"It is not strange, Salmon Tongue," Gray Beaver answered."It was the time of the famine, and there was no meat for the dogs.""She has lived with the wolves," said a third Indian.
"So it would seem, Three Eagles," Gray Beaver answered, laying his hand on the cub; "and this be the sign of it."The cub snarled a little at the touch of the hand, and the hand flew back to administer a clout.Whereupon the cub covered its fangs and sank down submissively, while the hand, returning, rubbed behind his ears, and up and down his back.
"This be the sign of it," Gray Beaver went on."It is plain that his mother is Kiche.But his father was a wolf.Wherefore is there in him little dog and much wolf.His fangs be white, and White Fang shall be his name.
I have spoken.He is my dog.For was not Kiche my brother's dog? And is not my brother dead?"The cub, who had thus received a name in the world, lay and watched.
For a time the man-animals continued to make their mouth-noises.Then Gray Beaver took a knife from a sheath that hung around his neck, and went into the thicket and cut a stick.White Fang watched him.He notched the stick at each end and in the notches fastened strings of raw-hide.One string he tied around the throat of Kiche.Then he led her to a small pine, around which he tied the other string.
White Fang followed and lay down beside her.Salmon Tongue's hand reached out to him and rolled him over on his back.Kiche looked on anxiously.
White Fang felt fear mounting in him again.He could not quite suppress a snarl, but he made no offer to snap.The hand, with fingers crooked and spread apart, rubbed his stomach in a playful way and rolled him from side to side.It was ridiculous and ungainly, lying there on his back with legs sprawling in the air.Besides, it was a position of such utter helplessness that White Fang's whole nature revolted against it.He could do nothing to defend himself.If this man-animal intended harm, White Fang knew that he could not escape it.How could he spring away with his four legs in the air above him? Yet submission made him master his fear, and he only growled softly.This growl he could not suppress; nor did the man-animal resent it by giving him a blow on the head.And furthermore, such was the strangeness of it, White Fang experienced an unaccountable sensation of pleasure as the hand rubbed back and forth.When he was rolled on his side he ceased the growl; when the fingers pressed and prodded at the base of his ears the pleasurable sensation increased; and when, with a final rub and scratch, the man left him alone and went away, all fear had died out of White Fang.He was to know fear many times in his dealings with man;yet it was a token of the fearless companionship with man that was ultimately to be his.
After a time, White Fang heard strange noises approaching.He was quick in his classification, for he knew them at once for man-animal noises.
A few minutes later the remainder of the tribe, strung out as it was on the march, trailed in.There were more men and many women and children, forty souls of them, and all heavily burdened with camp equipage and outfit.
Also there were many dogs; and these, with the exception of the part-grown puppies, were likewise burdened with camp outfit.On their backs, in bags that fastened tightly around underneath, the dogs carried from twenty to thirty pounds of weight.
White Fang had never seen dogs before, but at sight of them he felt that they were his own kind, only somehow different.But they displayed little difference from the wolf when they discovered the cub and his mother.
There was a rush.White Fang bristled and snarled and snapped in the face of the open-mouthed oncoming wave of dogs, and went down and under them, feeling the sharp slash of teeth in his body, himself biting and tearing at the legs and bellies above him.There was a great uproar.He could hear the snarl of Kiche as she fought for him; and he could hear the cries of the man-animals, the sound of clubs striking upon bodies, and the yelps of pain from the dogs so struck.
Only a few seconds elapsed before he was on his feet again.He could now see the man-animals driving back the dogs with clubs and stones, defending him, saving him from the savage teeth of his kind that somehow was not his kind.And though there was no reason in his brain for a clear conception of so abstract a thing as justice, nevertheless, in his own way, he felt the justice of the man-animals, and he knew them for what they were --makers of law and executors of law.Also, he appreciated the power with which they administered the law.Unlike any animals he had ever encountered, they did not bite nor claw.They enforced their live strength with the power of dead things.Dead things did their bidding.Thus, sticks and stones, directed by these strange creatures, leaped through the air like living things, inflicting grievous hurts upon the dogs.
To his mind this was power unusual, power inconceivable and beyond the natural, power that was godlike.White Fang, in the very nature of him, could never know anything about gods; at the best he could know only things that were beyond knowing; but the wonder and awe that he had of these man-animals in ways resembled what would be the wonder and awe of man at sight of some celestial creature, on a mountain top, hurling thunderbolts from either hand at an astonished world.
