white fang(白牙)-第29章
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himself； and no blame was to be attached to him。 He had come into the
world with a twisted body and a brute intelligence。 This had constituted
the clay of him； and it had not been kindly moulded by the world。
White Fang knew why he was being beaten。 When Grey Beaver tied
the thong around his neck； and passed the end of the thong into Beauty
Smith's keeping； White Fang knew that it was his god's will for him to go
with Beauty Smith。 And when Beauty Smith left him tied outside the fort；
he knew that it was Beauty Smith's will that he should remain there。
Therefore； he had disobeyed the will of both the gods； and earned the
consequent punishment。 He had seen dogs change owners in the past； and
he had seen the runaways beaten as he was being beaten。 He was wise； and
yet in the nature of him there were forces greater than wisdom。 One of
these was fidelity。 He did not love Grey Beaver； yet； even in the face of his
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will and his anger； he was faithful to him。 He could not help it。 This
faithfulness was a quality of the clay that composed him。 It was the quality
that was peculiarly the possession of his kind； the quality that set apart his
species from all other species； the quality that has enabled the wolf and the
wild dog to come in from the open and be the companions of man。
After the beating； White Fang was dragged back to the fort。 But this
time Beauty Smith left him tied with a stick。 One does not give up a god
easily； and so with White Fang。 Grey Beaver was his own particular god；
and； in spite of Grey Beaver's will； White Fang still clung to him and
would not give him up。 Grey Beaver had betrayed and forsaken him； but
that had no effect upon him。 Not for nothing had he surrendered himself
body and soul to Grey Beaver。 There had been no reservation on White
Fang's part； and the bond was not to be broken easily。
So； in the night； when the men in the fort were asleep； White Fang
applied his teeth to the stick that held him。 The wood was seasoned and
dry； and it was tied so closely to his neck that he could scarcely get his
teeth to it。 It was only by the severest muscular exertion and neck…arching
that he succeeded in getting the wood between his teeth； and barely
between his teeth at that； and it was only by the exercise of an immense
patience； extending through many hours； that he succeeded in gnawing
through the stick。 This was something that dogs were not supposed to do。
It was unprecedented。 But White Fang did it； trotting away from the fort in
the early morning； with the end of the stick hanging to his neck。
He was wise。 But had he been merely wise he would not have gone
back to Grey Beaver who had already twice betrayed him。 But there was
his faithfulness； and he went back to be betrayed yet a third time。 Again he
yielded to the tying of a thong around his neck by Grey Beaver； and again
Beauty Smith came to claim him。 And this time he was beaten even more
severely than before。
Grey Beaver looked on stolidly while the white man wielded the whip。
He gave no protection。 It was no longer his dog。 When the beating was
over White Fang was sick。 A soft southland dog would have died under it；
but not he。 His school of life had been sterner； and he was himself of
sterner stuff。 He had too great vitality。 His clutch on life was too strong。
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But he was very sick。 At first he was unable to drag himself along； and
Beauty Smith had to wait half…an…hour for him。 And then； blind and
reeling； he followed at Beauty Smith's heels back to the fort。
But now he was tied with a chain that defied his teeth； and he strove in
vain； by lunging； to draw the staple from the timber into which it was
driven。 After a few days； sober and bankrupt； Grey Beaver departed up the
Porcupine on his long journey to the Mackenzie。 White Fang remained on
the Yukon； the property of a man more than half mad and all brute。 But
what is a dog to know in its consciousness of madness？ To White Fang；
Beauty Smith was a veritable； if terrible； god。 He was a mad god at best；
but White Fang knew nothing of madness； he knew only that he must
submit to the will of this new master； obey his every whim and fancy。
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CHAPTER III … THE REIGN OF HATE
Under the tutelage of the mad god； White Fang became a fiend。 He
was kept chained in a pen at the rear of the fort； and here Beauty Smith
teased and irritated and drove him wild with petty torments。 The man early
discovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter； and made it a point
after painfully tricking him； to laugh at him。 This laughter was uproarious
and scornful； and at the same time the god pointed his finger derisively at
White Fang。 At such times reason fled from White Fang； and in his
transports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith。
Formerly； White Fang had been merely the enemy of his kind； withal a
ferocious enemy。 He now became the enemy of all things； and more
ferocious than ever。 To such an extent was he tormented； that he hated
blindly and without the faintest spark of reason。 He hated the chain that
bound him； the men who peered in at him through the slats of the pen； the
dogs that accompanied the men and that snarled malignantly at him in his
helplessness。 He hated the very wood of the pen that confined him。 And；
first； last； and most of all； he hated Beauty Smith。
But Beauty Smith had a purpose in all that he did to White Fang。 One
day a number of men gathered about the pen。 Beauty Smith entered； club
in hand； and took the chain off from White Fang's neck。 When his master
had gone out； White Fang turned loose and tore around the pen； trying to
get at the men outside。 He was magnificently terrible。 Fully five feet in
length； and standing two and one…half feet at the shoulder； he far
outweighed a wolf of corresponding size。 From his mother he had
inherited the heavier proportions of the dog； so that he weighed； without
any fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh； over ninety pounds。 It
was all muscle； bone； and sinew…fighting flesh in the finest condition。
The door of the pen was being opened again。 White Fang paused。
Something unusual was happening。 He waited。 The door was opened
wider。 Then a huge dog was thrust inside； and the door was slammed shut
behind him。 White Fang had never seen such a dog （it was a mastiff）； but
the size and fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter him。 Here was some
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thing； not wood nor iron； upon which to wreak his hate。 He leaped in with
a flash of fangs that ripped down the side of the mastiff's neck。 The mastiff
shook his head； growled hoarsely； and plunged at White Fang。 But White
Fang was here； there； and everywhere； always evading and eluding； and
always leaping in and slashing with his fangs and leaping out again in time
to escape punishment。
The men outside shouted and applauded； while Beauty Smith； in an
ecstasy of delight； gloated over the rippling and manging performed by
White Fang。 There was no hope for the mastiff from the first。 He was too
ponderous and slow。 In the end； while Beauty Smith beat White Fang back
with a club； the mastiff was dragged out by its owner。 Then there was a
payment of bets； and money clinked in Beauty Smith's hand。
White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the men
around his pen。 It meant a fight； and this was the only way that was now
vouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in him。 Tormented； incited
to hate； he was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of satisfying that
hate except at the times his master saw fit to put another dog against him。
Beauty Smith had estimated his powers well； for he was invariably the
victor。 One day； three dogs were turned in upon him in succession。
Another day a full… grown wolf； fresh…caught from the Wild； was shoved
in through the door of the pen。 And on still another day two dogs were set
against him at the same time。 This was his severest fight； and though in the
end he killed them both he was himself half killed in doing it。
In the fall of the year； when the first snows were falling and mush…ice
was running in the river； Beauty Smith took passage for himself and White
Fang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson。 White Fang had now
achieved a reputation in the land。 As 〃the Fighting Wolf〃 he was known
far and wide； and the cage in which he was kept on the steam…boat's deck
was usually surrounded by curious men。 He raged and snarled at them； or
lay quietly and studied them with cold hatred。 Why should he not hate
them？ He never asked himself the question。 He knew only hate and lost
himself in the passion of it。 Life had become a hell to him。 He had not
been made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands of
men。 And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated。 Men stared
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at him； poked sticks between the bars to make him snarl； and then laughed
at him。
They were his environment； these men； and they were moulding the
clay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by Nature。
Nevertheless； Nature had given him plasticity。 Where many another
animal would have died or had its spirit broken； he adjusted himself and
lived； and at no expense of the spirit。 Possibly Beauty Smith； arch…fiend
and tormentor； was capable of breaking White Fang's spirit； but as yet
there were no signs of his succeeding。
