WHITE FANG

by Jack London

Contents

PART I

• Chapter 1: The Trail of the Meat
• Chapter 2: The She-Wolf
• Chapter 3: The Hunger Cry

PART II

• Chapter 1: The Battle of the Fangs
• Chapter 2: The Lair (a wild animal's den)
• Chapter 3: The Grey Cub
• Chapter 4: The Wall of the World
• Chapter 5: The Law of Meat

PART III

• Chapter 1: The Makers of Fire
• Chapter 2: The Bondage (being trapped or owned by someone)
• Chapter 3: The Outcast
• Chapter 4: The Trail of the Gods
• Chapter 5: The Covenant (a promise)
• Chapter 6: The Famine (a time with no food)

PART IV

• Chapter 1: The Enemy of His Kind
• Chapter 2: The Mad God
• Chapter 3: The Reign of Hate
• Chapter 4: The Clinging Death
• Chapter 5: The Indomitable (someone who never gives up)
• Chapter 6: The Love-Master

PART V

• Chapter 1: The Long Trail
• Chapter 2: The Southland
• Chapter 3: The God's Domain
• Chapter 4: The Call of Kind
• Chapter 5: The Sleeping Wolf

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PART I

CHAPTER 1: The Trail of the Meat

Dark trees stood on both sides of the frozen river. Wind had blown all the snow off them. Now they looked black and scary in the dim light.

It was very quiet. The land was empty and still. Nothing moved. It was so cold and lonely that it didn't even feel sad. It felt like something worse than sad — almost like a cold, silent laugh. This was the Wild. It was fierce, frozen, and had no mercy.

But there was life here too — life that would not give up. A team of wolf-like dogs walked along the frozen river. Frost covered their fur. Every breath they took turned into little clouds of ice in the air.

The dogs wore leather harnesses. They were tied to a sled that dragged behind them. The sled had no runners (the metal or wood strips that usually help a sled slide). It was made of birch bark and slid flat on the snow. The front curled up like a scroll to push through the deep snow.

A long wooden box was tied tightly to the sled. It was a coffin — a box for a dead body. Other things were on the sled too: blankets, an axe, a coffee pot, and a frying pan. But the coffin took up the most space.

One man walked ahead of the dogs on wide snowshoes. Another man walked behind the sled. Inside the coffin lay a third man. His hard work in life was over — the Wild had beaten him, and he would never move again.

The Wild does not like movement. Movement means life, and the Wild tries to stop all life. It freezes rivers so they can't flow. It freezes trees so their sap stops moving. And most of all, the Wild tries to crush people — because people never want to stop moving, even when the world tells them to.

But the two men who were still alive kept walking. They were brave and would not give up. Fur and leather covered their bodies. Frost covered their eyelashes, cheeks, and lips so you almost couldn't see their faces. They looked like ghosts.

But under all that fur, they were just men — small and brave — walking through a cold, silent, mocking land. They were tiny compared to the huge, cold world around them.

They walked without talking, saving their breath for the hard work. The silence pressed on them like deep water presses on a diver. It made them feel very small, like tiny specks in a huge, powerful world they could not control.

One hour passed. Then another. The pale daylight began to fade. Suddenly, a faint, far-off cry rose in the still air. It rose higher and higher, hung there sadly, then slowly faded away. It sounded hungry and fierce, like a lost, sad soul.

The man in front turned to look at the man behind him. They both nodded at each other across the coffin.

Another cry rang out, sharp and piercing. Both men knew where it came from — behind them, in the snow they had just crossed. Then a third cry answered, also from behind, but a little to the left.

"They're after us, Bill," said the man in front. His voice sounded rough, like it was hard to talk.

"Meat is scarce (hard to find)," answered Bill. "I haven't seen a rabbit track in days."

They said nothing more, but they listened carefully to the hunting cries behind them.

When it got dark, they turned the dogs into a clump of spruce trees by the river and made camp. They used the coffin as a seat and table. The dogs huddled together on the other side of the fire, growling at each other but too scared to wander off into the dark.

"Seems like they're staying awful close to camp," Bill said.

Henry, the other man, was melting ice in a pot over the fire. He nodded but didn't speak until he sat down on the coffin to eat.

"They know where it's safe," he said. "They'd rather eat food than be food. They're smart, these dogs."

Bill shook his head. "I don't know about that."

Henry looked at him, surprised. "That's the first time I've heard you say they're not smart."

"Henry," Bill said slowly, still chewing his beans, "did you notice how the dogs acted when I fed them?"

"They did seem more worked up than usual," Henry agreed.

"How many dogs do we have, Henry?"

"Six."

"Well, Henry..." Bill paused to make his point clear. "We've got six dogs. I took six fish out of the bag. I gave one fish to each dog. But Henry — I was one fish short."

"You must have counted wrong."

"We've got six dogs," Bill said again, calmly. "I took out six fish. One Ear didn't get any fish. I went back to the bag later and got him one."

"We've only got six dogs," Henry repeated.

"Henry," Bill went on, "I won't say they were all dogs — but seven of them got fish."

Henry stopped eating and counted the dogs across the fire.

"There's only six now," he said.

"I saw the seventh one run off across the snow," Bill said firmly. "I saw seven."

Henry looked at him with pity. "I'll be glad when this trip is over."

"What do you mean by that?" Bill asked.

"I mean this trip — with what we're carrying — is getting on your nerves. You're starting to imagine things."

"I thought you might say that," Bill answered seriously. "So when I saw it run off, I checked the snow. There were tracks. Then I counted the dogs again — still six. The tracks are still there. Want to see them? I'll show you."

Henry didn't answer. He kept eating in silence until he finished his meal with one last cup of coffee. Then he wiped his mouth and said,

"So you think it was—"

A long, sad, wailing cry from somewhere in the dark cut him off. He paused to listen, then finished his sentence, waving his hand toward the sound. "—one of them?"

Bill nodded. "That's exactly what I think. You saw how upset the dogs got."

More cries rang out from every direction, answering each other, filling the silence with noise. The dogs huddled together in fear, pressing so close to the fire that their fur got singed (lightly burned) by the heat. Bill threw more wood on the fire before lighting his pipe.

"You seem pretty down," Henry said.

"Henry..." Bill puffed on his pipe for a while before speaking again. "Henry, I was just thinking how much luckier he is than you or me will ever be."

He pointed with his thumb down at the coffin they were sitting on.

"When you and I die, we'll be lucky if we get enough rocks piled on us to keep the dogs away."

"But we don't have money and important people like he did," Henry said. "Big fancy funerals cost more than you or I can afford."

"What gets me, Henry, is why a rich man like this — someone important back home, who never had to worry about food or blankets — would come all the way out here to this frozen, forgotten place. That's what I don't understand."

"He might have lived a long life if he'd just stayed home," Henry agreed.

Bill started to say something else, but stopped. Instead, he pointed toward the wall of darkness surrounding their camp. You couldn't see any shapes in the blackness — only pairs of eyes glowing like hot coals. Henry pointed out another pair, then a third. A circle of glowing eyes had formed around their camp. Sometimes a pair of eyes would move, or disappear and reappear moments later.

The dogs grew more and more afraid. Suddenly, in a rush of panic, they all crowded close to the fire, crawling around the men's legs. One dog got knocked too close to the flames and yelped in pain as its fur got singed. The smell startled the circle of eyes, and they backed away for a moment — but soon crept close again once the dogs calmed down.

"Henry, it's terrible luck to be low on bullets."

Bill had finished his pipe and was helping Henry lay out their blankets and furs on the pine branches they'd spread over the snow before dinner. Henry grunted and began untying his boots.

"How many bullets do you have left?" he asked.

"Three," Bill answered. "I wish I had three hundred. Then I'd show them a thing or two, darn it!"

He shook his fist angrily at the glowing eyes, then carefully set his boots by the fire to dry.

"And I wish this cold spell would end," he went on. "It's been fifty below zero for two weeks now. I wish I'd never started this trip, Henry. I don't like how things look. Something doesn't feel right. And while I'm wishing — I wish this whole trip was over, and you and I were back at Fort McGurry, sitting by the fire, playing cards — that's what I wish."

Henry grunted and crawled into his blankets. Just as he was falling asleep, his friend's voice woke him up again.

"Say, Henry — that extra one that came and took a fish — why didn't the dogs attack it? That's what's bothering—"