The spring of the year was at hand when Gray Beaver finished his long journey.It was April, and White Fang was a year old when he pulled into the home village and was loosed from the harness by Mit-sah.Though a long way from his full growth, White Fang, next to Lip-lip, was the largest yearling in the village.Both from his father, the wolf, and from Kiche, he had inherited stature and strength, and already he was measuring up alongside the full-grown dogs.But he had not yet grown compact.His body was slender and rangy, and his strength more stringy than massive.His coat was the true wolf-gray, and to all appearances he was true wolf himself.
The quarter-strain of dog he had inherited from Kiche had left no mark on him physically, though it played its part in his mental make-up.
He wandered through the village, recognizing with staid satisfaction the various gods he had known before the long journey.Then there were the dogs, puppies growing up like himself, and grown dogs that did not look so large and formidable as the memory-pictures he retained of them.
Also, he stood less in fear of them than formerly, stalking among them with a certain careless ease that was as new to him as it was enjoyable.
There was Baseek, a grizzled old fellow that in his younger days had but to uncover his fangs to send White Fang cringing and crouching to the right-about.From him White Fang had learned much of his own insignificance;and from him he was now to learn much of the change and development that had taken place in himself.While Baseek had been growing weaker with age, White Fang had been growing stronger with youth.
It was at the cutting-up of a moose, fresh-killed, that White Fang learned of the changed relations in which he stood to the dog-world.He had got for himself a hoof and part of the shin-bone, to which quite a bit of meat was attached.Withdrawn from the immediate scramble of the other dogs, -- in fact, out of sight behind a thicket, -- he was devouring his prize, when Baseek rushed in upon him.Before he knew what he was doing, he had slashed the intruder twice and sprung clear.Baseek was surprised by the other's temerity and swiftness of attack.He stood, gazing stupidly across at White Fang, the raw, red shin-bone between them.
Baseek was old, and already he had come to know the increasing valor of the dogs it had been his wont to bully.Bitter experiences these, which, perforce, he swallowed, calling upon all his wisdom to cope with them.
In the old days, he would have sprung upon White Fang in a fury of righteous wrath.But now his waning powers would not permit such a course.He bristled fiercely and looked ominously across the shin-bone at White Fang.And White Fang, resurrecting quite a deal of the old awe, seemed to wilt and to shrink in upon himself and grow small, as he cast about in his mind for a way to beat a retreat not too inglorious.
And right here Baseek erred.Had he contented himself with looking fierce and ominous, all would have been well.White Fang, on the verge of retreat, would have retreated, leaving the meat to him.But Baseek did not wait.
He considered the victory already his and stepped forward to the meat.
As he bent his head carelessly to smell it, White Fang bristled slightly.
Even then it was not too late for Baseek to retrieve the situation.Had he merely stood over the meat, head up and glowering, White Fang would ultimately have slunk away.But the fresh meat was strong in Baseek's nostrils, and greed urged him to take a bite of it.
This was too much for White Fang.Fresh upon his months of mastery over his own team-mates, it was beyond his self-control to stand idly by while another devoured the meat that belonged to him.He struck, after his custom, without warning.With the first slash, Baseek's right ear was ripped into ribbons.He was astounded at the suddenness of it.But more things, and most grievous ones, were happening with equal suddenness.He was knocked off his feet.His throat was bitten.While he was struggling to his feet the young dog sank teeth twice into his shoulder.The swiftness of it was bewildering.He made a futile rush at White Fang, clipping the empty air with an outraged snap.The next moment his nose was laid open and he was staggering backward away from the meat.
The situation was now reversed.White Fang stood over the shin-bone, bristling and menacing, while Baseek stood a little way off, preparing to retreat.He dared not risk a fight with this young lightning-flash, and again he knew, and more bitterly, the enfeeblement of oncoming age.
His attempt to maintain his dignity was heroic.Calmly turning his back upon young dog and shin-bone, as though both were beneath his notice and unworthy of consideration, he stalked grandly away.Nor, until well out of sight, did he stop to lick his bleeding wounds.
The effect on White Fang was to give him a greater faith in himself, and a greater pride.He walked less softly among the grown dogs; his attitude toward them was less compromising.Not that he went out of his way looking for trouble.Far from it.But upon his way he demanded consideration.He stood upon his right to go his way unmolested and to give trail to no dog.
He had to be taken into account, that was all.He was no longer to be disregarded and ignored, as was the lot of puppies and as continued to be the lot of the puppies that were his team-mates.They got out of the way, gave trail to the grown dogs, and gave up meat to them under compulsion.But White Fang, uncompanionable, solitary, morose, scarcely looking to right or left, redoubtable, forbidding of aspect, remote and alien, was accepted as an equal by his puzzled elders.They quickly learned to leave him alone, neither venturing hostile acts nor making overtures of friendliness.If they left him alone, he left them alone -- a state of affairs that they found, after a few encounters, to be pre minently desirable.
