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

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.

It was about this time that the newspapers were full of the daring escape of a convict from San Quentin prison.  He was a ferocious man.  He had been ill-made in the making.  He had not been born right, and he had not been helped any by the moulding he had received at the hands of society.  The hands of society are harsh, and this man was a striking sample of its handiwork.  He was a beast—a human beast, it is true, but nevertheless so terrible a beast that he can best be characterised as carnivorous.

In San Quentin prison he had proved incorrigible.  Punishment failed to break his spirit.  He could die dumb-mad and fighting to the last, but he could not live and be beaten.  The more fiercely he fought, the more harshly society handled him, and the only effect of harshness was to make him fiercer.  Strait-jackets, starvation, and beatings and clubbings were the wrong treatment for Jim Hall; but it was the treatment he received.  It was the treatment he had received from the time he was a little pulpy boy in a San Francisco slum—soft clay in the hands of society and ready to be formed into something.

It was during Jim Hall’s third term in prison that he encountered a guard that was almost as great a beast as he.  The guard treated him unfairly, lied about him to the warden, lost his credits, persecuted him.  The difference between them was that the guard carried a bunch of keys and a revolver.  Jim Hall had only his naked hands and his teeth.  But he sprang upon the guard one day and used his teeth on the other’s throat just like any jungle animal.

After this, Jim Hall went to live in the incorrigible cell.  He lived there three years.  The cell was of iron, the floor, the walls, the roof.  He never left this cell.  He never saw the sky nor the sunshine.  Day was a twilight and night was a black silence.  He was in an iron tomb, buried alive.  He saw no human face, spoke to no human thing.  When his food was shoved in to him, he growled like a wild animal.  He hated all things.  For days and nights he bellowed his rage at the universe.  For weeks and months he never made a sound, in the black silence eating his very soul.  He was a man and a monstrosity, as fearful a thing of fear as ever gibbered in the visions of a maddened brain.

And then, one night, he escaped.  The warders said it was impossible, but nevertheless the cell was empty, and half in half out of it lay the body of a dead guard.  Two other dead guards marked his trail through the prison to the outer walls, and he had killed with his hands to avoid noise.

He was armed with the weapons of the slain guards—a live arsenal that fled through the hills pursued by the organised might of society.  A heavy price of gold was upon his head.  Avaricious farmers hunted him with shot-guns.  His blood might pay off a mortgage or send a son to college.  Public-spirited citizens took down their rifles and went out after him.  A pack of bloodhounds followed the way of his bleeding feet.  And the sleuth-hounds of the law, the paid fighting animals of society, with telephone, and telegraph, and special train, clung to his trail night and day.

Sometimes they came upon him, and men faced him like heroes, or stampeded through barbed-wire fences to the delight of the commonwealth reading the account at the breakfast table.  It was after such encounters that the dead and wounded were carted back to the towns, and their places filled by men eager for the man-hunt.

And then Jim Hall disappeared.  The bloodhounds vainly quested on the lost trail.  Inoffensive ranchers in remote valleys were held up by armed men and compelled to identify themselves.  While the remains of Jim Hall were discovered on a dozen mountain-sides by greedy claimants for blood-money.

In the meantime the newspapers were read at Sierra Vista, not so much with interest as with anxiety.  The women were afraid.  Judge Scott pooh-poohed and laughed, but not with reason, for it was in his last days on the bench that Jim Hall had stood before him and received sentence.  And in open court-room, before all men, Jim Hall had proclaimed that the day would come when he would wreak vengeance on the Judge that sentenced him.

For once, Jim Hall was right.  He was innocent of the crime for which he was sentenced.  It was a case, in the parlance of thieves and police, of “rail-roading.”  Jim Hall was being “rail-roaded” to prison for a crime he had not committed.  Because of the two prior convictions against him, Judge Scott imposed upon him a sentence of fifty years.

Judge Scott did not know all things, and he did not know that he was party to a police conspiracy, that the evidence was hatched and perjured, that Jim Hall was guiltless of the crime charged.  And Jim Hall, on the other hand, did not know that Judge Scott was merely ignorant.  Jim Hall believed that the judge knew all about it and was hand in glove with the police in the perpetration of the monstrous injustice.  So it was, when the doom of fifty years of living death was uttered by Judge Scott, that Jim Hall, hating all things in the society that misused him, rose up and raged in the court-room until dragged down by half a dozen of his blue-coated enemies.  To him, Judge Scott was the keystone in the arch of injustice, and upon Judge Scott he emptied the vials of his wrath and hurled the threats of his revenge yet to come.  Then Jim Hall went to his living death . . . and escaped.

Of all this White Fang knew nothing.  But between him and Alice, the master’s wife, there existed a secret.  Each night, after Sierra Vista had gone to bed, she rose and let in White Fang to sleep in the big hall.  Now White Fang was not a house-dog, nor was he permitted to sleep in the house; so each morning, early, she slipped down and let him out before the family was awake.

On one such night, while all the house slept, White Fang awoke and lay very quietly.  And very quietly he smelled the air and read the message it bore of a strange god’s presence.  And to his ears came sounds of the strange god’s movements.  White Fang burst into no furious outcry.  It was not his way.  The strange god walked softly, but more softly walked White Fang, for he had no clothes to rub against the flesh of his body.  He followed silently.  In the Wild he had hunted live meat that was infinitely timid, and he knew the advantage of surprise.

The strange god paused at the foot of the great staircase and listened, and White Fang was as dead, so without movement was he as he watched and waited.  Up that staircase the way led to the love-master and to the love-master’s dearest possessions.  White Fang bristled, but waited.  The strange god’s foot lifted.  He was beginning the ascent.

Then it was that White Fang struck.  He gave no warning, with no snarl anticipated his own action.  Into the air he lifted his body in the spring that landed him on the strange god’s back.  White Fang clung with his fore-paws to the man’s shoulders, at the same time burying his fangs into the back of the man’s neck.  He clung on for a moment, long enough to drag the god over backward.  Together they crashed to the floor.  White Fang leaped clear, and, as the man struggled to rise, was in again with the slashing fangs.

Sierra Vista awoke in alarm.  The noise from downstairs was as that of a score of battling fiends.  There were revolver shots.  A man’s voice screamed once in horror and anguish.  There was a great snarling and growling, and over all arose a smashing and crashing of furniture and glass.

But almost as quickly as it had arisen, the commotion died away.  The struggle had not lasted more than three minutes.  The frightened household clustered at the top of the stairway.  From below, as from out an abyss of blackness, came up a gurgling sound, as of air bubbling through water.  Sometimes this gurgle became sibilant, almost a whistle.  But this, too, quickly died down and ceased.  Then naught came up out of the blackness save a heavy panting of some creature struggling sorely for air.

Weedon Scott pressed a button, and the staircase and downstairs hall were flooded with light.  Then he and Judge Scott, revolvers in hand, cautiously descended.  There was no need for this caution.  White Fang had done his work.  In the midst of the wreckage of overthrown and smashed furniture, partly on his side, his face hidden by an arm, lay a man.  Weedon Scott bent over, removed the arm and turned the man’s face upward.  A gaping throat explained the manner of his death.

“Jim Hall,” said Judge Scott, and father and son looked significantly at each other.

Then they turned to White Fang.  He, too, was lying on his side.  His eyes were closed, but the lids slightly lifted in an effort to look at them as they bent over him, and the tail was perceptibly agitated in a vain effort to wag.  Weedon Scott patted him, and his throat rumbled an acknowledging growl.  But it was a weak growl at best, and it quickly ceased.  His eyelids drooped and went shut, and his whole body seemed to relax and flatten out upon the floor.

“He’s all in, poor devil,” muttered the master.

“We’ll see about that,” asserted the Judge, as he started for the telephone.

“Frankly, he has one chance in a thousand,” announced the surgeon, after he had worked an hour and a half on White Fang.

Dawn was breaking through the windows and dimming the electric lights.  With the exception of the children, the whole family was gathered about the surgeon to hear his verdict.

“One broken hind-leg,” he went on.  “Three broken ribs, one at least of which has pierced the lungs.  He has lost nearly all the blood in his body.  There is a large likelihood of internal injuries.  He must have been jumped upon.  To say nothing of three bullet holes clear through him.  One chance in a thousand is really optimistic.  He hasn’t a chance in ten thousand.”

“But he mustn’t lose any chance that might be of help to him,” Judge Scott exclaimed.  “Never mind expense.  Put him under the X-ray—anything.  Weedon, telegraph at once to San Francisco for Doctor Nichols.  No reflection on you, doctor, you understand; but he must have the advantage of every chance.”

The surgeon smiled indulgently.  “Of course I understand.  He deserves all that can be done for him.  He must be nursed as you would nurse a human being, a sick child.  And don’t forget what I told you about temperature.  I’ll be back at