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
• 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
• Chapter 3: The Outcast
• Chapter 4: The Trail of the Gods
• Chapter 5: The Covenant
• Chapter 6: The Famine

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
• 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

PART I

CHAPTER 1: The Trail of the Meat

Dark trees stood by the frozen river. Wind had blown the frost off them. They looked black. They looked scary. The light was going away.

The land was empty and still. Nothing moved. It was cold and lonely. It felt strange, not just sad. It almost felt like something was laughing. But it was not a happy laugh. It was cold, like the frost. This place was the Wild. It was wild and frozen and had no pity.

But there was life here too. Life that would not give up.

Dogs pulled a sled down the icy river. Frost covered their fur. Their breath turned to fog. The fog froze onto their fur too. The dogs wore leather straps. The straps were tied to a sled behind them.

The sled had no runners. It was made of birch bark. It sat right on the snow. The front curled up, like a scroll. This helped it push through soft snow.

A long box was tied onto the sled. Other things were on the sled too: blankets, an axe, a coffee pot, and a pan. But the long box took up the most room.

One man walked in front of the dogs. He wore big snowshoes. A second man walked behind the sled. Inside the box lay a third man. His work in this world was done. The Wild had beaten him. He would never move again.

The Wild does not like movement. Life means movement. So the Wild tries to stop life. It freezes rivers so they cannot flow. It freezes trees deep inside. And most of all, the Wild fights against man. Man never wants to stop moving. But the Wild wants all things to be still.

The two men were not dead yet. They kept walking. Fur and leather covered their bodies. Frost covered their eyelashes and cheeks. You could not even see their faces. They looked like ghosts.

But under the frost, they were just men. They walked through this empty, silent land. They were small, but brave. They faced a huge, cold world all alone.

They did not talk. They saved their breath for walking. The silence was heavy all around them. It pressed on their minds. It made them feel very small. It made them feel like tiny specks in a huge, cold world.

One hour passed. Then another hour. The weak light of the short day began to fade. Then a cry rose up in the quiet air. It grew louder and louder. Then it slowly died away. It sounded sad. It sounded hungry. It sounded like it wanted to hunt.

The front man turned to look at the man behind him. They both nodded at each other, with the box between them.

A second cry rang out. It was sharp and close. Both men knew where it came from. It was behind them, from the snow they had just crossed.

A third cry answered. It came from behind them too, a little to the left.

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

His voice sounded rough. It was hard for him to speak.

"Meat is scarce," said Bill. "I haven't seen a rabbit track in days."

They said nothing more. But they kept listening to the hunting cries behind them.

When it got dark, they stopped by some trees near the river. They made camp there. The coffin became their seat and table. The dogs stayed close together on the other side of the fire. They growled at each other. But they did not want to go into the dark.

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

Henry sat by the fire. He was melting ice for coffee. He nodded. He didn't speak until he sat down on the coffin to eat.

"They know it's safe here," he said. "They'd rather eat food than become food. These dogs are smart."

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 the dogs aren't smart."

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

"They did act more upset than usual," Henry said.

"How many dogs do we have, Henry?"

"Six."

"Well, Henry..." Bill paused to make his words sound important. "We have six dogs. I took six fish from the bag. I gave one fish to each dog. But Henry, I was one fish short."

"You counted wrong."

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

"We only have six dogs," Henry said.

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

Henry stopped eating. He looked across the fire and counted the dogs.

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

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

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 is making you nervous. You're starting to see things that aren't there."

"I thought you'd say that," Bill answered seriously. "So when I saw it run off, I looked at the snow. I saw its tracks. Then I counted the dogs again. Still six. The tracks are still there in the snow. Want to see them? I'll show you."

Henry didn't answer. He kept eating quietly. When he finished, he drank one more cup of coffee. He wiped his mouth and said,

"So you think it was—"

A long, sad cry rang out from the darkness. It cut him off. He stopped to listen. Then he finished his sentence, waving his hand toward the sound. "—one of them?"

Bill nodded. "I'd believe that before anything else. You saw how upset the dogs got."

More cries rang out, from every direction. It felt like chaos. The dogs got scared. They huddled close to the fire. So close that their fur started to burn from the heat. Bill added more wood to the fire before lighting his pipe.

"You seem pretty down," Henry said.

"Henry..." Bill smoked his pipe for a while before speaking again. "Henry, I was just thinking. That man in the box is luckier than you or me will ever be."

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

"When you and I die, we'll be lucky if anyone even puts rocks over us to keep the dogs away."

"But we don't have rich family like him," Henry said. "Fancy funerals cost a lot of money. We can't afford that."

"What gets me, Henry, is why a rich man like him — maybe even a lord back home — would come all the way out here. He never had to worry about food or blankets before. Why come to a place like this? That's what I don't understand."

"Maybe he would have lived longer if he'd stayed home," Henry agreed.

Bill started to say something else, but stopped. Instead, he pointed at the wall of darkness around their camp. They couldn't see any shapes in the black night. But they could see pairs of glowing eyes, like hot coals. Henry saw a second pair. Then a third. A circle of glowing eyes had formed around their camp. Sometimes a pair of eyes would move. Sometimes they would vanish, then appear again.

The dogs grew more and more afraid. Suddenly, they all ran to the near side of the fire. They pushed against the men's legs, shaking with fear. One dog got knocked into the edge of the fire. It yelped in pain. The smell of its burnt fur filled the air. For a moment, the circle of eyes moved back. But soon the eyes returned, once the dogs calmed down.

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

Bill had finished smoking. He helped Henry lay out their furs and blankets on the pine branches, which they had placed over the snow before dinner. Henry grunted and began taking off 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, darn it!"

He shook his fist at the glowing eyes. Then he set his boots close to the fire to keep them warm.

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

Henry grunted and got into bed. Just as he started to fall asleep, his friend's voice woke him up.

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