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White Fang, Version 2

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<h3>CHAPTER II—THE BONDAGE</h3> The days were thronged with experience for White Fang.  During the time that Kiche was tied by the stick, he ran about over all the camp, inquiring, investigating, learning.  He quickly came to know much of the ways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed contempt.  The more he came to know them, the more they vindicated their superiority, the more they displayed their mysterious powers, the greater loomed their god-likeness. To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrown and his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to crouch at man’s feet, this grief has never come.  Unlike man, whose gods are of the unseen and the overguessed, vapours and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible out-croppings of self into the realm of spirit—unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to the fire find their gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring 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 will can possibly induce disbelief in such a god.  There is no getting away from it.  There it stands, on its two hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh. And so it was with White Fang.  The man-animals were gods unmistakable and unescapable.  As his mother, Kiche, had rendered her allegiance to them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning to render his allegiance.  He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitably theirs.  When they walked, he got out of their way.  When they called, he came.  When they threatened, he cowered down.  When they commanded him to go, he went away hurriedly.  For behind any wish of theirs was power to enforce that wish, power that hurt, power that expressed itself in clouts and clubs, in flying stones and stinging lashes of whips. He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to them.  His actions were theirs 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 own nature; and, while he disliked it in the learning of it, unknown to himself he 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 was compensation, for it is always easier to lean upon another than to stand alone. But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body and soul, to the man-animals.  He could not immediately forego his wild heritage and his memories of the Wild.  There were days when he crept to the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him far and away.  And always he returned, restless and uncomfortable, to whimper 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 the injustice and greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be eaten.  He came to know that men were more just, children more cruel, and women more kindly and more likely to toss him a bit of meat or bone.  And after two or three painful adventures with the mothers of part-grown puppies, he came into the knowledge that it was always good policy to let such mothers alone, to keep away from them as far as possible, and to avoid them when he saw them coming. But the bane of his life was Lip-lip.  Larger, older, and stronger, Lip-lip had selected White Fang for his special object of persecution.  While Fang fought willingly enough, but he was outclassed.  His enemy was too big.  Lip-lip became a nightmare to him.  Whenever he ventured away from his mother, the bully was sure to appear, trailing at his heels, snarling at him, picking upon him, and watchful of an opportunity, when no man-animal was 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 White Fang’s chief torment. But the effect upon White Fang was not to cow him.  Though he suffered most of the damage and was always defeated, his spirit remained unsubdued.  Yet a bad effect was produced.  He became malignant and morose.  His temper had been savage by birth, but it became more savage under this unending persecution.  The genial, playful, puppyish side of him found little expression.  He never played and gambolled about with the other puppies of the camp.  Lip-lip would not permit it.  The moment White Fang appeared near them, Lip-lip was upon him, bullying and hectoring him, or fighting with him until he had driven him away. The effect of all this was to rob White Fang of much of his puppyhood and to make him in his comportment older than his age.  Denied the outlet, through play, of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and developed his mental processes.  He became cunning; he had idle time in which to devote himself to thoughts of trickery.  Prevented from obtaining his share of meat and fish when a general feed was given to the camp-dogs, he became a clever thief.  He had to forage for himself, and he foraged well, though he was oft-times a plague to the squaws in consequence.  He learned to sneak about camp, to be crafty, to know what was going on everywhere, to see and to hear everything and to reason accordingly, and successfully to devise ways and means of avoiding his implacable persecutor. It was early in the days of his persecution that he played his first really big 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 of men, so White Fang, in manner somewhat similar, lured Lip-lip into Kiche’s avenging jaws.  Retreating before Lip-lip, White Fang made an indirect flight that led in and out and around the various tepees of the camp.  He was a good runner, swifter than any puppy of his size, and swifter than Lip-lip.  But he did not run his best in this chase.  He barely held his own, one leap ahead of his pursuer. Lip-lip, excited by the chase and by the persistent nearness of his victim, forgot caution and locality.  When he remembered locality, it was too late.  Dashing at top speed around a tepee, he ran full tilt into Kiche lying at the end of her stick.  He gave one yelp of consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him.  She was tied, but he could not get away 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 standing out all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled.  He stood where he had arisen, opened his mouth, and broke out the long, heart-broken puppy wail.  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 no fight left in Lip-lip, and he ran away shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and worrying him all the way back to his own tepee.  Here the squaws 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 her running away was past, released Kiche.  White Fang was delighted with his mother’s freedom.  He accompanied her joyfully about the camp; and, so long 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-lip ignored the challenge.  He was no fool himself, and whatever vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait until he caught White Fang alone. Later on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed into the edge of the woods next to the camp.  He had led his mother there, step by step, and now 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.  He ran on a few steps, stopped, and looked back.  She had not moved.  He whined pleadingly, and scurried playfully in and out of the underbrush.  He ran back to her, licked her face, and ran on again.  And still she did not move.  He stopped and regarded her, all of an intentness and eagerness, physically expressed, that slowly faded out of him as she turned her head and gazed back at the camp. There was something calling to him out there in the open.  His mother heard it too.  But she heard also that other and louder call, the call of the fire and of man—the call which has been given alone of all animals to the wolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are brothers. Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp.  Stronger than the physical restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her.  Unseen and occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would not let her go.  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 either of man or of the Wild was the call of his mother.  All the hours of his short life 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, to sit down and whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in the depths of the forest. In the Wild the time of a mother with her young is short; but under the dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter.  Thus it was with White Fang.  Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles.  Three Eagles was going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake.  A strip of scarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay the debt.  White Fang saw his mother taken aboard Three Eagles’ canoe, and tried to follow her.  A blow from Three Eagles knocked him backward to the 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 wrathfully launched a canoe in pursuit.  When he overtook White Fang, he reached down and by the nape of the neck lifted him clear of the water.  He did not deposit him at once in the bottom of the canoe.  Holding him suspended with 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 to hurt; and he delivered a multitude of blows. Impelled by the blows that rained upon him, now from this side, now from that, White Fang swung back and forth like an erratic and jerky pendulum.  Varying were the emotions that surged through him.  At first, he had known surprise.  Then came a momentary fear, when he yelped several times to the impact of the hand.  But this was quickly followed by anger.  His free nature asserted itself, and he showed his teeth and snarled fearlessly in the face of the wrathful god.  This but served to make the god more wrathful.  The blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd to hurt. Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl.  But this could not last for ever.  One or the other must give over, and that one was White Fang.  Fear surged through him again.  For the first time he was being really man-handled.  The occasional blows of sticks and stones he had previously experienced were as caresses compared with this.  He broke down and began to cry and yelp.  For a time each blow brought a yelp from him; but fear passed into terror, until finally his yelps were voiced in unbroken 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 down roughly in the bottom of the canoe.  In the meantime the canoe had drifted down the stream.  Grey Beaver picked up the paddle.  White Fang was in his way.  He spurned him savagely with his foot.  In that moment White Fang’s free nature flashed forth again, and he sank his teeth into the moccasined foot. The beating that had gone before was as nothing compared with the beating he now received.  Grey Beaver’s wrath was terrible; likewise was White Fang’s fright.  Not only the hand, but the hard wooden paddle was used upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body when he was again flung down in the canoe.  Again, and this time with purpose, did Grey 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 the circumstance, must he dare to bite the god who was lord and master over him; the body of the lord and master was sacred, not to be defiled by the teeth of such as he.  That was evidently the crime of crimes, the one offence there was no condoning nor overlooking. When the canoe touched the shore, White Fang lay whimpering and motionless, waiting the will of Grey Beaver.  It was Grey Beaver’s will that he should go ashore, for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on his side and hurting his bruises afresh.  He crawled tremblingly to his feet and stood whimpering.  Lip-lip, who had watched the whole proceeding from the bank, now rushed upon him, knocking him over and sinking his teeth into him.  White Fang was too helpless to defend himself, and it would have 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 dozen feet away.  This was the man-animal’s justice; and even then, in his own pitiable plight, White Fang experienced a little grateful thrill.  At Grey Beaver’s heels he limped obediently through the village to the tepee.  And so it came that White Fang learned that the right to punish was something the gods reserved for themselves and denied to the lesser creatures under them. That night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother and sorrowed for her.  He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Grey Beaver, who beat him.  After that he mourned gently when the gods were around.  But sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave vent to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings. It was during this period that he might have harkened to the memories of the lair and the stream and run back to the Wild.  But the memory of his mother held him.  As the hunting man-animals went out and came back, so she would come back to the village some time.  So he remained in his bondage waiting for her. But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage.  There was much to interest him.  Something was always happening.  There was no end to the strange 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 he escaped beatings and his existence was tolerated. Nay, Grey Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a piece of meat, and defended him against the other dogs in the eating of it.  And such a piece of meat was of value.  It was worth more, in some strange way, then a dozen pieces of meat from the hand of a squaw.  Grey Beaver never petted nor caressed.  Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his justice, perhaps the sheer power of him, and perhaps it was all these things that influenced White Fang; for a certain tie of attachment was forming between him and his surly lord. Insidiously, and by remote ways, as well as by the power of stick and stone and clout of hand, were the shackles of White Fang’s bondage being riveted upon him.  The qualities in his kind that in the beginning made it possible for them to come in to the fires of men, were qualities capable of development.  They were developing in him, and the camp-life, replete with misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself to him all the time.  But White 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 been his. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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