CHAPTER III

THE GOD’S DOMAIN

Not only was White Fang adaptable by nature, but he had travelled much,

and knew the meaning and necessity of adjustment. Here, in Sierra

Vista, which was the name of Judge Scott’s place, White Fang quickly

began to make himself at home. He had no further serious trouble with

the dogs. They knew more about the ways of the Southland gods than did

he, and in their eyes he had qualified when he accompanied the gods

inside the house. Wolf that he was, and unprecedented as it was, the

gods had sanctioned his presence, and they, the dogs of the gods, could

only recognise this sanction.

Dick, perforce, had to go through a few stiff formalities at first,

after which he calmly accepted White Fang as an addition to the

premises. Had Dick had his way, they would have been good friends;

but White Fang was averse to friendship. All he asked of other dogs was

to be let alone. His whole life he had kept aloof from his kind, and he

still desired to keep aloof. Dick’s overtures bothered him, so he

snarled Dick away. In the north he had learned the lesson that he must

let the master’s dogs alone, and he did not forget that lesson now. But

he insisted on his own privacy and self-seclusion, and so thoroughly

ignored Dick that that good-natured creature finally gave him up and

scarcely took as much interest in him as in the hitching-post near the

stable.

Not so with Collie. While she accepted him because it was the mandate

of the gods, that was no reason that she should leave him in peace.

Woven into her being was the memory of countless crimes he and his had

perpetrated against her ancestry. Not in a day nor a generation were

the ravaged sheepfolds to be forgotten. All this was a spur to her,

pricking her to retaliation. She could not fly in the face of the gods

who permitted him, but that did not prevent her from making life

miserable for him in petty ways. A feud, ages old, was between them,

and she, for one, would see to it that he was reminded.

So Collie took advantage of her sex to pick upon White Fang and

maltreat him. His instinct would not permit him to attack her, while

her persistence would not permit him to ignore her. When she rushed at

him he turned his fur-protected shoulder to her sharp teeth and walked

away stiff-legged and stately. When she forced him too hard, he was

compelled to go about in a circle, his shoulder presented to her, his

head turned from her, and on his face and in his eyes a patient and

bored expression. Sometimes, however, a nip on his hind-quarters

hastened his retreat and made it anything but stately. But as a rule he

managed to maintain a dignity that was almost solemnity. He ignored her

existence whenever it was possible, and made it a point to keep out of

her way. When he saw or heard her coming, he got up and walked off.

There was much in other matters for White Fang to learn. Life in the

Northland was simplicity itself when compared with the complicated

affairs of Sierra Vista. First of all, he had to learn the family of

the master. In a way he was prepared to do this. As Mit-sah and

Kloo-kooch had belonged to Grey Beaver, sharing his food, his fire, and

his blankets, so now, at Sierra Vista, belonged to the love-master all

the denizens of the house.

But in this matter there was a difference, and many differences. Sierra

Vista was a far vaster affair than the tepee of Grey Beaver. There were

many persons to be considered. There was Judge Scott, and there was his

wife. There were the master’s two sisters, Beth and Mary. There was his

wife, Alice, and then there were his children, Weedon and Maud,

toddlers of four and six. There was no way for anybody to tell him

about all these people, and of blood-ties and relationship he knew

nothing whatever and never would be capable of knowing. Yet he quickly

worked it out that all of them belonged to the master. Then, by

observation, whenever opportunity offered, by study of action, speech,

and the very intonations of the voice, he slowly learned the intimacy

and the degree of favour they enjoyed with the master. And by this

ascertained standard, White Fang treated them accordingly. What was of

value to the master he valued; what was dear to the master was to be

cherished by White Fang and guarded carefully.

Thus it was with the two children. All his life he had disliked

children. He hated and feared their hands. The lessons were not tender

that he had learned of their tyranny and cruelty in the days of the

Indian villages. When Weedon and Maud had first approached him, he

growled warningly and looked malignant. A cuff from the master and a

sharp word had then compelled him to permit their caresses, though he

growled and growled under their tiny hands, and in the growl there was

no crooning note. Later, he observed that the boy and girl were of

great value in the master’s eyes. Then it was that no cuff nor sharp

word was necessary before they could pat him.

Yet White Fang was never effusively affectionate. He yielded to the

master’s children with an ill but honest grace, and endured their

fooling as one would endure a painful operation. When he could no

longer endure, he would get up and stalk determinedly away from them.

But after a time, he grew even to like the children. Still he was not

demonstrative. He would not go up to them. On the other hand, instead

of walking away at sight of them, he waited for them to come to him.

And still later, it was noticed that a pleased light came into his eyes

when he saw them approaching, and that he looked after them with an

appearance of curious regret when they left him for other amusements.

All this was a matter of development, and took time. Next in his

regard, after the children, was Judge Scott. There were two reasons,

possibly, for this. First, he was evidently a valuable possession of

the master’s, and next, he was undemonstrative. White Fang liked to lie

at his feet on the wide porch when he read the newspaper, from time to

time favouring White Fang with a look or a word—untroublesome tokens

that he recognised White Fang’s presence and existence. But this was

only when the master was not around. When the master appeared, all

other beings ceased to exist so far as White Fang was concerned.

White Fang allowed all the members of the family to pet him and make

much of him; but he never gave to them what he gave to the master. No

caress of theirs could put the love-croon into his throat, and, try as

they would, they could never persuade him into snuggling against them.

This expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he

reserved for the master alone. In fact, he never regarded the members

of the family in any other light than possessions of the love-master.

Also White Fang had early come to differentiate between the family and

the servants of the household. The latter were afraid of him, while he

merely refrained from attacking them. This because he considered that

they were likewise possessions of the master. Between White Fang and

them existed a neutrality and no more. They cooked for the master and

washed the dishes and did other things just as Matt had done up in the

Klondike. They were, in short, appurtenances of the household.

Outside the household there was even more for White Fang to learn. The

master’s domain was wide and complex, yet it had its metes and bounds.

The land itself ceased at the county road. Outside was the common

domain of all gods—the roads and streets. Then inside other fences were

the particular domains of other gods. A myriad laws governed all these

things and determined conduct; yet he did not know the speech of the

gods, nor was there any way for him to learn save by experience. He

obeyed his natural impulses until they ran him counter to some law.

When this had been done a few times, he learned the law and after that

observed it.

But most potent in his education was the cuff of the master’s hand, the

censure of the master’s voice. Because of White Fang’s very great love,

a cuff from the master hurt him far more than any beating Grey Beaver

or Beauty Smith had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of

him; beneath the flesh the spirit had still raged, splendid and

invincible. But with the master the cuff was always too light to hurt

the flesh. Yet it went deeper. It was an expression of the master’s

disapproval, and White Fang’s spirit wilted under it.

In point of fact, the cuff was rarely administered. The master’s voice

was sufficient. By it White Fang knew whether he did right or not. By

it he trimmed his conduct and adjusted his actions. It was the compass

by which he steered and learned to chart the manners of a new land and

life.

In the Northland, the only domesticated animal was the dog. All other

animals lived in the Wild, and were, when not too formidable, lawful

spoil for any dog. All his days White Fang had foraged among the live

things for food. It did not enter his head that in the Southland it was

otherwise. But this he was to learn early in his residence in Santa

Clara Valley. Sauntering around the corner of the house in the early

morning, he came upon a chicken that had escaped from the chicken-yard.

White Fang’s natural impulse was to eat it. A couple of bounds, a flash

of teeth and a frightened squawk, and he had scooped in the adventurous

fowl. It was farm-bred and fat and tender; and White Fang licked his

chops and decided that such fare was good.

Later in the day, he chanced upon another stray chicken near the

stables. One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know White

Fang’s breed, so for weapon he took a light buggy-whip. At the first

cut of the whip, White Fang left the chicken for the man. A club might

have stopped White Fang, but not a whip. Silently, without flinching,

he took a second cut in his forward rush, and as he leaped for the

throat the groom cried out, “My God!” and staggered backward. He

dropped the whip and shielded his throat with his arms. In consequence,

his forearm was ripped open to the bone.

The man was badly frightened. It was not so much White Fang’s ferocity

as it was his silence that unnerved the groom. Still protecting his

throat and face with his torn and bleeding arm, he tried to retreat to

the barn. And it would have gone hard with him had not Collie appeared

on the scene. As she had saved Dick’s life, she now saved the groom’s.

She rushed upon White Fang in frenzied wrath. She had been right. She

had known better than the blundering gods. All her suspicions were

justified. Here was the ancient marauder up to his old tricks again.

The groom escaped into the stables, and White Fang backed away before

Collie’s wicked teeth, or presented his shoulder to them and circled

round and round. But Collie did not give over, as was her wont, after a

decent interval of chastisement. On the contrary, she grew more excited

and angry every moment, until, in the end, White Fang flung dignity to

the winds and frankly fled away from her across the fields.

“He’ll learn to leave chickens alone,” the master said. “But I can’t

give him the lesson until I catch him in the act.”

Two nights later came the act, but on a more generous scale than the

master had anticipated. White Fang had observed closely the

chicken-yards and the habits of the chickens. In the night-time, after

they had gone to roost, he climbed to the top of a pile of newly hauled

lumber. From there he gained the roof of a chicken-house, passed over

the ridgepole and dropped to the ground inside. A moment later he was

inside the house, and the slaughter began.

In the morning, when the master came out on to the porch, fifty white

Leghorn hens, laid out in a row by the groom, greeted his eyes. He

whistled to himself, softly, first with surprise, and then, at the end,

with admiration. His eyes were likewise greeted by White Fang, but

about the latter there were no signs of shame nor guilt. He carried

himself with pride, as though, forsooth, he had achieved a deed

praiseworthy and meritorious. There was about him no consciousness of

sin. The master’s lips tightened as he faced the disagreeable task.

Then he talked harshly to the unwitting culprit, and in his voice there

was nothing but godlike wrath. Also, he held White Fang’s nose down to

the slain hens, and at the same time cuffed him soundly.

White Fang never raided a chicken-roost again. It was against the law,

and he had learned it. Then the master took him into the chicken-yards.

White Fang’s natural impulse, when he saw the live food fluttering

about him and under his very nose, was to spring upon it. He obeyed the

impulse, but was checked by the master’s voice. They continued in the

yards for half an hour. Time and again the impulse surged over White

Fang, and each time, as he yielded to it, he was checked by the

master’s voice. Thus it was he learned the law, and ere he left the

domain of the chickens, he had learned to ignore their existence.

“You can never cure a chicken-killer.” Judge Scott shook his head sadly

at luncheon table, when his son narrated the lesson he had given White

Fang. “Once they’ve got the habit and the taste of blood . . .” Again

he shook his head sadly.

But Weedon Scott did not agree with his father. “I’ll tell you what

I’ll do,” he challenged finally. “I’ll lock White Fang in with the

chickens all afternoon.”

“But think of the chickens,” objected the judge.

“And furthermore,” the son went on, “for every chicken he kills, I’ll

pay you one dollar gold coin of the realm.”

“But you should penalise father, too,” interposed Beth.

Her sister seconded her, and a chorus of approval arose from around the

table. Judge Scott nodded his head in agreement.

“All right.” Weedon Scott pondered for a moment. “And if, at the end of

the afternoon White Fang hasn’t harmed a chicken, for every ten minutes

of the time he has spent in the yard, you will have to say to him,

gravely and with deliberation, just as if you were sitting on the bench

and solemnly passing judgment, ‘White Fang, you are smarter than I

thought.’”

From hidden points of vantage the family watched the performance. But

it was a fizzle. Locked in the yard and there deserted by the master,

White Fang lay down and went to sleep. Once he got up and walked over

to the trough for a drink of water. The chickens he calmly ignored. So

far as he was concerned they did not exist. At four o’clock he executed

a running jump, gained the roof of the chicken-house and leaped to the

ground outside, whence he sauntered gravely to the house. He had

learned the law. And on the porch, before the delighted family, Judge

Scott, face to face with White Fang, said slowly and solemnly, sixteen

times, “White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.”

But it was the multiplicity of laws that befuddled White Fang and often

brought him into disgrace. He had to learn that he must not touch the

chickens that belonged to other gods. Then there were cats, and

rabbits, and turkeys; all these he must let alone. In fact, when he had

but partly learned the law, his impression was that he must leave all

live things alone. Out in the back-pasture, a quail could flutter up

under his nose unharmed. All tense and trembling with eagerness and

desire, he mastered his instinct and stood still. He was obeying the

will of the gods.

And then, one day, again out in the back-pasture, he saw Dick start a

jackrabbit and run it. The master himself was looking on and did not

interfere. Nay, he encouraged White Fang to join in the chase. And thus

he learned that there was no taboo on jackrabbits. In the end he worked

out the complete law. Between him and all domestic animals there must

be no hostilities. If not amity, at least neutrality must obtain. But

the other animals—the squirrels, and quail, and cottontails, were

creatures of the Wild who had never yielded allegiance to man. They

were the lawful prey of any dog. It was only the tame that the gods

protected, and between the tame deadly strife was not permitted. The

gods held the power of life and death over their subjects, and the gods

were jealous of their power.

Life was complex in the Santa Clara Valley after the simplicities of

the Northland. And the chief thing demanded by these intricacies of

civilisation was control, restraint—a poise of self that was as

delicate as the fluttering of gossamer wings and at the same time as

rigid as steel. Life had a thousand faces, and White Fang found he must

meet them all—thus, when he went to town, in to San Jose, running

behind the carriage or loafing about the streets when the carriage

stopped. Life flowed past him, deep and wide and varied, continually

impinging upon his senses, demanding of him instant and endless

adjustments and correspondences, and compelling him, almost always, to

suppress his natural impulses.

There were butcher-shops where meat hung within reach. This meat he

must not touch. There were cats at the houses the master visited that

must be let alone. And there were dogs everywhere that snarled at him

and that he must not attack. And then, on the crowded sidewalks there

were persons innumerable whose attention he attracted. They would stop

and look at him, point him out to one another, examine him, talk of

him, and, worst of all, pat him. And these perilous contacts from all

these strange hands he must endure. Yet this endurance he achieved.

Furthermore, he got over being awkward and self-conscious. In a lofty

way he received the attentions of the multitudes of strange gods. With

condescension he accepted their condescension. On the other hand, there

was something about him that prevented great familiarity. They patted

him on the head and passed on, contented and pleased with their own

daring.

But it was not all easy for White Fang. Running behind the carriage in

the outskirts of San Jose, he encountered certain small boys who made a

practice of flinging stones at him. Yet he knew that it was not

permitted him to pursue and drag them down. Here he was compelled to

violate his instinct of self-preservation, and violate it he did, for

he was becoming tame and qualifying himself for civilisation.

Nevertheless, White Fang was not quite satisfied with the arrangement.

He had no abstract ideas about justice and fair play. But there is a

certain sense of equity that resides in life, and it was this sense in

him that resented the unfairness of his being permitted no defence

against the stone-throwers. He forgot that in the covenant entered into

between him and the gods they were pledged to care for him and defend

him. But one day the master sprang from the carriage, whip in hand, and

gave the stone-throwers a thrashing. After that they threw stones no

more, and White Fang understood and was satisfied.

One other experience of similar nature was his. On the way to town,

hanging around the saloon at the cross-roads, were three dogs that made

a practice of rushing out upon him when he went by. Knowing his deadly

method of fighting, the master had never ceased impressing upon White

Fang the law that he must not fight. As a result, having learned the

lesson well, White Fang was hard put whenever he passed the cross-roads

saloon. After the first rush, each time, his snarl kept the three dogs

at a distance but they trailed along behind, yelping and bickering and

insulting him. This endured for some time. The men at the saloon even

urged the dogs on to attack White Fang. One day they openly sicked the

dogs on him. The master stopped the carriage.

“Go to it,” he said to White Fang.

But White Fang could not believe. He looked at the master, and he

looked at the dogs. Then he looked back eagerly and questioningly at

the master.

The master nodded his head. “Go to them, old fellow. Eat them up.”

White Fang no longer hesitated. He turned and leaped silently among his

enemies. All three faced him. There was a great snarling and growling,

a clashing of teeth and a flurry of bodies. The dust of the road arose

in a cloud and screened the battle. But at the end of several minutes

two dogs were struggling in the dirt and the third was in full flight.

He leaped a ditch, went through a rail fence, and fled across a field.

White Fang followed, sliding over the ground in wolf fashion and with

wolf speed, swiftly and without noise, and in the centre of the field

he dragged down and slew the dog.

With this triple killing his main troubles with dogs ceased. The word

went up and down the valley, and men saw to it that their dogs did not

molest the Fighting Wolf.