs of the Rockies.  Then, after the break-up of the