CHAPTER II

THE BONDAGE

The days were thronged with experience for White Fang. During the time

that Kiche was tied by the stick, he ran about over all the camp,

inquiring, investigating, learning. He quickly came to know much of the

ways of the man-animals, but familiarity did not breed contempt. The

more he came to know them, the more they vindicated their superiority,

the more they displayed their mysterious powers, the greater loomed

their god-likeness.

To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrown

and his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have

come in to crouch at man’s feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man,

whose gods are of the unseen and the overguessed, vapours and mists of

fancy eluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired

goodness and power, intangible out-croppings of self into the realm of

spirit—unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to the

fire find their gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying

earth-space and requiring time for the accomplishment of their ends and

their existence. No effort of faith is necessary to believe in such a

god; no effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in such a god.

There is no getting away from it. There it stands, on its two

hind-legs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful

and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by

flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any

flesh.

And so it was with White Fang. The man-animals were gods unmistakable

and unescapable. As his mother, Kiche, had rendered her allegiance to

them at the first cry of her name, so he was beginning to render his

allegiance. He gave them the trail as a privilege indubitably theirs.

When they walked, he got out of their way. When they called, he came.

When they threatened, he cowered down. When they commanded him to go,

he went away hurriedly. For behind any wish of theirs was power to

enforce that wish, power that hurt, power that expressed itself in

clouts and clubs, in flying stones and stinging lashes of whips.

He belonged to them as all dogs belonged to them. His actions were

theirs to command. His body was theirs to maul, to stamp upon, to

tolerate. Such was the lesson that was quickly borne in upon him. It

came hard, going as it did, counter to much that was strong and

dominant in his own nature; and, while he disliked it in the learning

of it, unknown to himself he was learning to like it. It was a placing

of his destiny in another’s hands, a shifting of the responsibilities

of existence. This in itself was compensation, for it is always easier

to lean upon another than to stand alone.

But it did not all happen in a day, this giving over of himself, body

and soul, to the man-animals. He could not immediately forego his wild

heritage and his memories of the Wild. There were days when he crept to

the edge of the forest and stood and listened to something calling him

far and away. And always he returned, restless and uncomfortable, to

whimper softly and wistfully at Kiche’s side and to lick her face with

eager, questioning tongue.

White Fang learned rapidly the ways of the camp. He knew the injustice

and greediness of the older dogs when meat or fish was thrown out to be

eaten. He came to know that men were more just, children more cruel,

and women more kindly and more likely to toss him a bit of meat or

bone. And after two or three painful adventures with the mothers of

part-grown puppies, he came into the knowledge that it was always good

policy to let such mothers alone, to keep away from them as far as

possible, and to avoid them when he saw them coming.

But the bane of his life was Lip-lip. Larger, older, and stronger,

Lip-lip had selected White Fang for his special object of persecution.

White Fang fought willingly enough, but he was outclassed. His enemy

was too big. Lip-lip became a nightmare to him. Whenever he ventured

away from his mother, the bully was sure to appear, trailing at his

heels, snarling at him, picking upon him, and watchful of an

opportunity, when no man-animal was near, to spring upon him and force

a fight. As Lip-lip invariably won, he enjoyed it hugely. It became his

chief delight in life, as it became White Fang’s chief torment.

But the effect upon White Fang was not to cow him. Though he suffered

most of the damage and was always defeated, his spirit remained

unsubdued. Yet a bad effect was produced. He became malignant and

morose. His temper had been savage by birth, but it became more savage

under this unending persecution. The genial, playful, puppyish side of

him found little expression. He never played and gambolled about with

the other puppies of the camp. Lip-lip would not permit it. The moment

White Fang appeared near them, Lip-lip was upon him, bullying and

hectoring him, or fighting with him until he had driven him away.

The effect of all this was to rob White Fang of much of his puppyhood

and to make him in his comportment older than his age. Denied the

outlet, through play, of his energies, he recoiled upon himself and

developed his mental processes. He became cunning; he had idle time in

which to devote himself to thoughts of trickery. Prevented from

obtaining his share of meat and fish when a general feed was given to

the camp-dogs, he became a clever thief. He had to forage for himself,

and he foraged well, though he was oft-times a plague to the squaws in

consequence. He learned to sneak about camp, to be crafty, to know what

was going on everywhere, to see and to hear everything and to reason

accordingly, and successfully to devise ways and means of avoiding his

implacable persecutor.

It was early in the days of his persecution that he played his first

really big crafty game and got therefrom his first taste of revenge.

As Kiche, when with the wolves, had lured out to destruction dogs from

the camps of men, so White Fang, in manner somewhat similar, lured

Lip-lip into Kiche’s avenging jaws. Retreating before Lip-lip, White

Fang made an indirect flight that led in and out and around the various

tepees of the camp. He was a good runner, swifter than any puppy of his

size, and swifter than Lip-lip. But he did not run his best in this

chase. He barely held his own, one leap ahead of his pursuer.

Lip-lip, excited by the chase and by the persistent nearness of his

victim, forgot caution and locality. When he remembered locality, it

was too late. Dashing at top speed around a tepee, he ran full tilt

into Kiche lying at the end of her stick. He gave one yelp of

consternation, and then her punishing jaws closed upon him. She was

tied, but he could not get away from her easily. She rolled him off his

legs so that he could not run, while she repeatedly ripped and slashed

him with her fangs.

When at last he succeeded in rolling clear of her, he crawled to his

feet, badly dishevelled, hurt both in body and in spirit. His hair was

standing out all over him in tufts where her teeth had mauled. He stood

where he had arisen, opened his mouth, and broke out the long,

heart-broken puppy wail. But even this he was not allowed to complete.

In the middle of it, White Fang, rushing in, sank his teeth into

Lip-lip’s hind leg. There was no fight left in Lip-lip, and he ran away

shamelessly, his victim hot on his heels and worrying him all the way

back to his own tepee. Here the squaws came to his aid, and White Fang,

transformed into a raging demon, was finally driven off only by a

fusillade of stones.

Came the day when Grey Beaver, deciding that the liability of her

running away was past, released Kiche. White Fang was delighted with

his mother’s freedom. He accompanied her joyfully about the camp; and,

so long as he remained close by her side, Lip-lip kept a respectful

distance. White-Fang even bristled up to him and walked stiff-legged,

but Lip-lip ignored the challenge. He was no fool himself, and whatever

vengeance he desired to wreak, he could wait until he caught White Fang

alone.

Later on that day, Kiche and White Fang strayed into the edge of the

woods next to the camp. He had led his mother there, step by step, and

now when she stopped, he tried to inveigle her farther. The stream, the

lair, and the quiet woods were calling to him, and he wanted her to

come. He ran on a few steps, stopped, and looked back. She had not

moved. He whined pleadingly, and scurried playfully in and out of the

underbrush. He ran back to her, licked her face, and ran on again. And

still she did not move. He stopped and regarded her, all of an

intentness and eagerness, physically expressed, that slowly faded out

of him as she turned her head and gazed back at the camp.

There was something calling to him out there in the open. His mother

heard it too. But she heard also that other and louder call, the call

of the fire and of man—the call which has been given alone of all

animals to the wolf to answer, to the wolf and the wild-dog, who are

brothers.

Kiche turned and slowly trotted back toward camp. Stronger than the

physical restraint of the stick was the clutch of the camp upon her.

Unseen and occultly, the gods still gripped with their power and would

not let her go. White Fang sat down in the shadow of a birch and

whimpered softly. There was a strong smell of pine, and subtle wood

fragrances filled the air, reminding him of his old life of freedom

before the days of his bondage. But he was still only a part-grown

puppy, and stronger than the call either of man or of the Wild was the

call of his mother. All the hours of his short life he had depended

upon her. The time was yet to come for independence. So he arose and

trotted forlornly back to camp, pausing once, and twice, to sit down

and whimper and to listen to the call that still sounded in the depths

of the forest.

In the Wild the time of a mother with her young is short; but under the

dominion of man it is sometimes even shorter. Thus it was with White

Fang. Grey Beaver was in the debt of Three Eagles. Three Eagles was

going away on a trip up the Mackenzie to the Great Slave Lake. A strip

of scarlet cloth, a bearskin, twenty cartridges, and Kiche, went to pay

the debt. White Fang saw his mother taken aboard Three Eagles’ canoe,

and tried to follow her. A blow from Three Eagles knocked him backward

to the land. The canoe shoved off. He sprang into the water and swam

after it, deaf to the sharp cries of Grey Beaver to return. Even a

man-animal, a god, White Fang ignored, such was the terror he was in of

losing his mother.

But gods are accustomed to being obeyed, and Grey Beaver wrathfully

launched a canoe in pursuit. When he overtook White Fang, he reached

down and by the nape of the neck lifted him clear of the water. He did

not deposit him at once in the bottom of the canoe. Holding him

suspended with one hand, with the other hand he proceeded to give him a

beating. And it _was_ a beating. His hand was heavy. Every blow was

shrewd to hurt; and he delivered a multitude of blows.

Impelled by the blows that rained upon him, now from this side, now

from that, White Fang swung back and forth like an erratic and jerky

pendulum. Varying were the emotions that surged through him. At first,

he had known surprise. Then came a momentary fear, when he yelped

several times to the impact of the hand. But this was quickly followed

by anger. His free nature asserted itself, and he showed his teeth and

snarled fearlessly in the face of the wrathful god. This but served to

make the god more wrathful. The blows came faster, heavier, more shrewd

to hurt.

Grey Beaver continued to beat, White Fang continued to snarl. But this

could not last for ever. One or the other must give over, and that one

was White Fang. Fear surged through him again. For the first time he

was being really man-handled. The occasional blows of sticks and stones

he had previously experienced were as caresses compared with this. He

broke down and began to cry and yelp. For a time each blow brought a

yelp from him; but fear passed into terror, until finally his yelps

were voiced in unbroken succession, unconnected with the rhythm of the

punishment.

At last Grey Beaver withheld his hand. White Fang, hanging limply,

continued to cry. This seemed to satisfy his master, who flung him down

roughly in the bottom of the canoe. In the meantime the canoe had

drifted down the stream. Grey Beaver picked up the paddle. White Fang

was in his way. He spurned him savagely with his foot. In that moment

White Fang’s free nature flashed forth again, and he sank his teeth

into the moccasined foot.

The beating that had gone before was as nothing compared with the

beating he now received. Grey Beaver’s wrath was terrible; likewise was

White Fang’s fright. Not only the hand, but the hard wooden paddle was

used upon him; and he was bruised and sore in all his small body when

he was again flung down in the canoe. Again, and this time with

purpose, did Grey Beaver kick him. White Fang did not repeat his attack

on the foot. He had learned another lesson of his bondage. Never, no

matter what the circumstance, must he dare to bite the god who was lord

and master over him; the body of the lord and master was sacred, not to

be defiled by the teeth of such as he. That was evidently the crime of

crimes, the one offence there was no condoning nor overlooking.

When the canoe touched the shore, White Fang lay whimpering and

motionless, waiting the will of Grey Beaver. It was Grey Beaver’s will

that he should go ashore, for ashore he was flung, striking heavily on

his side and hurting his bruises afresh. He crawled tremblingly to his

feet and stood whimpering. Lip-lip, who had watched the whole

proceeding from the bank, now rushed upon him, knocking him over and

sinking his teeth into him. White Fang was too helpless to defend

himself, and it would have gone hard with him had not Grey Beaver’s

foot shot out, lifting Lip-lip into the air with its violence so that

he smashed down to earth a dozen feet away. This was the man-animal’s

justice; and even then, in his own pitiable plight, White Fang

experienced a little grateful thrill. At Grey Beaver’s heels he limped

obediently through the village to the tepee. And so it came that White

Fang learned that the right to punish was something the gods reserved

for themselves and denied to the lesser creatures under them.

That night, when all was still, White Fang remembered his mother and

sorrowed for her. He sorrowed too loudly and woke up Grey Beaver, who

beat him. After that he mourned gently when the gods were around. But

sometimes, straying off to the edge of the woods by himself, he gave

vent to his grief, and cried it out with loud whimperings and wailings.

It was during this period that he might have harkened to the memories

of the lair and the stream and run back to the Wild. But the memory of

his mother held him. As the hunting man-animals went out and came back,

so she would come back to the village some time. So he remained in his

bondage waiting for her.

But it was not altogether an unhappy bondage. There was much to

interest him. Something was always happening. There was no end to the

strange things these gods did, and he was always curious to see.

Besides, he was learning how to get along with Grey Beaver. Obedience,

rigid, undeviating obedience, was what was exacted of him; and in

return he escaped beatings and his existence was tolerated.

Nay, Grey Beaver himself sometimes tossed him a piece of meat, and

defended him against the other dogs in the eating of it. And such a

piece of meat was of value. It was worth more, in some strange way,

then a dozen pieces of meat from the hand of a squaw. Grey Beaver never

petted nor caressed. Perhaps it was the weight of his hand, perhaps his

justice, perhaps the sheer power of him, and perhaps it was all these

things that influenced White Fang; for a certain tie of attachment was

forming between him and his surly lord.

Insidiously, and by remote ways, as well as by the power of stick and

stone and clout of hand, were the shackles of White Fang’s bondage

being riveted upon him. The qualities in his kind that in the beginning

made it possible for them to come in to the fires of men, were

qualities capable of development. They were developing in him, and the

camp-life, replete with misery as it was, was secretly endearing itself

to him all the time. But White Fang was unaware of it. He knew only

grief for the loss of Kiche, hope for her return, and a hungry yearning

for the free life that had been his.