White Fang

C
HAPTER 
3.
 
T
HE 
G
OD
’
S 
D
OMAIN
 
Not only was White Fang adaptable by nature, but he had travelled much, 
and knew the meaning and necessity of adjustment. Here, in Sierra Vista, 
which was the name of Judge Scott’s place, White Fang quickly began to 
make himself at home. He had no further serious trouble with the 
dogs. They knew more about the ways of the Southland gods than did he, 
and in their eyes he had qualified when he accompanied the gods inside the 
house. Wolf that he was, and unprecedented as it was, the gods had 
sanctioned his presence, and they, the dogs of the gods, could only 
recognise this sanction. 
Dick, perforce, had to go through a few stiff formalities at first, after which 
he calmly accepted White Fang as an addition to the premises. Had Dick had 
his way, they would have been good friends. All but White Fang was averse 
to friendship. All he asked of other dogs was to be let alone. His whole life 
he had kept aloof from his kind, and he still desired to keep aloof. Dick’s 
overtures bothered him, so he snarled Dick away. In the north he had 
learned the lesson that he must let the master’s dogs alone, and he did not 
forget that lesson now. But he insisted on his own privacy and self-
seclusion, and so thoroughly ignored Dick that that good-natured creature 
finally gave him up and scarcely took as much interest in him as in the 
hitching-post near the stable. 
Not so with Collie. While she accepted him because it was the mandate of 
the gods, that was no reason that she should leave him in peace. Woven 
into her being was the memory of countless crimes he and his had 
perpetrated against her ancestry. Not in a day nor a generation were the 
ravaged sheepfolds to be forgotten. All this was a spur to her, pricking her 
to retaliation. She could not fly in the face of the gods who permitted him, 
but that did not prevent her from making life miserable for him in petty 
ways. A feud, ages old, was between them, and she, for one, would see to it 
that he was reminded. 
So Collie took advantage of her sex to pick upon White Fang and maltreat 
him. His instinct would not permit him to attack her, while her persistence 
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would not permit him to ignore her. When she rushed at him he turned his 
fur-protected shoulder to her sharp teeth and walked away stiff-legged and 
stately. When she forced him too hard, he was compelled to go about in a 
circle, his shoulder presented to her, his head turned from her, and on his 
face and in his eyes a patient and bored expression. Sometimes, however, a 
nip on his hind-quarters hastened his retreat and made it anything but 
stately. But as a rule he managed to maintain a dignity that was almost 
solemnity. He ignored her existence whenever it was possible, and made it 
a point to keep out of her way. When he saw or heard her coming, he got 
up and walked off. 
There was much in other matters for White Fang to learn. Life in the 
Northland was simplicity itself when compared with the complicated affairs 
of Sierra Vista. First of all, he had to learn the family of the master. In a way 
he was prepared to do this. As Mit-sah and Kloo-kooch had belonged to 
Grey Beaver, sharing his food, his fire, and his blankets, so now, at Sierra 
Vista, belonged to the love-master all the denizens of the house. 
But in this matter there was a difference, and many differences. Sierra Vista 
was a far vaster affair than the tepee of Grey Beaver. There were many 
persons to be considered. There was Judge Scott, and there was his 
wife. There were the master’s two sisters, Beth and Mary. There was his 
wife, Alice, and then there were his children, Weedon and Maud, toddlers of 
four and six. There was no way for anybody to tell him about all these 
people, and of blood-ties and relationship he knew nothing whatever and 
never would be capable of knowing. Yet he quickly worked it out that all of 
them belonged to the master. Then, by observation, whenever opportunity 
offered, by study of action, speech, and the very intonations of the voice, he 
slowly learned the intimacy and the degree of favour they enjoyed with the 
master. And by this ascertained standard, White Fang treated them 
accordingly. What was of value to the master he valued; what was dear to 
the master was to be cherished by White Fang and guarded carefully. 
Thus it was with the two children. All his life he had disliked children. He 
hated and feared their hands. The lessons were not tender that he had 
learned of their tyranny and cruelty in the days of the Indian villages. When 
Weedon and Maud had first approached him, he growled warningly and 
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looked malignant. A cuff from the master and a sharp word had then 
compelled him to permit their caresses, though he growled and growled 
under their tiny hands, and in the growl there was no crooning note. Later, 
he observed that the boy and girl were of great value in the master’s 
eyes. Then it was that no cuff nor sharp word was necessary before they 
could pat him. 
Yet White Fang was never effusively affectionate. He yielded to the 
master’s children with an ill but honest grace, and endured their fooling as 
one would endure a painful operation. When he could no longer endure, he 
would get up and stalk determinedly away from them. But after a time, he 
grew even to like the children. Still he was not demonstrative. He would 
not go up to them. On the other hand, instead of walking away at sight of 
them, he waited for them to come to him. And still later, it was noticed that 
a pleased light came into his eyes when he saw them approaching, and that 
he looked after them with an appearance of curious regret when they left 
him for other amusements. 
All this was a matter of development, and took time. Next in his regard, 
after the children, was Judge Scott. There were two reasons, possibly, for 
this. First, he was evidently a valuable possession of the master’s, and next, 
he was undemonstrative. White Fang liked to lie at his feet on the wide 
porch when he read the newspaper, from time to time favouring White Fang 
with a look or a word—untroublesome tokens that he recognised White 
Fang’s presence and existence. But this was only when the master was not 
around. When the master appeared, all other beings ceased to exist so far 
as White Fang was concerned. 
White Fang allowed all the members of the family to pet him and make 
much of him; but he never gave to them what he gave to the master. No 
caress of theirs could put the love-croon into his throat, and, try as they 
would, they could never persuade him into snuggling against them. This 
expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he reserved for the 
master alone. In fact, he never regarded the members of the family in any 
other light than possessions of the love-master. 
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Also White Fang had early come to differentiate between the family and the 
servants of the household. The latter were afraid of him, while he merely 
refrained from attacking them. This because he considered that they were 
likewise possessions of the master. Between White Fang and them existed 
a neutrality and no more. They cooked for the master and washed the 
dishes and did other things just as Matt had done up in the Klondike. They 
were, in short, appurtenances of the household. 
Outside the household there was even more for White Fang to learn. The 
master’s domain was wide and complex, yet it had its metes and 
bounds. The land itself ceased at the county road. Outside was the 
common domain of all gods—the roads and streets. Then inside other 
fences were the particular domains of other gods. A myriad laws governed 
all these things and determined conduct; yet he did not know the speech of 
the gods, nor was there any way for him to learn save by experience. He 
obeyed his natural impulses until they ran him counter to some law. When 
this had been done a few times, he learned the law and after that observed 
it. 
But most potent in his education was the cuff of the master’s hand, the 
censure of the master’s voice. Because of White Fang’s very great love, a 
cuff from the master hurt him far more than any beating Grey Beaver or 
Beauty Smith had ever given him. They had hurt only the flesh of him; 
beneath the flesh the spirit had still raged, splendid and invincible. But with 
the master the cuff was always too light to hurt the flesh. Yet it went 
deeper. It was an expression of the master’s disapproval, and White Fang’s 
spirit wilted under it. 
In point of fact, the cuff was rarely administered. The master’s voice was 
sufficient. By it White Fang knew whether he did right or not. By it he 
trimmed his conduct and adjusted his actions. It was the compass by which 
he steered and learned to chart the manners of a new land and life. 
In the Northland, the only domesticated animal was the dog. All other 
animals lived in the Wild, and were, when not too formidable, lawful spoil 
for any dog. All his days White Fang had foraged among the live things for 
food. It did not enter his head that in the Southland it was otherwise. But 
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this he was to learn early in his residence in Santa Clara Valley. Sauntering 
around the corner of the house in the early morning, he came upon a 
chicken that had escaped from the chicken-yard. White Fang’s natural 
impulse was to eat it. A couple of bounds, a flash of teeth and a frightened 
squawk, and he had scooped in the adventurous fowl. It was farm-bred and 
fat and tender; and White Fang licked his chops and decided that such fare 
was good. 
Later in the day, he chanced upon another stray chicken near the 
stables. One of the grooms ran to the rescue. He did not know White 
Fang’s breed, so for weapon he took a light buggy-whip. At the first cut of 
the whip, White Fang left the chicken for the man. A club might have 
stopped White Fang, but not a whip. Silently, without flinching, he took a 
second cut in his forward rush, and as he leaped for the throat the groom 
cried out, “My God!” and staggered backward. He dropped the whip and 
shielded his throat with his arms. In consequence, his forearm was ripped 
open to the bone. 
The man was badly frightened. It was not so much White Fang’s ferocity as 
it was his silence that unnerved the groom. Still protecting his throat and 
face with his torn and bleeding arm, he tried to retreat to the barn. And it 
would have gone hard with him had not Collie appeared on the scene. As 
she had saved Dick’s life, she now saved the groom’s. She rushed upon 
White Fang in frenzied wrath. She had been right. She had known better 
than the blundering gods. All her suspicions were justified. Here was the 
ancient marauder up to his old tricks again. 
The groom escaped into the stables, and White Fang backed away before 
Collie’s wicked teeth, or presented his shoulder to them and circled round 
and round. But Collie did not give over, as was her wont, after a decent 
interval of chastisement. On the contrary, she grew more excited and angry 
every moment, until, in the end, White Fang flung dignity to the winds and 
frankly fled away from her across the fields. 
“He’ll learn to leave chickens alone,” the master said. “But I can’t give him 
the lesson until I catch him in the act.” 
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Two nights later came the act, but on a more generous scale than the 
master had anticipated. White Fang had observed closely the chicken-yards 
and the habits of the chickens. In the night-time, after they had gone to 
roost, he climbed to the top of a pile of newly hauled lumber. From there he 
gained the roof of a chicken-house, passed over the ridgepole and dropped 
to the ground inside. A moment later he was inside the house, and the 
slaughter began. 
In the morning, when the master came out on to the porch, fifty white 
Leghorn hens, laid out in a row by the groom, greeted his eyes. He whistled 
to himself, softly, first with surprise, and then, at the end, with 
admiration. His eyes were likewise greeted by White Fang, but about the 
latter there were no signs of shame nor guilt. He carried himself with pride, 
as though, forsooth, he had achieved a deed praiseworthy and 
meritorious. There was about him no consciousness of sin. The master’s 
lips tightened as he faced the disagreeable task. Then he talked harshly to 
the unwitting culprit, and in his voice there was nothing but godlike 
wrath. Also, he held White Fang’s nose down to the slain hens, and at the 
same time cuffed him soundly. 
White Fang never raided a chicken-roost again. It was against the law, and 
he had learned it. Then the master took him into the chicken-yards. White 
Fang’s natural impulse, when he saw the live food fluttering about him and 
under his very nose, was to spring upon it. He obeyed the impulse, but was 
checked by the master’s voice. They continued in the yards for half an 
hour. Time and again the impulse surged over White Fang, and each time, as 
he yielded to it, he was checked by the master’s voice. Thus it was he 
learned the law, and ere he left the domain of the chickens, he had learned 
to ignore their existence. 
“You can never cure a chicken-killer.” Judge Scott shook his head sadly at 
luncheon table, when his son narrated the lesson he had given White 
Fang. “Once they’ve got the habit and the taste of blood . . .” Again he 
shook his head sadly. 
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But Weedon Scott did not agree with his father. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” 
he challenged finally. “I’ll lock White Fang in with the chickens all 
afternoon.” 
“But think of the chickens,” objected the judge. 
“And furthermore,” the son went on, “for every chicken he kills, I’ll pay you 
one dollar gold coin of the realm.” 
“But you should penalise father, too,” interpose Beth. 
Her sister seconded her, and a chorus of approval arose from around the 
table. Judge Scott nodded his head in agreement. 
“All right.” Weedon Scott pondered for a moment. “And if, at the end of 
the afternoon White Fang hasn’t harmed a chicken, for every ten minutes of 
the time he has spent in the yard, you will have to say to him, gravely and 
with deliberation, just as if you were sitting on the bench and solemnly 
passing judgment, ‘White Fang, you are smarter than I thought.’” 
From hidden points of vantage the family watched the performance. But it 
was a fizzle. Locked in the yard and there deserted by the master, White 
Fang lay down and went to sleep. Once he got up and walked over to the 
trough for a drink of water. The chickens he calmly ignored. So far as he 
was concerned they did not exist. At four o’clock he executed a running 
jump, gained the roof of the chicken-house and leaped to the ground 
outside, whence he sauntered gravely to the house. He had learned the 
law. And on the porch, before the delighted family, Judge Scott, face to 
face with White Fang, said slowly and solemnly, sixteen times, “White Fang, 
you are smarter than I thought.” 
But it was the multiplicity of laws that befuddled White Fang and often 
brought him into disgrace. He had to learn that he must not touch the 
chickens that belonged to other gods. Then there were cats, and rabbits, 
and turkeys; all these he must let alone. In fact, when he had but partly 
learned the law, his impression was that he must leave all live things 
alone. Out in the back-pasture, a quail could flutter up under his nose 
unharmed. All tense and trembling with eagerness and desire, he mastered 
his instinct and stood still. He was obeying the will of the gods. 
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And then, one day, again out in the back-pasture, he saw Dick start a 
jackrabbit and run it. The master himself was looking on and did not 
interfere. Nay, he encouraged White Fang to join in the chase. And thus he 
learned that there was no taboo on jackrabbits. In the end he worked out 
the complete law. Between him and all domestic animals there must be no 
hostilities. If not amity, at least neutrality must obtain. But the other 
animals—the squirrels, and quail, and cottontails, were creatures of the Wild 
who had never yielded allegiance to man. They were the lawful prey of any 
dog. It was only the tame that the gods protected, and between the tame 
deadly strife was not permitted. The gods held the power of life and death 
over their subjects, and the gods were jealous of their power. 
Life was complex in the Santa Clara Valley after the simplicities of the 
Northland. And the chief thing demanded by these intricacies of civilisation 
was control, restraint—a poise of self that was as delicate as the fluttering 
of gossamer wings and at the same time as rigid as steel. Life had a 
thousand faces, and White Fang found he must meet them all—thus, when 
he went to town, in to San Jose, running behind the carriage or loafing 
about the streets when the carriage stopped. Life flowed past him, deep 
and wide and varied, continually impinging upon his senses, demanding of 
him instant and endless adjustments and correspondences, and compelling 
him, almost always, to suppress his natural impulses. 
There were butcher-shops where meat hung within reach. This meat he 
must not touch. There were cats at the houses the master visited that must 
be let alone. And there were dogs everywhere that snarled at him and that 
he must not attack. And then, on the crowded sidewalks there were 
persons innumerable whose attention he attracted. They would stop and 
look at him, point him out to one another, examine him, talk of him, and, 
worst of all, pat him. And these perilous contacts from all these strange 
hands he must endure. Yet this endurance he achieved. Furthermore, he 
got over being awkward and self-conscious. In a lofty way he received the 
attentions of the multitudes of strange gods. With condescension he 
accepted their condescension. On the other hand, there was something 
about him that prevented great familiarity. They patted him on the head 
and passed on, contented and pleased with their own daring. 
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But it was not all easy for White Fang. Running behind the carriage in the 
outskirts of San Jose, he encountered certain small boys who made a 
practice of flinging stones at him. Yet he knew that it was not permitted 
him to pursue and drag them down. Here he was compelled to violate his 
instinct of self-preservation, and violate it he did, for he was becoming tame 
and qualifying himself for civilisation. 
Nevertheless, White Fang was not quite satisfied with the arrangement. He 
had no abstract ideas about justice and fair play. But there is a certain sense 
of equity that resides in life, and it was this sense in him that resented the 
unfairness of his being permitted no defence against the stone-
throwers. He forgot that in the covenant entered into between him and the 
gods they were pledged to care for him and defend him. But one day the 
master sprang from the carriage, whip in hand, and gave the stone-throwers 
a thrashing. After that they threw stones no more, and White Fang 
understood and was satisfied. 
One other experience of similar nature was his. On the way to town, 
hanging around the saloon at the cross-roads, were three dogs that made a 
practice of rushing out upon him when he went by. Knowing his deadly 
method of fighting, the master had never ceased impressing upon White 
Fang the law that he must not fight. As a result, having learned the lesson 
well, White Fang was hard put whenever he passed the cross-roads 
saloon. After the first rush, each time, his snarl kept the three dogs at a 
distance but they trailed along behind, yelping and bickering and insulting 
him. This endured for some time. The men at the saloon even urged the 
dogs on to attack White Fang. One day they openly sicked the dogs on 
him. The master stopped the carriage. 
“Go to it,” he said to White Fang. 
But White Fang could not believe. He looked at the master, and he looked 
at the dogs. Then he looked back eagerly and questioningly at the master. 
The master nodded his head. “Go to them, old fellow. Eat them up.” 
White Fang no longer hesitated. He turned and leaped silently among his 
enemies. All three faced him. There was a great snarling and growling, a 
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clashing of teeth and a flurry of bodies. The dust of the road arose in a cloud 
and screened the battle. But at the end of several minutes two dogs were 
struggling in the dirt and the third was in full flight. He leaped a ditch, went 
through a rail fence, and fled across a field. White Fang followed, sliding 
over the ground in wolf fashion and with wolf speed, swiftly and without 
noise, and in the centre of the field he dragged down and slew the dog. 
With this triple killing his main troubles with dogs ceased. The word went 
up and down the valley, and men saw to it that their dogs did not molest the 
Fighting Wolf. 
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