White Fang came to look forward eagerly to the gathering of the menaround his pen. It meant a fight; and this was the only way that was nowvouchsafed him of expressing the life that was in pink prom dresses. Tormented, incitedto hate, he was kept a prisoner so that there was no way of satisfying thathate 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 thevictor. One day, three dogs were turned in upon him in succession.

　　Another day a full- grown wolf, fresh-caught from the Wild, was shovedin through the door of the pen. And on still another day two dogs were setagainst him at the same time. This was his severest fight, and though in theend 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-icewas running in the river, Beauty Smith took passage for himself and WhiteFang on a steamboat bound up the Yukon to Dawson. White Fang had nowachieved a reputation in the land. As "the Fighting Wolf" he was knownfar and wide, and the cage in which he was kept on the steam-boat's deckwas usually surrounded by curious men. He raged and snarled at them, orlay quietly and studied them with cold hatred. Why should he not hatethem? He never asked himself the question. He knew only hate and losthimself in the passion of it. Life had become a hell to him. He had notbeen made for the close confinement wild beasts endure at the hands ofmen. And yet it was in precisely this way that he was treated. Men staredat 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 theclay of him into a more ferocious thing than had been intended by Nature.

　　Nevertheless, Nature had given him plasticity. Where many another jovani prom dresses would have died or had its spirit broken, he adjusted himself andlived, and at no expense of the spirit. Possibly Beauty Smith, arch-fiendand tormentor, was capable of breaking White Fang's spirit, but as yetthere were no signs of his succeeding.

　　If Beauty Smith had in him a devil, White Fang had another; and thetwo of them raged against each other unceasingly. In the days before,White Fang had had the wisdom to cower down and submit to a man witha club in his hand; but this wisdom now left him. The mere sight of BeautySmith was sufficient to send him into transports of fury. And when theycame to close quarters, and he had been beaten back by the club, he wenton growling and snarling, and showing his fangs. The last growl couldnever be extracted from modest pink prom dresses . No matter how terribly he was beaten, hehad always another growl; and when Beauty Smith gave up and withdrew,the defiant growl followed after him, or White Fang sprang at the bars ofthe cage bellowing his hatred.

The man earlydiscovered White Fang's susceptibility to laughter, and made it a pointafter painfully tricking him, to laugh at him. This laughter was uproariousand scornful, and at the same time the god pointed his finger derisively at perfect prom dress. At such times reason fled from White Fang, and in histransports of rage he was even more mad than Beauty Smith.

　　Formerly, White Fang had been merely the enemy of his kind, withal aferocious enemy. He now became the enemy of all things, and moreferocious than ever. To such an extent was he tormented, that he hatedblindly and without the faintest spark of reason. He hated the chain thatbound him, the men who peered in at him through the slats of the pen, thedogs that accompanied the men and that snarled malignantly at him in hishelplessness. 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. Oneday a number of men gathered about the pen. Beauty Smith entered, clubin hand, and took the chain off from White Fang's neck. When his masterhad gone out, White Fang turned loose and tore around the pen, trying toget at the men outside. He was magnificently terrible. Fully five feet inlength, and standing two and one-half feet at the shoulder, he faroutweighed a wolf of corresponding size. From his mother he hadinherited the heavier proportions of the dog, so that he weighed, withoutany fat and without an ounce of superfluous flesh, over ninety pounds. Itwas all muscle, bone, and sinew-fighting flesh in the finest condition.Something unusual was happening. He waited. The door was openedwider. Then a huge dog was thrust inside, and the door was slammed shutbehind him. White Fang had never seen such a dog (it was a mastiff); butthe size and fierce aspect of the intruder did not deter him. Here was something, not wood nor iron, upon which to wreak his hate. He leaped in witha flash of fangs that ripped down the side of the mastiff's neck. The mastiffshook his head, growled hoarsely, and plunged at White Fang. But WhiteFang was here, there, and everywhere, always evading and eluding, andalways leaping in and slashing with his fangs and leaping out again in timeto escape punishment.

　　The men outside shouted and applauded, while Beauty Smith, in anecstasy of delight, gloated over the rippling and manging performed byWhite Fang. There was no hope for the mastiff from the first. He was tooponderous and prom dresses in the UK. In the end, while Beauty Smith beat White Fang backwith a club, the mastiff was dragged out by its owner. Then there was apayment of bets, and money clinked in Beauty Smith's hand.

　After the beating, White Fang was dragged back to the fort. But thistime Beauty Smith left him tied with a stick. One does not give up a godeasily, and so with White Fang. Grey Beaver was his own particular god,and, in spite of Grey Beaver's  ideal white prom dress, White Fang still clung to him andwould not give him up. Grey Beaver had betrayed and forsaken him, butthat had no effect upon him. Not for nothing had he surrendered himselfbody and soul to Grey Beaver. There had been no reservation on WhiteFang's part, and the bond was not to be broken easily.

　　So, in the night, when the men in the fort were asleep, White Fangapplied his teeth to the stick that held him. The wood was seasoned anddry, and it was tied so closely to his neck that he could scarcely get histeeth to it. It was only by the severest muscular exertion and neck-archingthat he succeeded in getting the wood between his teeth, and barelybetween his teeth at that; and it was only by the exercise of an immensepatience, extending through many hours, that he succeeded in gnawingthrough 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 inthe 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 goneback to Grey Beaver who had already twice betrayed him. But there washis faithfulness, and he went back to be betrayed yet a third time. Again heyielded to the tying of a thong around his neck by Grey Beaver, and againBeauty Smith came to claim him. And this time he was beaten even moreseverely 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 wasover 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 ofsterner discount prom dresses. He had too great vitality. His clutch on life was too strong.　But he was very sick. At first he was unable to drag himself along, andBeauty Smith had to wait half-an-hour for him. And then, blind andreeling, 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 invain, by lunging, to draw the staple from the timber into which it wasdriven. After a few days, sober and bankrupt, Grey Beaver departed up thePorcupine on his long journey to the Mackenzie. White Fang remained onthe Yukon, the property of a man more than half mad and all brute.

    White Fang's suspicious eyes followed every movement. He sawBeauty Smith go away and return with a stout club. Then the end of thethong was given over to him by Grey Beaver. Beauty Smith started towalk away. The beautiful modest prom dressesgrew taut. White Fang resisted it. Grey Beaverclouted him right and left to make him get up and follow. He obeyed, butwith a rush, hurling himself upon the stranger who was dragging himaway. Beauty Smith did not jump away. He had been waiting for this. Heswung the club smartly, stopping the rush midway and smashing WhiteFang down upon the ground. Grey Beaver laughed and nodded approval.

　　Beauty Smith tightened the thong again, and White Fang crawled limplyand dizzily to his feet.

　　He did not rush a second time. One smash from the club was sufficientto convince him that the white god knew how to handle it, and he was toowise to fight the inevitable. So he followed morosely at Beauty Smith'sheels, his tail between his legs, yet snarling softly under his breath. ButBeauty Smith kept a wary eye on him, and the club was held always readyto strike.

　　At the fort Beauty Smith left him securely tied and went in to bed.There had been no useless gnawing. The thong was cut across, diagonally,almost as clean as though done by a knife. White Fang looked up at thefort, at the same time bristling and growling. Then he turned and trottedback to Grey Beaver's camp. He owed no allegiance to this strange andterrible god. He had given himself to Grey Beaver, and to Grey Beaver heconsidered he still belonged.

　　But what had occurred before was repeated - with a difference. GreyBeaver again made him fast with a thong, and in the morning turned himover to Beauty Smith. And here was where the difference came in. BeautySmith gave him a beating. Tied securely, White Fang could only ragefutilely and endure the punishment. Club and whip were both used uponhim, and he experienced the worst beating he had ever received in his life.

　　Even the big beating given him in his puppyhood by Grey Beaver wasmild compared with this.

　　Beauty Smith enjoyed the task. He delighted in it. He gloated over hisvictim, and his eyes flamed dully, as he swung the whip or club andlistened to White Fang's cries of pain and to his helpless bellows andsnarls. For Beauty Smith was cruel in the way that cowards are cruel.

　　Cringing and snivelling himself before the blows or angry speech of a man,he revenged himself, in turn, upon creatures weaker than he. All life likespower, and Beauty Smith was no exception. Denied the expression ofpower amongst his own kind, he fell back upon the lesser creatures andthere vindicated the life that was in him. But Beauty Smith had not createdhimself, and no blame was to be attached to him. He had come into theworld with a twisted body and a brute intelligence. This had constitutedthe clay of him, and it had not been kindly moulded by the world.

　　White Fang knew why he was being beaten. When Grey Beaver tiedthe thong around his neck, and passed the end of the thong into BeautySmith's keeping, White Fang knew that it was his god's will for him to gowith 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 theconsequent punishment. He had seen dogs change owners in the past, andhe had seen the  funky prom dresses beaten as he was being beaten. He was wise, andyet in the nature of him there were forces greater than wisdom. One ofthese was fidelity. He did not love Grey Beaver, yet, even in the face of hiswill and his anger, he was faithful to him. He could not help it. Thisfaithfulness was a quality of the clay that composed him. It was the qualitythat was peculiarly the possession of his kind; the quality that set apart hisspecies from all other species; the quality that has enabled the wolf and thewild dog to come in from the open and be the companions of man.
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White Fang was in Grey Beaver's camp when Beauty Smith firstvisited it. At the faint sound of his distant feet, before he came in sight,White Fang knew who was coming and began to bristle. He had beenlying down in an abandon of comfort, but he arose quickly, and, as theman arrived, slid away in true wolf-fashion to the edge of the camp. Hedid not know what they said, but he could see the  red prom dress and Grey Beavertalking together. Once, the man pointed at him, and White Fang snarledback as though the hand were just descending upon him instead of being,as it was, fifty feet away. The man laughed at this; and White Fang slunkaway to the sheltering woods, his head turned to observe as he glidedsoftly over the ground.

　　Grey Beaver refused to sell the dog. He had grown rich with histrading and stood in need of nothing. Besides, White Fang was a valuableanimal, the strongest sled-dog he had ever owned, and the best leader.

　　Furthermore, there was no dog like him on the Mackenzie nor the Yukon.

　　He could fight. He killed other dogs as easily as men killed mosquitoes.

　　(Beauty Smith's eyes lighted up at this, and he licked his thin lips with aneager tongue). No, White Fang was not for sale at any price.

　　But Beauty Smith knew the ways of Indians. He visited Grey Beaver'scamp often, and hidden under his coat was always a black bottle or so.

　　One of the potencies of whisky is the breeding of thirst. Grey Beaver gotthe thirst. His fevered membranes and burnt stomach began to clamour formore and more of the scorching fluid; while his brain, thrust all  plus size prom dresses bythe unwonted stimulant, permitted him to go any length to obtain it. Themoney he had received for his furs and mittens and moccasins began to go.

　　It went faster and faster, and the shorter his money-sack grew, the shortergrew his temper.

　　In the end his money and goods and temper were all gone. Nothingremained to him but his thirst, a prodigious possession in itself that grewmore prodigious with every sober breath he drew. Then it was that BeautySmith had talk with him again about the sale of White Fang; but this timethe price offered was in bottles, not dollars, and Grey Beaver's ears weremore eager to hear.

　　"You ketch um dog you take um all right," was his last word.

　　The bottles were delivered, but after two days. "You ketch um dog,"were Beauty Smith's words to Grey Beaver.

　　White Fang slunk into camp one evening and dropped down with asigh of content. The dreaded white god was not there. For days hismanifestations of desire to lay hands on him had been growing moreinsistent, and during that time White Fang had been compelled to avoidthe camp. He did not know what evil was threatened by those insistenthands. He knew only that they did threaten evil of some sort, and that itwas best for him to keep out of their reach.

　　But scarcely had he lain down when Grey Beaver staggered over tohim and tied a leather thong around his neck. He sat down beside WhiteFang, holding the end of the thong in his hand. In the other hand he held long prom dresses, which, from time to time, was inverted above his head to theaccompaniment of gurgling noises.
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