<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE LOVE-MASTER</h3>
<p>As White Fang watched Weedon Scott approach, he bristled and snarled
to advertise that he would not submit to punishment. Twenty-four
hours had passed since he had slashed open the hand that was now bandaged
and held up by a sling to keep the blood out of it. In the past
White Fang had experienced delayed punishments, and he apprehended that
such a one was about to befall him. How could it be otherwise?
He had committed what was to him sacrilege, sunk his fangs into the
holy flesh of a god, and of a white-skinned superior god at that.
In the nature of things, and of intercourse with gods, something terrible
<p>The god sat down several feet away. White Fang could see nothing
dangerous in that. When the gods administered punishment they
stood on their legs. Besides, this god had no club, no whip, no
firearm. And furthermore, he himself was free. No chain
nor stick bound him. He could escape into safety while the god
was scrambling to his feet. In the meantime he would wait and
<p>The god remained quiet, made no movement; and White Fang’s
snarl slowly dwindled to a growl that ebbed down in his throat and ceased.
Then the god spoke, and at the first sound of his voice, the hair rose
on White Fang’s neck and the growl rushed up in his throat.
But the god made no hostile movement, and went on calmly talking.
For a time White Fang growled in unison with him, a correspondence of
rhythm being established between growl and voice. But the god
talked on interminably. He talked to White Fang as White Fang
had never been talked to before. He talked softly and soothingly,
with a gentleness that somehow, somewhere, touched White Fang.
In spite of himself and all the pricking warnings of his instinct, White
Fang began to have confidence in this god. He had a feeling of
security that was belied by all his experience with men.</p>
<p>After a long time, the god got up and went into the cabin.
White Fang scanned him apprehensively when he came out. He had
neither whip nor club nor weapon. Nor was his uninjured hand behind
his back hiding something. He sat down as before, in the same
spot, several feet away. He held out a small piece of meat.
White Fang pricked his ears and investigated it suspiciously, managing
to look at the same time both at the meat and the god, alert for any
overt act, his body tense and ready to spring away at the first sign
<p>Still the punishment delayed. The god merely held near to his
nose a piece of meat. And about the meat there seemed nothing
wrong. Still White Fang suspected; and though the meat was proffered
to him with short inviting thrusts of the hand, he refused to touch
it. The gods were all-wise, and there was no telling what masterful
treachery lurked behind that apparently harmless piece of meat.
In past experience, especially in dealing with squaws, meat and punishment
had often been disastrously related.</p>
<p>In the end, the god tossed the meat on the snow at White Fang’s
feet. He smelled the meat carefully; but he did not look at it.
While he smelled it he kept his eyes on the god. Nothing happened.
He took the meat into his mouth and swallowed it. Still nothing
happened. The god was actually offering him another piece of meat.
Again he refused to take it from the hand, and again it was tossed to
him. This was repeated a number of times. But there came
a time when the god refused to toss it. He kept it in his hand
and steadfastly proffered it.</p>
<p>The meat was good meat, and White Fang was hungry. Bit by bit,
infinitely cautious, he approached the hand. At last the time
came that he decided to eat the meat from the hand. He never took
his eyes from the god, thrusting his head forward with ears flattened
back and hair involuntarily rising and cresting on his neck. Also
a low growl rumbled in his throat as warning that he was not to be trifled
with. He ate the meat, and nothing happened. Piece by piece,
he ate all the meat, and nothing happened. Still the punishment
<p>He licked his chops and waited. The god went on talking.
In his voice was kindness—something of which White Fang had no
experience whatever. And within him it aroused feelings which
he had likewise never experienced before. He was aware of a certain
strange satisfaction, as though some need were being gratified, as though
some void in his being were being filled. Then again came the
prod of his instinct and the warning of past experience. The gods
were ever crafty, and they had unguessed ways of attaining their ends.</p>
<p>Ah, he had thought so! There it came now, the god’s hand,
cunning to hurt, thrusting out at him, descending upon his head.
But the god went on talking. His voice was soft and soothing.
In spite of the menacing hand, the voice inspired confidence.
And in spite of the assuring voice, the hand inspired distrust.
White Fang was torn by conflicting feelings, impulses. It seemed
he would fly to pieces, so terrible was the control he was exerting,
holding together by an unwonted indecision the counter-forces that struggled
within him for mastery.</p>
<p>He compromised. He snarled and bristled and flattened his ears.
But he neither snapped nor sprang away. The hand descended.
Nearer and nearer it came. It touched the ends of his upstanding
hair. He shrank down under it. It followed down after him,
pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering,
he still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this
hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not
forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at the hands
of men. But it was the will of the god, and he strove to submit.</p>
<p>The hand lifted and descended again in a patting, caressing movement.
This continued, but every time the hand lifted, the hair lifted under
it. And every time the hand descended, the ears flattened down
and a cavernous growl surged in his throat. White Fang growled
and growled with insistent warning. By this means he announced
that he was prepared to retaliate for any hurt he might receive.
There was no telling when the god’s ulterior motive might be disclosed.
At any moment that soft, confidence-inspiring voice might break forth
in a roar of wrath, that gentle and caressing hand transform itself
into a vice-like grip to hold him helpless and administer punishment.</p>
<p>But the god talked on softly, and ever the hand rose and fell with
non-hostile pats. White Fang experienced dual feelings.
It was distasteful to his instinct. It restrained him, opposed
the will of him toward personal liberty. And yet it was not physically
painful. On the contrary, it was even pleasant, in a physical
way. The patting movement slowly and carefully changed to a rubbing
of the ears about their bases, and the physical pleasure even increased
a little. Yet he continued to fear, and he stood on guard, expectant
of unguessed evil, alternately suffering and enjoying as one feeling
or the other came uppermost and swayed him.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll be gosh-swoggled!”</p>
<p>So spoke Matt, coming out of the cabin, his sleeves rolled up, a
pan of dirty dish-water in his hands, arrested in the act of emptying
the pan by the sight of Weedon Scott patting White Fang.</p>
<p>At the instant his voice broke the silence, White Fang leaped back,
snarling savagely at him.</p>
<p>Matt regarded his employer with grieved disapproval.</p>
<p>“If you don’t mind my expressin’ my feelin’s,
Mr. Scott, I’ll make free to say you’re seventeen kinds
of a damn fool an’ all of ’em different, an’ then
<p>Weedon Scott smiled with a superior air, gained his feet, and walked
over to White Fang. He talked soothingly to him, but not for long,
then slowly put out his hand, rested it on White Fang’s head,
and resumed the interrupted patting. White Fang endured it, keeping
his eyes fixed suspiciously, not upon the man that patted him, but upon
the man that stood in the doorway.</p>
<p>“You may be a number one, tip-top minin’ expert, all
right all right,” the dog-musher delivered himself oracularly,
“but you missed the chance of your life when you was a boy an’
didn’t run off an’ join a circus.”</p>
<p>White Fang snarled at the sound of his voice, but this time did not
leap away from under the hand that was caressing his head and the back
of his neck with long, soothing strokes.</p>
<p>It was the beginning of the end for White Fang—the ending of
the old life and the reign of hate. A new and incomprehensibly
fairer life was dawning. It required much thinking and endless
patience on the part of Weedon Scott to accomplish this. And on
the part of White Fang it required nothing less than a revolution.
He had to ignore the urges and promptings of instinct and reason, defy
experience, give the lie to life itself.</p>
<p>Life, as he had known it, not only had had no place in it for much
that he now did; but all the currents had gone counter to those to which
he now abandoned himself. In short, when all things were considered,
he had to achieve an orientation far vaster than the one he had achieved
at the time he came voluntarily in from the Wild and accepted Grey Beaver
as his lord. At that time he was a mere puppy, soft from the making,
without form, ready for the thumb of circumstance to begin its work
upon him. But now it was different. The thumb of circumstance
had done its work only too well. By it he had been formed and
hardened into the Fighting Wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving and
unlovable. To accomplish the change was like a reflux of being,
and this when the plasticity of youth was no longer his; when the fibre
of him had become tough and knotty; when the warp and the woof of him
had made of him an adamantine texture, harsh and unyielding; when the
face of his spirit had become iron and all his instincts and axioms
had crystallised into set rules, cautions, dislikes, and desires.</p>
<p>Yet again, in this new orientation, it was the thumb of circumstance
that pressed and prodded him, softening that which had become hard and
remoulding it into fairer form. Weedon Scott was in truth this
thumb. He had gone to the roots of White Fang’s nature,
and with kindness touched to life potencies that had languished and
well-nigh perished. One such potency was <i>love</i>. It
took the place of <i>like</i>, which latter had been the highest feeling
that thrilled him in his intercourse with the gods.</p>
<p>But this love did not come in a day. It began with <i>like</i>
and out of it slowly developed. White Fang did not run away, though
he was allowed to remain loose, because he liked this new god.
This was certainly better than the life he had lived in the cage of
Beauty Smith, and it was necessary that he should have some god.
The lordship of man was a need of his nature. The seal of his
dependence on man had been set upon him in that early day when he turned
his back on the Wild and crawled to Grey Beaver’s feet to receive
the expected beating. This seal had been stamped upon him again,
and ineradicably, on his second return from the Wild, when the long
famine was over and there was fish once more in the village of Grey
<p>And so, because he needed a god and because he preferred Weedon Scott
to Beauty Smith, White Fang remained. In acknowledgment of fealty,
he proceeded to take upon himself the guardianship of his master’s
property. He prowled about the cabin while the sled-dogs slept,
and the first night-visitor to the cabin fought him off with a club
until Weedon Scott came to the rescue. But White Fang soon learned
to differentiate between thieves and honest men, to appraise the true
value of step and carriage. The man who travelled, loud-stepping,
the direct line to the cabin door, he let alone—though he watched
him vigilantly until the door opened and he received the endorsement
of the master. But the man who went softly, by circuitous ways,
peering with caution, seeking after secrecy—that was the man who
received no suspension of judgment from White Fang, and who went away
abruptly, hurriedly, and without dignity.</p>
<p>Weedon Scott had set himself the task of redeeming White Fang—or
rather, of redeeming mankind from the wrong it had done White Fang.
It was a matter of principle and conscience. He felt that the
ill done White Fang was a debt incurred by man and that it must be paid.
So he went out of his way to be especially kind to the Fighting Wolf.
Each day he made it a point to caress and pet White Fang, and to do
it at length.</p>
<p>At first suspicious and hostile, White Fang grew to like this petting.
But there was one thing that he never outgrew—his growling.
Growl he would, from the moment the petting began till it ended.
But it was a growl with a new note in it. A stranger could not
hear this note, and to such a stranger the growling of White Fang was
an exhibition of primordial savagery, nerve-racking and blood-curdling.
But White Fang’s throat had become harsh-fibred from the making
of ferocious sounds through the many years since his first little rasp
of anger in the lair of his cubhood, and he could not soften the sounds
of that throat now to express the gentleness he felt. Nevertheless,
Weedon Scott’s ear and sympathy were fine enough to catch the
new note all but drowned in the fierceness—the note that was the
faintest hint of a croon of content and that none but he could hear.</p>
<p>As the days went by, the evolution of <i>like</i> into <i>love</i>
was accelerated. White Fang himself began to grow aware of it,
though in his consciousness he knew not what love was. It manifested
itself to him as a void in his being—a hungry, aching, yearning
void that clamoured to be filled. It was a pain and an unrest;
and it received easement only by the touch of the new god’s presence.
At such times love was joy to him, a wild, keen-thrilling satisfaction.
But when away from his god, the pain and the unrest returned; the void
in him sprang up and pressed against him with its emptiness, and the
hunger gnawed and gnawed unceasingly.</p>
<p>White Fang was in the process of finding himself. In spite
of the maturity of his years and of the savage rigidity of the mould
that had formed him, his nature was undergoing an expansion. There
was a burgeoning within him of strange feelings and unwonted impulses.
His old code of conduct was changing. In the past he had liked
comfort and surcease from pain, disliked discomfort and pain, and he
had adjusted his actions accordingly. But now it was different.
Because of this new feeling within him, he ofttimes elected discomfort
and pain for the sake of his god. Thus, in the early morning,
instead of roaming and foraging, or lying in a sheltered nook, he would
wait for hours on the cheerless cabin-stoop for a sight of the god’s
face. At night, when the god returned home, White Fang would leave
the warm sleeping-place he had burrowed in the snow in order to receive
the friendly snap of fingers and the word of greeting. Meat, even
meat itself, he would forego to be with his god, to receive a caress
from him or to accompany him down into the town.</p>
<p><i>Like</i> had been replaced by <i>love</i>. And love was
the plummet dropped down into the deeps of him where like had never
gone. And responsive out of his deeps had come the new thing—love.
That which was given unto him did he return. This was a god indeed,
a love-god, a warm and radiant god, in whose light White Fang’s
nature expanded as a flower expands under the sun.</p>
<p>But White Fang was not demonstrative. He was too old, too firmly
moulded, to become adept at expressing himself in new ways. He
was too self-possessed, too strongly poised in his own isolation.
Too long had he cultivated reticence, aloofness, and moroseness.
He had never barked in his life, and he could not now learn to bark
a welcome when his god approached. He was never in the way, never
extravagant nor foolish in the expression of his love. He never
ran to meet his god. He waited at a distance; but he always waited,
was always there. His love partook of the nature of worship, dumb,
inarticulate, a silent adoration. Only by the steady regard of
his eyes did he express his love, and by the unceasing following with
his eyes of his god’s every movement. Also, at times, when
his god looked at him and spoke to him, he betrayed an awkward self-consciousness,
caused by the struggle of his love to express itself and his physical
inability to express it.</p>
<p>He learned to adjust himself in many ways to his new mode of life.
It was borne in upon him that he must let his master’s dogs alone.
Yet his dominant nature asserted itself, and he had first to thrash
them into an acknowledgment of his superiority and leadership.
This accomplished, he had little trouble with them. They gave
trail to him when he came and went or walked among them, and when he
asserted his will they obeyed.</p>
<p>In the same way, he came to tolerate Matt—as a possession of
his master. His master rarely fed him. Matt did that, it
was his business; yet White Fang divined that it was his master’s
food he ate and that it was his master who thus fed him vicariously.
Matt it was who tried to put him into the harness and make him haul
sled with the other dogs. But Matt failed. It was not until
Weedon Scott put the harness on White Fang and worked him, that he understood.
He took it as his master’s will that Matt should drive him and
work him just as he drove and worked his master’s other dogs.</p>
<p>Different from the Mackenzie toboggans were the Klondike sleds with
runners under them. And different was the method of driving the
dogs. There was no fan-formation of the team. The dogs worked
in single file, one behind another, hauling on double traces.
And here, in the Klondike, the leader was indeed the leader. The
wisest as well as strongest dog was the leader, and the team obeyed
him and feared him. That White Fang should quickly gain this post
was inevitable. He could not be satisfied with less, as Matt learned
after much inconvenience and trouble. White Fang picked out the
post for himself, and Matt backed his judgment with strong language
after the experiment had been tried. But, though he worked in
the sled in the day, White Fang did not forego the guarding of his master’s
property in the night. Thus he was on duty all the time, ever
vigilant and faithful, the most valuable of all the dogs.</p>
<p>“Makin’ free to spit out what’s in me,” Matt
said one day, “I beg to state that you was a wise guy all right
when you paid the price you did for that dog. You clean swindled
Beauty Smith on top of pushin’ his face in with your fist.”</p>
<p>A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Scott’s grey eyes,
and he muttered savagely, “The beast!”</p>
<p>In the late spring a great trouble came to White Fang. Without
warning, the love-master disappeared. There had been warning,
but White Fang was unversed in such things and did not understand the
packing of a grip. He remembered afterwards that his packing had
preceded the master’s disappearance; but at the time he suspected
nothing. That night he waited for the master to return.
At midnight the chill wind that blew drove him to shelter at the rear
of the cabin. There he drowsed, only half asleep, his ears keyed
for the first sound of the familiar step. But, at two in the morning,
his anxiety drove him out to the cold front stoop, where he crouched,
<p>But no master came. In the morning the door opened and Matt
stepped outside. White Fang gazed at him wistfully. There
was no common speech by which he might learn what he wanted to know.
The days came and went, but never the master. White Fang, who
had never known sickness in his life, became sick. He became very
sick, so sick that Matt was finally compelled to bring him inside the
cabin. Also, in writing to his employer, Matt devoted a postscript
to White Fang.</p>
<p>Weedon Scott reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon the
<p>“That dam wolf won’t work. Won’t eat.
Aint got no spunk left. All the dogs is licking him. Wants
to know what has become of you, and I don’t know how to tell him.
Mebbe he is going to die.”</p>
<p>It was as Matt had said. White Fang had ceased eating, lost
heart, and allowed every dog of the team to thrash him. In the
cabin he lay on the floor near the stove, without interest in food,
in Matt, nor in life. Matt might talk gently to him or swear at
him, it was all the same; he never did more than turn his dull eyes
upon the man, then drop his head back to its customary position on his
<p>And then, one night, Matt, reading to himself with moving lips and
mumbled sounds, was startled by a low whine from White Fang. He
had got upon his feet, his ears cocked towards the door, and he was
listening intently. A moment later, Matt heard a footstep.
The door opened, and Weedon Scott stepped in. The two men shook
hands. Then Scott looked around the room.</p>
<p>“Where’s the wolf?” he asked.</p>
<p>Then he discovered him, standing where he had been lying, near to
the stove. He had not rushed forward after the manner of other
dogs. He stood, watching and waiting.</p>
<p>“Holy smoke!” Matt exclaimed. “Look at ’m
wag his tail!”</p>
<p>Weedon Scott strode half across the room toward him, at the same
time calling him. White Fang came to him, not with a great bound,
yet quickly. He was awakened from self-consciousness, but as he
drew near, his eyes took on a strange expression. Something, an
incommunicable vastness of feeling, rose up into his eyes as a light
and shone forth.</p>
<p>“He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone!”
<p>Weedon Scott did not hear. He was squatting down on his heels,
face to face with White Fang and petting him—rubbing at the roots
of the ears, making long caressing strokes down the neck to the shoulders,
tapping the spine gently with the balls of his fingers. And White
Fang was growling responsively, the crooning note of the growl more
pronounced than ever.</p>
<p>But that was not all. What of his joy, the great love in him,
ever surging and struggling to express itself, succeeding in finding
a new mode of expression. He suddenly thrust his head forward
and nudged his way in between the master’s arm and body.
And here, confined, hidden from view all except his ears, no longer
growling, he continued to nudge and snuggle.</p>
<p>The two men looked at each other. Scott’s eyes were shining.</p>
<p>“Gosh!” said Matt in an awe-stricken voice.</p>
<p>A moment later, when he had recovered himself, he said, “I
always insisted that wolf was a dog. Look at ’m!”</p>
<p>With the return of the love-master, White Fang’s recovery was
rapid. Two nights and a day he spent in the cabin. Then
he sallied forth. The sled-dogs had forgotten his prowess.
They remembered only the latest, which was his weakness and sickness.
At the sight of him as he came out of the cabin, they sprang upon him.</p>
<p>“Talk about your rough-houses,” Matt murmured gleefully,
standing in the doorway and looking on.</p>
<p>“Give ’m hell, you wolf! Give ’m hell!—an’
<p>White Fang did not need the encouragement. The return of the
love-master was enough. Life was flowing through him again, splendid
and indomitable. He fought from sheer joy, finding in it an expression
of much that he felt and that otherwise was without speech. There
could be but one ending. The team dispersed in ignominious defeat,
and it was not until after dark that the dogs came sneaking back, one
by one, by meekness and humility signifying their fealty to White Fang.</p>
<p>Having learned to snuggle, White Fang was guilty of it often.
It was the final word. He could not go beyond it. The one
thing of which he had always been particularly jealous was his head.
He had always disliked to have it touched. It was the Wild in
him, the fear of hurt and of the trap, that had given rise to the panicky
impulses to avoid contacts. It was the mandate of his instinct
that that head must be free. And now, with the love-master, his
snuggling was the deliberate act of putting himself into a position
of hopeless helplessness. It was an expression of perfect confidence,
of absolute self-surrender, as though he said: “I put myself into
thy hands. Work thou thy will with me.”</p>
<p>One night, not long after the return, Scott and Matt sat at a game
of cribbage preliminary to going to bed. “Fifteen-two, fifteen-four
an’ a pair makes six,” Mat was pegging up, when there was
an outcry and sound of snarling without. They looked at each other
as they started to rise to their feet.</p>
<p>“The wolf’s nailed somebody,” Matt said.</p>
<p>A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them.</p>
<p>“Bring a light!” Scott shouted, as he sprang outside.</p>
<p>Matt followed with the lamp, and by its light they saw a man lying
on his back in the snow. His arms were folded, one above the other,
across his face and throat. Thus he was trying to shield himself
from White Fang’s teeth. And there was need for it.
White Fang was in a rage, wickedly making his attack on the most vulnerable
spot. From shoulder to wrist of the crossed arms, the coat-sleeve,
blue flannel shirt and undershirt were ripped in rags, while the arms
themselves were terribly slashed and streaming blood.</p>
<p>All this the two men saw in the first instant. The next instant
Weedon Scott had White Fang by the throat and was dragging him clear.
White Fang struggled and snarled, but made no attempt to bite, while
he quickly quieted down at a sharp word from the master.</p>
<p>Matt helped the man to his feet. As he arose he lowered his
crossed arms, exposing the bestial face of Beauty Smith. The dog-musher
let go of him precipitately, with action similar to that of a man who
has picked up live fire. Beauty Smith blinked in the lamplight
and looked about him. He caught sight of White Fang and terror
rushed into his face.</p>
<p>At the same moment Matt noticed two objects lying in the snow.
He held the lamp close to them, indicating them with his toe for his
employer’s benefit—a steel dog-chain and a stout club.</p>
<p>Weedon Scott saw and nodded. Not a word was spoken. The
dog-musher laid his hand on Beauty Smith’s shoulder and faced
him to the right about. No word needed to be spoken. Beauty
<p>In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking
<p>“Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn’t have
it! Well, well, he made a mistake, didn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Must ‘a’ thought he had hold of seventeen devils,”
the dog-musher sniggered.</p>
<p>White Fang, still wrought up and bristling, growled and growled,
the hair slowly lying down, the crooning note remote and dim, but growing
in his throat.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />