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LIKE had been replaced by LOVE.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 it.



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



dogs.



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



following:



"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- paws.



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



commented.



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 him.



"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 hopelesshelplessness. 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 blood.



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 master.



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 started.



In the meantime the love-master was patting White Fang and talking to



him.



"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



sniggered.



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.

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