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

arrogance of possession that shook his courage born of the morning light.

He made one desperate attempt to pull out on the trail.  But the moment he left the protection of the fire, the boldest wolf leaped for him, but leaped short.  He saved himself by springing back, the jaws snapping together a scant six inches from his thigh.  The rest of the pack was now up and surging upon him, and a throwing of firebrands right and left was necessary to drive them back to a respectful distance.

Even in the daylight he did not dare leave the fire to chop fresh wood.  Twenty feet away towered a huge dead spruce.  He spent half the day extending his campfire to the tree, at any moment a half dozen burning faggots ready at hand to fling at his enemies.  Once at the tree, he studied the surrounding forest in order to fell the tree in the direction of the most firewood.

The night was a repetition of the night before, save that the need for sleep was becoming overpowering.  The snarling of his dogs was losing its efficacy.  Besides, they were snarling all the time, and his benumbed and drowsy senses no longer took note of changing pitch and intensity.  He awoke with a start.  The she-wolf was less than a yard from him.  Mechanically, at short range, without letting go of it, he thrust a brand full into her open and snarling mouth.  She sprang away, yelling with pain, and while he took delight in the smell of burning flesh and hair, he watched her shaking her head and growling wrathfully a score of feet away.

But this time, before he dozed again, he tied a burning pine-knot to his right hand.  His eyes were closed but few minutes when the burn of the flame on his flesh awakened him.  For several hours he adhered to this programme.  Every time he was thus awakened he drove back the wolves with flying brands, replenished the fire, and rearranged the pine-knot on his hand.  All worked well, but there came a time when he fastened the pine-knot insecurely.  As his eyes closed it fell away from his hand.

He dreamed.  It seemed to him that he was in Fort McGurry.  It was warm and comfortable, and he was playing cribbage with the Factor.  Also, it seemed to him that the fort was besieged by wolves.  They were howling at the very gates, and sometimes he and the Factor paused from the game to listen and laugh at the futile efforts of the wolves to get in.  And then, so strange was the dream, there was a crash.  The door was burst open.  He could see the wolves flooding into the big living-room of the fort.  They were leaping straight for him and the Factor.  With the bursting open of the door, the noise of their howling had increased tremendously.  This howling now bothered him.  His dream was merging into something else—he knew not what; but through it all, following him, persisted the howling.

And then he awoke to find the howling real.  There was a great snarling and yelping.  The wolves were rushing him.  They were all about him and upon him.  The teeth of one had closed upon his arm.  Instinctively he leaped into the fire, and as he leaped, he felt the sharp slash of teeth that tore through the flesh of his leg.  Then began a fire fight.  His stout mittens temporarily protected his hands, and he scooped live coals into the air in all directions, until the campfire took on the semblance of a volcano.

But it could not last long.  His face was blistering in the heat, his eyebrows and lashes were singed off, and the heat was becoming unbearable to his feet.  With a flaming brand in each hand, he sprang to the edge of the fire.  The wolves had been driven back.  On every side, wherever the live coals had fallen, the snow was sizzling, and every little while a retiring wolf, with wild leap and snort and snarl, announced that one such live coal had been stepped upon.

Flinging his brands at the nearest of his enemies, the man thrust his smouldering mittens into the snow and stamped about to cool his feet.  His two dogs were missing, and he well knew that they had served as a course in the protracted meal which had begun days before with Fatty, the last course of which would likely be himself in the days to follow.

“You ain’t got me yet!” he cried, savagely shaking his fist at the hungry beasts; and at the sound of his voice the whole circle was agitated, there was a general snarl, and the she-wolf slid up close to him across the snow and watched him with hungry wistfulness.

He set to work to carry out a new idea that had come to him.  He extended the fire into a large circle.  Inside this circle he crouched, his sleeping outfit under him as a protection against the melting snow.  When he had thus disappeared within his shelter of flame, the whole pack came curiously to the rim of the fire to see what had become of him.  Hitherto they had been denied access to the fire, and they now settled down in a close-drawn circle, like so many dogs, blinking and yawning and stretching their lean bodies in the unaccustomed warmth.  Then the she-wolf sat down, pointed her nose at a star, and began to howl.  One by one the wolves joined her, till the whole pack, on haunches, with noses pointed skyward, was howling its hunger cry.

Dawn came, and daylight.  The fire was burning low.  The fuel had run out, and there was need to get more.  The man attempted to step out of his circle of flame, but the wolves surged to meet him.  Burning brands made them spring aside, but they no longer sprang back.  In vain he strove to drive them back.  As he gave up and stumbled inside his circle, a wolf leaped for him, missed, and landed with all four feet in the coals.  It cried out with terror, at the same time snarling, and scrambled back to cool its paws in the snow.

The man sat down on his blankets in a crouching position.  His body leaned forward from the hips.  His shoulders, relaxed and drooping, and his head on his knees advertised that he had given up the struggle.  Now and again he raised his head to note the dying down of the fire.  The circle of flame and coals was breaking into segments with openings in between.  These openings grew in size, the segments diminished.

“I guess you can come an’ get me any time,” he mumbled.  “Anyway, I’m goin’ to sleep.”

Once he awakened, and in an opening in the circle, directly in front of him, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him.

Again he awakened, a little later, though it seemed hours to him.  A mysterious change had taken place—so mysterious a change that he was shocked wider awake.  Something had happened.  He could not understand at first.  Then he discovered it.  The wolves were gone.  Remained only the trampled snow to show how closely they had pressed him.  Sleep was welling up and gripping him again, his head was sinking down upon his knees, when he roused with a sudden start.

There were cries of men, and churn of sleds, the creaking of harnesses, and the eager whimpering of straining dogs.  Four sleds pulled in from the river bed to the camp among the trees.  Half a dozen men were about the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire.  They were shaking and prodding him into consciousness.  He looked at them like a drunken man and maundered in strange, sleepy speech.

“Red she-wolf. . . . Come in with the dogs at feedin’ time. . . . First she ate the dog-food. . . . Then she ate the dogs. . . . An’ after that she ate Bill. . . . ”

“Where’s Lord Alfred?” one of the men bellowed in his ear, shaking him roughly.

He shook his head slowly.  “No, she didn’t eat him. . . . He’s roostin’ in a tree at the last camp.”

“Dead?” the man shouted.

“An’ in a box,” Henry answered.  He jerked his shoulder petulantly away from the grip of his questioner.  “Say, you lemme alone. . . . I’m jes’ plump tuckered out. . . . Goo’ night, everybody.”

His eyes fluttered and went shut.  His chin fell forward on his chest.  And even as they eased him down upon the blankets his snores were rising on the frosty air.

But there was another sound.  Far and faint it was, in the remote distance, the cry of the hungry wolf-pack as it took the trail of other meat than the man it had just missed.

PART II CHAPTER I—THE BATTLE OF THE FANGS

It was the she-wolf who had first caught the sound of men’s voices and the whining of the sled-dogs; and it was the she-wolf who was first to spring away from the cornered man in his circle of dying flame.  The pack had been loath to forego the kill it had hunted down, and it lingered for several minutes, making sure of the sounds, and then it, too, sprang away on the trail made by the she-wolf.

Running at the forefront of the pack was a large grey wolf—one of its several leaders.  It was he who directed the pack’s course on the heels of the she-wolf.  It was he who snarled warningly at the younger members of the pack or slashed at them with his fangs when they ambitiously tried to pass him.  And it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, now trotting slowly across the snow.

She dropped in alongside by him, as though it were her appointed position, and took the pace of the pack.  He did not snarl at her, nor show his teeth, when any leap of hers chanced to put her in advance of him.  On the contrary, he seemed kindly disposed toward her—too kindly to suit her, for he was prone to run near to her, and when he ran too near it was she who snarled and showed her teeth.  Nor was she above slashing his shoulder sharply on occasion.  At such times he betrayed no anger.  He merely sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps, in carriage and conduct resembling an abashed country swain.

This was his one trouble in the running of the pack; but she had other troubles.  On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf, grizzled and marked with the scars of many battles.  He ran always on her right side.  The fact that he had but one eye, and that the left eye, might account for this.  He, also, was addicted to crowding her, to veering toward her till his scarred muzzle touched her body, or shoulder, or neck.  As with the running mate on the left, she repelled these attentions with her teeth; but when both bestowed their attentions at the same time she was roughly jostled, being compelled, with quick snaps to either side, to drive both lovers away and at the same time to maintain her forward leap with the pack and see the way of her feet before her.  At such times her running mates flashed their teeth and growled threateningly across at each other.  They might have fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more pressing hunger-need of the pack.

After each repulse, when the old wolf sheered abruptly away from the sharp-toothed object of his desire, he shouldered against a young three-year-old that ran on his blind right side.  This young wolf had attained his full size; and, considering the weak and famished condition of the pack, he possessed more than the average vigour and spirit.  Nevertheless, he ran with his head even with the