CHAPTER IV

THE CALL OF KIND



The months came and went. There was plenty of food and no work in

the Southland, and White Fang lived fat and prosperous and happy.

Not alone was he in the geographical Southland, for he was in the

Southland of life. Human kindness was like a sun shining upon him,

and he flourished like a flower planted in good soil.



And yet he remained somehow different from other dogs. He knew the

law even better than did the dogs that had known no other life, and

he observed the law more punctiliously; but still there was about

him a suggestion of lurking ferocity, as though the Wild still

lingered in him and the wolf in him merely slept.



He never chummed with other dogs. Lonely he had lived, so far as

his kind was concerned, and lonely he would continue to live. In

his puppyhood, under the persecution of Lip-lip and the puppy-pack,

and in his fighting days with Beauty Smith, he had acquired a fixed

aversion for dogs. The natural course of his life had been

diverted, and, recoiling from his kind, he had clung to the human.



Besides, all Southland dogs looked upon him with suspicion. He

aroused in them their instinctive fear of the Wild, and they

greeted him always with snarl and growl and belligerent hatred.

He, on the other hand, learned that it was not necessary to use his

teeth upon them. His naked fangs and writhing lips were uniformly

efficacious, rarely failing to send a bellowing on-rushing dog back

on its haunches.



But there was one trial in White Fang's life - Collie. She never

gave him a moment's peace. She was not so amenable to the law as

he. She defied all efforts of the master to make her become

friends with White Fang. Ever in his ears was sounding her sharp

and nervous snarl. She had never forgiven him the chicken-killing

episode, and persistently held to the belief that his intentions

were bad. She found him guilty before the act, and treated him

accordingly. She became a pest to him, like a policeman following

him around the stable and the hounds, and, if he even so much as

glanced curiously at a pigeon or chicken, bursting into an outcry

of indignation and wrath. His favourite way of ignoring her was to

lie down, with his head on his fore-paws, and pretend sleep. This

always dumfounded and silenced her.



With the exception of Collie, all things went well with White Fang.

He had learned control and poise, and he knew the law. He achieved

a staidness, and calmness, and philosophic tolerance. He no longer

lived in a hostile environment. Danger and hurt and death did not

lurk everywhere about him. In time, the unknown, as a thing of

terror and menace ever impending, faded away. Life was soft and

easy. It flowed along smoothly, and neither fear nor foe lurked by

the way.



He missed the snow without being aware of it. "An unduly long

summer," would have been his thought had he thought about it; as it

was, he merely missed the snow in a vague, subconscious way. In

the same fashion, especially in the heat of summer when he suffered

from the sun, he experienced faint longings for the Northland.

Their only effect upon him, however, was to make him uneasy and

restless without his knowing what was the matter.



White Fang had never been very demonstrative. Beyond his snuggling

and the throwing of a crooning note into his love-growl, he had no

way of expressing his love. Yet it was given him to discover a

third way. He had always been susceptible to the laughter of the

gods. Laughter had affected him with madness, made him frantic

with rage. But he did not have it in him to be angry with the

love-master, and when that god elected to laugh at him in a good-

natured, bantering way, he was nonplussed. He could feel the

pricking and stinging of the old anger as it strove to rise up in

him, but it strove against love. He could not be angry; yet he had

to do something. At first he was dignified, and the master laughed

the harder. Then he tried to be more dignified, and the master

laughed harder than before. In the end, the master laughed him out

of his dignity. His jaws slightly parted, his lips lifted a

little, and a quizzical expression that was more love than humour

came into his eyes. He had learned to laugh.



Likewise he learned to romp with the master, to be tumbled down and

rolled over, and be the victim of innumerable rough tricks. In

return he feigned anger, bristling and growling ferociously, and

clipping his teeth together in snaps that had all the seeming of

deadly intention. But he never forgot himself. Those snaps were

always delivered on the empty air. At the end of such a romp, when

blow and cuff and snap and snarl were last and furious, they would

break off suddenly and stand several feet apart, glaring at each

other. And then, just as suddenly, like the sun rising on a stormy

sea, they would begin to laugh. This would always culminate with

the master's arms going around White Fang's neck and shoulders

while the latter crooned and growled his love-song.



But nobody else ever romped with White Fang. He did not permit it.

He stood on his dignity, and when they attempted it, his warning

snarl and bristling mane were anything but playful. That he

allowed the master these liberties was no reason that he should be

a common dog, loving here and loving there, everybody's property

for a romp and good time. He loved with single heart and refused

to cheapen himself or his love.



The master went out on horseback a great deal, and to accompany him

was one of White Fang's chief duties in life. In the Northland he

had evidenced his fealty by toiling in the harness; but there were

no sleds in the Southland, nor did dogs pack burdens on their

backs. So he rendered fealty in the new way, by running with the

master's horse. The longest day never played White Fang out. His

was the gait of the wolf, smooth, tireless and effortless, and at

the end of fifty miles he would come in jauntily ahead of the horse.



It was in connection with the riding, that White Fang achieved one

other mode of expression - remarkable in that he did it but twice

in all his life. The first time occurred when the master was

trying to teach a spirited thoroughbred the method of opening and

closing gates without the rider's dismounting. Time and again and

many times he ranged the horse up to the gate in the effort to

close it and each time the horse became frightened and backed and

plunged away. It grew more nervous and excited every moment. When

it reared, the master put the spurs to it and made it drop its

fore-legs back to earth, whereupon it would begin kicking with its

hind-legs. White Fang watched the performance with increasing

anxiety until he could contain himself no longer, when he sprang in

front of the horse and barked savagely and warningly.



Though he often tried to bark thereafter, and the master encouraged

him, he succeeded only once, and then it was not in the master's

presence. A scamper across the pasture, a jackrabbit rising

suddenly under the horse's feet, a violent sheer, a stumble, a fall

to earth, and a broken leg for the master, was the cause of it.

White Fang sprang in a rage at the throat of the offending horse,

but was checked by the master's voice.



"Home! Go home!" the master commanded when he had ascertained his

injury.



White Fang was disinclined to desert him. The master thought of

writing a note, but searched his pockets vainly for pencil and

paper. Again he commanded White Fang to go home.



The latter regarded him wistfully, started away, then returned and

whined softly. The master talked to him gently but seriously, and

he cocked his ears, and listened with painful intentness.



"That's all right, old fellow, you just run along home," ran the

talk. "Go on home and tell them what's happened to me. Home with

you, you wolf. Get along home!"



White Fang knew the meaning of "home," and though he did not

understand the remainder of the master's language, he knew it was

his will that he should go home. He turned and trotted reluctantly

away. Then he stopped, undecided, and looked back over his shoulder.



"Go home!" came the sharp command, and this time he obeyed.



The family was on the porch, taking the cool of the afternoon, when

White Fang arrived. He came in among them, panting, covered with

dust.



"Weedon's back," Weedon's mother announced.



The children welcomed White Fang with glad cries and ran to meet

him. He avoided them and passed down the porch, but they cornered

him against a rocking-chair and the railing. He growled and tried

to push by them. Their mother looked apprehensively in their direction.



"I confess, he makes me nervous around the children," she said. "I

have a dread that he will turn upon them unexpectedly some day."



Growling savagely, White Fang sprang out of the corner, overturning

the boy and the girl. The mother called them to her and comforted

them, telling them not to bother White Fang.



"A wolf is a wolf!" commented Judge Scott. "There is no trusting

one."



"But he is not all wolf," interposed Beth, standing for her brother

in his absence.



"You have only Weedon's opinion for that," rejoined the judge. "He

merely surmises that there is some strain of dog in White Fang; but

as he will tell you himself, he knows nothing about it. As for his

appearance - "



He did not finish his sentence. White Fang stood before him,

growling fiercely.



"Go away! Lie down, sir!" Judge Scott commanded.



White Fang turned to the love-master's wife. She screamed with

fright as he seized her dress in his teeth and dragged on it till

the frail fabric tore away. By this time he had become the centre

of interest.



He had ceased from his growling and stood, head up, looking into

their faces. His throat worked spasmodically, but made no sound,

while he struggled with all his body, convulsed with the effort to

rid himself of the incommunicable something that strained for

utterance.



"I hope he is not going mad," said Weedon's mother. "I told Weedon

that I was afraid the warm climate would not agree with an Arctic

animal."



"He's trying to speak, I do believe," Beth announced.



At this moment speech came to White Fang, rushing up in a great

burst of barking.



"Something has happened to Weedon," his wife said decisively.



They were all on their feet now, and White Fang ran down the steps,

looking back for them to follow. For the second and last time in

his life he had barked and made himself understood.



After this event he found a warmer place in the hearts of the

Sierra Vista people, and even the groom whose arm he had slashed

admitted that he was a wise dog even if he was a wolf. Judge Scott

still held to the same opinion, and proved it to everybody's

dissatisfaction by measurements and descriptions taken from the

encyclopaedia and various works on natural history.



The days came and went, streaming their unbroken sunshine over the

Santa Clara Valley. But as they grew shorter and White Fang's

second winter in the Southland came on, he made a strange

discovery. Collie's teeth were no longer sharp. There was a

playfulness about her nips and a gentleness that prevented them

from really hurting him. He forgot that she had made life a burden

to him, and when she disported herself around him he responded

solemnly, striving to be playful and becoming no more than ridiculous.



One day she led him off on a long chase through the back-pasture

land into the woods. It was the afternoon that the master was to

ride, and White Fang knew it. The horse stood saddled and waiting

at the door. White Fang hesitated. But there was that in him

deeper than all the law he had learned, than the customs that had

moulded him, than his love for the master, than the very will to

live of himself; and when, in the moment of his indecision, Collie

nipped him and scampered off, he turned and followed after. The

master rode alone that day; and in the woods, side by side, White

Fang ran with Collie, as his mother, Kiche, and old One Eye had run

long years before in the silent Northland forest.

****

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