White Fang

[Illustration]

WHITE FANG

by Jack London

Contents

PART I
CHAPTER I THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT
CHAPTER II THE SHE-WOLF
CHAPTER III THE HUNGER CRY

PART II
CHAPTER I THE BATTLE OF THE FANGS
CHAPTER II THE LAIR
CHAPTER III THE GREY CUB
CHAPTER IV THE WALL OF THE WORLD
CHAPTER V THE LAW OF MEAT

PART III
CHAPTER I THE MAKERS OF FIRE
CHAPTER II THE BONDAGE
CHAPTER III THE OUTCAST
CHAPTER IV THE TRAIL OF THE GODS
CHAPTER V THE COVENANT
CHAPTER VI THE FAMINE

PART IV
CHAPTER I THE ENEMY OF HIS KIND
CHAPTER II THE MAD GOD
CHAPTER III THE REIGN OF HATE
CHAPTER IV THE CLINGING DEATH
CHAPTER V THE INDOMITABLE
CHAPTER VI THE LOVE-MASTER

PART V
CHAPTER I THE LONG TRAIL
CHAPTER II THE SOUTHLAND
CHAPTER III THE GOD'S DOMAIN
CHAPTER IV THE CALL OF KIND
CHAPTER V THE SLEEPING WOLF

PART I

CHAPTER I
THE TRAIL OF THE MEAT

Dark spruce forest lined both sides of the frozen river. A recent wind had stripped the frost from the trees, and now they leaned toward each other, black and threatening, in the dimming light. A deep silence hung over the land. The land itself was empty and lifeless—so still and cold that its mood wasn't even sadness. Instead, it held a hint of laughter, though a laughter more terrible than any grief: mirthless, like the frozen smile of a stone sphinx, cold as the frost itself, and certain of its own power. It was the vast, unknowable wisdom of eternity, mocking the pointlessness of life and every effort life makes. It was the Wild—savage and cold-hearted, the frozen North itself.

But there was life out in that land, and it refused to give in. Down the frozen river trudged a line of wolfish sled dogs. Frost coated their bristly fur. Every breath they exhaled froze instantly, sending up small clouds of vapor that settled on their coats as ice crystals. Leather harnesses connected them by leather straps, called traces, to a sled dragging behind. The sled had no runners—it was built from tough birch bark and rested flat on the snow. Its front end curved upward like a scroll, so it could push down through the soft snow that piled up like a wave in front of it. Lashed securely to the sled was a long, narrow box shaped like a coffin. Other supplies rode along too—blankets, an axe, a coffee pot, a frying pan—but the coffin took up most of the space.

Ahead of the dogs, moving on wide snowshoes, walked one man. Behind the sled walked a second. Inside the box on the sled lay a third man, whose struggles were finished—a man the Wild had defeated and crushed until he would never move or fight again. The Wild does not tolerate movement. It sees life as an insult, since life means motion, and the Wild always seeks to end motion. It freezes rivers so they cannot flow to the sea. It drains the sap from trees until they freeze down to their very core. And most fiercely of all, the Wild works to crush mankind into submission—man, the most restless of all living things, forever refusing to accept that all movement must eventually stop.

Yet at the front and the rear of the sled, unafraid and unyielding, walked the two men who were still alive. Fur and soft leather covered their bodies. Frost from their frozen breath coated their eyelashes, cheeks, and lips so thickly that their faces could hardly be seen. This gave them the look of ghostly masks—like undertakers attending a funeral in some ghostly world. But underneath it all, they were still men: small explorers pushing through a land of emptiness, mockery, and silence, daring to attempt something enormous, pitting themselves against a world as distant, alien, and lifeless as outer space.

They walked on without talking, saving their breath for the labor of the trail. Silence pressed in on every side, almost like something you could touch. It weighed on their minds the way the crushing pressure of deep water bears down on a diver's body. It pushed them down under the weight of endless space and unbendable fate. It squeezed out of them—like juice pressed from grapes—all the false pride, excitement, and self-importance that people usually carry, until they saw themselves as they truly were: tiny, insignificant specks, moving with limited skill and little wisdom through the endless collision of great, blind natural forces.

An hour passed, then a second. The pale light of the short, sunless day was beginning to fade when a faint, distant cry rose in the still air. It climbed swiftly upward until it reached its highest note, held there, trembling and tense, then slowly faded away. It might have sounded like a lost soul crying out, except that it carried a strange mix of sad ferocity and hungry longing. The man in front turned his head until his eyes met those of the man behind him. Across the narrow coffin, each gave the other a nod.

A second cry rose, cutting through the silence with a sharp, needle-like edge. Both men could tell where it came from—somewhere behind them, in the stretch of snow they had already crossed. A third cry answered, also from behind, but off to the left of the second.

"They're after us, Bill," said the man in front.

His voice sounded hoarse and strange, as if speaking cost him effort.

"Meat's scarce," his companion answered. "I haven't seen a single rabbit track in days."

After that they fell silent again, though they kept listening closely to the hunting cries that continued to rise behind them.

When darkness fell, they steered the dogs into a cluster of spruce trees at the edge of the river and set up camp. The coffin, placed beside the fire, served as both seat and table. The wolf-dogs bunched together on the far side of the fire, snarling and squabbling among themselves, but showed no desire to wander off into the dark.

"Seems to me, Henry, they're stayin' awful close to camp," Bill remarked.

Henry, crouched over the fire and steadying the coffee pot with a chunk of ice, nodded. He didn't speak again until he had sat down on the coffin and started eating.

"They know where it's safe," he said. "They'd rather eat food than become food themselves. Smart animals, these dogs."

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

His companion gave him a curious look. "That's the first time I've ever heard you doubt how smart they are."

"Henry," said the other man, chewing slowly on his beans, "did you happen to notice how the dogs acted up when I was feedin' 'em?"

"They did make more fuss than usual," Henry admitted.

"How many dogs we got, Henry?"

"Six."

"Well, Henry . . ." Bill paused for a moment, letting his words carry more weight. "Like I was sayin', we got six dogs. I took six fish outta the bag. Gave one to each dog, and Henry—I came up one fish short."

"You must've counted wrong."

"We got six dogs," Bill repeated calmly. "I took out six fish. One Ear didn't get his. I went back to the bag afterward and got him one."

"We've only got six dogs," Henry said again.

"Henry," Bill continued, "I won't swear they were all dogs, but seven of 'em got fish."

Henry stopped eating and looked across the fire to count the dogs.

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

"I saw the seventh one run off across the snow," Bill said, sounding sure of himself. "I saw seven."

Henry looked at him with something like pity. "I'll be mighty glad when this trip's over."

"What d'you mean by that?" Bill asked.

"I mean this load we're haulin' is gettin' to your nerves, and you're startin' to see things that aren't there."

"I thought of that too," Bill answered seriously. "That's why, when I saw it run off, I checked the snow and found its tracks. Then I counted the dogs again, and there were still six. The tracks are still out there in the snow right now. Want me to show you?"

Henry didn't answer, just kept eating quietly until he finished the meal and topped it off with one last cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said,

"So you're thinkin' it was—"

A long, mournful cry, fierce and sad, rose from somewhere in the darkness and cut him off. He paused to listen, then finished his sentence with a wave toward the sound: "—one of them?"

Bill nodded. "That's exactly what I'd sooner believe. You heard how the dogs carried on yourself."

Cry after cry rose from every direction, along with answering calls, turning the silence into chaos. The dogs huddled together in fear, pressing so close to the fire that their fur singed from the heat. Bill threw more wood on before lighting his pipe.

"Seems like somethin's got you down," Henry said.

"Henry . . ." He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a while before continuing. "Henry, I was just thinkin' how much luckier he is than you or me will ever be."

He pointed with his thumb, down toward the box they were sitting on.

"You and me, Henry—when we die, we'll be lucky to get enough rocks piled on us to keep the dogs from diggin' us up."

"But we don't have the family and money he's got," Henry replied. "Fancy funerals ain't somethin' folks like us can afford."

"What gets me, Henry, is why a fellow like this—a lord or somethin' back home, who never had to worry about food or blankets—would come draggin' himself out to the godforsaken edges of the earth. That's what I can't figure."

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

Bill opened his mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. Instead, he pointed toward the wall of darkness pressing in around them from every side. Nothing had a shape in that blackness—only pairs of eyes glowing like burning coals could be seen. Henry nodded toward a second pair, then a third. A ring of glowing eyes had formed around their camp. Every so often, a pair of eyes shifted, or vanished only to reappear a moment later.

The dogs had grown more and more restless, and now they bolted in sudden fear toward the near side of the fire, crowding and cowering around the men's legs. In the scramble, one dog was knocked into the edge of the fire and yelped in pain and fear as the smell of singed fur filled the air. The commotion made the ring of eyes shift back for a moment, even pull away slightly, but it settled back into place once the dogs calmed down.

"Henry, it's a real shame to be low on ammunition."

Bill had finished his pipe and was helping his partner spread out the bed of fur and blankets on the spruce branches he'd laid over the snow before supper. Henry grunted and began untying his moccasins.

"How many bullets you say you got left?" he asked.

"Three," came the answer. "