He came to where Grey Beaver's tepee had stood. In the centre of thespace it had occupied, he sat down. He pointed his nose at the moon. Histhroat was afflicted by rigid spasms, his mouth opened, and in a heart-broken cry bubbled up his loneliness and fear, his grief for Kiche, all hispast sorrows and miseries as well as his apprehension of sufferings anddangers to come. It was the long wolf-howl, full-throated and mournful,the first howl he had ever uttered.
The coming of daylight dispelled his fears but increased his loneliness.
The naked earth, which so shortly before had been so populous; thrust hisloneliness more forcibly upon him. It did not take him long to make up hismind. He plunged into the forest and followed the river bank down thestream. All day he ran. He did not rest. He seemed made to run on for ever.
His iron-like body ignored fatigue. And even after fatigue came, hisheritage of endurance braced him to endless endeavour and enabled him todrive his complaining body onward.
Where the river swung in against precipitous bluffs, he climbed thehigh mountains behind. Rivers and streams that entered the main river heforded or swam. Often he took to the rim-ice that was beginning to form,and more than once he crashed through and struggled for life in the icycurrent. Always he was on the lookout for the trail of the gods where itmight leave the river and proceed inland.
White Fang was intelligent beyond the average of his kind; yet hismental vision was not wide enough to embrace the other bank of theMackenzie. What if the trail of the gods led out on that side? It neverentered his head. Later on, when he had travelled more and grown olderand wiser and come to know more of trails and rivers, it might be that hecould grasp and apprehend such a possibility. But that mental power wasyet in the future. Just now he ran blindly, his own bank of the Mackenziealone entering into his calculations.
All night he ran, blundering in the darkness into mishaps and obstaclesthat delayed but did not daunt. By the middle of the second day he hadbeen running continuously for thirty hours, and the iron of his flesh wasgiving out. It was the endurance of his mind that kept him going. He hadnot eaten in forty hours, and he was weak with hunger. The repeateddrenchings in the icy water had likewise had their effect on him. Hishandsome coat was draggled. The broad pads of his feet were bruised andbleeding. He had begun to limp, and this limp increased with the hours. Tomake it worse, the light of the sky was obscured and snow began to fall - araw, moist, melting, clinging snow, slippery under foot, that hid from himthe landscape he traversed, and that covered over the inequalities of theground so that the after six wedding dressesof his feet was more difficult and painful.
Grey Beaver had intended camping that night on the far bank of theMackenzie, for it was in that direction that the hunting lay. But on the nearbank, shortly before dark, a moose coming down to drink, had been espiedby Kloo-kooch, who was Grey Beaver's squaw. Now, had not the moosecome down to drink, had not Mit-sah been steering out of the coursebecause of the snow, had not Kloo-kooch sighted the moose, and had notGrey Beaver killed it with a lucky shot from his rifle, all subsequent thingswould have happened differently. Grey Beaver would not have camped onthe near side of the Mackenzie, and White Fang would have passed by andgone on, either to die or to find his way to his wild brothers and becomeone of them - a wolf to the end of his days.
Night had fallen. The snow was flying more thickly, and White Fang,whimpering softly to himself as he stumbled and limped along, came upona fresh trail in the snow. So fresh was it that he knew it immediately forwhat it was. Whining with eagerness, he followed back from the riverbank and in among the trees. The camp-sounds came to his ears. He sawthe blaze of the fire, Kloo- kooch cooking, and Grey Beaver squatting onhis hams and mumbling a chunk of raw tallow. There was fresh meat incamp!
White Fang expected a beating. He crouched and bristled a little at thethought of it. Then he went forward again. He feared and disliked thebeating he knew to be waiting for him. But he knew, further, that thecomfort of theAfrican American wedding dresseswould be his, the protection of the gods, thecompanionship of the dogs - the last, a companionship of enmity, but nonethe less a companionship and satisfying to his gregarious needs.