White Fang by Jack London (read the beginning after the end novel txt) 📕

The cub had never seen man, yet the instinct concerning man was his.  In dim ways he recognised in man the animal that had fought itself to primacy over the other animals of the Wild.  Not alone out of his own eyes, but out of the eyes of all his ancestors was the cub now looking upon man—out of eyes that had circled in the darkness around countless winter camp-fires, that had peered from safe distances and from the hearts of thickets at the strange, two-legged animal that was lord over living things.  The spell of the cub’s heritage was upon him, the fear and the respect born of the centuries of struggle and the accumulated experience of the generations.  The heritage was too compelling for a wolf that was only a cub.  Had he been full-grown, he would have run away.  As it was, he cowered down in a paralysis of fear, already half proffering the submission that his kind had proffered from the first time a wolf came in to sit by man’s fire and be made warm.

One of the Indians arose and walked over to him and stooped above him.  The cub cowered closer to the ground.  It was the unknown, objectified at last, in concrete flesh and blood, bending over him and reaching down to seize hold of him.  His hair bristled involuntarily; his lips writhed back and his little fangs were bared.  The hand, poised like doom above him, hesitated, and the man spoke laughing, “Wabam wabisca ip pit tah.”  (“Look!  The white fangs!”)

The other Indians laughed loudly, and urged the man on to pick up the cub.  As the hand descended closer and closer, there raged within the cub a battle of the instincts.  He experienced two great impulsions—to yield and to fight.  The resulting action was a compromise.  He did both.  He yielded till the hand almost touched him.  Then he fought, his teeth flashing in a snap that sank them into the hand.  The next moment he received a clout alongside the head that knocked him over on his side.  Then all fight fled out of him.  His puppyhood and the instinct of submission took charge of him.  He sat up on his haunches and ki-yi’d.  But the man whose hand he had bitten was angry.  The cub received a clout on the other side of his head.  Whereupon he sat up and ki-yi’d louder than ever.

The four Indians laughed more loudly, while even the man who had been bitten began to laugh.  They surrounded the cub and laughed at him, while he wailed out his terror and his hurt.  In the midst of it, he heard something.  The Indians heard it too.  But the cub knew what it was, and with a last, long wail that had in it more of triumph than grief, he ceased his noise and waited for the coming of his mother, of his ferocious and indomitable mother who fought and killed all things and was never afraid.  She was snarling as she ran.  She had heard the cry of her cub and was dashing to save him.

She bounded in amongst them, her anxious and militant motherhood making her anything but a pretty sight.  But to the cub the spectacle of her protective rage was pleasing.  He uttered a glad little cry and bounded to meet her, while the man-animals went back hastily several steps.  The she-wolf stood over against her cub, facing the men, with bristling hair, a snarl rumbling deep in her throat.  Her face was distorted and malignant with menace, even the bridge of the nose wrinkling from tip to eyes so prodigious was her snarl.

Then it was that a cry went up from one of the men.  “Kiche!” was what he uttered.  It was an exclamation of surprise.  The cub felt his mother wilting at the sound.

“Kiche!” the man cried again, this time with sharpness and authority.

And then the cub saw his mother, the she-wolf, the fearless one, crouching down till her belly touched the ground, whimpering, wagging her tail, making peace signs.  The cub could not understand.  He was appalled.  The awe of man rushed over him again.  His instinct had been true.  His mother verified it.  She, too, rendered submission to the man-animals.

The man who had spoken came over to her.  He put his hand upon her head, and she only crouched closer.  She did not snap, nor threaten to snap.  The other men came up, and surrounded her, and felt her, and pawed her, which actions she made no attempt to resent.  They were greatly excited, and made many noises with their mouths.  These noises were not indication of danger, the cub decided, as he crouched near his mother still bristling from time to time but doing his best to submit.

“It is not strange,” an Indian was saying.  “Her father was a wolf.  It is true, her mother was a dog; but did not my brother tie her out in the woods all of three nights in the mating season?  Therefore was the father of Kiche a wolf.”

“It is a year, Grey Beaver, since she ran away,” spoke a second Indian.

“It is not strange, Salmon Tongue,” Grey Beaver answered.  “It was the time of the famine, and there was no meat for the dogs.”

“She has lived with the wolves,” said a third Indian.

“So it would seem, Three Eagles,” Grey Beaver answered, laying his hand on the cub; “and this be the sign of it.”

The cub snarled a little at the touch of the hand, and the hand flew back to administer a clout.  Whereupon the cub covered its fangs, and sank down submissively, while the hand, returning, rubbed behind his ears, and up and down his back.

“This be the sign of it,” Grey Beaver went on.  “It is plain that his mother is Kiche.  But his father was a wolf.  Wherefore is there in him little dog and much wolf.  His fangs be white, and White Fang shall be his name.  I have spoken.  He is my dog.  For was not Kiche my brother’s dog?  And is not my brother dead?”

The cub, who had thus received a name in the world, lay and watched.  For a time the man-animals continued to make their mouth-noises.  Then Grey Beaver took a knife from a sheath that hung around his neck, and went into the thicket and cut a stick.  White Fang watched him.  He notched the stick at each end and in the notches fastened strings of raw-hide.  One string he tied around the throat of Kiche.  Then he led her to a small pine, around which he tied the other string.

White Fang followed and lay down beside her.  Salmon Tongue’s hand reached out to him and rolled him over on his back.  Kiche looked on anxiously.  White Fang felt fear mounting in him again.  He could not quite suppress a snarl, but he made no offer to snap.  The hand, with fingers crooked and spread apart, rubbed his stomach in a playful way and rolled him from side to side.  It was ridiculous and ungainly, lying there on his back with legs sprawling in the air.  Besides, it was a position of such utter helplessness that White Fang’s whole nature revolted against it.  He could do nothing to defend himself.  If this man-animal intended harm, White Fang knew that he could not escape it.  How could he spring away with his four legs in the air above him?  Yet submission made him master his fear, and he only growled softly.  This growl he could not suppress; nor did the man-animal resent it by giving him a blow on the head.  And furthermore, such was the strangeness of it, White Fang experienced an unaccountable sensation of pleasure as the hand rubbed back and forth.  When he was rolled on his side he ceased to growl, when the fingers pressed and prodded at the base of his ears the pleasurable sensation increased; and when, with a final rub and scratch, the man left him alone and went away, all fear had died out of White Fang.  He was to know fear many times in his dealing with man; yet it was a token of the fearless companionship with man that was ultimately to be his.

After a time, White Fang heard strange noises approaching.  He was quick in his classification, for he knew them at once for man-animal noises.  A few minutes later the remainder of the tribe, strung out as it was on the march, trailed in.  There were more men and many women and children, forty souls of them, and all heavily burdened with camp equipage and outfit.  Also there were many dogs; and these, with the exception of the part-grown puppies, were likewise burdened with camp outfit.  On their backs, in bags that fastened tightly around underneath, the dogs carried from twenty to thirty pounds of weight.

White Fang had never seen dogs before, but at sight of them he felt that they were his own kind, only somehow different.  But they displayed little difference from the wolf when they discovered the cub and his mother.  There was a rush.  White Fang bristled and snarled and snapped in the face of the open-mouthed oncoming wave of dogs, and went down and under them, feeling the sharp slash of teeth in his body, himself biting and tearing at the legs and bellies above him.  There was a great uproar.  He could hear the snarl of Kiche as she fought for him; and he could hear the cries of the man-animals, the sound of clubs striking upon bodies, and the yelps of pain from the dogs so struck.

Only a few seconds elapsed before he was on his feet again.  He could now see the man-animals driving back the dogs with clubs and stones, defending him, saving him from the savage teeth of his kind that somehow was not his kind.  And though there was no reason in his brain for a clear conception of so abstract a thing as justice, nevertheless, in his own way, he felt the justice of the man-animals, and he knew them for what they were—makers of law and executors of law.  Also, he appreciated the power with which they administered the law.  Unlike any animals he had ever encountered, they did not bite nor claw.  They enforced their live strength with the power of dead things.  Dead things did their bidding.  Thus, sticks and stones, directed by these strange creatures, leaped through the air like living things, inflicting grievous hurts upon the dogs.

To his mind this was power unusual, power inconceivable and beyond the natural, power that was godlike.  White Fang, in the very nature of him, could never know anything about gods; at the best he could know only things that were beyond knowing—but the wonder and awe that he had of these man-animals in ways resembled what would be the wonder and awe of man at sight of some celestial creature, on a mountain top, hurling thunderbolts from either hand at an astonished world.

The last dog had been driven back.  The hubbub died down.  And White Fang licked his hurts and meditated upon this, his first taste of pack-cruelty and his introduction to the pack.  He had never dreamed that his own kind consisted of more than One Eye, his mother, and himself.  They had constituted a kind apart, and here, abruptly, he had discovered many more creatures apparently of his own kind.  And there was a subconscious resentment that these, his kind, at first sight had pitched upon him and tried to destroy him.  In the same way he resented his mother being tied with a stick, even though it was done by the superior man-animals.  It savoured of the trap, of bondage.  Yet of the trap and of bondage he knew nothing.  Freedom to roam and run and lie down at will, had been his heritage; and here it