Chapter XX - The Love-Master
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 awaited him.
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 see.
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
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 of
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
"Well, I'll be gosh-swoggled!"
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.
At the instant his voice broke the silence, White Fang leaped back,
snarling savagely at him.
Matt regarded his employer with grieved disapproval.
"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 some."
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.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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 LOVE. It
took the place of LIKE, which latter had been the highest feeling
that thrilled him in his intercourse with the gods.
But this love did not come in a day. It began with LIKE 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 Beaver.
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
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.
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.
As the days went by, the evolution of LIKE into LOVE 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.
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.
LIKE had been replaced by LOVE. 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.
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
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.
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 led 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
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.
"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."
A recrudescence of anger glinted in Weedon Scott's grey eyes, and
he muttered savagely, "The beast!"
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, and waited.
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.
Weedon Scott reading the letter down in Circle City, came upon the
"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."
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 fore-
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.
"Where's the wolf?" he asked.
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.
"Holy smoke!" Matt exclaimed. "Look at 'm wag his tail!"
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.
"He never looked at me that way all the time you was gone!" Matt
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.
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.
The two men looked at each other. Scott's eyes were shining.
"Gosh!" said Matt in an awe-stricken voice.
A moment later, when he had recovered himself, he said, "I always
insisted that wolf was a dog. Look at 'm!"
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
"Talk about your rough-houses," Matt murmured gleefully, standing
in the doorway and looking on.
Give 'm hell, you wolf! Give 'm hell! - an' then some!"
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.
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."
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.
"The wolf's nailed somebody," Matt said.
A wild scream of fear and anguish hastened them.
"Bring a light!" Scott shouted, as he sprang outside.
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
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
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.
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.
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 Smith
In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking
"Tried to steal you, eh? And you wouldn't have it! Well, well, he
made a mistake, didn't he?"
"Must 'a' thought he had hold of seventeen devils," the dog-musher
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.