CHAPTER II - THE SOUTHLAND
White Fang landed from the steamer in San Francisco. He was
appalled. Deep in him, below any reasoning process or act of
consciousness, he had associated power with godhead. And never had the
white men seemed such marvellous gods as now, when he trod the slimy
pavement of San Francisco. The log cabins he had known were replaced
by towering buildings. The streets were crowded with perils - waggons,
carts, automobiles; great, straining horses pulling huge trucks; and
monstrous cable and electric ears hooting and clanging through the midst,
screeching their insistent menace after the manner of the lynxes he had
known in the northern woods.
All this was the manifestation of power. Through it all, behind it all,
was man, governing and controlling, expressing himself, as of old, by his
mastery over matter. It was colossal, stunning. White Fang was awed. Fear
sat upon him. As in his cubhood he had been made to feel his smallness
and puniness on the day he first came in from the Wild to the village of
Grey Beaver, so now, in his full- grown stature and pride of strength, he
was made to feel small and puny. And there were so many gods! He was
made dizzy by the swarming of them. The thunder of the streets smote
upon his ears. He was bewildered by the tremendous and endless rush and
movement of things. As never before, he felt his dependence on the love-
master, close at whose heels he followed, no matter what happened never
losing sight of him.
But White Fang was to have no more than a nightmare vision of the
city - an experience that was like a bad dream, unreal and terrible, that
haunted him for long after in his dreams. He was put into a baggage-car by
the master, chained in a corner in the midst of heaped trunks and valises.
Here a squat and brawny god held sway, with much noise, hurling trunks
and boxes about, dragging them in through the door and tossing them into
the piles, or flinging them out of the door, smashing and crashing, to other
gods who awaited them.
And here, in this inferno of luggage, was White Fang deserted by the
master. Or at least White Fang thought he was deserted, until he smelled
out the master's canvas clothes-bags alongside of him, and proceeded to
mount guard over them.
"'Bout time you come," growled the god of the car, an hour later, when
Weedon Scott appeared at the door. "That dog of yourn won't let me lay a
finger on your stuff."
White Fang emerged from the car. He was astonished. The nightmare
city was gone. The car had been to him no more than a room in a house,
and when he had entered it the city had been all around him. In the interval
the city had disappeared. The roar of it no longer dinned upon his ears.
Before him was smiling country, streaming with sunshine, lazy with
quietude. But he had little time to marvel at the transformation. He
accepted it as he accepted all the unaccountable doings and manifestations
of the gods. It was their way.
There was a carriage waiting. A man and a woman approached the
master. The woman's arms went out and clutched the master around the
neck - a hostile act! The next moment Weedon Scott had torn loose from
the embrace and closed with White Fang, who had become a snarling,
"It's all right, mother," Scott was saving as he kept tight hold of White
Fang and placated him. "He thought you were going to injure me, and he
wouldn't stand for it. It's all right. It's all right. He'll learn soon enough."
"And in the meantime I may be permitted to love my son when his dog
is not around," she laughed, though she was pale and weak from the fright.
She looked at White Fang, who snarled and bristled and glared
"He'll have to learn, and he shall, without postponement," Scott said.
He spoke softly to White Fang until he had quieted him, then his voice
"Down, sir! Down with you!"
This had been one of the things taught him by the master, and White
Fang obeyed, though he lay down reluctantly and sullenly.
Scott opened his arms to her, but kept his eyes on White Fang.
"Down!" he warned. "Down!"
White Fang, bristling silently, half-crouching as he rose, sank back and
watched the hostile act repeated. But no harm came of it, nor of the
embrace from the strange man-god that followed. Then the clothes-bags
were taken into the carriage, the strange gods and the love-master
followed, and White Fang pursued, now running vigilantly behind, now
bristling up to the running horses and warning them that he was there to
see that no harm befell the god they dragged so swiftly across the earth.
At the end of fifteen minutes, the carriage swung in through a stone
gateway and on between a double row of arched and interlacing walnut
trees. On either side stretched lawns, their broad sweep broken here and
there by great sturdy-limbed oaks. In the near distance, in contrast with the
young-green of the tended grass, sunburnt hay-fields showed tan and gold;
while beyond were the tawny hills and upland pastures. From the head of
the lawn, on the first soft swell from the valley-level, looked down the
deep- porched, many-windowed house.
Little opportunity was given White Fang to see all this. Hardly had the
carriage entered the grounds, when he was set upon by a sheep-dog,
bright-eyed, sharp-muzzled, righteously indignant and angry. It was
between him and the master, cutting him off. White Fang snarled no
warning, but his hair bristled as he made his silent and deadly rush. This
rush was never completed. He halted with awkward abruptness, with stiff
fore-legs bracing himself against his momentum, almost sitting down on
his haunches, so desirous was he of avoiding contact with the dog he was
in the act of attacking. It was a female, and the law of his kind thrust a
barrier between. For him to attack her would require nothing less than a
violation of his instinct.
But with the sheep-dog it was otherwise. Being a female, she
possessed no such instinct. On the other hand, being a sheep-dog, her
instinctive fear of the Wild, and especially of the wolf, was unusually keen.
White Fang was to her a wolf, the hereditary marauder who had preyed
upon her flocks from the time sheep were first herded and guarded by
some dim ancestor of hers. And so, as he abandoned his rush at her and
braced himself to avoid the contact, she sprang upon him. He snarled
involuntarily as he felt her teeth in his shoulder, but beyond this made no
offer to hurt her. He backed away, stiff-legged with self-consciousness,
and tried to go around her. He dodged this way and that, and curved and
turned, but to no purpose. She remained always between him and the way
he wanted to go.
"Here, Collie!" called the strange man in the carriage.
Weedon Scott laughed.
"Never mind, father. It is good discipline. White Fang will have to
learn many things, and it's just as well that he begins now. He'll adjust
himself all right."
The carriage drove on, and still Collie blocked White Fang's way. He
tried to outrun her by leaving the drive and circling across the lawn but she
ran on the inner and smaller circle, and was always there, facing him with
her two rows of gleaming teeth. Back he circled, across the drive to the
other lawn, and again she headed him off.
The carriage was bearing the master away. White Fang caught
glimpses of it disappearing amongst the trees. The situation was desperate.
He essayed another circle. She followed, running swiftly. And then,
suddenly, he turned upon her. It was his old fighting trick. Shoulder to
shoulder, he struck her squarely. Not only was she overthrown. So fast had
she been running that she rolled along, now on her back, now on her side,
as she struggled to stop, clawing gravel with her feet and crying shrilly her
hurt pride and indignation.
White Fang did not wait. The way was clear, and that was all he had
wanted. She took after him, never ceasing her outcry. It was the
straightaway now, and when it came to real running, White Fang could
teach her things. She ran frantically, hysterically, straining to the utmost,
advertising the effort she was making with every leap: and all the time
White Fang slid smoothly away from her silently, without effort, gliding
like a ghost over the ground.
As he rounded the house to the PORTE-COCHERE, he came upon the
carriage. It had stopped, and the master was alighting. At this moment, still
running at top speed, White Fang became suddenly aware of an attack
from the side. It was a deer-hound rushing upon him. White Fang tried to
face it. But he was going too fast, and the hound was too close. It struck
him on the side; and such was his forward momentum and the
unexpectedness of it, White Fang was hurled to the ground and rolled
clear over. He came out of the tangle a spectacle of malignancy, ears
flattened back, lips writhing, nose wrinkling, his teeth clipping together as
the fangs barely missed the hound's soft throat.
The master was running up, but was too far away; and it was Collie
that saved the hound's life. Before White Fang could spring in and deliver
the fatal stroke, and just as he was in the act of springing in, Collie arrived.
She had been out-manoeuvred and out- run, to say nothing of her having
been unceremoniously tumbled in the gravel, and her arrival was like that
of a tornado - made up of offended dignity, justifiable wrath, and
instinctive hatred for this marauder from the Wild. She struck White Fang
at right angles in the midst of his spring, and again he was knocked off his
feet and rolled over.
The next moment the master arrived, and with one hand held White
Fang, while the father called off the dogs.
"I say, this is a pretty warm reception for a poor lone wolf from the
Arctic," the master said, while White Fang calmed down under his
caressing hand. "In all his life he's only been known once to go off his feet,
and here he's been rolled twice in thirty seconds."
The carriage had driven away, and other strange gods had appeared
from out the house. Some of these stood respectfully at a distance; but two
of them, women, perpetrated the hostile act of clutching the master around
the neck. White Fang, however, was beginning to tolerate this act. No
harm seemed to come of it, while the noises the gods made were certainly
not threatening. These gods also made overtures to White Fang, but he
warned them off with a snarl, and the master did likewise with word of
mouth. At such times White Fang leaned in close against the master's legs
and received reassuring pats on the head.
The hound, under the command, "Dick! Lie down, sir!" had gone up
the steps and lain down to one side of the porch, still growling and
keeping a sullen watch on the intruder. Collie had been taken in charge by
one of the woman-gods, who held arms around her neck and petted and
caressed her; but Collie was very much perplexed and worried, whining
and restless, outraged by the permitted presence of this wolf and confident
that the gods were making a mistake.
All the gods started up the steps to enter the house. White Fang
followed closely at the master's heels. Dick, on the porch, growled, and
White Fang, on the steps, bristled and growled back.
"Take Collie inside and leave the two of them to fight it out,"
suggested Scott's father. "After that they'll be friends."
"Then White Fang, to show his friendship, will have to be chief
mourner at the funeral," laughed the master.
The elder Scott looked incredulously, first at White Fang, then at Dick,
and finally at his son.
"You mean . . .?"
Weedon nodded his head. "I mean just that. You'd have a dead Dick
inside one minute - two minutes at the farthest."
He turned to White Fang. "Come on, you wolf. It's you that'll have to
White Fang walked stiff-legged up the steps and across the porch, with
tail rigidly erect, keeping his eyes on Dick to guard against a flank attack,
and at the same time prepared for whatever fierce manifestation of the
unknown that might pounce out upon him from the interior of the house.
But no thing of fear pounced out, and when he had gained the inside he
scouted carefully around, looking at it and finding it not. Then he lay
down with a contented grunt at the master's feet, observing all that went
on, ever ready to spring to his feet and fight for life with the terrors he felt
must lurk under the trap-roof of the dwelling.