white fang(白牙)-第26章
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generations。 Much of the Wild had been lost； so that to them the Wild was
the unknown； the terrible； the ever…menacing and ever warring。 But to him；
in appearance and action and impulse； still clung the Wild。 He symbolised
it； was its personification： so that when they showed their teeth to him they
were defending themselves against the powers of destruction that lurked in
the shadows of the forest and in the dark beyond the camp…fire。
But there was one lesson the dogs did learn； and that was to keep
together。 White Fang was too terrible for any of them to face single…
handed。 They met him with the mass…formation； otherwise he would have
killed them； one by one； in a night。 As it was； he never had a chance to kill
them。 He might roll a dog off its feet； but the pack would be upon him
before he could follow up and deliver the deadly throat…stroke。 At the first
hint of conflict； the whole team drew together and faced him。 The dogs
had quarrels among themselves； but these were forgotten when trouble
was brewing with White Fang。
On the other hand； try as they would； they could not kill White Fang。
He was too quick for them； too formidable； too wise。 He avoided tight
places and always backed out of it when they bade fair to surround him。
While； as for getting him off his feet； there was no dog among them
capable of doing the trick。 His feet clung to the earth with the same
tenacity that he clung to life。 For that matter； life and footing were
synonymous in this unending warfare with the pack； and none knew it
better than White Fang。
So he became the enemy of his kind； domesticated wolves that they
were； softened by the fires of man； weakened in the sheltering shadow of
man's strength。 White Fang was bitter and implacable。 The clay of him
was so moulded。 He declared a vendetta against all dogs。 And so terribly
did he live this vendetta that Grey Beaver； fierce savage himself； could not
but marvel at White Fang's ferocity。 Never； he swore； had there been the
like of this animal； and the Indians in strange villages swore likewise
when they considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs。
When White Fang was nearly five years old； Grey Beaver took him on
another great journey； and long remembered was the havoc he worked
amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie； across the
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Rockies； and down the Porcupine to the Yukon。 He revelled in the
vengeance he wreaked upon his kind。 They were ordinary； unsuspecting
dogs。 They were not prepared for his swiftness and directness； for his
attack without warning。 They did not know him for what he was； a
lightning…flash of slaughter。 They bristled up to him； stiff…legged and
challenging； while he； wasting no time on elaborate preliminaries；
snapping into action like a steel spring； was at their throats and destroying
them before they knew what was happening and while they were yet in the
throes of surprise。
He became an adept at fighting。 He economised。 He never wasted his
strength； never tussled。 He was in too quickly for that； and； if he missed；
was out again too quickly。 The dislike of the wolf for close quarters was
his to an unusual degree。 He could not endure a prolonged contact with
another body。 It smacked of danger。 It made him frantic。 He must be away；
free； on his own legs； touching no living thing。 It was the Wild still
clinging to him； asserting itself through him。 This feeling had been
accentuated by the Ishmaelite life he had led from his puppyhood。 Danger
lurked in contacts。 It was the trap； ever the trap； the fear of it lurking deep
in the life of him； woven into the fibre of him
In consequence； the strange dogs he encountered had no chance
against him。 He eluded their fangs。 He got them； or got away； himself
untouched in either event。 In the natural course of things there were
exceptions to this。 There were times when several dogs； pitching on to him；
punished him before he could get away； and there were times when a
single dog scored deeply on him。 But these were accidents。 In the main； so
efficient a fighter had he become； he went his way unscathed。
Another advantage he possessed was that of correctly judging time and
distance。 Not that he did this consciously； however。 He did not calculate
such things。 It was all automatic。 His eyes saw correctly； and the nerves
carried the vision correctly to his brain。 The parts of him were better
adjusted than those of the average dog。 They worked together more
smoothly and steadily。 His was a better； far better； nervous； mental； and
muscular co… ordination。 When his eyes conveyed to his brain the moving
image of an action； his brain without conscious effort； knew the space that
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limited that action and the time required for its completion。 Thus； he could
avoid the leap of another dog； or the drive of its fangs； and at the same
moment could seize the infinitesimal fraction of time in which to deliver
his own attack。 Body and brain； his was a more perfected mechanism。 Not
that he was to be praised for it。 Nature had been more generous to him
than to the average animal； that was all。
It was in the summer that White Fang arrived at Fort Yukon。 Grey
Beaver had crossed the great watershed between Mackenzie and the
Yukon in the late winter； and spent the spring in hunting among the
western outlying spurs of the Rockies。 Then； after the break…up of the ice
on the Porcupine； he had built a canoe and paddled down that stream to
where it effected its junction with the Yukon just under the Artic circle。
Here stood the old Hudson's Bay Company fort； and here were many
Indians； much food； and unprecedented excitement。 It was the summer of
1898； and thousands of gold… hunters were going up the Yukon to Dawson
and the Klondike。 Still hundreds of miles from their goal； nevertheless
many of them had been on the way for a year； and the least any of them
had travelled to get that far was five thousand miles； while some had come
from the other side of the world。
Here Grey Beaver stopped。 A whisper of the gold…rush had reached his
ears； and he had come with several bales of furs； and another of gut…sewn
mittens and moccasins。 He would not have ventured so long a trip had he
not expected generous profits。 But what he had expected was nothing to
what he realised。 His wildest dreams had not exceeded a hundred per cent。
profit； he made a thousand per cent。 And like a true Indian； he settled
down to trade carefully and slowly； even if it took all summer and the rest
of the winter to dispose of his goods。
It was at Fort Yukon that White Fang saw his first white men。 As
compared with the Indians he had known； they were to him another race of
beings； a race of superior gods。 They impressed him as possessing
superior power； and it is on power that godhead rests。 White Fang did not
reason it out； did not in his mind make the sharp generalisation that the
white gods were more powerful。 It was a feeling； nothing more； and yet
none the less potent。 As； in his puppyhood； the looming bulks of the tepees；
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man…reared； had affected him as manifestations of power； so was he
affected now by the houses and the huge fort all of massive logs。 Here was
power。 Those white gods were strong。 They possessed greater mastery
over matter than the gods he had known； most powerful among which was
Grey Beaver。 And yet Grey Beaver was as a child…god among these white…
skinned ones。
To be sure； White Fang only felt these things。 He was not conscious of
them。 Yet it is upon feeling； more often than thinking； that animals act； and
every act White Fang now performed was based upon the feeling that the
white men were the superior gods。 In the first place he was very suspicious
of them。 There was no telling what unknown terrors were theirs； what
unknown hurts they could administer。 He was curious to observe them；
fearful of being noticed by them。 For the first few hours he was content
with slinking around and watching them from a safe distance。 Then he saw
that no harm befell the dogs that were near to them； and he came in closer。
In turn he was an object of great curiosity to them。 His wolfish
appearance caught their eyes at once； and they pointed him out to one
another。 This act of pointing put White Fang on his guard； and when they
tried to approach him he showed his teeth and backed away。 Not one
succeeded in laying a hand on him； and it was well that they did not。
White Fang soon learned that very few of these gods … not more than a
dozen … lived at this place。 Every two or three days a steamer （another and
colossal manifestation of power） came into the bank and stopped for
several hours。 The white men came from off these steamers and went
away on them again。 There seemed untold numbers of these white men。 In
the first day or so； he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his
life； and as the days went by they continued to come up the river； stop； and
then go on up the river out of sight。
But if the white gods were all…powerful； their dogs did not amount to
much。 This White Fang quickly discovered by mixing with those that
came ashore with their masters。 They were irregular shapes and sizes。
Some were short
