White Fang by Jack London (story books to read .txt) 📖

who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.

Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang’s belly.

“We plump forgot the window.  He’s all cut an’ gouged underneath.  Must ‘a’ butted clean through it, b’gosh!”

But Weedon Scott was not listening.  He was thinking rapidly.  The Aurora’s whistle hooted a final announcement of departure.  Men were scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore.  Matt loosened the bandana from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang’s.  Scott grasped the dog-musher’s hand.

“Good-bye, Matt, old man.  About the wolf—you needn’t write.  You see, I’ve . . . !”

“What!” the dog-musher exploded.  “You don’t mean to say . . .?”

“The very thing I mean.  Here’s your bandana.  I’ll write to you about him.”

Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.

“He’ll never stand the climate!” he shouted back.  “Unless you clip ’m in warm weather!”

The gang-plank was hauled in, and the Aurora swung out from the bank.  Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye.  Then he turned and bent over White Fang, standing by his side.

“Now growl, damn you, growl,” he said, as he patted the responsive head and rubbed the flattening ears.

CHAPTER II—THE SOUTHLAND

White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco.  He was appalled.  Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of consciousness, he had associated power with godhead.  And never had the white men seemed such marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy pavement of San Francisco.  The log cabins he had known were replaced by towering buildings.  The streets were crowded with perils—waggons, carts, automobiles; great, straining horses pulling huge trucks; and monstrous cable and electric cars hooting and clanging through the midst, screeching their insistent menace after the manner of the lynxes he had known in the northern woods.

All this was the manifestation of power.  Through it all, behind it all, was man, governing and controlling, expressing himself, as of old, by his mastery over matter.  It was colossal, stunning.  White Fang was awed.  Fear sat upon him.  As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his smallness and puniness on the day he first came in from the Wild to the village of Grey Beaver, so now, in his full-grown stature and pride of strength, he was made to feel small and puny.  And there were so many gods!  He was made dizzy by the swarming of them.  The thunder of the streets smote upon his ears.  He was bewildered by the tremendous and endless rush and movement of things.  As never before, he felt his dependence on the love-master, close at whose heels he followed, no matter what happened never losing sight of him.

But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the city—an experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that haunted him for long after in his dreams.  He was put into a baggage-car by the master, chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises.  Here a squat and brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing, to other gods who awaited them.

And here, in this inferno of luggage, was White Fang deserted by the master.  Or at least White Fang thought he was deserted, until he smelled out the master’s canvas clothes-bags alongside of him, and proceeded to mount guard over them.

“’Bout time you come,” growled the god of the car, an hour later, when Weedon Scott appeared at the door.  “That dog of yourn won’t let me lay a finger on your stuff.”

White Fang emerged from the car.  He was astonished.  The nightmare city was gone.  The car had been to him no more than a room in a house, and when he had entered it the city had been all around him.  In the interval the city had disappeared.  The roar of it no longer dinned upon his ears.  Before him was smiling country, streaming with sunshine, lazy with quietude.  But he had little time to marvel at the transformation.  He accepted it as he accepted all the unaccountable doings and manifestations of the gods.  It was their way.

There was a carriage waiting.  A man and a woman approached the master.  The woman’s arms went out and clutched the master around the neck—a hostile act!  The next moment Weedon Scott had torn loose from the embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a snarling, raging demon.

“It’s all right, mother,” Scott was saying as he kept tight hold of White Fang and placated him.  “He thought you were going to injure me, and he wouldn’t stand for it.  It’s all right.  It’s all right.  He’ll learn soon enough.”

“And in the meantime I may be permitted to love my son when his dog is not around,” she laughed, though she was pale and weak from the fright.

She looked at White Fang, who snarled and bristled and glared malevolently.

“He’ll have to learn, and he shall, without postponement,” Scott said.

He spoke softly to White Fang until he had quieted him, then his voice became firm.

“Down, sir!  Down with you!”

This had been one of the things taught him by the master, and White Fang obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly.

“Now, mother.”

Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eyes on White Fang.

“Down!” he warned.  “Down!”

White Fang, bristling silently, half-crouching as he rose, sank back and watched the hostile act repeated.  But no harm came of it, nor of the embrace from the strange man-god that followed.  Then the clothes-bags were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth.

At the end of fifteen minutes, the carriage swung in through a stone gateway and on between a double row of arched and interlacing walnut trees.  On either side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and there by great sturdy-limbed oaks.  In the near distance, in contrast with the young-green of the tended grass, sunburnt hay-fields showed tan and gold; while beyond were the tawny hills and upland pastures.  From the head of the lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley-level, looked down the deep-porched, many-windowed house.

Little opportunity was given White Fang to see all this.  Hardly had the carriage entered the grounds, when he was set upon by a sheep-dog, bright-eyed, sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry.  It was between him and the master, cutting him off.  White Fang snarled no warning, but his hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush.  This rush was never completed.  He halted with awkward abruptness, with stiff fore-legs bracing himself against his momentum, almost sitting down on his haunches, so desirous was he of avoiding contact with the dog he was in the act of attacking.  It was a female, and the law of his kind thrust a barrier between.  For him to attack her would require nothing less than a violation of his instinct.

But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise.  Being a female, she possessed no such instinct.  On the other hand, being a sheep-dog, her instinctive fear of the Wild, and especially of the wolf, was unusually keen.  White Fang was to her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed upon her flocks from the time sheep were first herded and guarded by some dim ancestor of hers.  And so, as he abandoned his rush at her and braced himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him.  He snarled involuntarily as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made no offer to hurt her.  He backed away, stiff-legged with self-consciousness, and tried to go around her.  He dodged this way and that, and curved and turned, but to no purpose.  She remained always between him and the way he wanted to go.

“Here, Collie!” called the strange man in the carriage.

Weedon Scott laughed.

“Never mind, father.  It is good discipline.  White Fang will have to learn many things, and it’s just as well that he begins now.  He’ll adjust himself all right.”

The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang’s way.  He tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but she ran on the inner and smaller circle, and was always there, facing him with her two rows of gleaming teeth.  Back he circled, across the drive to the other lawn, and again she headed him off.

The carriage was bearing the master away.  White Fang caught glimpses of it disappearing amongst the trees.  The situation was desperate.  He essayed another circle.  She followed, running swiftly.  And then, suddenly, he turned upon her.  It was his old fighting trick.  Shoulder to shoulder, he struck her squarely.  Not only was she overthrown.  So fast had she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on her side, as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and crying shrilly her hurt pride and indignation.

White Fang did not wait.  The way was clear, and that was all he had wanted.  She took after him, never ceasing her outcry.  It was the straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could teach her things.  She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the utmost, advertising the effort she was making with every leap: and all the time White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort, gliding like a ghost over the ground.

As he rounded the house to the porte-cochère, he came upon the carriage.  It had stopped, and the master was alighting.  At this moment, still running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack from the side.  It was a deer-hound rushing upon him.  White Fang tried to face it.  But he was going too fast, and the hound was too close.  It struck him on the side; and such was his forward momentum and the unexpectedness of it, White Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled clear over.  He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, ears flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping together as the fangs barely missed the hound’s soft throat.

The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie that saved the hound’s life.  Before White Fang could spring in and deliver the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Collie arrived.  She had been out-manoeuvred and out-run, to say nothing of her having been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was like that of a tornado—made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath, and instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild.  She struck White Fang at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked off his feet and rolled over.

The next moment the master arrived, and with one hand held White Fang, while the father called off the dogs.

“I say, this is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the Arctic,” the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his caressing hand.  “In all his life he’s only been known once to go off his feet, and here he’s been rolled twice in thirty seconds.”

The carriage had driven away, and other strange gods had appeared from out the house.  Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master around the neck.  White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this act.  No harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were certainly not threatening.  These gods also made overtures